Complete works of henryk.., p.521
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 521
“I do not know. In Spychow frequently something talks in the walls, and sometimes moans, because many have died there in chains underground.”
“And what does the priest tell you?”
“The priest sanctified the castle and also ordered me to relinquish vengeance, but that could not be. I became too hard on them, and then they themselves sought revenge. They lay in ambush and challenged me in the field…. And so it was this time. Meineger and von Bergow were the first to challenge me.”
“Did you ever accept ransom?”
“Never! Of those I have captured, von Bergow will be the first to come out alive.”
The conversation ceased, because they now turned from the broad highway into a narrower road, on which they traveled for a long time in silence on account of its tortuous course, and because in some places the snow formed drifts difficult to traverse. In the spring or summer, on rainy days, this road must have been almost impassable.
“Are we approaching Spychow already?” asked Zbyszko.
“Yes,” answered Jurand. “There is a good deal of forest yet, and then begin the morasses, in the centre of which is the castle…. Beyond the morasses are the marshes and dry fields, while the castle can be approached only by the dike. The Germans wished to capture me repeatedly, but they could not, and their bones rot among the forest weeds.”
“And it is hard to find,” said Zbyszko. “If the Teutons send messengers with letters, how will they find us?”
“They have sent out several times already, and they have people who know the way.”
“If we could only meet them at Spychow,” said Zbyszko.
This wish was realized sooner than the young knight thought, for issuing from the forest into the open country, where lay Spychow among the swamps, they perceived before them two riders and a low sledge, in which were sitting three dark figures.
The night was very bright, therefore the whole group was perfectly visible against the white background of snow. Jurand’s and Zbyszko’s heart began to beat faster at this sight, because who else would be riding to Spychow in the middle of the night, but the messengers from the Teutons?
Zbyszko ordered the driver to go faster, and so they soon came so near each other, that they could be heard, and two riders, who apparently watched over the safety of the sledge, turned to them, and, unslinging their crossbows, cried:
“Who is there?”
“Germans!” whispered Jurand to Zbyszko.
Then he raised his voice and said:
“It is my right to ask, and yours to reply!”
“Who are you?”
“Travelers.”
“What sort of travelers?”
“Pilgrims.”
“Where from?”
“From Szczytno.”
“It is they!” again whispered Jurand.
Meanwhile the sledges had come together, and at the same time six horsemen appeared before them. This was the guard of Spychow, which watched the dike leading to the castle day and night. With the horses were very large and savage dogs, exactly resembling wolves.
The guardsmen, having recognized Jurand, began to utter cries of welcome mingled with astonishment that the master had returned so soon and unexpectedly; but he was entirely engaged with the messengers, and therefore turned to them again:
“Where are you traveling to?” he asked.
“To Spychow.”
“What do you want there?”
“We can tell that only to the lord himself.”
Jurand was about to say: “I am the lord of Spychow;” but he restrained himself, feeling that conversation could not be carried on in the presence of others. He asked them instead, whether they had any letters, and, when they replied that they were ordered to communicate verbally, he gave orders to drive as fast as the horses could go. Zbyszko was equally anxious to hear news of Danusia, and could not turn his attention to anything else. He became impatient when the guards on the dike stopped them twice; and when the bridge was lowered over the moat, behind which rose on the mound a gigantic palisade, and although he had previously often desired to see that castle of ominous fame, at the mention of which the Germans made the sign of a cross, now he saw nothing but the Teuton messengers, from whom he might hear where Danusia was and when she would be set at liberty. He did not foresee though, that a great disappointment was awaiting him. Besides the horsemen, who were given for defence, and the driver, the embassy from Szczytno was composed of two persons: one of these was the same woman who had once brought the healing balsam to the Forest Court; the other was a young pontnik. Zbyszko did not recognize the woman, because he had not seen her at the Forest Court; the pontnik at once seemed to him to be a disguised warrior. Jurand soon led both into the neighboring room, and halted before them, huge, and almost terrible in the glow of the fire, which fell upon him from the logs burning in the chimney.
“Where is the child?” he asked.
But they were frightened, standing face to face with a menacing man. Although the pontnik had an insolent face, he simply trembled like a leaf, and the woman’s legs trembled also. She glanced from Jurand to Zbyszko, and then at the shining bald head of the priest Kaleb, and then again at Jurand, as if inquiring what the other two were doing there.
“Sir,” she said, finally, “we do not know what you are asking, but we were sent to you on important matters. Yet, the one who sent us ordered us explicitly, that the conversation should be held without witnesses.”
“I have no secrets from these!” said Jurand.
“But we have, noble lord,” replied the woman, “and if you order them to remain, then we shall ask for nothing but that you allow us to leave to-morrow.”
Anger appeared in Jurand’s face as he was not used to opposition. For a moment his tawny moustache worked ominously, but he reflected, “For Danusia’s sake!” and restrained himself. Moreover, Zbyszko, who wanted above all things that the conversation might be concluded as soon as possible, and felt sure that Jurand would repeat it to him, said:
“If it must be so, then remain alone.” And he left, together with the priest Kaleb; but he scarcely found himself in the main hall, in which were hanging targets and weapons, captured by Jurand, when Glowacz approached him.
“Sir,” he said, “that is the same woman!”
“What woman?”
“From the Teutons, who brought the balsam. I recognized her at once, and so did Sanderus. She came, at it seems, to spy, and she certainly knows now where the lady is.”
“And we shall know,” said Zbyszko.
“Do you also know that pontnik?”
“No,” replied Sanderus; “but do not buy, sir, any remissions from him, because he is a false pontnik,”
“If you put him to the torture, you might obtain a lot of information.”
“Wait!” said Zbyszko.
Meanwhile, in the next room hardly had the doors closed behind Zbyszko and the priest Kaleb, when the sister of the Order quickly approached Jurand and whispered:
“Robbers captured your daughter.”
“With crosses on their robes?”
“No. But God blessed the pious brethren, so that they recovered her, and now she is with them.”
“Where is she, I ask.”
“Under the care of the religious Brother Shomberg,” she answered, crossing her hands on her breast and bowing humbly.
But Jurand, hearing the dreadful name of the hangman of Witold’s children, turned as pale as linen; after a moment he sat on a bench, shut his eyes, and began to wipe away the cold perspiration, which collected in beads on his forehead.
Seeing this, the pontnik, although he had not hitherto been able to restrain his fear, now put his hands on his hips, lounged on the bench, stretched out his legs and looked at Jurand, with eyes full of pride and scorn. A long silence followed.
“Brother Markward also assists Brother Shomberg in guarding her,” again said the woman; “it is a vigilant watch and no harm will happen to the lady.”
“What am I to do in order to get her back?” inquired Jurand.
“To humble yourself before the Order!” proudly said the pontnik.
At this Jurand arose, went up to him, and bending down over him, said in concentrated, terrible tones:
“Be silent!”
And the pontnik was again terror-stricken. He knew, that he could threaten and say what would tame and overwhelm Jurand, but he was terrified lest, before saying a word, something dreadful would happen to him; he therefore remained silent, with dilated eyes, as if petrified with fear, fixed on the threatening face of the lord of Spychow, and sat motionless, only his beard began to quiver with agitation.
Jurand again turned to the sister of the Order:
“Have you a letter?”
“No, sir. We have no letter. What we have to say, we were ordered to say verbally.”
“Then speak!”
And she repeated again, as if wishing that Jurand should impress it well in his memory:
“Brother Shomberg and Brother Markward watch over the lady; therefore, you sir, restrain your anger…. But no evil will happen to her, because although you have gravely injured the Order for many years, nevertheless the brethren wish to repay you good for evil if you comply with their just demands.”
“What do they wish?”
“They wish you to release Herr von Bergow.”
Jurand breathed heavily.
“I will return von Bergow to them,” he said.
“And the other prisoners that you have in Spychow.”
“There are two retainers of Meineger and von Bergow, besides their boys.”
“You must release them, sir, and make amends for the imprisonment.”
“God forbid that I should bargain for my child.”
“The religious friars expected that from you,” said the woman, “but this is not all that I was ordered to say. Your daughter, sir, was captured by some men, undoubtedly robbers, and certainly for the purpose of demanding a rich ransom. God permitted the brethren to recapture her, and now they demand nothing but the return of their brother and associate. But the brethren know, and you, too, sir, what hatred there is in this country against them, and how unfairly even their most righteous actions are judged. For this reason the brethren are sure that, if the people here found out that your daughter was with them, they would at once begin to suspect that they had captured her, and would consequently utter only slander and complaints…. O yes, evil and malicious people here have frequently repaid them so, and the reputation of the holy Order has suffered greatly by it, and the brethren are greatly concerned about it, and therefore they add this sole condition that you alone assure the prince of this country and all the mighty knights that it is true, that not the Teutonic knights, but robbers carried off your daughter, and that you had to ransom her from robbers.”
“It is true,” said Jurand, “that bandits have captured my child, and that I have to buy her back from bandits….”
“You shall tell nobody otherwise, because if only one person should find out that you come to terms with the brethren, if only one living soul or only one complaint were sent to the master, or the assembly, great complications would ensue.”
Jurand’s face exhibited great alarm. At the first moment it seemed to him quite natural that the knights required secrecy, fearing responsibility and disgrace, but now a suspicion arose in his mind that there might be another reason, but, not being able to account for it, he was seized with such terror as sometimes happens to the most courageous when danger does not threaten them alone, but also their relatives and loved ones.
He determined however to find out more from the Order’s servant.
“The knights wish secrecy,” he said, “but how can it be kept, when I release von Bergow and the others in return for my child?”
“You will say that you accepted ransom for von Bergow in order to be able to pay the robbers.”
“People will not believe it, because I never accepted ransom,” gloomily replied Jurand.
“But your child was never in question,” hissed the messenger in reply.
And again silence followed, after which the pontnik, who, in the meanwhile had gained courage, and judged that Jurand must now restrain himself more, said:
“Such is the will of the brethren Shomberg and Markward.”
The messenger continued:
“You will say, that this pontnik who came with me, brought you the ransom, we also will leave here with the noble von Bergow and the prisoners.”
“How so?” said Jurand, frowning, “do you think that I will give up the prisoners before you return my child?”
“You can act, sir, still differently. You can call personally for your daughter at Szczytno, whither the brethren will bring her to you.”
“I? at Szczytno?”
“Because, should the bandits capture her again on the way, your and your people’s suspicion would again fall upon the pious knights, and therefore they prefer to give her into your own hands.”
“And who will pledge himself for my return, if I walk alone into a wolf’s throat?”
“The virtue of the brethren, their justice and godliness!”
Jurand began to walk up and down the room. He began to suspect treason and feared it, but he felt at the same time that the Teutons could impose any conditions they pleased upon him, and that he was powerless before them.
However, an idea struck him, and suddenly halting before the pontnik, he gazed at him with a piercing look, and then turned to the messenger and said;
“Well, I will go to Szczytno. You and this man, who is wearing pontnik garb, will remain here until my return, after which you will leave with von Bergow and the prisoners.”
“Do you refuse, sir, to believe friars.” said the pontnik; “how then can they trust you to liberate us and von Bergow on your return?”
Jurand’s face turned pale with fury, and a critical moment followed, in which it almost seemed that he would catch the pontnik by the throat and dash him to the floor; but he suppressed his anger, drew a deep breath and commenced to speak slowly but emphatically.
“Whoever you are, do not strain my patience to the breaking point!”
But the pontnik turned to the sister: “Speak! what you were ordered.”
“Lord,” she said: “we would not dare distrust your oath upon your sword and knightly honor, but it is not proper for you to swear before people of low rank. And we were not sent for your oath.”
“What were you sent for?”
“The brethren told us that, without saying anything to anybody, you must appear at Szczytno with von Bergow and the prisoners.”
At that, Jurand’s shoulders began to draw together, and his fingers to extend like the claws of a bird of prey; at last, stopping before the woman, he bent down, as if to speak into her ear, and said:
“Did they not tell you that I should order you and von Bergow to be broken on the wheel in Spychow?”
“Your daughter is in the power of the brethren, and under the care of Shomberg and Markward,” replied the sister, meaningly.
“Robbers, poisoners, hangmen!” burst forth Jurand.
“Who are able to avenge us and who said at our departure: ‘Should he not comply with all our orders, it would be far better that the girl should die, as Witold’s children died.’ Choose!”
“And understand that you are in the power of the knights,” remarked the pontnik. “They do not wish to do you any harm, and the starosta of Szczytno sends you his word by us that you shall go free from his castle; but they want you, for the wrong done to them, to present your respects to the Teuton, and beg for the victor’s mercy. They want to forgive you, but they first wish to bend your stubborn neck. You denounced them as traitors and perjurers. — therefore they want you to acknowledge their good faith. They will restore you and your daughter to liberty — but you must beg for it. You trampled upon them — now you must swear that your hand will never, be raised against the white robe.”
“The knights wish it so,” added the woman, “and Markward and Shomberg with them.”
A moment of deathlike silence followed. It seemed only that somewhere among the beams of the ceiling some smothered echo repeated as if in terror: “Markward … Shomberg.”
Outside the windows could be heard the voices of Jurand’s archers keeping watch on the mounds near the palisade of the castle.
The pontnik and the servant of the Order looked for a long time at each other and Jurand, who sat leaning against the wall, motionless, and with a face deeply shadowed by furs suspended by the window. His brain contained only one thought, that, if he did not do what the Teutons demanded, they would destroy his child; again, if he should do it, he might perhaps even then not save Danusia nor himself. And he saw no help, no way of escape. He felt a pitiless superior force over him which was crushing him. He saw in his soul already the iron hands of a Teuton on Danusia’s throat; knowing them thoroughly, he did not doubt for a moment that they would kill her, bury her in the castle yard, and then deny it, — and who would then be able to prove that they had captured her?
It was true that Jurand had the messengers in his power; he could bring them to the prince and get a confession by means of torture, but the Teutons had Danusia, and they might not care about their agents’ torture. And for a moment he seemed to see his child stretching out her hands from afar, asking for assistance…. If he at least knew that she was really at Szczytno, then he could go that very night to the border, attack the unsuspecting Germans, capture the castle, destroy the garrison and liberate the child — but she might not be and positively was not in Szczytno. It flashed like lightning through his head, that if he were to seize the woman and the pontnik, and take them directly to the grand master, then perhaps the master could draw confessions from them and might order the return of his daughter; but that gleam was extinguished almost as quickly as it took fire.
These people could tell the master that they came to ransom von Bergow and that they knew nothing about a girl. No! that way led to nothing, but what did? He thought, that should he go to Szczytno they would chain him and cast him under ground, while Danusia would not be released, lest it should transpire that they had captured her, if for no other reason. And meanwhile death hung over his only child, death over the last dear head!… And finally his thoughts grew confused, and the pain became so great, that it overpowered itself and became numbness. He sat motionless, for his body became as dead as if cut out of stone. If he wanted to rise now, he would not be able to do so.
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