Kozlík was a ferociously proud man whose sons took after him in that respect, but what does the tale have to say about his daughters?
Nothing better! Word was they had the temperaments of furies, and were crude, and their gracefulness did not restrain them from deplorable amusements. A girl’s place was by the hearth, yet these savage women preferred the tiltyards to humble kitchen labors. Though genuinely undeserving of their merriment, their laughter and shrieking would not be stilled even after night had fallen. They spoke of the captive German and mocked him, not a whit of good manners in evidence. Kateřina flew into a rage and repeated the newcomer’s name: Kristian, Kristian, Kristian. The others found the stranger’s dazzlingly white hands ludicrous. His attire did not escape their commentary either, and his ring set with a precious stone left them howling with laughter. The thick braid, tresses, and torrents of hair recalled the darkness whence emerge the sparkling white, impeccable limbs of witches.
Be not overly repulsed by such grinning beauty, for it might be they who behold the face of God, whereas we piddly scribblers simply perish.
Alexandra was no different from her sisters, yet she was more delicate. Her face suggested a snowfall tinged by the rays of the evening sunset. She was particularly fair of late, as she was now covered by the shadow of grace. She giggled with the others, but amidst the laughter sorrow and longing overcame her anew. She feared an illness was coming on, as she had yet to experience that tumult of emotion whereby yearning is mixed with rejection, tenderness with chastity.
Neither Kozlík, nor her dear brothers, nor her sisters had any inkling of love. Yet her guardian angel, arriving unexpectedly, was carving a heart into the trunk of an elm tree. Giving his consent, he inscribed the first letters of two names: Alexandra and Kristian.
Roháček sleeps. Kozlík’s snoring befits lords free from danger. Covered with pelts, his arms extend out and his nose points upward.
Mikoláš is asleep on a bench, though his sleep doesn’t count for much. A lust for vengeance keeps him awake, gives him no rest. To hell with it, if only he could see again out of his left eye, regain his strength, he would go tearing after Lazar! And yet, dear gentlemen, he cannot see for trying, it’s a wonder his head was not split in two, and his eyelids and around his eye-socket are so swollen it’s like dough in a kneading trough.
Let’s take a peek into the women’s quarters.
Several ladies have babes cradled in their arms – there is warmth, the scent of infants and milk.
Alexandra was still wide awake. Her soul careened and quivered. The very signs of love, the poor girl was beyond help. Would that her longing were requited! In the shed where litter was stored, Kristian’s pursuer was freezing from the cold. How now? The man was but a servant who walked behind his masters. He personally had absolutely nothing against Kristian. Yet in these times, what the barons and the captains abhorred, so did those who served them. He tossed and turned from one side onto the other, unable to comprehend whence misfortune was visited on wretches such as himself. He was numb with cold because he was obedient. His arm hurt because Jan was such a brute, because Kristian so fair.
Ah, Kristian! They had forgotten about him, no one put him any questions, no one told him where he ought to sleep. The esquire in the shed had much to tell about him. He was a knight, and in rank he far outstripped these local lords who so reeked of the stable. The help he had unexpectedly received left him in a quandary.
Kristian passed the night until morning sitting on one footstool after another, and he would’ve gladly escaped. Yet all night long the shadow of a brigand passed before the windows. He was vexed at these ingrate Bohemians. His discontent bespoke his love for Alexandra.
Kristian was completing a count of all living creatures at Roháček.
The following day was given over to relocating. It was still dark, and Kozlík was already barking his orders: Tighten those straps! Bring the horses! The crates and barrels! To the carts!
The men bustle about and everyone does as much as he is able. The women are not idle either. One comes bearing a basket, another blankets and the implements of the nomad.
Finally they mount the horses and carts. The girls straddle their horses like true Landsknechts, the ladies with infants in their arms sit beneath tarp, and the youngsters clamber up the wheels, while Alexandra lags behind. Would Kozlík summon Kristian to follow them? Would he spare a thought for the stranger from Germania?
No, his concern is only for his chattels and flock. The young woman realizes Kristian’s ill fate. That one-armed man would seek his recompense, he would scramble out from the shed and overtake the poor boy at the edge of the forest. Oh, he does not appear capable of defending himself. Has he ever raised a sword or drawn a bow? His hands are so white he could be a priest.
Such thoughts only heightened her anxiety, and so she felt she should gesture to the stranger to follow behind her horse. Today, for the first time ever, she had to conceal her will, casting furtive glances at her father.
Jan was the last to pass through the gate, but registered no surprise when he saw Kristian on the road. The German was a cipher to him. Yet to leave an enemy in one’s home is a risky business. Jan turned back, opened the hatch to the shed, and dragged the other foreigner out to the snow. Should he strangle him? There was little time to lose, yet Alexandra observed that Jan had lingered and she rode back. Her horse leaped in a circle around them, each step conveying the young woman’s anger.
“I want him to come with us, I want him to translate a language I don’t understand. I demand it. Let him come!” she said to Jan. Her air of superiority was palpable, and her brother was at a loss to what to do – very well, he would spare him. He might prove useful. So much is beyond human comprehension. The two enemies, one a prince and the other a simple churl, were not to part ways just yet. And so it happened that in their hardship a mutual fondness grew, each helping the other, sharing everything and showing each other love in equal measure to the mutual contempt they had harbored before.
Jan bound Kristian’s elbow to the servant’s left arm and ordered them to walk between two carts. They marched close to Mikoláš, who was now seated on his horse. His head was bandaged in cloth and he did not notice the wayfarers hurrying past in a cloud of breath from a team of horses trotting along behind them. When he bothered to have a look, he saw that both were out of breath. The esquire’s wounded arm had swollen and grown numb. The wretch had clamped his teeth onto his sleeve to carry it aloft, as a bloodhound carries its quarry. Kristian stumbled, and a blush replaced the pallor of his face. He looked about to fall down, never to get up again.
And now something quite unprecedented occurred. Mikoláš made a sign to seat them on a cart.
He was not so bereft of compassion after all, and if one fine day his soul did not tumble into the abyss, it would undoubtedly be for this act of kindness.
Oddly, though Alexandra had taken to the foreigner nearly at first sight, it did not occur to her that the journey might be arduous for him. She was somewhere up ahead on her mare, chary, feigning indifference to the German.
The band of robbers was heading eastward, toward the wood, toward the deepest forests. The king’s captain would surely freeze to death if he dared to pursue them with his regiment. He would not leave that place and would freeze, for the fervor of the soldier is contingent on the cook’s kettle. In the roadless waste of Šerpin Holt the sutler’s wagon would get bogged down, the strumpets wrap up their kissers and begin to whine, then a horse falls, and as if on cue a wheel splinters, the drummer nods off and knocks his head against his drum, sores open on the mens’ feet, the wolf draws near, and ravens come to roost among the lances. And now they wipe their beaks and fly off.
The next day the captain came upon Kozlík’s tracks sunken into those hunting grounds of death. For a moment he hesitated, pondering that his force did not comprise greenhorns by any means, they were footmen who could storm fortresses, footmen who could mount a fine assault on castle walls, yet in the field they were slow to advance. It would only be worse in the forests, in a landscape so filled with snowdrifts, where the frost twinkles instead of the campfire, where lynxes dwell instead of hogs, and where you might bag a kestrel but not a goose.
In the host moving with Captain Pivo toward the forest road there was a tender young knight by the name of Sovička. Whence did he hail? I don’t really know. It could be that his elder brother had been stepping on his toes, or he’d been mistreated in some monastery, or he’d done something wicked, or who knows, maybe he thought even a poor and simple knight could rise in rank in the military and distinguish himself in battle.
This Sovička was an ugly-looking fellow, and even though his name meant “owl,” his advice wasn’t worth much. Pivo often lent him his ear all the same.
"Why should you delay, Captain, why should you hesitate to go right into the middle of that bush," he told the fatso. "You say we are slow-footed, but is that thicket going to give way before the brigands? Don’t you see they have laden carts? Divide the troop into detachments of a hundred, you stay near the highway while we outflank them. Within three days they’ll be driven onto the road."
Pivo replied that a fool could not have come up with a worse plan. "You shall learn who Kozlík is, you shall learn, poor boy," he said, remounting his horse. "If I sent a hundred horsemen against him, not one would return. These are royal cavalrymen, and I must husband them well. I will not put them in a position where they will be attacked in their sleep. Kozlík would slaughter the sentries, and if they grew weary from hunger and the cold, he would venture short skirmishes, while he rode away on their horses himself."
Pivo turned his horse toward the fortress of Roháček, where his regiment had set up camp. The horsemen rode behind him, but Sovička had second thoughts and rode right up to the edge of the forest.
The hapless fellow! Would that he had not done so. Two of Kozlík’s sons, two vilifiers of royal prerogative, two depredators of the king's troops, were positioned there, and they saw him.
As Pivo drew farther away, they descended from a knoll. Jiří and Jan, now back on their horses, no longer concealing themselves. Come now, should the lonely soldier have defied his orders and the king’s service? The regiment might go down in glory, and he, the one who was fated to spot the enemy, should just give himself up? What matters a single dimwit. But to be dead! Never again to smell camp smoke or to taste a long, cool draft, to be skewered while those at home purr contentedly! To be effaced from this beautiful world all because you had once seen a regiment pass with banners fluttering overhead, all for the ring of a horseshoe, for the way a cavalier places his arm at his side, for the way the girls shade their eyes when a cornet’s confounded horse whinnies!
Oh, esteemed gentlemen, have some pity! For the love of God, I surrender myself to your mercy. Take pity, take pity, take pity!
Farewell, Sovička, my ugly friend, lift your sword and put up at least a pretense of defense! Pivo stopped and called the knight’s name. When no answer came, the horsemen reached for their weapons and, keeping alert, approached step by step until they reached Sovička’s lifeless body. There he lay with cloven head.
The captain then became enraged, and his cry was heard far and wide. “That I heeded you not, unfortunate soul, behold, God has shown us that retribution brooks no delay. I will not let my soldiers rest, nor the livestock, nor the weaponry, until I bring these bandits before the king in chains. I will pursue them more relentlessly than anyone has ever been pursued, and if they are butchered while defending themselves, I will take their children captive."
To this pledge the forest made no reply. Had Jan and Jiří fled, or on hearing the captain did they point their fingers at his prodigious belly?
The men-at-arms with Pivo lifted Sovička’s corpse and buried it in the courtyard at Roháček. That very day they burned the fortress to the ground.
Flames are a soldier’s bouquet. Fiery palmettos and roses flicker over Sovička’s grave. One of the captain’s wretched soldiers is still rummaging hurriedly in the stolen jewels, gobbling down what there was left to eat, still tying together a small bundle, but the roof was now engulfed in flames, run, before it collapses.
Then the regiment marched off and left Roháček in ashes. I wish to pass over the slog through the forest. The frost was fierce, oh God, how they plodded onward! Naturally, Pivo could not get by without the wagons, but just you try wheeling your way through a roadless forest! Now there’s a hill, now there’s a steep slope, no sooner have you locked the wheel and pushed the brake than you’re standing under another hill. No choice but to fix skids under the axles.
The next day at sunset the royal soldiers reached a clearing, and the captain gave orders to pitch camp. There was no thought of pushing on, and no one wished to endure further hardships for even an hour more. Night fell, the night of the brigands. The vigilant Kozlík had eyes everywhere. He lay in wait. The soldiers had already lost nine of their mates. They were beset by chilblains and the lice that accompany any corps more faithfully than high spirits and good cheer. Beneath the wagons’ tarps, right under the very skids, lay a tightly packed host. A snowdrift came up to the drowsing sentry’s waist. Alack! The most treacherous of brigands was waiting for this moment. His band stood at the ready. They, too, were numb with the cold, eating only half a mouthful of food each day, yet could brigands really be compared to paunchy troops who go rolling into one walled town after another, shaking down the inhabitants in the name of the king? Would anyone dare deny them the chitterlings at a pig slaughter? Just let the tavern keeper try and show them the door when they have not paid their bill. Those irascible bandits had robbed the regiment of all felicity and deprived it of all its noble pursuits.
But did they stop there? No! They move in on their colossal horses, swords across their faces, knives clamped between their teeth. Their fists are knotty, their fists are veined, their fists are pure bone and strength.
You beak-nosed savages, ah, you wildmen, you are truly terrible, but far more terrible is Mikoláš! Mikoláš, a bloody crust covering his scratches and scars. They’re off, the encampment is under attack.
Canvas tears, tents fall, the sound of roars and whoops, roars and wailing. May Saint George inspire the dying with a prayer to absolve their souls.
The troops spent the rest of the night in dread. They stood in a square formation, lances on the shoulders of the first rows, swords in hands half-opened by the frost, swords in hand, helmets on head. They wrapped their hilts in tow and their brows in rags. They were fearful, cracked in the head, and the forest shadows struck terror into them. Yet Kozlík did not return, he was hurrying instead to replenish his supplies. At daybreak his pack tore out of the forest and straight into the village, straight toward the hens and the fatlings. For five days now the brigands had seen nary kid goat nor cockerel, so they were content with slim pickings. The peasant men just tugged at their beards, but their wives piped up, invoking divine punishment on the robbers. One thing’s for sure, we’d all be fine and dandy if the heavenly powers fought on the side of those who get robbed. But they did not trouble themselves, content as they were to sit up there in the clouds amid the blue and gold, quite oblivious to whatever was happening in the valley below. Kozlík took what he wanted, inquired who was on the roads, what was the news from Roháček, and how they were getting along at Obořiště.
"Well, did they catch Lazar?"
"Good master," replied a peasant, "when those filthy swine set off after you, Lazar came back. Why would he go freeze his soul in the woods while the captain is tussling with you? You and Pivo give him the willies, but not while you’re keeping each other company."
Kozlík laughed. He liked the way the peasant expressed himself, and he went into his cottage. A turtledove was sitting on the mantel of the stove, and it immediately called out "sweets!" Oh, bird, bird, if only you wouldn’t crow, we haven’t turned the tables on this lout just yet, we’re short a calf.
Kozlík put his legs up near the fireplace and was feeling talkative again. "We burned Obořiště down on Saturday, so you see why Lazar is afraid of me, and the next day the little man stood in front of the cathedral and cried."
The peasant seconded him: "Aye, if you had seen him, master, he was wearing a cloak that was full of holes, where could he have come by such a rag? Not even the ratcatchers wear suchlike. He was going from one sled to the next. I don’t know what tales he was telling the lords, but I’d as good as wager you’ve guessed it. It concerned you, sure as spit."
Those peasants! The fellow was just about to ask how Master Mikoláš was getting on, the one Lazar had bashed, but surely it was better not to inquire. Only the devil would trust that Kozlík, what if he got ticked off? That affront was still too fresh in his mind. No doubt Mikoláš was consumed with nothing but thoughts of revenge.
When Kozlík decided to return to the camp, where he had left the womenfolk and the rest of the goods and chattels, his fair son Mikoláš stood in front of him and begged permission to go after Lazar. “I have heard,” he said, “he is back at Obořiště. He has stood beams against the blackened walls, covered them with hay and tarps, and sleeps again in his burrow.”
Kozlík pondered for a moment before nodding his assent, and he let Mikoláš have ten of his horsemen. “I forbid you,” he said in parting, “to get drawn into dangerous altercations and carnage. Just bring old man Lazar back here.”
About an hour later, when the horses had gotten their fodder and drink, Mikoláš tore off for Obořiště.
Lazar lacked neither prudence nor reason, yet who would have expected such incredible presumption? The old fox believed himself safe. Eating, he was mulling over the size of the fine he would surely have to pay the king for his trespasses, for he, too, had robbed travelers on the highway. This was a sore spot for him, yet as far as Kozlík was concerned, he was firmly convinced the man’s situation was dire and he’d been taken down a peg. He felt the swiftest and most appropriate justice the king’s captain could mete out would be first to destroy Kozlík in the forest and then to accept from the lord of Obořiště a marvelous horse with trappings embroidered in gold. He was prepared to suffer a clement dressing-down and to vow to mend his ways. This perfidious phony, he meant to forswear the highways and yet his craving for loot had doubled. How could it not! Who would pay for this repentance and the great loss of property it entailed? As Lazar was reckoning, his head drooped onto his shoulder. He had satisfied his belly by lunching on rabbit and was now dozing.
What a rude interruption! The hulking Mikoláš stood before the fireplace, scattering the charred logs in every direction, flinging them about, and one thumped Lazar. He was ferocity incarnate! His sword plunged into a belly up to the hilt, as far as it would go, running up against the spine, rattling the bones, he spilled guts of one and lopped off the head of another.
Those left alive were tied up by Mikoláš’s men, all of them in pairs, back to back.
Mikoláš wiped his sword and said: “Our Lord has granted that I might repay my debt. We are even, Lazar. Yet since you are so broad-minded and wish to be my creditor, grant me one of your daughters. Grant me the one I see putting on her hat.” As he was speaking, Mikoláš indicated the charming maiden with the tip of his sword. It was Marketa, the fourth of Lazar’s daughters. See her take a step back and tremble with horror. They were now dragging her away, giving her no opportunity to bid farewell to her dear sisters. In a moment the brigands bore Marketa off to the forest, bound in a net between two stallions. Lazar staggered, and the awful pairs marched in place. Lazar then rolled on the ground, while things looked grim for his people. The torment lasted until sunset. The evening star now risen, the sound of the herd tramping home, two minions undid their bonds. Suddenly everyone was freed. Was it not too late? Would Lazar succumb to his wounds, would the ladies ever cease their weeping?
In this doleful situation the miserable women had only their weeping. Naught could they do but dispatch a courier for carts and depart for Boleslav with their lamentations.
Mikoláš reached Kozlík’s camp around midnight. In the carnage at the Lazars’ one of his men had fallen, and a foolish pride inspired him to regret the loss, not so much because of his immortal soul, which was tumbling straight down to hell, but because of the military cost and the brigands’ laughter. From the time they entered the forest the ground was so uneven that two horses could not walk alongside one another, so they seated Marketa on a mare. She did as they bade with not a word of protest. This humble Christian girl kept her trust in God. She knew there was no escaping the forest, and she put all her hopes in death. She just might manage to find a discarded knife to thrust into her heart. Such a terrible deed as this perhaps shall be judged indulgently in heaven.
Meanwhile the brigands had made themselves at home in the forest. A barricade of trees now encircled the camp. In the middle of the small clearing stood two huts, strewn with brushwood, on the ceiling and walls likewise spruce branches. The warming snow they had scattered on the roofs slowly dripped onto the monstrous sleepers. Having eaten their fill, they were at peace.
Kozlík propped himself up on his elbow to listen to Mikoláš’s report.
“Once we return to Roháček, I’ll ask a priest to consecrate his grave,” he said, commiserating on the fallen henchman.
Kateřina and Burjan’s wife exchanged a few words with Marketa. Swallowing the last of her hopes, she made her replies to them. Well and good! Wait till she sees what’s in store for her! Her confidantes were chuckling as they left her alone in the dark and tormented by the frost, so all alone in this camp of ruthless men, in this dismal forest among a pack of wolves. One last time, she gathered her strength, made the sign of the cross, lifted the tarp that was hanging over the entry, and, standing before the men, said:
“I am completely defenseless, and I have been delivered up to you. I have nothing to aid me save the fear of God. You may make me the concubine of your men, or kill me, you may dispose of my body as you please, yet my soul shall bleed once again before God. My sinful soul shall eat of the dust of His courtyard, as do all souls who have died unjustly and without purgation. My sinful soul shall have a band around its throat like the turtledove, my sinful soul shall circle your heads, my soul shall cause the All-Seeing Eye to open ever so slightly, so that you, possessed by boundless terror, will turn forever in your ruined graves and die an unending death.”
Ah, if the night were not so delightful, if Marketa were ugly like the sibyls of old, if victory were not so fresh, if the girl had not shot off her mouth out of the blue like that, maybe then the brigands would at least have crossed themselves. Now they took hardly any notice, and Kozlík replied without even getting up:
“God guides my hand with providence. He bestowed the sword upon the nobles so they would engage in battle. He requires courage of His barons, for they are obliged to uphold His order, and they will not tolerate heathens. This is His will, that you be what we make of you.” No one stood for her, no one took pity on her, they ignored her, and whatever she might say, it was of no concern to them. Marketa fell silent and made a solemn oath to herself that she would not speak another word, come what may.
Less than an hour later the bandits were nodding off, the sentries paced through the camp, and snorting could be heard coming from the horse tent. Just then Mikoláš walked up to cut the maiden’s bonds, and he embraced her. His hands were fire, blood surged beneath his kisses, his devil’s breath seethed and dazed like vapors.
Oh black shrouds of night, cover this bed, and you, oblivion, scatter this hour on the winds! Be mindful, gentlemen, that Marketa once wished to be the bride of Christ, take pity on her, you of more tender heart.
She stood up over and over only to be brought down each time. She defended herself in a vertigo that shook the tops of the pines and the firmament. She could only watch the stars ticking like a pendulum. She wept. She deserved to die, and she wept.
When it was light, Jan’s bastard son, who had spent the night near the royal troops, came running up with a report that Pivo was on the move. As soon as Kozlík heard, he summoned those sons whose good sense could be relied upon, and they conferred in his tent. They did not want to abandon this place. Kozlík inquired what this shopkeeper might have in mind. Not an easy question to answer, and the rogues were forced to acknowledge that they were at a loss. He could be planning an attack, or he might want to outflank them via the roads to the north? Who could know, who could figure him out?
The meeting lasted for some time. A brushwood of veins stood out on Kozlík’s brow that bespoke his imminent rage.
Meanwhile, outside the minions and children lit a small pile of wood to melt snow and give the horses something to drink. Tearful Marketa stood apart. Oh, how very sad she was. She reproached herself a thousand times. Why? How could she have resisted? Praise be to God, she was alive.
No, she was too guileless to outwit them. In the abysses she was fated to descend, she caught a glimmer of pleasure, a will-o’-the-wisp leading her astray, a sigh that would require penance.
At this early hour no one was minding the prisoners, and so they were able to meet near the fire. Kristian’s heart was overflowing with distress as he bowed to Marketa, and he said he was prepared to do everything he could to extricate her from that tent of sorrow. Yet Marketa said not a word in reply. The German summoned his auxiliary, who since the time of their shared misfortune had been his companion, and beseeched him for the love of God to faithfully convey what he wished to say.
You already know that Marketa has taken a vow of silence, but she transgresses and opens her mouth and speaks: “I am grateful to you. I would be willing to undergo all the difficulties of escaping, but how to go about it? God has given me no inspiration. Tell me if you have fared any better. Look around for a knife and then give me a sign where I might find it.”
As she spoke, Kristian’s cheek became flushed, so strongly did the poor soul wish for her happiness, so disturbed was he by what had befallen her, for like the sentries and like those who had ventured outside of their tent that night, he also knew of her bed of snow. Yet if Marketa had been less desperate, she would not have concealed the wan smile this offer of assistance produced. After all, Kristian was as delicate as she. What chance had he against Mikoláš, whose heart knew no fear?
Poor Marketa, did she not already share a little of the bandit’s savagery?
Alexandra, mindful of her prisoner, turned from the group of children and couldn’t help but notice the three conversing. Just as she was approaching them the tarp flew open and Kozlík’s sons came running out of the tent. Their faces were contorted with rage, although Kozlík’s anger surpassed all of theirs combined. He subjugated all. He stopped running only when he reached the prisoners, and as if he had forgotten what Mikoláš had said to him so dutifully the day before, he erupted:
“What’s this slut doing here? Put some nail boots on her and let her go running after her troops in those! I wanted you to bring Lazar, so where is he?”
Mikoláš replied that it was a wonder old man Lazar hadn’t died on the spot. This was his reply, yet he had to obey. Varlets pulled off the maiden’s shoes and were preparing three slats, hammering nails through them. Marketa was standing barefoot in the snow, and they were looking for rope when the German esquire spoke up, in a faint, faltering voice. Kozlík laughed, but he listened.
“The noble Kristian asks you to release the young maiden, and in return wants to give you as much money as you require.”
The brigand did not reply, and two henchmen prepared to fix the studded slabs to the young girl’s shin. It would be over in a moment. Kristian wrung his hands and looked away, nauseated, wishing to leave, wishing to escape, although he did not know what he would do in the woods. Bareheaded as he was, he would run to the thicket. How delicate he was, how foolish! Kozlík nodded, and one of the henchmen knocked him to the ground.
“Get to work! Do as I have ordered! To work, to work!" he shouted at his rogues. Yet Mikoláš stood before Marketa. He picked up the instruments of torture and flung them far into the cluster of spruces. He was prepared to defend his mistress.
Well, this was something unprecedented! Defying one’s master, one’s lord, over whom not even the king, not even the bishop, held sway! Defying one’s father! The other sons rushed at him with their weapons drawn.
He deserved death, he deserved to have his head mounted on the tip of a pike!
But just then Alexandra approached, and amid the terrible shouting a voice was heard repeating: “Love! Love! Love!”
Dear gentlemen, Kozlík had no intention of doing away with his son, and he forgave him, for the times were all too turbulent. He was content with teaching him a small lesson. He chastened Mikoláš and Alexandra with the derision of the other siblings and the derision of his louts. He tied up the two Germans, Marketa, Mikoláš, and Alexandra in one connected chain. He had them bound and forbade them to stray from the camp. As for him, he mounted a horse and rode off at the head of his band of rogues.
Jan’s bastard son, whose name was Simon, a groom, and one of the varlets who had been literally snatched from the hangman’s noose kept vigil over the women and watched over the deserted camp.
The brigands wanted to attack the troop while it was on the move and to harass it in such manner that it could neither halt nor reach their camp. Who knew when Kozlík would return, who knew if the whole lot wouldn't be cut to pieces, for Pivo wasn’t just anybody, and he was rather resourceful himself. It would be a damnable thing indeed if two hundred soldiers couldn’t manage to make short work of Kozlík’s pack! We shall see who’s laughing last!
The king is nothing but the king! If five bailiffs go around the villages in the name of the king, everyone pokes fun at them. Some are spindly as a wisp of straw, others as overfed as some tax collectors are wont to be. Gluttons such as these are risible indeed, though as soon as they utter their magic words, off you go with your tail between your legs.
In the name of the king! Good Lord, that cry is like a bell at evening Ave blowing the hat clean off your head.
Of course, it’s true Pivo’s soldiers more resemble harlequins than heroes, but their standard’s colors strike fear even into brigands. Kozlík might put up a brief resistance, so the thing doesn’t leave a bitter taste in his mouth, but to wage war? Before he knew what hit him, they’d be shouting the name of the king in his ears. He would surely come to his senses and the brigand’s knife drop from his fist.
It happens at times that a band of soldiers, far from its usual grub, displays a burst of courage, inspired by deprivation. Then they lop off heads like an executioner, and there’s no holding them back.
Just a few days prior, the captain’s soldiers had their loins girded and swords between their thighs – one belt girded the groin, another belt across the gut. From the little wedge formed between their jacket ends, which hadn’t been buttoned all the way down, peeped their bellies, gray as the bellies of little sparrows. Those were fine days! But now things are as bad as bad could be. Would they display bravery? Their rage and their lust for beef serve the king’s purposes better than the captain’s exhortations. Kozlík’s near, very well, a fine battle’s in the offing, for even the brigands are determined to meet their foe. They will have at each other with abilities matched.
Yet let us leave them for now. Turn your nose against the wind, let the northern wind bend your ear and set your blood aflame. Let one host hurl itself on the other’s lances, let their stomachs be slit open and their rent viscera spill. The interest of the fair ladies is surely wandering back to the lovers and their sweet adventures. To Alexandra and Kristian, to the unfortunate Marketa, and who knows, they might even have a smidgen of indulgence for that accursed Mikoláš.
I cannot conceal that he, too, has been touched by love.
Oh, the poor fellow! If only he had not opposed his father, he would now be sitting on his horse, he could abduct a girl more beautiful than Lazar’s maiden the very next day. None would stand in his way, and she would do as he wished. Now he stood with legs apart, his head drooping almost to his chest, and his eyes squinting at this misfortune. Somber as a menace, the snowy plain glittering behind him, around him a beautiful day crying out for battle, Mikoláš was in fetters and could hardly move a step. For heaven’s sake! He saw that because of Kozlík’s inflexibility, and because of his own, he could well perish in this chain of love. He was ashamed of this tottering file, the two Germans dangling their heads; he could not stand the esquire’s chinwagging face and would have killed him with pleasure. Mikoláš was bound to his sister, Alexandra, next to her stood Marketa, and then came the Germans in such arrangement that the esquire stood to his extreme right.
It had been ordained that two and two of this quintet would love one another, but see how mistrustful they are, how each casts a malevolent eye upon the other. Ah, the signs of love, who is so sophisticated as to tell the flush of anger from the blush of love? I see only the blood in their faces, only the blood, but by God, it is nothing to trifle with!
Of all these wretches the most courtly was surely Kristian. He felt that Marketa’s treatment had been harsh and unjust, of his own treatment he thought differently.
He told his heart, “together we share the misfortunes of fate, and one day we shall reap God’s praise for it. These one-horse farmers are not as depraved as it would seem, look, two of them, a daughter and a son, who have chosen banishment and hunger, that they might give succor to a beloved.”
Kristian resolved to share his thoughts with the others, and finally he bade his manservant translate them into the Czech tongue. But who was supposed to reply to him, Mikoláš? It had never entered his head that he might use his tongue other than for barking orders. He was silent, content to let Kristian blab away as he liked. Folks once said that anger was like a buzzard striking its own breast with its beak. Its round eye protrudes, a bloodshot complex of veins pervading its yellow disc, the feathers on its neck stand on end, but the monstrous creature swings its bloodied beak downward again and again. A passion with a mind of its own impels it onward, though its own heart may stand in the way.
Mikoláš was as furious as ever, and he could not speak a single word to Marketa. They remained silent as they crossed the flat ground from north to south, and when they had reached the brigands’ shelter Lady Kateřina addressed them:
"You got what you deserved, you brats, why did you have to make Kozlík angry, why were you disobedient? Today or tomorrow the captain will be defeated and we’ll return to Roháček. But I’m afraid it will be without you. You will go hungry, as is fitting for scapegraces, although so far no one has forbidden me to give you something to eat. We have milk and some meat, take it, but hie, hie from the hut, let me not be subject to rebuke that my wishes are not Kozlík’s. Oh, how vainglorious you are. God and we are pleased that you should do penance for your trespasses. Go over there by the fire.”
At this invitation the procession lurched into the middle of the clearing. Jan’s bastard son threw several logs on the fire, and he handed Mikoláš a bowl of milk, which had to be held up to his mouth. Yet the rebel turned his head away. No one drank and no one ate except Kristian and the esquire, Reiner. Scandalous! Mikoláš jerked at his bonds in an effort to knock the bowl away from their gluttonous mouths. Accomplished! His left arm now free, he tussled with the poor fellow, and they were all dragged off to the farthest corner of the camp. Reiner lay in the snow, and Kristian knelt down by him. As long as they remained in this position, it was inevitable the two girls would go down with them, and one did in part and the other in full. Mikoláš, however, looked to the forest and said:
“The one who bound us together has the right to punish whomever he wants, and we are now sharing the discomfort of bondage, but who is so delusional as to hope for Kozlík’s forgiveness at the same time as his son and daughter? Who are you, scum, so eager for the bowl?”
"Sir," replied Reiner, "Kristian, whom you have taken captive so unjustly and at your own peril, is a count of the Empire. I told your father this, yet he cares not and pays no heed to anything. He is acting rashly, for the emperor himself shall inquire after this prisoner. Your king will be angered and demand the heads of all those who have wronged Kristian."
"Let the chips fall where they may, Kozlík is not afraid," said Mikoláš. "And as for calling for his head? God has granted him a fortress such that he scorns all judgments passed upon him. It will not be so easy to lead Kozlík to the executioner’s block. But who will bother to protect you? Weren’t you chasing Kristian before Jan brought him to Roháček?"
"I am nothing but the bishop’s servant, and I do what I can now to protect the young count," replied Reiner, and he commenced to tell Kristian’s story.
Lend your ear to this prattling raconteur, who balances his audience’s wavering attention between his words and hardship.
“In the German city of Hanau there resides a bishop who saw fit to found a monastery on the hills called the Island Heights. The very first thing he did was to ask the lords to join him in support of this endeavor. Count Kristian, the father of your high-born captive, was more enthusiastic than the others and pledged the monastery an annuity. He was prepared to dedicate an altar to the cathedral, and in addition he bound himself with a promise that wrought-iron grilles would be in every window and along every staircase. He surely would have kept his word, yet the priors and the prioresses of the old monasteries came to the bishop with the complaint that their orders had nothing to eat, and that the bishop would leave them utterly destitute if he pursued his project. Before his eyes they evoked the discord and plaints of the monks in those places where the sedulity of the founders exceeded the sedulity of the donors.
“To a monastery belong certain commodities, otherwise its purpose is not served and, moreover, it’s a wonder if scandal is not the result.
“My bishop began to think it over, and he finally acknowledged the truth of what the abbots had said. He decided to transfer his project to a more distant region and to postpone it. About twelve miles to the south of the bishop’s seat lies a delightful country with a stream running through it. There is no monastery for miles around. In the valleys and on the gently sloping hillsides lie wealthy estates and towns famed for their artisans. My lord intended to build a monastery in these parts, but had yet seen no reason to hurry. He planted an orchard and established the outbuildings. Now it was left to Count Kristian to honor his pledges. Yet he was of a different mind.
“ ‘I promised to endow a monastery, not a bishop,’ he informed my master, ‘what do I care for these pigsties being erected? I will give nothing, nothing!’
“He repeated this word so often the bishop became enraged and took to sullying the count's name. He called him a perjurer, and with all his might he tried to force the count to provide the money he had pledged. The bishop’s minions and the count’s men would skirmish, and more than one fellow sustained serious injury.
“Finally my master received word that the young count was on his way back from Swabia. He found out when he would arrive in Prague and when he would again be on his way. This was a convenient opportunity for him to gain a hostage as security against what he was owed. He ordered us to take up positions on the highway and to seize Kristian before he crossed the imperial border.
“I am certain the bishop would not have harmed a hair on his head if the plan had been consummated. Alas, I obeyed my master and rode from my home on a mission of justice for the monastery, and as you see, I am now captive and wounded. This ordeal has been more trying than I merit.”
My good gentlemen, this speech took well over an hour. During the pauses the bishop’s esquire blew into his hands, sighed, and moaned. And he was just a hair’s breadth away from issuing dire threats. Mikoláš was not interested in the fate of such a pathetic wretch, a poor bug such as he, let him do as he likes, whether mischief or good he would always be devoid of blame and devoid of merit. He could have silenced him, but the maid Alexandra wished that he speak.
Dusk was now gathering. The prisoners were tormented by the necessities of nature that press upon us all. What to do? Mikoláš had no qualms, but Lazarová and Kristian were in an agony that we might scarcely believe could result from so inconsequential a cause.
Dusk fell, night, and again morning.
Kozlík returned from his campaign before noon. He was in haste, for his men and his animals needed rest. But before he dismounted he asked Simon how the night had gone and if the area around the camp was secure. Then he remembered his prisoners.
Look, Mikoláš has his left arm free, and nothing would be easier than to sever his bonds and liberate himself.
Kozlík was conciliated, for who would not be flattered by such subordination? He cut the rope and let the fetters fall.
"Go on, get to work," he said to his beloved son, "that was to give you something to think about, so you would fear me. Go, but what should we do with Marketa Lazarová and the Germans?"
"Take no heed of them, do away with them or set them free, yet as for Marketa, my request is simple: Give her to me!"
Kozlík assented, Kozlík agreed. He cared not what became of the maiden, yet he would not free either Kristian or Reiner. They might betray his hideout.
Alexandra stood a few steps away, and how lovely it was to see her reticence, how she stole a glance at Kristian, and how she nodded that he should follow her. The punishment was endured to its end, who would now be so bold as to have his anger last longer than Kozlík’s? Alexandra was the fairest of the girls and possessed many a gift. She went inside the tent and returned with a steaming bowl.
As she handed it to Kristian, she touched his hands. The German count ate with gratitude, and Alexandra was content. He wished he could say something to her, and pushing aside his dinner, the bowl fell and broke in two. They stooped down together, and their heads touched. Oh, the incandescence of lovers’ fleeting touches! Every single word worth a ducat! Alas, Kristian could say nothing but Alexandra’s name over and over, and he said it in such a way that tears welled his eyes. They kissed.
Once again alone, Kristian marveled at the beauty of his mistress. Beautiful and courageous. During their entire captivity not even a sigh out of her, she stood supporting Marketa, and barely turned her eyes to the knight, even though that gaze eventually did fall like a net. He was lost, he was drawn to this savage girl. Ah, why had he not fallen in love with Marketa Lazarová instead! She was gentle, she was always tearful, she was like the young noblewomen found at court.
God had selected the brunette for him. “Reiner, my dear Reiner,” said the overjoyed captive, “what adventures have graced us! I wish the night would come again when we were bound in that very chain, I wish that captivity would never end.”
“Sir,” replied the esquire, “God knows that my judgment serves you better than does your own heart. Leave these witches be, I see no happiness for you here. Come now! Happiness among lowlifes and bandits? If that fury has hair a mite longer than you find in the German lands, it is only the better to cover the insects. She’s as swarthy as a blacksmith and as strong as a blacksmith. Take a lesson from my misfortune. Look, I’ve lost the use of an arm, and you’ll lose your head of your own free will. Every sudden passion is foolish, but this one doubly so. Have you thought about what the count would say of your choice, and what my lady the countess would say?”
Yet Kristian continued to praise his mistress, and instead of replying, he spoke only of her beauty. Well, what would you expect, he’s only nineteen.
It is now incumbent on me to make excuses for Mikoláš, yet I see nothing to apologize for except perhaps his ferocity. It was fatuous to expect a bandit all of a sudden to become a lamb. No, love has inflamed him to new displays of violence. This emotion is a hollow reason to commit sin. Mikoláš ought to have accepted it with humility, ought to have thanked God that He granted his soul such an intensity of feeling. Love is a curative for violence and the key to the mystery of the world, and our Lord bestows it only on those whom He favors. Perhaps He sometimes smiled at Mikoláš, seeing his soldierly ways. One night our good man slept in a field, his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle, pleasantly dreaming, and surely it’s possible that in his purity he now finds as great a happiness as then. Ah, to reward such a sinner as he! He is filled with bliss, the weariness of the night falls away from him. He is restless and knows no peace until he is united with Marketa Lazarová. The poor girl is again in tears. He embraces her, and the third night passes like the first.