Poland

  On hearing this terrible indictment of a land he had known in a much different light, Pawel’s neck muscles, which came straight down from his ears to his shoulders, began to stand out like big willow reeds. His face grew red. His hands trembled. And he could imagine no circumstances under which he could accept such condemnation. At the castigation of the Lithuanians he had remained silent, and he had seen no reason to defend the Tatars, whom he had feared since childhood when tales of how they ravaged villages terrified his dreams, but he could in no way approve what he had just heard about his homeland.

  ‘Did you find anything wrong?’ Von Eschl repeated, and Pawel said: ‘It’s a pack of lies.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Priest Anton said. ‘You could be thrown on the rack, you know, for claiming that what the church—’

  ‘We have good bishops in Poland. They preach the word of God. I’ve heard them. And what you say about them and us is wrong. You say it for some wrong purpose, and you should be ashamed.’

  They could not bully Pawel into admitting that their condemnation of Poland was accurate, and when they threw him into one of the single cells from which harsh punishment was administered, he sat in darkness, mumbling to himself: ‘I refuse to say that what he wrote is true.’ And he was prepared to die for his obstinacy.

  But before he could be lashed to the rack, as Priest Anton had directed, he was brought out of his cell, allowed to wash and put on fresh clothes, and taken before the Grand Master himself, who saw in Pawel’s presence a chance to promote a scheme which lay close to his heart.

  ‘Brother Pawel,’ the powerful Grand Master said as they sat with Von Eschl over a quiet lunch, ‘you are to be set free. You are to take these beautiful amber beads, which you purchased with your funds, to the king in Krakow. And you are to carry a letter from me to him, but first I should like to ask you a series of questions quite different from those my friend here and the scribbling priest asked you.’

  Pawel bowed, took a healthy bite of the good bread baked by the friars, and waited.

  ‘In your opinion, Pawel, if war came between our Teutonic Knights and Lithuania, would Poland remain neutral?’

  ‘Never. Lithuania and Poland are one nation. With one king.’

  ‘That we know, all of us. But matters of national interest do arise. And Poland is a nation quite different from Lithuania. Do you still think she would join the battle?’

  In his dark, solitary cell, Pawel of Bukowo, this petty knight with only three horses, had reviewed every word he could remember of the indictment against his homeland, and he had rejected every charge, except maybe the employment of Tatar cavalrymen, about which he knew nothing. And he confirmed his resolve to die rather than to besmirch his nation or its Christian people. Now he was being asked if Poland would betray its major ally.

  ‘Grand Master,’ he said with proper deference; ‘it seems to me that what you want Poland to do is stand aside while you destroy Lithuania, so that you can enjoy a free hand later on to destroy Poland.’

  Ulrich von Jungingen, a master in exactly the kind of diplomacy Pawel was outlining, neither smiled nor frowned. Leaning slightly forward, he asked: ‘So you think Poland would fight?’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘You gave honest answers, Pan Pawel,’ Von Jungingen said, and his voluntary use of the Polish honorific proved the sincerity of his evaluation. Now he asked: ‘If my Order sought an armistice … a cessation of all hostilities between us … everywhere He paused to allow the gravity of what he was about to propose to sink in, and when he believed that Pawel understood, he concluded: ‘If we offered an armistice for one year, would Poland accept?’

  ‘Why not peace for all years?’ Pawel asked.

  Von Jungingen did not reply. Instead he turned to Von Eschl, tall, straight, keen of mind and brilliant in negotiation, who said very slowly: ‘Because permanent peace between the Order and pagan countries like Lithuania and Poland is impossible. It is God’s will that Christian Germans should bring the glories of civilization to these parts.’

  ‘Then why have an armistice, as you call it? Why not war and have done?’

  Now the Grand Master spoke, leaning back in the great carved chair which served as his throne: ‘We propose an armistice now because at certain times each side knows that it is improper to go to war—neither is ready, the issues have not firmed. War at such times would be a sloppy affair …’

  He hesitated, then leaned far forward until he was almost touching Pawel’s hands, and asked with utmost sincerity: ‘Tell me, does your side really employ Tatar cavalry?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Pawel said.

  ‘That would be a terribly wrong thing to do,’ Von Jungingen said. ‘To use the followers of Muhammad against a Christian army’—his voice dropped several levels—‘against an army which fights only to bring civilization to backward countries.’

  Abruptly he terminated the interview, ordered that Pawel be given fresh clothes, the set of six amber beads and two good horses, one for himself and one for Janko.

  But Pawel had grown to love these beads so much, imagining them to have lain under the sea for countless years, that he did not deliver them to King Jagiello in Krakow. He gave them to his lord, Kazimir of Gorka, where they formed the chief treasure of that castle.

  Unbelievably, the armistice that Grand Master Ulrich von Jungingen proposed was accepted by Jagiello and his cousin Witold, and for the very reasons that Von Jungingen had outlined: neither side was fully ready for war, and to plunge into one haphazardly might lead to haphazard consequences. The truce was to last from 8 October 1409 until sunset on 24 June 1410, at which time the tremendous battle which had been forming for the past ten years would legally begin.

  During this pause no serious effort was made to avert the war, only to postpone it, and for the very good reason that each side vigorously wanted to settle growing animosities. The Teutonic Knights believed that they must pursue with European applause their publicized effort at converting the heathen or they would lose their private goal of building a massive German state which would comprise the Baltic lands, much of Russia and all of Poland. For them, a battle that would crush Lithuania and Poland for half a century was imperative.

  It was equally so for Jagiello’s two nations, which had witnessed the slow erosion of their lands, as if an insuperable tidal wave from the west were hammering their shores, cutting away Pomerania here, Danzig there, Samogitia on the next wave. As Jagiello told his captains when accepting the armistice: ‘Next year we either conquer the Crossed Knights or we perish as a nation … and as individuals.’

  He used his respite brilliantly, visiting magnates like Kazimir of Castle Gorka and pleading with them that it would serve their own self-interest to contribute armies to the Polish cause. This begging was necessary because even a king as strong as Jagiello had no real power to make the magnates do anything they did not wish to; they ruled, not he, and if he could not make them see that it was to their advantage to give him an army, he would have none.

  But Jagiello’s brilliance lay mainly in his ability to persuade, and gradually, from all parts of the chaotic nation, he assembled a force of quite stunning dimensions, one of the largest that had ever operated in this part of Europe. He had Lithuanians in great number, double that amount of Poles, a volunteer battalion from Bohemia, and one group so strange that Pawel of Bukowo, who was sent to enlist it, could not believe his eyes.

  The king himself had come to Bukowo with two Lithuanians sent down by his cousin Witold, and he had commissioned his emissaries: ‘You are to go to Kiev and invite them, pleadingly, to join us, for it is just as much in their interest that we defeat the Order as in ours.’

  Naturally, Pawel had difficulty conversing with the two Lithuanians, for peoples of the two nations had no common language, but each side had a smattering of words, and on the ride to Kiev, attended by sixteen soldiers, he had an opportunity to learn more about Grand Duke Witold, who was to be of such crucial importance in the
forthcoming battle.

  ‘Remarkable man,’ the Lithuanians said, each one volunteering a broken phrase. ‘Like a volcano they tell about in Italy. Ten years ago strong ally of the Teutonic Knights. Fight on their side valiantly. Eight years ago, big fight. We declare war against Marienburg. Six years ago, big friends again. Together we fight big battle against the Tatars. Much killing, believe me. Witold a hero, Grand Master himself kisses Witold at Marienburg. Next year German knights steal much of our land. Witold forms alliance with Tatars against Marienburg. But knights very clever. They make peace with Witold and together they fight Tatars again.’

  ‘Who is he with this year?’ Pawel asked.

  ‘That depends.’ One of the Lithuanians did not like the sound of this, so he added: ‘No matter who he fights for, he fights with great valor. He is Witold, champion of all.’

  When they approached Kiev, Pawel became aware of much movement among the mounted troops guarding the city, and some dozen miles from the outskirts the envoys were in effect arrested by a contingent of cavalry. They were then led by circuitous paths into the city, where they were apparently expected by one of the Tatar leaders with whom Witold had been allied twice and against whom he had warred three times. It was Tughril, a small, wiry, incredibly tough veteran of the steppes and of battlefields reaching from the Black Sea to the Baltic. His official suzerain had been Tamerlane the Great, under whose orders he had attacked Lithuania, but when Tamerlane died, Tughril had found much joy in warring on his own, stealing from the Sultan’s convoys at the edge of Constantinople, foraging on the Amber Road, laying siege to Moscow, never winning any great battle, never losing a crippling one.

  His left eye seemed not to be fixed, looking now this way, now that, but his right had a piercing quality; it seemed always to be laughing at the insanity of life, and whenever some outrageous proposal was laid before him, his left eye wandered this way and that around the possibilities, while his right stared sternly at the visitor as if to ask: ‘What gain do I get in this transaction?’

  He now stared at the three emissaries from the Polish king: ‘I can see why your Jagiello wants to battle the Germans, but why should I?’

  Pawel had been schooled in the only answer he was to give: ‘Because there will be much booty … much looting.’

  ‘Good!’ Tughril said, leaning back and stroking his huge mustaches. ‘How many men do they want me to bring?’

  ‘Ten thousand.’

  ‘Impossible. They don’t need that many.’

  ‘How many can you bring?’

  ‘Can? Can? I can bring the entire city of Kiev if needed. But I will bring about fifteen hundred.’

  ‘So few?’

  ‘Each man a warrior. Each man on the fastest horse you’ve ever seen.’ He hesitated, desiring to nail down the agreement. ‘You promise there’ll be looting?’

  ‘There will be,’ Pawel assured him, but one of the Lithuanians warned: ‘No killing of women and children.’

  ‘That happens only under necessity,’ Tughril said, dismissing the implied criticism of Tatar methods.

  ‘There will be no killing of women,’ the Lithuanian repeated.

  ‘Not even in the German towns we capture?’

  ‘Not even there.’

  Tughril shrugged his shoulders as if he had been instructed not to use bowmen against a stone castle; if that was the rule, so be it.

  The compact was arranged: Tughril promised that fifteen hundred Tatar horsemen would leave Kiev on the first of May 1410 and arrive in the north one week before 24 June, the day the battle was to begin. The four men embraced, heads were nodded sedately, and the mission was completed, confirmed—that is, unless the Teutonic Knights visited Kiev in the interim, converting the Tatars to their side with the promise that they could loot Polish villages.

  When the three travelers reached the separation point, at Zhitomir, the Lithuanians headed north to report to Witold; Pawel, going west to inform Jagiello, had perplexing doubts as to the propriety of enlisting an infidel army in a fight against a Christian king, and he could still hear the voices of the German knights at Marienburg hammering on this very point. It did not seem right. It was a travesty to ally one’s self with a Muhammadan in a fight against soldiers of the Pope. But the more he reflected on the matter the more he felt instinctively that in a battle of this magnitude and importance, it was much better to have Tughril fighting for you rather than against you. He was not unhappy with the outcome of his visit to Kiev.

  All across Poland, that winter was spent in military husbandry: pikes were given new hafts, swords were sharpened or annealed if they had lost their temper; horses were shod and armor was closely fitted. And the peasant Janko of Bukowo told his wife: ‘It’s time to cut the ash,’ so together they went into the Forest of Szczek where for some years he had been watching over a young ash tree, now about ten feet tall and three inches thick. At various intervals over a long period of time he had cut deep incisions into the trunk, into which he had inserted rather large pieces of jagged flint, encouraging the ensuing growth of the tree to close upon them, making their bases almost a part of the living tree but allowing their knifelike edges to protrude. Some two dozen of these implantations were now so securely wedded to the ash that nothing could dislodge them, not even the hardest blow against a suit of armor, and when Janko tested each with his thumb and forefinger he found it well rooted.

  ‘I’ll cut it first down here,’ Janko said, ‘to give me a good knob, then up here for the handle.’ He asked his wife’s opinion, and with her smaller hands she grasped where the handle would be and said: ‘Maybe it’s too thick there,’ but when he tested it he could find nothing wrong.

  It was a solemn moment, deep in the woods, when a man was about to harvest the weapon on which his life would depend, and he could not bring himself to destroy the tree that he had tended for so long. Stepping back, he studied his home-grown war club once more and asked his wife if she really thought he was cutting to the right length. Grabbing the axe from him, she made a big gash at the lower end, then handed him the axe with the assurance: ‘It will be just right.’

  From his various villages Kazimir of Castle Gorka assembled a battalion of one hundred and eighty-seven men all told, including himself. He had seventeen gentry of minor category, four or five of whom self-styled themselves as knights, a title few outsiders recognized, about two dozen professional soldiers whom he paid, the rest knaves, farriers, armorers and peasants. One priest, Father Franciszek, completed the roster. Kazimir would allow no women or boys to accompany him, but his definition of the latter category was flexible, for the youngest knave was only thirteen.

  They started north in May, like a minute streamlet heading for a distant ocean, but as they moved they accumulated other groups—sixty from this castle, only twenty from that, four hundred from Sandomierz—until by the middle of the month they constituted a vast throng marching slowly, resolutely toward an inevitable battle of tremendous magnitude. And one night as they camped well to the north, Pawel could imagine that in the lands ahead the German knights were doing the same, assembling from the farthest reaches of their territory, and from France and England and Holland as well. Only then did he appreciate what a titanic battle this was to be.

  In the second week of June, only eleven days before the armistice was to end, the Polish forces were surprised by the arrival of three Teutonic Knights in full armor and bright trappings. They unfurled a flag of truce and sought to speak with King Jagiello: ‘The Grand Master proposes that we extend the armistice for three weeks.’

  ‘Why?’ Jagiello asked, always suspicious that the Germans might seduce Cousin Witold to join them.

  ‘Because knights from the other nations of Europe wish to participate, and we feel that honor should not be denied them.’

  ‘Sensible condition,’ Jagiello said, and the extension was granted.

  He did this not out of consideration for the Order, but because he judged that he could use the extra days
constructively in aligning his heterogeneous units into a more compact battle array. He was especially insistent that the Tatar cavalrymen be used effectively.

  His plan was threatened when Tughril’s men did arrive—not the fifteen hundred promised, but only eleven hundred—for they proceeded at once to sack a village, as was their wont, but it turned out to be not a German village but a Lithuanian one, and Witold was enraged. The two leaders had a harsh meeting with Tughril, who looked contritely at Jagiello with one eye, at Witold with the other: ‘Our men killed no women, as we promised.’

  ‘You are to sack nothing till after the battle,’ Witold said angrily.

  ‘All right! I understand.’

  On the next day Witold summoned Tughril to a bivouac area, where a branch of his Lithuanian troops had been marshaled, with a stack of tree trunks and planks in the center. Two of Witold’s men, hearing about the Tatar sack of their village, had taken it upon themselves to do a little sacking of their own, and it was bad luck that they, too, had struck at a Lithuanian village, not a German one.

  ‘Did you sack the village?’ Witold shouted at them.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then build your own gallows.’ And everyone watched in silence as the two men stuck the tree trunks in the ground and fastened crossbars, which they secured with diagonal members. When the gibbets were in order, having been tested by Witold himself, he ordered the men to attach ropes to their necks, after which they were hauled into the air and left kicking.

  ‘That’s how we discipline our troops,’ Witold snapped at the Tatar commander, who said: ‘You lost two good soldiers that way.’

  ‘What would you have done?’

  ‘Forbidden them to share in the looting when we win.’

  The extended armistice ended at sunset on 4 July 1410, but the battle did not begin on the following day because the two huge armies, like two great beasts on a darkened plain who knew that struggle was inevitable, moved and parried to gain advantage, and the Grand Master, who had been in such situations often before, laid clever traps to trick Jagiello. Deep trenches were dug and covered over with sod on planking intended to break the legs of the Polish cavalry, but crazy-eyed Tughril took one look at the areas from a distance, and because his focus danced back and forth, the camouflage became ridiculously obvious, and he told Jagiello: ‘Charge your cavalry far to the south, then back up.’