Maćko lived to see happy days. He often told his neighbors that he had received more than he had ever hoped for. Old age had only whitened the hair on his head and beard but had not yet taken away his strength or health. His heart was full of a joy so great that he had never known before. His once stern face grew more and more good-natured, and his eyes smiled at people with a warm smile. In his soul, he was convinced that all evil had ended forever, and that no worry or misfortune would ever disturb the days of life, flowing as peacefully as a clear stream. To fight in his youth, to farm in old age, and to increase the estate for his grandchildren—that had always been his greatest desire, and now everything had come to perfection. The farm work went like clockwork. The forests were largely cut down; the cleared new fields greened every spring with the shoots of various grains. The livestock multiplied. Forty mares with foals grazed in the meadows, which the old nobleman inspected daily. Flocks of sheep and cattle roamed the fallow lands and thickets. Bogdaniec had changed completely; from a deserted settlement it was becoming a pretty, prosperous village. Whoever approached was dazzled by the watchtower visible from afar and the still-unblackened walls of the castle, shining with gold in the sun and with the purple of evening twilight.
So old Maćko rejoiced in his heart at the livestock, the farm, and his prosperous fate, and he did not deny it when people said he had a lucky hand. A year after the twins, another boy was born, whom Jagienka, in honor and memory of her father, named Zych. Maćko welcomed him with joy and was not at all troubled that if things continued this way, the estate gathered with such effort would have to be divided. “Because what did we have?” he said to Zbyszko one day. “Nothing. And yet God has added to it. Old Pakosz of Sulisławice has one village and twenty-two sons, and they don’t starve. Are there not enough lands in the Kingdom and in Lithuania? Are there not enough villages and castles in the scoundrelly hands of the Teutonic Knights? Hey! Should the Lord Jesus grant it, there would be worthy settlements, for there are entire castles of red brick, from which our gracious lord would make castellans.”
It was remarkable that the Order stood at the peak of its power, surpassing all Western kingdoms in wealth, strength, and the multitude of trained troops, yet this old knight thought of the Teutonic castles as future homes for his grandchildren. Undoubtedly many thought the same in Jagiello’s Kingdom, not only because these were old Polish lands where the Order had settled, but also from the feeling of mighty strength awakening in the nation’s chest, seeking an outlet in all directions.
It was only in the fourth year after Zbyszko’s marriage that the castle was completed, and that with the help of labor from not only local hands—Zgorzelice, Moczydoly—but also from neighbors, especially old Wilk of Brzozowa, who, after his son’s death, became very friendly with Maćko and then turned his heart toward Zbyszko and Jagienka. Maćko adorned the chambers with spoils of war that either he and Zbyszko had taken or inherited from Jurand of Spychów; he added the abbot’s riches and what Jagienka had brought from home; he had glass windows brought from Sieradz and furnished a splendid residence. Zbyszko, along with his wife and children, moved into the castle only in the fifth year, when other buildings too—stables, cowsheds, kitchens, and bathhouses—were completed, built by the old man of stone and mortar so that they would be indestructible. But he himself did not move into the castle; he preferred to stay in the old house, and despite all Zbyszko and Jagienka’s pleas, he refused, explaining his thoughts in this way:
“I will die here where I was born. You see, during the war of the Grzymalici with the Nałęcze, Bogdaniec was burned to the ground—all buildings, all hovels—bah, even fences—only this little house remained. People said that because of the excessive moss on the roof it wouldn’t burn, but I think there was also God’s grace and will in it, that we should return here and start over from here. In our fighting days, I often complained that we had nothing to return to, but I wasn’t entirely right, for truly there was nothing to farm and nothing to put in our mouths, but there was a place to shelter. You young ones are different, but I think that since that old house didn’t abandon us, it wouldn’t be right for me to abandon it.”
And he stayed. But he liked to come to the little castle to see its size and splendor compared to the old dwelling, and also to look at Zbyszko, Jagienka, and the grandchildren. Everything he saw there was largely his doing, yet it filled him with pride and admiration. Sometimes old Wilk came to chat with him by the fire, or he himself visited Wilk in Brzozowa for that purpose, so once he expressed his thoughts about these new orders in this way:
“You know, sometimes I’m amazed. Because it’s known that Zbyszko was in Krakow at the king’s castle—bah, they nearly cut off his head—and in Masovia, and in Malborg, and with Prince Janusz, and Jagienka was raised in prosperity, yet they didn’t have their own castle. But now it’s as if they had never lived any other way. They walk, I tell you, through the chambers, walk and walk, and give orders to the servants, and when they get tired, they sit down. A proper castellan and castellan’s lady. They have a room where they dine with village heads, bailiffs, and servants, and in it, benches—for him and her higher ones—while others sit lower and wait until the lord and lady have duly filled their plates. Such is the courtly custom that a man must remind himself that these are not any great lords, but a nephew and his wife, who kiss my old hands, seat me in the first place, and call me their benefactor.”
“That’s why the Lord Jesus blesses them,” observed old Wilk.
Then, shaking his head sadly, he drank some mead, stirred the embers in the hearth with an iron poker, and said: “And my boy perished.”
“God’s will.”
“Well, the older ones, who were five, fell long ago. You know. God’s will, all right. But this one was the strongest of all. A true wolf, and if he hadn’t fallen, he might be sitting in his own castle today.”
“It would have been better if Cztan had fallen.”
“What’s Cztan? He lifts millstones onto his back, but how many times did my boy wound him. My boy had knightly training, and now Cztan’s wife slaps him in the face because although the man is strong, he’s stupid.”
“Hey, like a horse’s tail,” agreed Maćko.
And upon this occasion, he praised not only knightly training but also Zbyszko’s intelligence, that in Malborg he jousted with the finest knights, and with princes he’d talk like cracking nuts. He also praised his orderly mind and diligence in farming, without which the castle would quickly eat up the fortune. But not wanting old Wilk to think that something similar might threaten them, he finished in a lowered voice: “Well, by God’s grace, there is enough of everything—more than people know—but don’t tell anyone.”
People, however, guessed, knew, and told each other, with exaggeration, especially about the riches the Bogdaniecs were said to have brought from Spychow. It was said that they transported money by salt-barrels from Masovia. Maćko also granted a loan of a dozen grzywnas to a powerful heir in Koniecpol, which finally convinced the neighborhood of his treasures.
Because of this, the Bogdaniecs’ importance grew, human respect grew, and there was never a lack of guests in the castle, which Maćko, though thrifty, did not look upon with disapproval, for he knew that this too added to the family’s fame.
Baptisms were especially lavish, and once a year, after the Feast of the Assumption, Zbyszko hosted a great feast for the neighbors, to which even noblewomen came to watch knightly exercises, listen to minstrels, and dance with young knights by pine torches until dawn. Then old Maćko’s eyes feasted and he rejoiced at the sight of Zbyszko and Jagienka, so courtly and lordly they looked. Zbyszko had matured and grown. Although with his powerful, tall stature his face still seemed too young, when he bound his thick hair with a purple band and dressed in a splendid gown embroidered with silver and gold threads, not only Maćko but many a nobleman said to themselves: “By God, a veritable prince sitting in his castle.” And before Jagienka, knights often knelt, familiar with Western custom, asking her to be their lady of thoughts—such a radiance of health, youth, and beauty emanated from her. The old heir of Koniecpol himself, who was the voivode of Sieradz, marveled at her sight and compared her to the morning glow, and even to the sun, which gives light to the world and even fills old bones with a livelier warmth.