They did not stay long in Krakow, and they would have stayed even shorter if not for the pleas of Jasko, who wanted to look his fill at the people and the city, for everything seemed like a wondrous dream to him. But the old knight was in a terrible hurry to get back to his own hearth and to the harvest, so the pleas did little good, and by the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin they were already back — one in Bogdaniec, the other in Zgorzelice, with his sister.
From then on their life began to drag on rather monotonously, filled with farmwork and the usual village concerns. The harvests in the low-lying Zgorzelice, and especially in Jagienka's Moczydoly, were excellent, but in Bogdaniec, because of the dry year, the yield was poor, and not much effort was needed to bring it in. In general there was little arable land there, for the estate lay by the forest, and due to the lords' long absence, even those fields that the abbot had cleared for plowing had been overgrown again from lack of hands. The old knight, though sensitive to every loss, did not take it too much to heart, for he saw that with money it would be easy to bring order and discipline to everything — if only there was someone to toil and work for. But it was precisely that doubt that poisoned his work and his days. He did not give up, however; he rose at dawn, rode to the herds, supervised field and forest work, even chose a site for a castle and prepared timber, but when after a day of toil the sun dissolved in golden and red glows of the aurora, he was often seized by a terrible longing, and alongside it a restlessness he had never felt before. “Here I am bustling, here I am toiling,” he said to himself, “and there my lad may be lying somewhere in the field, pierced by a spear, and the wolves are ringing his death-knell with their teeth.” At that thought his heart tightened with both great love and great pain. He would then listen intently for the hoofbeats that daily heralded Jagienka’s arrival, for pretending before her to have good hope, he would gain it himself and strengthen his troubled soul.
She came every day, usually toward evening, with a crossbow at her saddle and a javelin, just in case on the return road. It was out of the question that she might ever find Zbyszko already home, for Macko did not dare expect him before a year or even a year and a half — but evidently that hope also lay hidden in the girl, for she no longer arrived as she once had in the old days, in a shift tied with a ribbon, a lambskin coat with the wool turned out, and leaves in her tangled hair, but with a beautifully braided plait and her bosom clad in colorful Sieradz cloth. Macko went out to meet her — and her first question was always as if someone had written it: “Well?” — and his first answer: “Nothing!” — then he would lead her into the room, and they would chat by the fire about Zbyszko, about Lithuania, about the Teutonic Knights, and about the war — always in circles, always about the same thing — and never did either of them grow bored with those talks, nor did they ever have enough of them.
And so it went for whole months. Sometimes he rode to Zgorzelice, but more often she to Bogdaniec. At times, however, when there was some unrest in the area, or during the rutting season of bears, when old males, enraged while following a female, were prone to attack, Macko escorted the girl home. Well armed, the old man, thanks to his unusual strength, feared no wild beasts, for he was more dangerous to them than they to him. They would then ride stirrup to stirrup — and often the forest would resound menacingly around them, but they, forgetting everything that might befall them, talked only about Zbyszko: where he was, what he was doing, whether he had already killed, or how soon he would kill as many Teutonic Knights as he had vowed to the late Danusia and her late mother, and whether he would return soon. Jagienka would also ask Macko questions she had already asked a hundred times before, and he would answer them with as much attention and deliberation as if he were hearing them for the first time.
“You say,” she asked, “that a battle in the field is not as terrible for knights as besieging castles?”
“And see what happened to Wilk? No armor can protect you from a log rolled down from the ramparts, while in the field, if a knight has proper training, he can hold out against ten.”
“And Zbyszko? Does he have good armor?”
“He has several good ones, and the best is that captured one from Fryz, because it was forged in Milan. A year ago it was a bit too loose for Zbyszko, but now it fits just right.”
“So against such armor no weapon can prevail, right?”
“What human hand has made, the human hand can prevail against. Against Milanese armor — a Milanese sword, or the arrows of the English.”
“The arrows of the English?” she asked with concern.
“Haven’t I told you? There are no better archers in the world... except perhaps the woodsmen of Masuria, but even they do not have such good equipment. An English crossbow can pierce the best armor at a hundred paces. I saw it at Vilnius. And none of them miss, and there is even one who can shoot a hawk in flight.”
“O pagan sons! How did you deal with them?”
“There was no other way but to charge them immediately. They also wield halberds well, but at close quarters, our men can handle them.”
“The hand of God protected you, so now He will protect Zbyszko.”
“I often say: ‘Lord God, since You created us and settled us in Bogdaniec, now watch over us so we don’t perish!’ Ha! That is God’s affair. In truth, it is no small thing to keep watch over the whole world and forget nothing, but first, a man can remind Him by not stinting on the Holy Church, and second, God’s head is not a human one.”
Thus they often talked with one another, giving each other courage and hope. Meanwhile, days, weeks, and months passed. In the autumn Macko had a matter with Old Wilk of Brzozowa. There had long been a boundary dispute between the Wilks and the abbot over forest clearings which the abbot, holding Bogdaniec as a pledge, had cleared and taken over. In his time he had even challenged both Wilks at once to a field duel, with lances or long swords, but they would not face a clergyman, and in court they could achieve nothing. Now Old Wilk was demanding those lands, and Macko, who was greedy for nothing in the world as much as for land, at first following the impulse of his nature, and at the same time excited by the thought that barley grew excellently on the new fields, would not hear of giving them up. They would have certainly gone to the castle court had they not happened to meet at the parish priest’s in Krześnia. There, when Old Wilk suddenly said at the end of a fierce quarrel: “Before people judge, I appeal to God, who will take vengeance on your family for my wrong,” the stubborn Macko suddenly softened — he turned pale, fell silent for a moment, and then said to the quarrelsome neighbor:
“Listen, I didn’t start this matter, the abbot did. God knows whose cause is just, but if you are going to curse Zbyszko, then take the new fields, and may God give Zbyszko health and happiness as sincerely as I give them up to you from my heart.”
And he extended his hand to him, and the other, knowing him from old times, was extremely astonished, for he did not suspect what love for his nephew lay in that seemingly hard heart and what anxiety for his fate prevailed. For a long time he could not speak a word, until at last, when the delighted priest of Krześnia blessed them with the sign of the cross, he replied:
“And if so, then that’s different! It wasn’t profit I was after, for I am old and have no one to leave my property to — but justice. Whoever treats me with kindness, I will even give up some of my own to him. And may God bless your nephew — so that you do not weep for him in your old age, as I did for my only son...”
And they fell into each other’s arms, and then argued for a long time about who would take the new fields. However, Macko finally let himself be convinced — especially since Wilk was alone in the world and truly had no one to leave his property to.
Then he invited the old man to Bogdaniec, where he honored him plentifully with food and drink — for he himself had great joy in his soul. He was gladdened both by the hope that the barley would grow well on the new fields, and at the same time by the thought that he had turned away God’s disfavor from Zbyszko.
“If only he comes back, there will be no lack of land or livestock for him here!” he thought.
Jagienka was no less pleased with this agreement.
“Surely now,” she said, after hearing how it all happened, “if the merciful Lord Jesus wants to show that harmony is dearer to Him than strife, He must bring Zbyszko back to you safely.”
At that, Macko’s face brightened as if a ray of sunlight had fallen on it.
“That’s what I think too!” he said. “God Almighty is almighty, but even heavenly powers have their ways; you just need to have sense...”
“You have never lacked cunning,” the girl replied, raising her eyes upward.
And after a moment, as if thinking something over, she spoke again:
“But you love that Zbyszko of yours so much! You love him! Oh!”
“Who wouldn’t love him!” replied the old knight. “And you? You don’t hate him, do you?”
Jagienka did not answer directly, but instead, as she sat on the bench next to Macko, she moved even closer to him, and turning her head away, began to nudge him lightly with her elbow.
“Leave me be!” she said. “What have I done to you?”