But from an unexpected quarter they did receive benefit from the war and the battles they had engaged in. One morning as they toiled in Zygmunt’s fields, for he was a stern master eager to rebuild his fortunes, the boy Jan heard a clinking sound in the forest and for one dreadful moment he thought it was the Tatars returning to pillage, but when he looked more closely he saw to his astonishment that it was his mother Danuta and his pretty sister Moniczka … on horses!
Old Jan and young Jan leaped in the air with delight and uttered shouts of joy, but the two women came on in silence, dropping the reins of their horses and leaning forward as if all energy was spent. Through many vicissitudes and many nights of hunger they had ridden more than three hundred miles, and often they had feared that they would never see Bukowo or their men again. They did not weep, or laugh, or cheer, or respond to their men, who did all three, but gravely they descended from their horses. They were home, ready to resume their duties, and the first thing they noticed was that the cottage their men were building needed thatching.
When the village learned that both were pregnant by the Tatars, there was a moment of grief and indecision, but in these years of wild dislocation women were often pawns in the tumultuous movement of peoples, and a little village like Bukowo could consider itself lucky if it received any of its captured women back, so in the end these two were welcomed. Of course, in February of 1242 they did produce bastards, but young ones were so earnestly needed to rebuild the settlement that no disgrace adhered to them. Such events, repeated over the centuries, accounted for the fact that many Poles along the Vistula would have darkened skins and eyes slightly aslant, as if they represented echoes out of Asia.
It was not the two bastards who caused trouble, it was the two horses, because Zygmunt, who took mastery of his new-found peasants seriously, supposed that the horses belonged to him, and he was avid about this, for if he could boast of three, he would move out of the miserable condition he had been in when he had only one. But Danuta could not imagine getting the horses the way she had, cutting men’s throats to do it, and then surrendering them, so she refused to yield them to her master.
The argument was carried to Krzysztof himself, and in a solemn hearing convened in Castle Gorka, now with a roof, he listened patiently as his liege Zygmunt tried to establish his claim. At the conclusion the red-headed knight delivered his decision:
‘It is unthinkable that a knight, even a minor one like Zygmunt of Bukowo, should have only one horse. Great knights ought to have thirty. But it is also unthinkable that a brave woman like Danuta, whose men tried so valiantly to save this community and who herself captured the two horses and rode them with such difficulty back to our village, should have them taken away from her.
‘My decision! The big black horse to Zygmunt, the smaller brown horse to Jan the Forester.’ (It would never have occurred to him to give it to Danuta.)
So Bukowo was reestablished, and once again its two castles guarded the Vistula, and the number of both its cottages and its inhabitants increased. But to the Tatars, always restless in Kiev, the lure of Golden Krakow was irresistible, and they returned on great foraging expeditions in 1260 and most forcefully in 1287, leveling the village on their way and burning its castles. Each time, the patient Poles rebuilt, for it was ingrained in them to love their land, even though they had not yet found a way to protect it.
They even succeeded in transmuting the hideous invasions into one of the golden legends of European history: during one attack on Krakow the Tatars crept close to the walls at midnight and would have captured the city had not a trumpeter stationed in the watchman’s tower sounded a bold call that awakened the defenders. But as he blew a repeat of his warning, eager to alert everyone, a Tatar archer shot him through the throat, silencing him.
Thereafter, every hour on the hour, in the great square in Krakow, a trumpeter from that tower has sent forth the same call. But just as the melody seems about to establish itself, the trumpeting stops. The arrow has struck home.
Since that night seven hundred years ago, thousands, millions have stood in the square and heard the trumpeter of Krakow, and as they listened to his brief, brave warning some have dedicated themselves: ‘When the Tatars return I must be ready.’
III
From the West
In the year 1378 a remarkable marriage ceremony took place in Hungary, one which was to have considerable significance for Poland.
The father of the bride was a man of French descent, Louis d’Anjou, who ruled as King of Hungary, and also of Poland, a country he rarely visited. He was a wise king of great personal attractiveness and would be remembered in Hungarian history as Louis the Great and in Poland as Louis the Hungarian. He had three charming daughters, and the later years of his life were preoccupied with finding them husbands and kingdoms of their own.
The bridegroom was a handsome German prince, Wilhelm of Habsburg, who had been reared in Vienna and who gave promise of becoming an excellent king in either Austria, Hungary or, more likely, Poland. He was a good catch for the Anjou family, and King Louis was pleased with the match.
But the radiant star of this marriage was the bride, an adorable princess with an inborn grace, a winsome smile and a beauty which set her apart in whatever crowd she graced. She had a charming habit of looking directly into the eye of anyone to whom she spoke and in this way enchanted kings, cardinals, generals and financiers. She was known widely as one of the choice princesses of Europe, and she was five years old.
The wedding was of course ceremonial, but it was also real, because in conformance with a royal custom followed by various countries, as soon as the bride reached the age of twelve her husband was permitted to exercise his connubial rights, and in this case it was hoped that the princess would have early and numerous pregnancies, for it would be her duty to produce sons.
Her name was Hedwig in German, Jadwiga in Polish, and when her illustrious father died in 1381 it was agreed among the nations that she should inherit the Polish throne. Although only eight, she was old enough to know what this meant, and she assured Wilhelm, of whom she had become desperately fond, that as soon as she reached the age of twelve he would be her consort on the throne.
When she was ten she crossed the Carpathians, entered Poland for the first time, and was crowned king … not queen, for the Polish nobles wanted to preserve dynastic links to their original kings. They wished her to be known as their king—the preserver of royal tradition.
As soon as she became king she found herself plunged into dynastic problems which with her premature intelligence she was able to understand, so that when her counselors came to her with the sad news ‘It is no longer desirable that you be married to Wilhelm of Habsburg’ she wept a little, sent a message to Austria that she would always love him, and then listened as the men around her explained why she must marry an extraordinary stranger from the north.
Spokesman for her advisers was a minor nobleman of great mental acuity from the middle reaches of the Vistula, Kazimir of Castle Gorka, a wise man although only in his thirties:
‘Majesty, the principal problem of your reign will be how to protect Poland from the power of the Teutonic Knights, who threaten us from the west. Believe me, that is of greater significance than any other difficulty you will face, and you must brood upon it constantly.
‘How best to keep the Germans in check? You must operate according to one of the wisest counsels ever given a king: “He who is the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” For the present, the real enemy of the Teutonic Knights is Lithuania, a good and powerful nation to our north and east. If you can ally yourself with Lithuania, you can forge a great nation powerful enough to hold off the Germans. If you stand alone, you and Poland may both perish.
‘Fortunately, Lithuania has now produced a grand duke of great ability and considerable charm. His name is Jagiello, and your counselors advise you, plead with you, to marry him.’
‘How old is he?’ the twelve-year-old king asked
, and Kazimir replied: Thirty-five, but he is young in appearance and vital in performance.’
‘I am told that he is not a Christian,’ Jadwiga said, and Kazimir replied: That is correct, but he has promised that if you will have him, he will become one and will command his entire nation to convert, also.’ The counselor paused, then said: ‘Rarely can a young woman convert an entire nation to God’s divine guidance simply by marrying the right man.’
‘I am also told that he is a heathen, with a body all covered with matted hair, like an otter or a bear.’ The young king blushed.
This was a serious charge, especially the part that she did not voice because of maidenly modesty, for it was rumored throughout the court that Jagiello was not only covered with hair like an elk but was also possessed of sexual organs monstrously large and destined to destroy or kill any woman he mated with.
‘Majesty,’ Kazimir said with a comforting, placid smile on his broad face, ‘I know your fears. You were to have married a handsome young prince of the Habsburgs. Now we propose to replace him with a hairy barbarian of God knows what disposition. Majesty, I will myself go to Lithuania with two men that you select from your council and we shall ask this Jagiello to take a complete bath in our sight, and we shall report to you honestly what we have seen when he stands naked before us.’
Jadwiga agreed that this was a most sensible solution to her problem, so a diplomatic mission consisting of three counselors, eighty horsemen and sixty servants set out from Krakow to journey into Lithuania, where the counselors would request Jagiello to take a full bath in their presence. Sitting not three feet from the carved marble tub, they discovered to their delight that the Lithuanian grand duke was not covered with hair and that his sexual organs were in no wise larger than their own and, as one of the counselors told Kazimir, ‘Rather smaller, if accurate measurements were made.’
They hurried back to Krakow with the joyous news that there was no impediment to the marriage, and after Jadwiga was assured that Jagiello would indeed convert to Christianity and bring his pagan nation to the baptismal font with him, she consented to the marriage. She was thirteen, he thirty-six, and they formed one of the noblest royal couples in Europe.
They gave Poland and Lithuania good government and launched one of the most powerful dynasties in Renaissance Europe. During their reign a great university was founded in Krakow, hospitals were started, and stable forms of government initiated. Lithuania, a country of enormous size—Baltic to Black Sea—was officially Christianized, and Polish influence reached to the doorsteps of Muscovy, the future Russia.
Always Jagiello and Jadwiga kept before them the specter of invasion by the Teutonic Knights, but they knew instinctively that they were not yet strong enough to oppose the terror which the knights visited on the far fringes of their land, and they had to bear the invasions and insults in silence.
‘The time will come, Jadwiga,’ Jagiello promised, ‘when Poland and Lithuania will rise up against these Germans,’ but he never predicted when this time was likely to happen. So as Poland made progress in small, carefully considered steps, they watched the Teutonic Knights on their western and northern borders vaulting ahead in military and economic prowess.
In these years Jadwiga became the best-loved king Poland had ever had, a gracious, warm, intelligent woman, wise far beyond her years, gifted in political analysis, and winning in her capacity to convince others of the lightness of what she wanted to do. It was particularly noted by foreign ambassadors to the court at Krakow that she made an ideal partner for Jagiello, and many rumors circulated in Paris, Rome and London that when the proper time came, this amazing Polish-Lithuanian couple intended to take the measure of the Teutonic Knights.
In 1399, at the age of twenty-six, Jadwiga evoked thunderous joy throughout Poland by letting it be known that she was pregnant, and seers predicted as a consequence of many favorable omens that the baby was to be a boy. But the child was stillborn, and shortly thereafter this lovely princess, this regal queen, this king of great ability and fortitude, died, and for some years her widowed husband languished, but starting about 1405, when his equally capable cousin Witold, his successor as Grand Duke of Lithuania, began to show mettle and a willingness to join him in opposing the Germans, Jagiello indicated to those about him that the time was drawing near when the new nation of Poland-Lithuania must take arms against the Teutonic Knights, regardless of the consequences. As he told Witold: ‘We can no longer bear the humiliation.’
But Jagiello was a prudent man, and before launching a major war of defense he desired to know all he could about his powerful enemy, so one day in the winter of 1409, when war clouds began to lower, obscuring the northern skies, he asked his counselor Kazimir of Gorka: ‘Have we at court someone we could insert into the Amber Road? Someone who would travel quietly to the Baltic and see for himself what the Teutonic Knights are up to?’
‘Not at court,’ Kazimir said, ‘but I have a liege with a big, dumb face who might serve our purpose. I’m sure no one would take him for a spy, and although he’s not quick of mind, he is trustworthy.’
‘Who is he?’ the king asked.
‘Pawel of Bukowo.’
‘I have not heard of him. But if you say—’
‘I promise nothing! I’ve warned you that he’s rather stupid, but I assure you he’s dependable.’
‘Send him forth,’ the king said, and Kazimir left the court and journeyed the relatively short distance to his castle along the Vistula, where he summoned Pawel of Bukowo to meet with him.
This Pawel was a petty nobleman with three horses, a castle that was mostly in ruins and the heavy gait of a farmer. He had almost no neck, sloping shoulders and hands that hung out from his hips. Also, he wore his hair cut straight across his eyebrows, so that he created an appearance that was far from attractive, but if one looked at him carefully, one noticed the shrewd eyes that absorbed most of what occurred about him.
‘Pawel,’ Kazimir asked, ‘how would you like to buy amber for the king?’
‘Why doesn’t he buy it himself? There’s plenty in Krakow.’
Very quietly Kazimir said, looking Pawel directly in the eye: ‘He would prefer a better quality. Say, from Lembok.’
Pawel folded his hands over his belly, rocked back and forth a couple of times, and said: ‘He wants me to spy on the Teutonic Knights.’
‘I doubt that he would express it that way, Pawel—’
‘Where do I get the money?’
‘That will be provided.’
‘You know what they say, Pan? That not a bead of amber leaves Lembok any more except through the knights’ hands.’
‘We want you to buy it from them. In the end, that is. We want you first to see if you can buy it from the Lithuanians. So that you give the appearance of an honest dishonest trader.’
Again Pawel rocked back and forth, assessing this dangerous mission. ‘And when I do that, the knights arrest me. They drag me off to their castle in Malbork and I get hanged.’
‘Up to the point of hanging, that’s what we want. We want you to be arrested. We want you to see Malbork. But we also want you to come back to us with your story.’
Pawel dropped his chin onto his fingertips and studied his master. ‘How do you propose arranging that?’
‘You carry with you a letter from the king himself, authorizing you to buy amber—from the Lithuanians, if possible.’
‘That guarantees my hanging.’
‘No, the knights will want to use you to send a message back to the king.’
Pawel rose from his chair and moved about the castle room. ‘They’d see through such nonsense in a minute. The Germans aren’t stupid.’
‘Of course they’ll see what we’re doing. But they’ll also see that King Jagiello wants to establish contact with them.’
‘Why not send an ambassador? As you did in the past?’
‘Too formal. Too weighed down in heavy protocol. When the knights see an ambassador coming, th
ey freeze up. With you, they’ll talk.’
‘Do you want me to do this, Pan?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I’ll do it.’ He rose and moved toward the door. ‘But I will want Janko to accompany me. He’s very resourceful, Janko.’
So it was agreed, and the king’s letter was composed, and the two suede bags of gold coins were delivered, and on an April morning in 1409 square-faced Pawel of Bukowo started eastward toward the Amber Road, which led by ship from Constantinople to Odessa, by land to Kiev to Minsk to Wilno to the beautiful seacoast town of Lembok, where precious amber was collected for the bazaars of Persia, India, China and Japan.
When Pawel and his attendant Janko, also of Bukowo, had been on the Road one day, spies hurried northward with reports to the castle at Malbork that two mysterious Poles were on their way to Lembok: ‘We shall follow them closely and inform you of their doings.’ But at a stop near the town of Mozyr, Pawel told a Polish spy who was awaiting him: ‘Inform the king’s counselor Kazimir of Gorka that the knights have noticed us and are sending messengers north to keep Malbork informed of our movements.’
It must be understood that the Teutonic Knights who crept out of Germany to occupy the Baltic seacoast—which should normally have been a part of Poland—acted under a signed commission of the Pope ordering them to Christianize the pagan lands in that region, so that regardless of how they behaved, they acted with papal authority and the approval of God Himself.
Their Order had been formed near Jerusalem in 1189 by a group of crusading knights from Bremen and Lübeck, and their intentions were the noblest: to provide medical services to Christian soldiers striving to wrest the Holy Land from its infidel possessors. The orotund name they took at their beginning testified to their intentions: ‘Knights of the Teutonic Order of the Hospital of St. Mary in Jerusalem.’
The Order achieved little success, and by 1210 boasted of less than ten members who could move into battle fully armored and mounted. What was more ominous, the Catholic church was beginning to move against the Templars and other orders which had proved difficult to discipline, and it seemed likely that the Teutonic Knights would quietly vanish.
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