He could not approach any of them immediately, however, for the local Masurian knights surrounded each in a tight circle, inquiring about Kraków, the court, the entertainments, various feats of arms, and at the same time examining their splendid garments and hair styling—those wondrous curls glued with egg white for strength—taking from them in everything a model of courtliness and manners.
Nevertheless, Powala of Taczew recognized Zbyszko, and pushing the Masurians aside, came up to him.
“I recognized you, young man,” he said, clasping his hand. “How are you, and what brings you here? By God! I see you already wear the belt and spurs. Others wait for that until their hair is gray, but you evidently serve Saint George worthily.”
“God bless you, noble lord,” Zbyszko replied. “I would not have rejoiced more at unhorsing the finest German than I do at seeing you in good health.”
“And I am glad as well. Where is your father?”
“Not my father, only my uncle. He is a prisoner of the Teutonic Knights, and I am going to ransom him.”
“And that young girl who covered you with her kerchief?”
Zbyszko made no reply, only raised his eyes, which immediately filled with tears. Seeing this, the Lord of Taczew said:
“This world is a vale of tears… nothing but a true vale! But come, let us sit on the bench under the rowan tree, and you shall tell me your sorrowful adventures.”
And he drew him into a corner of the courtyard. There Zbyszko, sitting beside him, began to tell of Jurand’s misfortune, of Danusia’s capture, of how he had searched for her, and how she had died after being rescued. Powala listened attentively, and his face showed in turn astonishment, anger, horror, and pity. Finally, when Zbyszko finished, he said:
“I will tell this to the king, our lord! He already intends to demand from the Grand Master justice for little Jaśko of Kretków and to seek severe punishment for those who seized him. They kidnapped him because he is rich and they wanted ransom. Nothing to them, raising a hand against a child.”
He paused a moment, then continued as if speaking to himself:
“An insatiable breed, worse than Turks and Tatars. For in their hearts they fear the king and us, yet they cannot refrain from robbery and murder. They attack villages, slaughter peasants, drown fishermen, snatch children like wolves. What would it be if they did not fear!… The Grand Master sends letters to foreign courts against the king, while fawning to his face, because he understands our power better than others. But the measure will finally overflow!”
He fell silent again for a moment, then placed his hand on Zbyszko’s shoulder.
“I will tell the king,” he repeated. “Anger has been boiling in him for a long time like a pot of scalding water, and be assured that terrible punishment will not miss the perpetrators of your misery.”
“From those, lord, none are alive anymore,” Zbyszko answered.
And Powala looked at him with great friendly warmth:
“May God bless you! You let nothing of yours go unavenged, I see. Only Lichtenstein remains unpaid, because I know you could not. We also made vows against him in Kraków, but that will likely have to wait for war—which God grant—since he cannot appear without the Grand Master’s permission, and the Master needs his wisdom, for which he constantly sends him to various courts, so he will not easily allow it.”
“First I must ransom my uncle.”
“Yes… And I asked about Lichtenstein. He is not here and will not be at Raciążek, for he has been sent to the English king for archers. Do not worry about your uncle. When the king or the local duchess speaks a word, the Master will not be allowed to play tricks with the ransom.”
“All the more so because I have a notable prisoner, Sir de Lorche, a powerful lord and famous among them. He would certainly wish to bow to you, my lord, and make your acquaintance, for no one admires famous knights more than he.”
Having said this, he beckoned to Sir de Lorche, who stood nearby, and he, having already learned with whom Zbyszko was speaking, approached eagerly, for indeed he burned with desire to meet so renowned a knight as Powala.
So when Zbyszko introduced them, the elegant Guelderlander bowed most courteously and said:
“The only greater honor, my lord, than clasping your hand would be to fight you in the lists or in battle.”
At that, the mighty knight of Taczew smiled, for next to the slight and slender Sir de Lorche he looked like a mountain, and replied:
“And I am glad that we meet only with full tankards, and may God grant it never be otherwise.”
De Lorche hesitated a moment, then spoke with a certain timidity:
“Yet if you, noble lord, were to assert that Lady Agnieszka of Długolas is not the most beautiful and virtuous lady in the world… it would be a great honor for me… to contradict… and…”
He broke off and began to gaze into Powala’s eyes—respectfully, indeed with admiration, but keenly and warily.
But whether because he saw he could crush him in two fingers like a nut, or because his soul was immensely kind and merry, the knight laughed aloud and said:
“Well, I in my time made a vow to the Duchess of Burgundy, but she then was about ten years older than me. So if you, sir, were to assert that my duchess is not older than your Lady Agnieszka, we would have to mount at once.”
Hearing this, de Lorche stared in astonishment at the Lord of Taczew for a moment, but then his face began to twitch, and at last he too burst into sincere laughter.
Then Powala leaned over, put his arm around his waist, suddenly lifted him from the ground, and began to rock him as easily as if Sir de Lorche were an infant.
“Pax, pax!” he said, “as Bishop Kropidło says… You have pleased me, knight, and by God, we shall not fight over any ladies.”
Then, after embracing him, he set him down, for just then trumpets blared at the entrance to the courtyard, and Prince Ziemowit of Plock appeared with his wife.
“The local prince and princess arrive before the king and Prince Janusz,” Powala said to Zbyszko, “for although this is a feast at the starost’s, in Plock they are the hosts. Come with me to the duchess, for you know her from Kraków, where she interceded with the king for you.”
And taking him by the hand, he led him across the courtyard. Behind the prince and duchess came courtiers and ladies-in-waiting, all very richly and brightly dressed because of the king’s presence, so that the whole courtyard shone from them like flowers. Zbyszko, approaching with Powala, scanned the distant faces to see if he could spot any acquaintances, and suddenly halted in amazement.
For there, just behind the duchess, he indeed saw a familiar figure and a familiar face—but so dignified, so beautiful, so noble that he thought his eyes must be deceiving him:
“Is that Jagienka, or perhaps the daughter of the prince of Plock?”
But it was Jagienka Zychówna of Zgorzelice, for at the moment their eyes met, she smiled at him both kindly and pityingly, then paled a little, and covering her eyes with her lids, stood in a golden band on her dark hair and in the immense splendor of her beauty, tall and wondrous, resembling not merely a princess but a true queen.
The text is in the public domain. License details on the author's website: Henryk Sienkiewicz.