The Sun's Crusade

by guysarestripping

Summary:

The longest day in the year of our Lord 1404 was not the feast of Saint John; it was Hans Capon’s wedding day.

Notes:

This is the third and final installation for my series “Aurescere”. I’ve been exploring a different angle in each one of these standalone stories. This is written with the idea in mind that THE romance scene did not take place at all.

Beta read by my beloveds Jayce, Lasko and Carlene. Especially thankful to Blue for not letting me give up!

Followed mostly my own native Latvian (pagan) midsummer traditions; it seems they overlap with Czech ones a lot. In any case, please don’t get hung up on 1:1 accuracy.

 

❂

 

 

❂

 

Rattay’s bells tolled in the high heat of midday, clanging over the echoes of war that still rang in the minds of all those at work. 

The year had bled into 1404. It was finally summer again, and Bohemia, though weary, was beginning to mend. It wore its scars openly, a body mid-suture, straining to hold.

For as far as the eye could see, low hills rolled out beyond the town’s wooden gates. Their meadows and forests began to reclaim a vibrancy. Spreads of rapeseed painted the sloped valleys closer to the sun. And the sun itself hung low and swollen and overripe. It pressed its fevered thumb into the earth, baking the clay-daubed walls of the town until they wished to crack. Between these gaudy spreads of rapeseed, the soil showed where it was in strips of weeds. 

Scales of stagnant pools glistened in every hollow. Their surfaces were clotted with every kind of pollen, greened and yellowed, and the iridescent carcasses of drowning beetles, which reflected even those rarer royal purples and blues. Old tree barks lay bellies-up, studded with snail shells. Along the verges, poppies bled through the wheat, so violently red… And from the Sasau riverbanks that were full as ever, willows hung their braided hair into the current, roots of one such tree clutching at a lone, bloated corpse of a sheep; a runoff from some pasture, gotten by the wolves which had grown so abundant in the throes of war. Light pooled in the meadows, mouthing the thistles. Dragonflies darted low over marsh grass. At the tree line, a cow’s skull gleamed. When dusk came, the horizon swallowed the sun, staining the clouds purple. Bats dipped and wheeled above the charred skeletons of barns, where fire had left only the ribs of rafters… 

The forests fed the rebuilding and hid every evil still present. Pines stood crooked, scabbed with lines of resin. Beneath them, the undergrowth, full with lush thicks of nettles, white, venomous hairs glinting in the wet sun; foxgloves bellied with last week’s rain, swaying like hanged men. A woodpecker somewhere was trying to return a rhythm to this world.

But this was no pastoral idyll in truth! To scare off birds and pests of all sorts, human-like hay props wore the discarded gambesons of dead soldiers. They flapped in the wind, straw guts spilling out. And early dawn, they looked like real people!

And the roads remembered it all; it all! Spring’s deluge had turned them to a sodden pulp; guts of loam and long-rotted straw churned over and over by wagon wheels until the mire bubbled like porridge. Now, under the hard and hot fist of summer, that same sludge had calcified. Horses struggled through these hard ruts and grooves; their hooves cracked the crust into shards that jutted upward. The travelers that walked these roads cursed them.

Villages and fortresses still dotted the countryside in varying states of ruin. Some were blackened by fire, while others had begun their recovery. Sawdust could be smelled in the warm wind as carpenters labored to rebuild what was lost. Even now, a few crows roosted in the rafters of half-collapsed barns, unwilling to move on from the grandiose feast the war had provided them.

The kingdom’s peace stood atop fearful truces. Sigismund and his Hungarian forces had receded beyond the border, led astray by fresher conflicts that demanded their attention. But what had settled over Bohemia felt only like the breath between thunderclaps, when the sky looms dark and mighty and watchful, and no one knows if the next storm will be gentler.

Peasants glanced skyward as they forked hay. They were not seeking rain; they were counting time. Their bodies moved on, but they knew well, now, that stillness is the prelude to slaughter. 

 

❂

 

People traveled in groups. Many were refugees, some from towns like Skalitz—wholly destroyed—or the lesser-known hamlets that once thrived beneath the protection of castles and fortresses. So it was little wonder, then, that Rattay’s population had swelled again. The refugees, barely tolerated by the local populace, huddled in cramped corners of the lower town, forming clusters of families bound together by misfortune. In these crowds, suspicion and desperation came together.

Up in Pirkstein, the talk was of border forests. But below, there was only pig fat rendering in cauldrons, and piss trickling between sagging, half-timbered houses, and sweat whipping the nose like the rear kick of a horse. Children would scrabble in the muck for a dropped turnip, and their fingers would instead brush the carcass of a rat bloated with summer’s heat. Nearby, a carpenter planed oak beams for a new stable. The scent of that fresh-cut wood clashed with the smell of unwashed bodies—dirt and cleanliness in one single lungful.

Faced with the arrival of so many in need again, the Rattay townsfolk did what they could. But the new arrivals were an unsettling presence to deal with to the artisans and traders who had survived the war relatively unscathed; this was too real a reminder of how thin the line was. Resentment simmered here and there: Why should goods be shared with strangers? When will they ever give back to us? Will they ever?

Henry’s boots crunched over the husks of June beetles. The heat had baked the unwatered roses in the garden into crisped, dark fists. Even the flies moved sluggishly. Just ahead, a line of wagons was unloading planks and bolts of cloth. Once, such supplies would have simply caught Henry’s eye as part of daily life. Now he understood them as the backbone of an entire region’s restoration. 

When the tavern vomited its drunkards into the streets, Henry would climb to the battlements, stone still radiating the day’s fever, and listen to the land breathe.

He found himself at the junction of two lives. He’d perhaps meant to shape hilts, not hold them; to make tools while the other men fought their wars. His hands had once known metal only blister-hot, screaming for shape, soft only in its surrender. Now he wore gloves and strode the streets of Rattay, where guards in kettle hats nodded at him. Part of him still winced at the feel of boots too fine to ruin, expected someone to thrust a slag bucket into his arms and tell him to earn his keep. 

But it wasn’t just a feeling within him. The rift between a noble and a commoner did grow deeper. While lords displayed new finery, peasants and refugees wore the same garments they had fled in, patched over and over again. Murmurs circulated among those who felt the nobility had done too little, too late. Remarks at the tavern were not always so quiet.

Henry’s position in Sir Radzig’s retinue ensured he was always aware of these tensions. Being a trusted confidant who could walk with ease among commoners, Henry’s observations were invaluable since the nobility sought to restore their old routines as well. Lords debated key fortifications and new land grants, fussed over the boundaries of vassal territories, and attended lavish feasts behind closed doors. But if one pressed an ear close to the wooden doors or the stone corridors, tense whispering could be heard.

On more than one occasion, Henry stood behind his liege lord in a cramped council chamber, listening as local nobles argued about where to rebuild a watchtower or how many men to station on patrol to quell bandit raids. Henry saw how these men, far removed from simple peasant life, debated matters of farmland and harvest quotas without ever having set foot in a field. He felt a pang of sympathy for the townsfolk below, who had to live with these decisions on a much emptier stomach.

Completion and peace, he found, was a kind of death. 

 

❂

 

The castle’s shadow stretched across the lower town as Henry climbed the steps to the inner bailey. His gaze snagged on a figure leaning against the parapet: Hans, silhouetted against the molten spill of the sun.

Hans had grown quieter. War had recalibrated all of his angles. What survived intact, what couldn’t be altered, was that his eyes always remained on Henry. Now, in a fractional widening at his approach, they said: You and I remember the same winter.

The cold had come late last year; even the weather had seemed stunned by the pace of the war’s end. For weeks after Sigismund’s withdrawal, the sky hovered low and grey, bloated full with snow that wouldn’t fall. When it finally did, it fell in large crusts.

They hadn’t spoken much that first frost. Only a muttered “you ‘sleep?” on one of the coldest nights, when the wind howled through the arrow slits. The war wanted back in. Henry remembered how they’d sat shoulder to shoulder in the hall then, hands wrapped around the same flask passed between them. Not a word exchanged for a long time.

When they trained together again, on the first day the snow began to melt, Hans had fought like a man trying to beat something out of himself. Henry gave it as good as he got. They had left the yard laughing, their fists throbbing good and full of blood. That night, Henry had sat on his cot and stared at the ceiling. He hadn’t understood what he’d felt, exactly.

The memory slid off Henry like steam.

He joined Hans by the parapet and leaned over. The rampart’s lip pressed heat into his forearms. Below, the Sasau coiled through the valley, its surface dappled with rosy tufts of cloud. Women beat laundry downriver, singing; he could hear it from here.

They stood like that for a while. Long enough for the air between them to grow used to being shared again.

Hans tilted his head in Henry’s direction. “You know, Henry, you’ve got that look again,” he said softly and tapped his own brow in demonstration.

“What look?”

“That one.”

“No more than usual, I don’t think,” Henry said, and made a face.

“I hear you’ve been ranging out more often.”

“That I have.”

“You know, I can always tell.”

Henry said nothing. A fly buzzed past between them.

Hans drummed his fingers on the stone. “I’ll be damned if I don’t slip out and see the roads with you! Glad you’re never more than a three days’ ride away from Rattay, at least. I fear I’ll need your companionship more than ever in these very trying times.”

A knot low inside Henry’s chest drew itself tighter. He rested one hand on Hans’ shoulder and squeezed gently, as a friend might. “Ah, finally naming you the groom, is he? I heard.” He tried not to let his expression falter and keep his voice level. “When is the, eh…?” He left the sentence dangling, but he knew anyway. Everyone in Rattay knew. He had memorized the date the way others might a feast day or a battle.

“Come autumn. After harvest,” Hans muttered, with no ceremony. “But I suppose it can’t be all too awful.”

Words tangled in Henry’s mouth, so he only gave Hans a theatrical look, brows raised; hoping no pain painted his cheek.

“Ah, don’t mistake me—she’s fine! She’s good for the house. Well-bred, well-schooled, good standings with Kuttenberg, speaks better than half the scribes here, if the steward’s letter is to be believed… What more could I want?” Hans paused, then added, “I’ve had worse arrangements suggested. One of Hanush’s old friends offered me his cousin. I should be grateful for this match, were I the grateful sort.”

“So you’ve never laid eyes on the lady still?” 

“Not so much as a glimpse.”

“Saints have mercy. Truly? And you’ve never met, even after a full year?”

Hans only shrugged. “For all I know, she might have three heads.”

Henry cleared his throat. “Well, three heads… it might keep conversation lively. You speak as though you plan to meet her only on the wedding day itself.”

Hans hesitated. “You may well laugh, but that is how these matters go during uncertain times. Or so Hanush says. She’s been at Kunstadt, and I at Rattay—both of us busy, so the letters claim, with the war’s aftermath. And in truth, I suspect neither house wishes to risk a meeting that might cause any offense. Better that we see each other once all is set.”

Henry clicked his tongue. “So you’ve no idea what she’ll be like.”

“None beyond the steward’s notes. I gather she’s not a troll under a bridge.”

“You’re a braver man than I.”

Hans shrugged, turning his gaze to the reddening horizon. “I do as Hanush bids. Some days, I think that’s all I’m fit for. I’ll not pretend it doesn’t rankle me. But who am I to spurn alliances? Perhaps Lady Jitka and I shall be so well suited that we’ll proclaim ourselves the luckiest souls in Bohemia!”

“Aye.” Henry tried not to let the prickle of bitterness show upon his brow. Instead, he gave Hans a light clap on the arm. “It would be a miracle for any dame to find happiness with you.”

“But—” Hans lifted a finger. His eyes crinkled in real amusement now. “Your presence is most earnestly desired. It will be strange enough, Henry, but I’d rather have you near than not. I trust your company above all.”

“I’d not miss it, for the world,” Henry murmured.

It was clear Hans caught the faint shift in Henry’s countenance and frowned as if he would say more. The sun-pinked ridge of his nose wrinkled and the corners of his eyes creased as he stared off at the distant farmland. The light glinted off the stubble along his jaw, gold where Henry’s was rust.

“So you’ll do it? Truly?” Henry asked.

Hans shrugged. Henry was certain it hid much deeper reservations; he knew Hans quite well by now. “Aye, I might. Well, I suppose I have to. I’m to do it as gracefully as I can manage. I’ll dance the dances. But if I have to endure a finger’s worth more than is asked of me, God as my witness, I’d rather ride to fucking Jerusalem. I’ll climb out the chapel window with a wine jug before they finish the banns.”

“You’re less likely to be caught in another bed by the bride’s father if you do.”

Hans snorted. “Yes, Hal, that’s usually how my tales end. In some other bed. You remember how I used to be?” He then asked. “I feel you’ve seen me more than anyone.” 

Henry didn’t answer at once. If he would have, he’d have said, Yes, every you you’ve ever been. He thought of Hans in taverns, speaking slurred, wine-fed Latin with red around his mouth from sour cherries, and he thought of Hans in the mud at Nebakov, speaking slurred, pain-fed Czech with red around his mouth—from blood.

War had carved them into shapes that no longer fit. They took upon themselves a steady drift of men becoming what was needed of them. They did not misfit like strangers. It was much worse. There were still nights when they drank from the same cup. But they were two beams once hewn from the same tree, set apart to bear different roofs. They could still see the grain they shared, but it no longer aligned. They were pressed flat by too many silences, like linen folded so long it no longer knew how to hang from the body, like two men riding abreast, each watching the treeline for different threats.

Hans had grown into command. He spoke less. Henry had grown into observance: he listened more. It felt like they hadn’t grown apart so much as inward. 

Henry let the silence stretch, hearing only the pulse in his ears. It quickened every time Hans spoke of himself as someone who was new, someone who was changed, someone who was leaving. He couldn’t confess any of it out loud, not there on the battlements with guards at every rampart and Rattay’s murmur swirling below. Not that anyone would hear; but this was real life again. Not a war camp, not a cell, not days in between missions, but life as it was. And in this life, he felt he was no longer allowed to want anything.

So he kept his voice still, his body still. All the while, his hands flexed at his sides, betraying the quiet he tried to hold. The blood was moving wrong in him, pooling in strange places. He didn’t know how to let it go, or how to stop knowing someone so well. Even trying soured the stomach with a dull sickness, like grief misfiled.

They had truly seen each other, beyond the trappings of station or pride. Retaining his role as a page felt like trying to hold water in cupped hands. It was because the knowing was worse than the wanting. To carry a life inside your ribs that could never unfurl was the curse there. It gave everything else the wrong taste. 

Some part of him greatly wished Hans would refuse. His pulse thudded at the idea: Sir Capon declaring himself, spurning the match, riding south at Henry’s side with not a care but how far the next road stretched. It was a boy’s dream, gone stale in a man’s body. But it would not leave him, no matter how he fought it, even knowing that the marriage would armor Hans better than Henry ever could at the smithy. And the worst of it wasn’t that Hans was marrying. It was that Henry had no claim to be so wounded by it.

Somewhere below, a dog barked, and Hans moved beside him.

“Henry?” Hans’ boot scuffed a half-moon in the pigeon shit crusting the planking. The movement brought his hip flush against Henry’s. “You’ve really gone quiet on me.”

The heat was worse here, between them, where their shadows fused. It turned worse then: as Hans leaned his hip against the parapet, closer now, boot nudging Henry’s. Like some boyhood habit, testing boundaries, toeing a line. 

Henry stared at the contact. Then, he stepped back so fast his heel skidded on a loose stone. “Ah, forgive me,” he said. “I’ve no words worth hearing at the moment. The heat is making me stupid. I do always go half mad in the days before the feast.”

“Pah,” Hans scoffed in jest. “Well into the year we are. Hanush wants a proper Saint John’s Eve this year—perhaps to prove we’ve all recovered from the war.”

“I’ll take great joy in knowing you’ll hate every moment.”

“Naturally. All that merriment. Longest day and shortest night of the year.” Hans flicked a bug away from his breast. “I cannot stand being drunk off my wits on mead and stuffed to the brim with clover seed cheese, and more cleavage around me than sense.”

Henry stifled a grin. “What torture. Rivers of ale and skirts turning.”

“Indeed. Dancing ’til the lamps gutter, hopping about the town green, drunk enough to stumble over half my words—what hell! Mark my words, Hal—”

A shout came from below. There, a merchant’s cart had overturned near the lower gate, spilling turnips that rolled into the gutter. 

Hans straightened. “Oh, come. Before Hanush drafts me to mediate fucking root vegetables again.”

He strode off immediately, with a lord’s presumption and without checking if Henry followed, but his pace slowed just enough to keep his page at his shoulder. As they descended, Henry noted the new lines war had etched into Capon’s posture: the hitch in his step from that arrow wound, or his hand drifting toward his side—where a hilt would lay—when anyone brushed too near. 

It was true: early Saint John’s Eve preparations were already clasping their fingers over Rattay. In the square, an old woman hawked wreaths of mugwort and yarrow. They passed a cooper’s workshop where a young girl sat gutting rabbits. Hans tossed a groschen into her basket without breaking stride. Tradesmen argued over the best way to knot fresh-cut spruce branches onto the crossbar. Three entire tanners unrolled a cart of timber offcuts said to be earmarked for the great bonfires of Saint John’s Eve. Over the shouting, you could hear the thuds of hammers at the scaffolding, where carpenters were piecing together a platform for the revels, so the fiddlers and drummers might play above the crush of the crowd.

Down one lane, a cluster of apprentice boys wrestled with armfuls of oak and birch twigs meant to be bound into wreaths for men. They shouted jests at a young stablehand who carried a pail of tar to be daubed onto torch-staves for the midnight procession. Nearby, an old woman hunched on a low stool, hawking circlets braided together with yarn. She claimed they warded off devils in the year to come. A couple of passing laundresses sniffed at them in doubt, but one eventually parted with a few groschen for a small sprig—just in case.

Despite the throng, many stalls had cropped up overnight in the spaces left free: country folk bringing in cheeses and jars of curd laced with herbed cream from the best hillside teets. A handful of traveling koblihy sellers hollered above their smells of yeast and the spice of sweat from so many bodies pressed into one place.

In the shade of the tavern’s eaves, a gaggle of women arranged more flowers. All kinds, sorts Henry had never even seen before. They paused long enough to curtsey at Hans and stare openly at Henry, as if guessing which might pay for a fresh pint of ale soon.

Henry nodded toward them and nudged Hans lightly with an elbow. “If a maid cast her wreath into the flames exactly at midnight and it leapt back out unburned, she’d be married by next Saint John’s Eve.”

“Well, I knew that. But how often do wreaths leap out of flame unburned?”

“Oh, more often than you’d think! If you’ve a mischievous brother hiding in the dark to toss it back… Or a father who wants to see you wed.” Henry cleared his throat. “They let the wreaths swim into the river, too. If it sails off in a steady course, good fortune’s ahead. If it sinks…” He made a small, but dramatic gesture, as though it were a dire fate indeed.

Hans shot him a glance. “Please, spare me that fate. I’ll pass it to you.”

Henry gave a mock bow. “Very gallant.”

“Though I suppose, even if I did fling my own garland in the flames, it’s too late for fortune to guide me in any direction but this wedding, is it not?”

Henry’s reply lodged in his throat before it could form.

Hans paused beside a stall selling schnapps. The vendor’s accent marked him as an outsider immediately: “Cheap, yes—and make woman lo-o-ove you!”

Henry watched the exact contraction of Capon’s throat when the man mentioned women and love. It was a minuscule convulsion. Hans’ fingers drummed the counter in a rhythm: two quick taps, a pause, one more. It was their old signal for danger ahead during scouting missions. Henry’s own hand twitched, as if to respond.

“Two cups,” Hans said, too brightly, “and none of your horse-piss dilution.” 

“Hans,” Henry whispered, “I think that is all horse-piss dilution…”

The vendor’s grin exposed a molar capped in silver. When he slid the dented pewters forward, Hans’ pinky finger hovered a hair’s breadth from Henry’s on the counter, aligning the old scar on his knuckle with the nick on Henry’s. Next to each other like this, their hands looked like they were struck at the same time and by the same weapon. That was the grain they shared, two beams hewn from the same tree.

They drank standing in the lee of Pirkstein’s outer wall, where the stones exhaled a damp mineral breath. Henry studied the dregs in his cup, swirling around a fruit fly that was still kicking, when a pot shattered in the market. Both men reached for absent weapons.

Hans exhaled through his nose. His pinky tapped the stave—tap, tap, pause, tap. Danger ahead. There was no true danger. But Henry recognized it whenever Hans couldn’t bring himself to simply say, I need out of here.

“Walk with me,” Henry said. “To the river. Then I’ll leave for Uzhitz.”

“But you’ll be back? For the feast?” 

“Do you want me back?” Henry asked, no coyness in his tone, as they set off.

Hans’ posture straightened by a handful. He scraped one boot over the ground. “If I didn’t, I’d have said ‘Godspeed, be off’.”

“You’ve said that to me before, you know.”

“Then you recall I meant it. ‘Godspeed, be off’—I would’ve said it if I wanted you gone.”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “You see where I might think you’re repeating yourself.”

Hans’ throat bobbed. He glanced aside. “I— well.” His fingers flexed in some small frustration. “Look, I’ve no taste for losing the one man in this town who doesn’t bore me to tears. Thrice I’ve learned how quiet it gets. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.” Hans sighed. “One day, I shall ride away and take you with me, and we’ll see how the world fares without us.”

“God willing,” Henry said.

 

❂

 

Henry was alone on the road again. And that was, in truth, a lot of his life now: drifting in ever-widening circles, errands and journeys, half-political, half-martial, bridging the gulfs between outposts and towns and people. 

He thought a thousand times of turning his horse around to say, “I don’t want you to do this. I don’t want you to marry. I don’t want you to ever even die.”

Henry’s name carried some weight in any mouth. Word of how he’d ridden alongside noble retinues and still broken bread at a peasant’s table spread fast, and that made them guess he could do near anything: speak to God directly, broker deals with burghers, chase off brigands, even shit coin, some said. Lords in castle keeps liked having him on hand. He was a squire with more than a squire’s sense, so he had become a trusted courier of sorts, a messenger that always shot first. Many a fortress gate parted for him without question, the guards on the walls calling, “It’s that Henry, from Silver Skalitz!”

At times, he would pass days in idle missions, escorting caravans of cloth or salt, only to find at the next fortress that the rumors of bandits was nothing but tavern-talk. Or he’d be tasked with delivering decrees to a cluster of villages, instructing them on the new tax rates or the renewal of certain building rights. It seemed that for every real danger, there were nine rumors that fizzled out upon inspection: he’d ride half a day to quell nonsense feud in distant hamlets, where villagers would only apologize for the fuss and hand Henry ale for his troubles. 

Žižka, too, had courted Henry’s service more than once. He was always gathering men of skill to keep an ear to the ground and ensure Bohemia did not devour itself in this small peace. 

Though indeed, for all that talk, Henry’s heart still beat loudest when the road led him back to Rattay. When the tasks were done and the letters delivered, the coin paid and the unrest surveyed, he always found himself turning his horse’s head south. Because there, in Pirkstein, one Hans Capon might be slumped in a seat at council, bored stiff by some minor lord’s speech on grain tariffs. 

When Henry was absent for too long, letters came to him. And they most often read something along the lines of:

 

“Henry, 

They expect me to care about sowing rates. I’ve nearly hanged myself.

Come back with haste so that I don’t perish of dullness.”

 

Henry would huff a laugh, fold the parchment, and make good speed back to the castle. Usually he arrived to Rattay’s gate at dusk, weary and caked in dust. And if Hans caught early sight of Henry in the courtyard, he’d wave him over at once, yelling: “You wretch! I nearly died!”

And Henry, removing his gloves, would smile back, heart pounding with horrible longing. For he was glad, unaccountably glad to be there, to see Hans lean on a wall and to know his lord is thinking, Don’t go so far next time.

He never did. But once, he’d been gone longer than most times, held up between one of Žižka’s uneasy councils, and one letter then was penned in a finer, tighter script. Henry carried that letter with him everywhere now; reading it made him feel like he was standing in a dry forest and smelling the first thread of smoke.

 

“Henry,

There’s a scuff on the floor near the west stair. You trip on it every time. No one’s tripped there in weeks.

Your absence is being noticed, most irritatingly by me. I’ve had to respond to three separate petitions without someone at my elbow to tell me what they actually mean.

The dogs bark every time the gate creaks open. I catch myself looking up when they do. They bark, then wait. And when no one comes, they stop. 

Rather not get used to it.”

 

It wasn’t the kind of thing Henry could read only once. 

That was the crux of his condition: absences begging to be filled. If Hans slid onto a chair that threatened to tip under a misaligned leg, Henry would nudge his boot against the wobble until it steadied, and Hans never had to grip the table for balance. If he reached for a pitcher, Henry had already angled it so the spout faced him exactly. When Hans dozed off in the corner of a council chamber, Henry would set his own hand between Hans’ cheek and the stone wall, sparing him the scrape. He timed it so deftly that if an onlooker had blinked, they’d have missed the moment Henry cradled Hans’ temple, guiding him back to a more comfortable angle. Once or twice, when reaching over, he’d caught Hans’ perfume and felt a peculiar, inward shiver. He couldn’t believe he’d memorized something so transient as the smell of another man’s daily life.

Over time, Henry could no longer tell when he had become so adept at smoothing the day’s edges for Hans, or when he’d began reading the lines of Hans’ fatigue more keenly than he recognized his own. He did these things without thought. His hands, if once certain in handing out violence in rations, betrayed him now with care.

Still, he remained Hans Capon’s squire, or page, or confidant, or friend. Definitions changed depending on who asked. Žižka beckoned him to roam further, Radzig entrusted him with tasks that even older knights fumbled, but Hans never asked anything of him. 

So Henry offered everything in silence; including his life, if ever it were required.

The road was a chapped lip splitting wider with each league, thirsting for rain. Between Uzhitz and Rattay, the birch groves clutched their shadows real tight. Repetition had calcified Henry’s posture: he rode on, knees clamped to his horse’s ribs, molars grinding down, head bowed, hands loose on the reins, spine braced for anything. The roads had made him taut and solitary, as if that perpetual wandering were the only cure for his confusion. He was, simply put, changed. Henry felt it in the weary slope of his shoulders when he’d finally slump in the saddle, too tired to hold his body in lines that were not natural for it. He’d tilt back his head to see how the sky leaned against the horizon, nursing a constant ache in his eyes from squinting to measure the hours left to ride. Henry’s vision blurred after the third hour in the night, which was about the same time bile rolled up if he’d forgotten to eat for too long. 

To stay awake, Henry would hum the old forge songs and allow himself thoughts he couldn’t allow in daylight. Useless details. He could rebuild Hans’ entire existence from these fragments, but could not name the compulsion to hoard them: how Hans smelled, or the last angles of his youth receding in Maleshov, or each word he had ever said about the wedding, searching for some sign that he loathed it enough to rebel. If there was one, Henry wanted to find it. 

The saddle’s leather creaked against his thighs, and the chafe made him wish for other pleasantries. That’s how he knew the exhaustion was nestling. Every time he jerked awake from a near-sleep, jolted by his head nodding forward, he’d press his gloved hand to the horse and apologize.

He would often wonder what might happen if he asked for more—if he demanded to be something beyond a good man to have in service, and if he spoke very plainly of that quickening that always sat in his gut. But it all got thick in his throat whenever he neared those thoughts. He didn’t know how a man could name a thing he was never taught. So he gave it no name. In truth, he found it almost humiliating; he didn’t think that the hardest battles are fought inside the chest. He would catch his own reflection in water troughs and see a stranger armored in accolades. It felt perverse that the body healed; that the graves furred over with grass so quickly he forgot where to kneel, and that the world moved on.

He forced himself to take the same roads over and over, oftentimes praying something would happen—some call to arms or dire threat—that would give him license to linger near Hans Capon with no one thinking it strange. 

All the while, Henry told himself an arm’s length was enough. Wounds that didn’t bleed simply had to be endured; he needed to let it scar over.

 

❂

 

“Higher, lad, go on!”

Henry braced his back against a post and heaved. A cooper’s apprentice, legs splayed wide in the dust, was guiding the base of the maypole into a socket sunk deep into the earth.

The sun was already tilting westward. 

The muscles in Henry’s arms strained against the linen of his tunic. It was moist from hauling split logs to feed the bonfire, creased from the wash line, stitched red in tradition and belted at the waist with a length of leather. He’d forgone all armor, abandoned boots too fine for work, and wore his old pair: toes scuffed white, worn slick at the heel, stubborn as their owner in their refusal to fully die. The only thing new on him was the oak wreath braided around his brow.

A girl had passed by earlier, and without stopping, pressed the wreath gently onto his head. Just that: no coy glance or flirtation but a woman who knew her part in the season’s ritual and played it with joy. She had the look of someone used to good sun, hands and nose freckled. And she’d already moved on to her next errand by the time Henry raised a hand to feel the weight of the wreath.

For a good moment, he stood there, sap sticky on his palms, shirt damp at the shoulder, and imagined how easy it could be. A wife with earth under her nails and soft arms to come home to. A cottage with smoke at the chimney, not fire at the borders. Work that ended at dusk and a body worn out by harvest, not by war.

It startled him, that thought. How badly he wanted to feel something quiet and sturdy for someone, instead of feeling everything for a man who burned hot and fast and was promised elsewhere.

Henry imagined courting her, asking after her mother’s health, sharing a loaf under the eaves while rain kept them from the festival square. He could see it as clear as a dream already souring with morning and felt it settle so heavy in his chest, knowing that his heart didn’t ever bend toward what was good for it.

Someone shouted again: “Henry, mind the socket!”

He blinked himself back to his senses and shifted his grip on the beam. The pole gave a shudder. Below it, the socket groaned in protest, but the wood held, so Henry let out the breath he’d held and stepped back. 

The maypole rose clean above the crowd now, ringed with wreaths and looped in cloth dyed in Rattay’s own colors, fluttering in bands down the length of the spruce much like the banners from the castle keep. A carved sunwheel crowned the top, gleaming with the oil rubbed into it that morning. 

It had been long since Henry had celebrated Saint John’s Eve proper, but the rituals came back without asking. They lived in his joints and tendons, because this was work that belonged to the body. 

There was holiness in labor, quiet and low to the ground. Earthy. Hot-backed. Earned by sweat. Not like godliness preached from pulpits or in Latin. It was righteous in the repetition, too: carry, tie, hammer, pass. No one asked him what side of the hall he stood on, or cared whose bastard he was, or what titles had been half-given, then half-taken away. 

He’d spent his last year in motion, translating other men’s orders into violence. But hauling spruce and hammering garlands, lifting beams, tying yarrow, helping old women string marjoram from lintel to lintel, it stained his hands, yes, and tired his back, but it restored him. Henry could be decently useful. What was it Father Godwin always said? Idle hands invite devils in.

Henry was also a known presence, which worked well for any disagreements that arose among merchants or citizens. Stiffer backs in front of the guards, but all slouch with Henry; ever the mediator, he was. And there was no shortage of disputes, it turned out; war or no war, people still haggled over petty details, each anxious not to be shorted or overshadowed. 

He rubbed his palms against his thighs and rolled his shoulders, eyes scanning the growing crowd for any sign of Hans. Nothing yet. But Henry knew he’d come. He always did, even when he groused and moaned. 

Passing by, the aproned brewer’s wife snuck a clay cup into Henry’s hand. He nodded in gratitude and drank it dry without even tasting the ale, gaze drifting, always looking for something to settle on, and snagging finally on a cluster of girls by the well. They giggled behind buckets of cornflowers. One caught his eye and flushed the color of beetroot. Henry looked away, suddenly conscious of the way his shirt gaped at the neck.

He thought of Hans then, unbidden. Henry found himself helpless to trim back these thoughts, which grew on him like ivy slowly overtaking a stone wall.

Would he be laced into some brocade doublet? Collar stiff with embroidery? Would Hans wear the garland, too, as was tradition? Henry could already picture him, standing stiff-backed and resentful, wreath slightly askew on his head, golden hair dampening against his brow in defiance of fine grooming. His scowl would not quite hide the glint in his eye against everything right and prescribed. 

“Hoist proper, else it’ll all go to hell come midnight!” barked the cooper’s boy as he wrestled a timber frame into place. The structure was meant to cradle the bonfire, beams notched in the old way, tongue and groove, no nails. 

Henry cursed silently beneath his breath and ducked under a crossbeam to brace his shoulder against the frame. 

It was dangerous to dwell on it. He understood precisely how deep the longing ran and how venomous it was to nurture desires that had nowhere to bloom. But he also knew: life would go on, no matter these desires and no matter how fervently he might yearn. Marriage and land and heirs were as natural as harvest, expected as rain. Henry had no bitterness for the course life took, but his body had grown awkward and out of place.

He had always known the truth plainly: there would be no grand rupture or failed marriage. Instead, he feared a quiet and gradual forgetting, like rust eating into hinges. 

A commotion rose by the west gate, and Henry turned, eyes narrowing. No. Not yet. Just the townsfolk, rosy from the sun and drink. Still, Henry’s chest gave a muted thump, like a horse pawing the ground before it bolts. He adjusted the wreath on his brow. Sweat was prickling at the back of his neck.

A hand clapped Henry’s shoulder; just the tanner’s eldest. 

“They’ll be lighting the fire soon,” the boy said, jerking his chin toward the pyre. “Heard the maidens’ve been saving their wreaths for a certain knight.” He winked in a vastly misplaced confidence.

Henry squinted slightly against the sun. “Is that so.” It wasn’t a question.

“You’ve seen it done, aye?”

“When I was a lad,” Henry said plainly. “Not since.”

The tanner’s boy scoffed. “Oh! As if you’re aged now? We’re near the same age. Plenty young enough to catch a wreath or two. Might be you won’t even have to chase one tonight, reckon they’ll all come flying at you… Father Godwin even said so at sermon! About tonight making allowances.” He furrowed his brow slightly, struggling to recall the priest’s words. “Our Lord himself allows a certain leniency tonight.”

Henry’s spine stiffened minutely, though he hoped it went unseen. He chose his words carefully, evenly spaced. “Aye. I’ve heard Father Godwin preach often enough. He has a fondness for reminding folk when God isn’t looking, it seems. But a man’s nature is the same tonight as any other, friend.”

The boy shrugged, picking at the peeling skin along his thumb. “Maybe so. But my mam says herbs go thicker tonight. And that the night makes a body do things it wouldn’t otherwise.” He hesitated before adding: “That’s why the first children of a family are all born in springtime.”

Henry blinked. Well. That puts a new stink on the maypole, don’t it.

But the tanner’s boy hadn’t finished. “Reckon there’ll be a good deal of mischief afore the night’s through,” he went on, emboldened by Henry’s silence, as if it were a free room to fill. “Last Saint John’s, my cousin tied three ribbons round his prick and crept into the baths to woo a red-haired lass. Swore to the saints she’d bewitched him—but she married a wainwright and he near drank himself cross-eyed for a month.” He snorted. “Some magic that was…”

Henry gave him a long, slow nod.

Undeterred, the boy kept going. “‘Course, my mam says it’s only foolishness, all that tossing of wreaths and jumping flames, but I told her if it’s good enough for Lady Stephanie’s maid to light three candles and kiss the floor thrice, then it’s good enough for the likes of me. And you know,” he leaned in, “they say if you jump the bonfire high enough, you’ll marry within the year.”

Henry turned his head just enough to level a look at him. “You’d best take a run-up, then.”

“Aye! But you—you’ll not have to leap at all, Henry! You’ve got the whole town watching for where you’ll walk. One glance your way and the girls’ll be out spinning garlands like wheels. You see, my mam said…”

As Henry listened, stiffly attentive, nodding along, something entirely different invaded the periphery of his senses. It was a presence felt first through instinct rather than perception, a tightening at his ribs like the drawn and kept breath of a startled animal. He did not turn, but all his awareness sharpened.

To Henry, it was scent, before anything else. That of a sharp summer rain and crushed lavender from laundry beaten white in sunlit streams, clean sweat that had only been on skin for minutes, teased out by the heat, and leather, softened by time and riding. Henry knew those notes of scent as one might recognize the patterning of veins along the back of their own hand; he had memorized their interplay through seasons of closeness, days spent elbow-to-elbow in cramped rooms, long rides in rain-drenched forests, quiet nights with murmuring low and half-drunken confidences. It spoke so unmistakably of Hans Capon, distilled down to a potency which refused any disguise. 

His body responded long before his mind conceded, in the same way a hound pricks its ears when its master nears. A pulse flickered at Henry’s throat, tripped and leapt unevenly at the recognition. 

Warmth slid over his shoulder, the fingertips of a loose hand aligning with the curve of bone. There was a sureness to the grasp, absent of hesitation or apology, confident, insistent. Henry felt every muscle grow stiff beneath that weight. The hot point of contact burned into him, branding him, marking him, making him undeniably Capon’s man, in defiance of all reason.

He felt Hans lean in closer, their shoulders nearly aligning, breath ghosting across his neck. His body knew the other instantly, far quicker than his eyes ever could: knew the exact span of his grip, knew precisely how he stood, weight cocked on one hip, crossed by the knee, all aristocratic indolence. Henry was breathless from the detail with which he knew him. It lay too near the bone.

The boy’s words, too, stuttered to a halt. His mouth stayed open a beat too long, like a fish caught mid-swim, and he took half a step back without meaning to. His gaze snapped to the ground, hands suddenly unsure of where to go. They hurried first to his sides, then clasped, then wiped pointlessly at the hem of his tunic.

“My lord,” he mumbled quickly.

“Merciful Christ,” Hans spoke into Henry’s ear. “You are far too patient for your own good, Hal.”

The tanner’s son straightened immediately. “I—I’d best be off, then,” he announced, voice pitched high and thin. “Fire’ll not light itself. Godspeed.” He gave a jerky half-bow and all but stumbled backward before turning to flee at a near-trot, vanishing gratefully into the din of the festival.

And the two of them stood alone.

Henry looked at Hans properly for the first time that day.

The sun had lowered and struck them slantwise across the green, casting long and harsh shadows. Hans stood in profile to it, half-lit and half-shadowed, long and straight lashes white when caught in this particular light. His hair, fairer than Henry’s by many degrees, had grown lighter still where the sun had lain, leached it to oat-husk at the temples and ends. And just below his jaw was the faint scrape of a missed shave.

Something swelled so full in Henry’s chest it pushed at the seams of his speech. He had to look down, briefly, to steady it. His own shadow mated with Hans’ on the cobblestone; a two-headed beast fused at the pelvis. It made Henry ache.

I must not show it, he thought. He cleared his throat instead and said, “You’ve frightened off half the lads in town now. I should set you on the pole to scare crows next.”

Hans tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “Me?”

“Who else?”

“You look more the part. Bit of straw at your collar,” Hans said, flicking at a stem on Henry’s shoulder, “standing all stiff like that, I’d say the birds would take one glance at you and turn tail.”

“That right?” Henry looked at him sidelong. “Here I thought you kept me about for my charm.”

Hans sniffed. “God help us if that was all the charm Skalitz had to offer.”

“See, no one else dares remind you of anything. You’re left to chase me about just to hear the truth now and then, so there must be more charm to me than you let up.”

Hans smiled, but there was some strain behind it. “I do chase you, don’t I?” he muttered.

There was a pause. 

Henry let it stretch a beat longer than he should’ve before glancing toward the pyre. “They’ve stacked it too tight,” he said. “Won’t catch proper, not unless someone’s laid kindling in the centre. You’ll see! A whole hour of smoke and no fire.”

Hans followed his gaze, but his eyes drifted back before long. “Right. And d’you mean to labor like a plowhorse all evening? Come with me.”

“To where?”

Hans waved a vague hand. 

“But I’ve work yet to finish,” Henry protested lightly.

“Yes, and I’ve yet to finish my wineskin. We all carry our worrisome burdens,” Hans said. Then, more pointedly, “You’ll come.”

And that was that. Henry gave a curt nod. “I’ve got to get changed.”

Hans steered him toward Pirkstein. Some of the other workers stepped aside for them. Others didn’t even look up; the townsfolk knew very well how Sir Capon was. If he beckoned, Henry answered. He could be halfway through a wall-raising and still be whisked off by Hans without so much as a raised brow.

They walked up the slope toward the keep, the sound of the square thinning behind them. Hans walked a step ahead at first, but soon slowed, falling into stride beside Henry out of instinct, not invitation. 

“I want to ride out,” he said abruptly.

Henry raised a brow. “Would Sir Hanush want you missing the feast?”

“Oh, he can stew.” Hans kicked a loose cobble as they passed the gates. “I can’t breathe in Rattay of late. He’ll not notice I’m gone unless he tries to marry me off again by dawn. Which, if all is right between God and I, should not happen.” 

“You’ll breathe less with his boot in your ribs. Let the fire be lit first.”

Hans gave a noise of protest.

“And wait ‘til he’s drunk,” Henry added. “You know he’ll swill enough. He’ll be red to the ears, clapping off-beat. Every Saint John’s the same for every man. Folk’ll be too deep in the barrels to tell if it’s you or some fletcher’s son slipping off.”

Hans gave a half-smile. “Know this: I’ve never once been mistaken for a fletcher’s son.”

“No, your loud and lordly sulking gives you away.”

“That so? And what, so should I hunch a bit?”

“You’d look more lowly. But perhaps not with that doublet.” Henry looked him down pointedly. “I’d catch the gold stitch in a torchlight fifty paces away.”

Hans clicked his tongue, adjusting it self-consciously.

They walked on in a brief quiet, boots scuffing the stone. The sound of pipes and clapping rose behind them.

Then, together—

“You could wear—”

“I suppose I might—”

They both stopped and looked at each other.

Henry cleared his throat. “I’ve a spare tunic. Bit rough. But it wouldn’t mark you out so.”

Hans sniffed. “You’re cruel to me, truly. And that—well…”

“You want to slip past Sir Hanush or not?”

Hans said nothing for a moment, his jaw working. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not the… God, Henry. I’ll look like I’ve been run out of my own house.”

“See, you’ve looked worse,” Henry said mildly.

Hans shot him a look. “I’ve looked worse and better. But you don’t— You know what folks’d say. If they knew. That I’d—” He made a vague gesture, faltering. 

Henry kept walking. “What, dressing like the help?”

“It would be the death of my pride.”

“You’ve too much of it to kill outright,” Henry said, evenly. “A scratch’ll do you good, trust.”

They reached the bottom steps of Pirkstein. The air was cooler with stone and shadow here. Henry slowed as they neared the side door that led to his chamber. He reached into his belt pouch, fishing around for the key. 

Hans leaned on the lintel as Henry pushed the door in, narrow and low as it was. He ducked his head, brushing the wreath on the jamb. The scent of old rushes and worked leather met them like a palm to the chest.

“No wonder you wander half the realm; I’d not stay cramped here either,” Hans whispered.

“You don’t even wish to stay in Rattay, be fair.”

Hans exhaled sharply through his nose. “That is true. I’ve no mind to wait on that old ox to stagger into his chair before I’m allowed so much as a breath. It’s been worse since word of the match.”

“Well,” Henry said carefully, “he knows your habits.”

“Oh, you believe he’s waiting for me to bolt and not get wed?”

“I just mean you’ll get more than a breath if we slip past him after the merrymaking’s begun.”

Hans looked sideways at him. “So you’ll go, then.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t not say it.”

Henry moved to the trunk at the foot of his bed. “Close the door at least.”

“I like the breeze,” Hans said, but nudged the door with his boot.

The latch caught with a click, and wood settled into frame.

Henry tossed his wreath on the bed and peeled off his sweat-dampened tunic. He did not turn, but behind, in a held breath and floorboards ceasing their creak, he felt Hans’ sudden stillness. 

They had done this a hundred times, in lodgings, in barracks, in tents. Henry didn’t understand why the quiet between them suddenly wasn’t companionable anymore. Or, really, what silence like that even meant. The air in the room grew taut, become full with something more terrible than danger. It was the first time that being alone felt so different. And for one unspeakably hot second Henry imagined what it might feel like to do what he wanted. If he moved now… if Henry allowed himself…

Well, he wouldn’t know what to do.

He folded and dragged the old shirt through his armpits, across his ribs, down the small of his back, tossed it toward the trunk, let it fall wherever it liked, and bent to rummage for another amidst the few things in the world that were wholly his.

But some awful part of him hoped—

“You’ve a bruise,” Hans said suddenly. 

“Shield edge caught me,” Henry answered, much too fast. He jerked a tunic over his head right away. The cloth clung for a moment before it settled. He made a show of adjusting the fit, tucking the hem, anything to keep from turning.

“Sparring?” 

“What else? It’s been quiet on the roads.” 

“Since when do you spar with shields?”

Henry felt that land. “It was some lads outside Uzhitz,” he said after a beat, meaning it to sound offhand.

Behind him, Hans said nothing for a moment. Then, flat: “They had shields.”

“One did.”

“And what, the others stood by and watched?”

“I didn’t take a full census,” Henry said a bit sharper than he meant. He cleared his throat. “It was a few swings. Barely drew breath.”

“Hit you clean enough. You said it was quiet on the roads.”

“It was.” A stiff pause. “Afterward.”

Hans stepped forward and spun a circle with his finger. “Turn round.”

“Do you see me bleeding? It’s a bruise. I wasn’t wounded,” Henry muttered.

“Let me see.”

Henry hesitated, then obeyed, turning just enough. He pulled at his tunic to reveal his back again. 

“Fully. I can’t see in this damned light.”

Standing back bared to someone had never rattled Henry like this. He couldn’t see Hans, so he just stared down at the floorboards like an upset child. He tried to craft some offhand remark to break the tension, but none came.

For a few moments, neither spoke, both waiting for a sign of how this small unveiling would play out.

“You should tell me when these things happen. I can’t—” Hans stopped short. “I don’t like learning about it this way.”

Henry let the shirt fall back into place. “You’ve more pressing things to worry over. As do I.” He reached for his wreath where it lay at the edge of the bed and gave it a quick shake, turned it once in his hands like he wasn’t sure which side was meant to face forward. It bought him a second more to say nothing. “If we stay any longer, we’ll miss the lighting.”

It all came out flatter than he meant it to.

Hans sighed. “Right. Let’s go, then.”

Henry slipped the wreath back onto his brow as they stepped out. The oak felt warm, like it had remembered the shape of his head. The smells of the feast met them halfway back: sweet and briny onions, spit-roasted pork, smoked chicken.

By the time they reached the square again, it seemed that the crowd had doubled. Henry moved easily among them, stepping around a cluster of villagers who beckoned him over with broad smiles. They had seen him about Rattay’s streets since he was a refugee, but he was a capable man among them, and enough had been said of his doings that every mother’s daughter seemed keen to press an ale into his hand.

Hans followed a step behind, though he kept to the edge of the gathering. His nobility had always drawn a careful distance between himself and the commoners. Now it was no different; it was only Henry they reached for with outstretched cups, not Hans.

The bonfire had been fully assembled since they’d left; tied boughs, brushwood, even whole carts long since retired to rot, heaped into a pile tall enough that some branches scraped the sky. 

“Saints,” Hans murmured under his breath. “They’ll set half of Rattay alight!”

Children shrieked around the edges of the crowd, weaving through the legs of drunkards and dancers, with wreaths of chamomile too big for their heads—some so big that they hung around their necks. The younger ones had been hoisted upon fathers’ shoulders so they could see the topmost logs catch. 

Someone shouted a countdown. Then, a torch flew forward, and the first smoke rose.

At first, it was all light and wind and cinders and sparks spitting like birds. But at the right edge of a wind, the bonfire sucked air in hungrily and answered with a roar that cracked at its base and climbed upward. That heat lapped at the crowd like a hound testing its chain. Folk let out a cry, even! A communal rapture of tradition repeating itself in the fire. The light colored the whole square in golds and oranges, made even the poorest garb look glorious, made every face look somehow carved in relief. 

Hans stood still, washed in the glow, his face made sharp by it.

Henry, without meaning to, stepped slightly closer. If Hans felt it, he said nothing.

“Have you ever jumped a Saint John’s fire?” Henry asked.

“Once,” Hans said, after a moment. “Split my hose clean at the thigh. Singed me so bad I felt I nearly bore a child.”

Henry barked a laugh. He coughed once to stifle another chuckle. “I wish I’d witnessed that.”

“A blessing you didn’t. I’d have never heard the end of it.”

A gust picked up, drawing the bonfire’s smoke deeper into the square. Children scurried to and fro at the outskirts, waving twig torches that wouldn’t fully light.

“Let me make some rounds,” Henry said, turning a fraction. “I’ll fetch ale—for us both?”

“For us both?” Hans repeated. “What sort of question is that? If it’s cold, I’ll drink it. If it isn’t, I’ll still drink it.”

“You’ll be spoiled for choice,” Henry shot back over his shoulder.

He didn’t have to walk far. Just paces away, tavern maids sloshed ale from a fresh-casked barrel into wooden mugs. A few other girls nearby had begun a breezy circular dance. They recognized Henry at once, calling out in teasing welcomes as they beckoned him closer to try a step.

He held up a staying hand. “Can’t! I’m on a mission,” he said with a laugh, retrieving two cups from the tavern maid’s outstretched arms. But the girls wouldn’t let him go without at least one turn. One of them snatched his elbow and tugged him into a swift half-circle, spilling some of the ale.

He broke free with a bow and laughter. Clutching the pints, Henry wove back through the crowd and found Hans again some paces away.

“All well, my lord?” he asked, voice playful, sidestepping a spinning child.

Hans inclined his head in a spare nod, though his eyes flicked to the cups. One was pressed into his hand right away.

“Cheers,” Henry said, tipping his own. He took a quick pull, letting the froth settle on his upper lip. “Nobles seldom dance with common folk, do they?”

“It’s not the custom, and especially if I’m to be wed,” Hans said simply, neither haughty nor apologetic, and drank as well. “There are divisions, whether I’d have them or no. But do not let me spoil your fun.”

“Oh, I need to be piss-drunk for that,” Henry replied, letting the froth in his cup settle before he took a sip. “And I’m not minded to dance while you lurk by a wall.”

A sudden prickle stiffened his spine. The clamor continued all around, but something about the glances fired their way set him on alert. Even Hans, mug half-raised, seemed to sense it. There was a small change in the air that only the two of them felt, it seemed.

Henry followed the drifting attention of the townsfolk and spied Sir Hanush approaching from across the square. At his flank strode Sir Radzig.

Hans set his jaw. “Ah. Wonderful.”

Upon their arrival, Henry took a half step backward and dipped his head in a bow. “My lord. Father.” Though he held his own standing as a squire to Radzig, he still felt his own quiver of deference. 

Beside Hanush, Radzig offered Henry a more familiar nod. Some of his tautness ebbed with it. If Hanush was the stiffer backbone of Rattay, there was always air to breathe around Radzig. 

Hanush turned to his nephew. “I see you’ve found the ale, so I trust you’re enjoying the festivities.”

Hans gave an offhand shrug. “Best night of the year to let the barrel breathe.”

“I did hope to find you both in less… boisterous surroundings. Yet I see your cups are full.”

“Is that a crime? On Saint John’s Eve?” Hans shot back. “I can appear at the feast, can I not?”

“Now, keep your wits,” Hanush said firmly. “Not so long as it remains your only indulgence this night. Your bride’s father is a cautious man. If word reached him that you are… overindulgent, he might wonder whether this match honors his family as it should. So if I see you cavorting like a stablehand…”

Henry suppressed the urge to interject.

For a moment, Hans said nothing. He tapped the rim of his mug with a fingertip—danger ahead. “You must think I’m an idiot. Truly. I know how these matters stand,” he said quietly. “I’m not one to publicly shame my own house.”

Hanush’s expression softened the smallest fraction. He glanced about. “Come,” he said, tone lowered. “We all want to see you wed without undue fuss. It isn’t that you’re unfit to be groom. Only that times have changed.”

Radzig, silent thus far, overlapped with his usual cadence: “’Tis your right to take some enjoyment tonight. Saints know the war took enough from us all.”

Hans glanced at Henry. “How thoughtful of everyone,”—his nostrils flared as he bit off each word—”to allow me some ale.”

With that, Sir Hanush’s gaze fell to Henry again. There was an edge to it, as though he suspected Henry’s influence might be half the reason for Hans’ irritation. But before he could speak, Sir Radzig cleared his throat.

“Henry, a moment,” he said, beckoning him a half-step away from Hans and Hanush. His tone gentled when it was just the two of them. “You mind him, lad. He’s in no fit temper.”

“Why must Hans be handled like a child?” Henry spoke before thinking. “He’s of age. I daresay he’s endured more than some lords twice his years. He’s got sense enough not to caper about half-naked by the fire.”

“It’s more than that, son.” Radzig’s tone gentled further. “He bristles against every attempt to guide him, even those with his best interest at heart. And your presence is both balm and spur, I think. Sir Hans trusts you, so he chafes all the more when others pry. He heeds your word above any other. When a different hand pulls the reins, he bucks. A second voice feels to him like a slap on the fingers.”

Henry tensed. “What? But I would never lead him astray.”

Radzig nodded, pressing a firm hand to Henry’s shoulder. “That’s why I’d have you watch him tonight. Keep him from rashness, yes, but also keep him from feeling cornered. He’s not wholly powerless… but everything is a balance in these times.”

Henry turned his head. Hans was nodding stiffly at something Hanush said. 

“He’s man enough to mind himself,” Henry murmured.

“He is indeed.” Radzig paused and withdrew his hand. “I heard you reported to the guards. They said you found a handful of brigands?”

“It was nothing.”

“Nothing it may seem, but still. Keep your wits as well, son. Sir Hanush will not abide unrest so close to the wedding. We’ve had enough trouble on the roads, so let’s not invite more.”

Henry bowed his head lightly. “Yes, father.”

They stepped back in silence. 

Sir Hanush clapped a hand over Hans’ shoulder. “I’ll leave you to your cups,” he said, glancing between him and Henry. “Just remember what I’ve said. The wedding is not so far off.”

Hans offered no quarrel. But he offered no farewell either, only a stiff inclination of his head as Hanush turned. Radzig followed, though he gave Henry’s arm a quick squeeze as he passed.

It was like yellow swole back into the banners again as soon as the lords were gone from sight, and all other color found its place soon after.

“Well,” Henry ventured. “That seemed less dire than we feared. No need to dress you in my garb and sneak out the gates.”

Hans tipped what remained of his ale to his lips and drained it in one long pull. He set the cup aside with a firm thud, but said nothing.

“He’s pressed by the alliance,” Henry continued, as if he owed any explanation. “Sir Hanush can’t risk—”

“I know!” Hans cut him off. “Believe me, I know. But if he keeps me penned like a hog, I’ll do something truly rash just to remind him I draw breath.” 

“Like what?”

Hans blew out a breath that lifted a stray lock of his hair. He gave Henry an odd, sidelong glance. “Let’s head back to your chambers.”

Yes. Yes, before the world rights itself and this chance slips away.

“My—?” Henry blinked. “We’ve half a dozen wine stalls at our disposal this night. And half as many taps of ale right here.”

“Henry.” The lordling passed a hand over his face. “My wits are splintering.”

Henry shifted, glancing over his shoulder at the swirl of revelers. “I don’t mind,” he said gently. “But we were just there. Would that not be the last place folks expect your lordly self to be?”

“If they knew me at all, that’s exactly where I would be.”

A subtle thrill shot through Henry, rousing a warmth low in his belly. “There are far grander places to drink tonight,” he said, embarrassed of his own quiver of anticipation. “But you want quiet. So quiet it is. The tavern keep’s hoarding a batch of spiced mead, if rumor is right.”

“If only you knew how highly I prize that.” Hans gave Henry a brief, searching look, then jostled him lightly with an elbow. “Right, then. You fetch the mead, and I’ll meet you back there.”

As Henry paid for the jug, he could feel his excitement froth. Both it and the mead smelled so strong; of honey, pepper and cloves. Good for loosening tongues, he thought. Perhaps not wise if he truly wanted to keep composure around Hans.

On his way back, Henry passed a yawning watchman slouched by the gate. 

“I had to haggle for a decent price,” he explained without being prompted, kicking open the door to his chamber again. “They know you’re good for it. As for me… Let’s say the war has not sweetened the merchants.”

His heart thumped at the sight inside. It was his familiar smallness: the single bed, the trunk, the stool, the shelf with a few personal items, and then all of Sir Hans Capon, looking up from inspecting his tin badges. 

Henry set down the jug and quickly reached for the taper on the table, lighting it from the small cresset-lamp on the wall. A glow spread around the room, illuminating dust in the cramped air.

“There,” he said, swallowing. “Not so grand as your own, but—”

“It’s yours,” Hans replied. “And that, I think, is half the draw.”

“Is that so? A cot and four walls?” A pause. “With all due respect, it’s yours, actually. Is it not?”

“Not mine yet. I’m heir to your chambers,” Hans corrected with a lifted finger, which then promptly undid the laces of his collar in concession to the heat.

Henry cleared his throat at that. “Well… for all your lofty station, you do step inside my chambers often enough.”

“Indeed—and I have good reason tonight.”

Henry’s brows rose. “What?”

“What, what? Dressing in your clothes!”

Henry stiffened for a moment.

“You can’t be serious,” he quickly said. “All Sir Hanush said was to behave. He didn’t say you couldn’t leave Rattay, so we’ve no reason to sneak out.”

“But you can’t tell me you aren’t at least curious to see how I’d look in your breeches.” The lordling clicked his tongue. “No, look—let me put on your garb, and you try mine.”

Henry’s heart thrummed in his ribs. He had once dreamt what it might feel like to wear clothes that denoted rank. To slip his arms into fabric that cost more coin than he had ever carried in his pocket. But sumptuary laws came to mind, and strict decrees that forbade commoners from wearing certain dyed cloth or velvet piping. 

Suddenly, a single, riotous thought took root and would not be banished: to don Hans Capon’s attire, his smell, his place in the order of the world. It was so intimate it was indecent; his mind skittered, trying to reconcile. What right had he to that? Was this not some deep violation of lines that should never be crossed?

At the heart of it, Henry realized with a hot, guilty jolt, that to wear Hans’ clothes was to be closer to him than ever. It was to feel Hans’ thighs where the hose would cling too tight—for his smell to rub off onto Henry’s skin.

“See, that’s just mad,” Henry said simply. “It would be a breach of all good sense and half the laws of Bohemia.”

Hans drank mead straight from the jug and stepped to the trunk. He curled his hand around the iron handle, then heaved the lid open. “Lord have mercy,” Hans murmured, sifting carefully through the garments. “Not a shred of color or flourish.”

“Aye, well,” Henry said, half-defensive. “I’m no lord. Linen keeps me from sweating my hide off. Did you expect velvet and ermine? That’s no life for me.”

Hans flicked aside a folded tunic to examine the next. He drew out a linen shirt the color of dull straw, lifting it by the shoulders. Then, he tossed it aside for a moment—gently, so as not to fling Henry’s possessions to the dusty floor—and reached for the buttons of his own doublet, running down the front in an ornate row. 

“Let us do it together and see how we each abide,” Hans said, pointing at Henry with his chin. “All of it, down to the hose. It’s only fair.”

His ring caught on a loop of thread, and Henry reached out by instinct to free it. “I’ll do it,” he said at last, “but you’ll not blame me if your doublet tears under my back. I’m no slender minnow.”

Hans was already undoing the final clasp on his sleeves. “We’re of a size enough, you and I,” he replied. “If anything, your shoulders might fill it better than I do. I’ve no appetite in this heat.”

He tossed his outer doublet onto Henry’s bed as well. Beneath it, the undergarment was finer than anything Henry owned outright, woven so close it had a soft luster. 

Henry’s throat went thick. He turned away to rummage for hose. 

“Here,” he said, holding out a finer pair. “Mind, the waist might not fit so snug. I tie it with a cord. And if you rip the seat, I can’t promise I’ll not box your ears.”

Hans’ eyes flicked over Henry. “Well, out with you. Strip down.”

This was a violation of a sweeter sort.

Henry eased off his belt and unbuckled the frogs that had once held a dagger, unlacing the front of his breeches. They slid off with soft friction against his thighs, leaving him in his drawers. The smell of sweat and old rushes rose.

At length, Hans and Henry stood only in their braies. 

Once or twice, their eyes met, and each man quickly averted his gaze. With the last streaks of purple twilight lancing through the shutter, they would have only been silhouettes to any passerby. 

Hans tugged Henry’s spare tunic over his head. It settled a bit stiff on him. He pressed his hands against his sides. 

Henry could not breathe for the sight of it.

The linen knew only one body—his—and now it draped itself over Hans Capon as if it had waited all its life for a nobler shoulder. Right away, the fabric began to drink in Hans’ foolish court fragrance. The hem rode a thumb‑breadth higher each time he lifted his arms to settle the seams straight.

Henry felt a strange ache bloom in his palms, as if they alone ought to smooth the creases down Hans’ flanks, to teach the cheap weave how to lie politely over such beauty. And after, he would fold the tunic away. He would bury his face in the cloth come winter, breathing in proof that this moment had been real.

“I can’t recall the last time I wore something so unremarkable,” Hans loudly announced.

Before he could be caught gaping, Henry turned away to fiddle with the doublet. When he lifted it, the cloth all but glowed in the wan light. Sumptuary laws be damned; if he were spotted in this, half of Bohemia’s bailiffs would come at a gallop. 

Then again, this night was a feast, and half the realm was drunk. He pulled Hans’ fine linen shirt on first. It was like water across his skin, a softness his body hardly believed.

Henry eased the doublet over it, pushing his arms through the narrower sleeves. “God’s mercy, how do you— These buttons! ‘Tis a thousand of them.”

Hans snorted. He stepped forward until he stood right before Henry. “Let me.”

Hans slid his fingers along Henry’s wrists, guiding them so Henry might keep the sleeves in place. Then, with practiced hands, he latched the short gold hooks and looped them through the thread eyes, from the cuff upward. So intimate for something so mundane.

“There,” Hans muttered as he finished hooking the last clasp near Henry’s elbow. He stepped back, giving a faint nod. “Pull it snug at the shoulders.” 

Henry did so, and the doublet fit, if horribly tight across the breadth of his chest. He tried not to breathe in too large and moved his arms. The sleeves gave him limited range, tailored to Hans’ form. He felt at once like a performer and also strangely elevated; as though the finery bestowed a new bearing upon him, whether he wanted it or not.

Hans’ eyes travelled the length of him like a palm laid flat, from throat to knee.

Where it lingered, Henry’s skin answered: a sting at the hollow of his throat when those blue eyes reckoned the snug collar; a throb low in his gut when they dipped to the belt loops, as if Hans were deciding how best to unfasten him later. Breath gathered hot behind Henry’s teeth, and the doublet seemed to shrink another finger‑width around his chest.

“Well,” Hans said, a slight rasp in his voice. “You do not look half a fool. My clothes favour you. And almost indecently.”

“It pinches.”

“All beautiful things pinch.”

“I feel like a sausage casing.” Heat flared in Henry’s cheeks. “You did this to mock me.”

“Not so,” Hans said. 

He himself wore Henry’s hose, which he had knotted high enough that they didn’t sag. The tunic, wider in the torso, was drawn in by a belt of plain leather. Aside from his light skin and posture—ever so proud in the shoulders—he could pass for a man of Henry’s station.  

Henry cleared his throat, shaking off the flutter in his gut. “God help us if Sir Hanush claps eyes on you. You could never walk out like this. Others know you by your hair alone.”

They stood there a moment. The trunk remained open, as if this staged exchange of identities were still incomplete. 

Hans drank from the jug and passed it on. “Henry,” he said softly. “Is it not a strange wonder how close our lives have grown? We would have never dared this a summer ago.”

“It is. I’m not sure either of us knows our proper place anymore.”

They were trading clothes and mead while the last rays of day bled across the small shutter, and it was unthinkable that there was ever life outside of it.

“Well, a place can be found, or made.” Hans passed his tongue over his lower lip in subtle agitation. “Though I cannot wholly disregard the laws, I do hold you in much higher regard than just about anything. You must know this. Now, since we’ve such finery on you… Let us see if you can put on a lord’s airs.”

Henry, cheeks already warm from both mead and the snugness of the borrowed clothing, gave a soft scoff. “Now you certainly mean to mock me. I fear I’d betray myself the first moment someone demanded even a dance.”

Hans set the jug aside. “No dance. Have a bit of grand posture, a haughty tilt to your chin, yes, like so.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders in a manner that made him seem much taller than Henry. His voice, when he spoke, was grand and affected: “Good people of Rattay! Your future lord bids you labor for fewer groschen, that he may finance his wine cellar! Or some such nonsense.”

Henry snorted. “That’s how you’d have me speak as Sir Hans Capon? By emptying the peasants’ pockets for drink?”

“Well, you must start somewhere,” Hans said. “Proceed, my lord. Address your loyal subject.” He made a bow, arms sweeping wide in a show of reverence.

Lead by the mead’s peppery spice, Henry clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin, stifling a grin. He paused for breath, pulse hammering at the gall of what he was about to say, and summoned a deep, mock-regal timbre: “Taxes, varlet. I am in dire need of fresh Moravian. And if the coffers won’t furnish them, then I shall wring them from every peasant pocket!”

Hans forced a scandalized gasp, pressing a hand to his chest. “Go on. What more villainy does this fiendish lord commit?”

“Well,” Henry said in a bored drawl, “I am—Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein, heir to Rattay—rumored to be betrothed, yes. But I find that if my dear bride cannot quell my restlessness, perhaps a certain blacksmith might suffice. Who shall dare gainsay me? I am the lord of these parts, am I not?”

Hans stared at him.

For a moment, Henry thought he had overstepped far and wide. That moment felt like years.

But the corners of Hans’ mouth faintly curved. Stepping forward, he pitched his voice an octave lower. “Aye, my lord!” he crowed in a rough peasant tongue. “I be but Henry of Skalitz, your faithful dog, so I am. At your beck and call, panting after your every whim.”

Henry froze at the impression, trying to laugh off the pounding in his ears. “Y-you… you do me ill credit, blacksmith,” Henry stammered, still in his faux-lord voice. “Are you saying that I’d toy with your devotion for my own delight?”

Hans cocked his head. “Oh, my lord, worse: you drive me to distraction, so that I’d rather slip your leash and run the roads than watch you vow yourself to an unseen bride.”

Henry’s pulse thudded so violently he feared Hans must hear it. The words stirred a complicated feeling in his chest and held him like a hand around the throat. 

“Do you truly—” he began, then realized, too late, that he’d broken character. But he forced a loud, theatrical scoff, trying to reassert the game: “Bah! What do you know of my ways, Henry of Skalitz?”

“Go on, then,” Hans prompted softly, bridging the short space with a single stride. “If you’re not playing me, give your final decree, my lord. Command your loyal man once more.”

Henry had to look away. He broke the moment by grabbing for the jug, throat dry despite the mead rolling down it.

At last, he forced his chin high. “My final decree: keep you near always. For I cannot abide losing my greatest diversion, no matter who claims me on paper.”

A corner of Hans’ mouth tilted, but no longer in a smile. “Ah,” he said at length, tone baleful, low, “keep me near? Even when another lays claim to you?”

“Is a lord’s will not absolute?" Henry’s spine prickled under the doublet’s tight stitching. “I shall keep a faithful dog if I please.”

“And if that faithful dog turns on you for all the games you’ve played?”

“He wouldn’t dare. He belongs to me unless I choose to cast him out.”

“So if a lord’s will is absolute, what of the dog’s?” Hans quietly said. “You’ve titles, lands, an inheritance that demands your every step follow another’s plan. At least I, for all my lesser station, may roam as I wish.”

Henry swayed forward imperceptibly. His mind flashed to the letters folded beneath his mattress. Your absence is being noticed—most irritatingly by me.  

Outside, drunken shouts erupted—“To the river!”—followed by a thunder of footsteps. The noise pressed against the chamber door.

Hans’ hand found the jug again, lifting it to his lips only to find it empty. He scowled. “Christ. Henry, we’ve drunk it dry.”

“There’s still the tavern,” Henry offered, too quickly, latching back onto their true roles with haste. He rubbed his slick palms on Hans’ borrowed hose; too fine a cloth for such an absurd moment. “Or we could ride into Ledetchko, if you want out, that’s close enough.”

“Bright thinking. But… best return to our proper skins,” Hans quietly muttered.

Something had nearly broken free. 

What of the dog’s will?

Fuck, Henry thought. What of it?

They turned away from each other, as though they were two squires in a cramped tent, shedding borrowed raiment. They both began unlacing and unbuckling, fumbling with clasps and cords and hems to free themselves from the other’s clothing. Each lace undone felt like abandoning a fantasy, in a way. But it also screamed: Let me return to safer ground. This is not my place.

 

❂

 

Flutes echoed far across the gentle bend of the river as Hans and Henry guided their horses toward Ledetchko. They rode as they’d once ridden to battle, but no banners called them to blood. 

This was the knife’s edge of the year: the sun hesitated to die. Dusk would linger as a lover reluctant to part, the sky bruising from saffron to the blue of a wood pigeon’s breast but never deepening to true dark; the summer solstice never granted a true blackness. Already, the first pale stars pricked the east—timid, outshone by the village windows and bonfires. The earth hummed, drunk on the abundance of light from the longest day of the year.

Along the banks, water mint thrust purple spikes through the shallows. A warm wind stirred the tall grasses. Even from a distance still, Henry could feel the feast’s pulse.

They came upon the celebration in time to see village girls circling a fire with linked hands. Their chanting of old verses danced nimble-footed in the evening air. 

Henry slowed his horse to a gentle walk. Memories flitted through his mind of his own childhood in Skalitz: of Saint John’s nights lit by bonfires that had towered like giants when he was no taller than a stalk of grass, stealing ale from Pa, spinning in circles until he got sick. 

Near the outer fence, Hans slid off his horse. Henry followed suit, leading his own mount to a free post. The horses sniffed the air, ears flicking as they caught the off-key strains of fiddles played by drunken minstrels. 

Already, a few villagers had paused mid-conversation to size up these newcomers. Henry felt the weight of their curiosity from afar. But the moment he walked into the light, the woodcutters were first to recognize him. Their eyes shone like their cheeks, and they elbowed the nearest bystanders as well.

“Henry!” one of them exclaimed, stepping forward with a broad grin. “Oh, glad to see you here, my boy!”

Henry returned the smile. “Glad to be back,” he said, turning to include Hans with a sweep of his arm. “Sir Capon and I couldn’t resist seeing how Ledetchko fares this fine feast.”

Hans dipped his head in greeting. A wiry fellow attempted an uncertain half-bow, while a woman beside him bobbed a deep curtsy. 

“None of that tonight, I beg,” Hans said, lifting both hands in a gesture of earnestness. “I am here only to celebrate, like the rest of you.”

But habits were not so easily cast aside. Henry felt the change like the first frostfall overnight. This was, after all, a lord speaking—one who, in the normal order of things, could raise taxes, conscript villagers for forced labor, or punish them for trifling offenses. The nobility never stooped to the lower town’s celebrations without escort or pomp. More often than not, a noble’s arrival meant new levies, fresh constraints, or at best, a show of condescending charity. Lords seldom brought news that wasn’t burdensome.

So the villagers were wary; their gazes flicked between Hans and Henry’s familiar face. Word spread swiftly: Henry had come, yes, but with him was Sir Hans Capon, heir to Rattay.

“Has he come to count our chickens, Hal?” A man grey in both beard and face emerged from the crowd, shouldering through the onlookers with a tankard in his hand. “Or, say, has the feast at Pirkstein grown dull and with no flavor to it?”

Quiet laughter fluttered through the crowd. Henry hid his smile against his shoulder; that was old man Richka, true as he got. 

“There’s no tallying of chickens tonight, nor anything else,” Henry replied. “We’ve only come seeking the bonfire and your good mead.”

Old Richka made a show of glancing Hans up and down. The old man wore neither bow nor deference as he drew near. When he reached Hans, he planted a rough palm on his shoulder.

“Say, lad,” the man spoke, a bit slurred, “tell me this: can you drink a belly full of ale?”

Hans blinked, mouth open in mild surprise at such blunt address. “I can,” he managed.

“And can you dance?”

“I’ve two feet like any man. I can dance.”

“Well, if you can drink a belly full of ale and dance as well as any of us, we’ll have you,” Old Richka declared. 

And that was all the knighting necessary to simple folk. Occasionally, Henry did notice the flicker of disquiet in a mother’s eyes as she tugged her child away: “Let the lord pass, mind you,” or a bow from passing men—though it was only because he took his time greeting familiar faces. Ledetchko was not his home, but he had enough history here to ease into any conversation naturally. 

A stout wife, hair bound in a kerchief, cornered Henry briefly to compare notes on this year’s harvest: “You hear how the barley fields by the creek are doing better than we’d feared?” she asked. “God willing, the war’s ruin won’t chase away every good yield.” 

Henry nodded, offering a few words of encouragement. Hearing such news gave his own heart a lift.

Nearby, Hans soon found his own amusements: he sampled sweet rolls from a shy girl who offered them on a wooden tray. He declared them the finest in all of Bohemia, which made her red in the face, hiding behind the drape of her shawl. Then he challenged a cluster of farmers to a drinking game—an old tradition of passing around a large pitcher and attempting not to spill a drop as one quaffed deeply. Despite Hans’ upbringing, he proved no slouch at downing ale in one mighty pull, to the raucous approval of his new companions.

Music swept through the night. On a wooden platform, a group of older men tapped their feet in time with the tune, while the younger set joined hands. Henry caught the eye of old friends from Skalitz. A whoop went up—“Henry!”—and before he could protest, they pulled him into the circle of dance.

They moved in a pattern older than any castle or king, stepping in time to a folk melody that must have echoed across Bohemian hillsides for centuries. With arms linked and feet scuffing in unison, they spun around in a loose ring. Henry’s old friends teased him, poking fun at how his steps had improved—or worsened—since they’d last danced. 

He was just catching his rhythm when he heard a yelp all-too familiar. Turning, Henry saw that one of the village girls had seized Hans by the arm and was all but dragging him toward the circle as well. The young woman beckoned urgently: “I’m not letting you skulk by the fire, lord or no!” 

“Save me!” Hans stammered, clutching for Henry’s forearm. The movement nearly toppled them both when the next sweep of dancers spun in their direction.

But Henry, caught up in his own footing, made only an empty-handed grab. “Hans, I fear you may have to dance with her!” he called out. 

“She’s quite insistent, Henry! D’you reckon Lady Jitka of Kunstadt would forgive me a spin?”

“You might not have much choice in the matter!”

“Are all Ledetchko girls this determined?” Hans gasped.

Henry barked a laugh at the panicked look on Hans’ face. “Aye,” he called back over the lively piping, “when they fancy a handsome lord to tup, they are!”

That only made Hans sputter more. He opened his mouth to protest further, but the girl’s grip on his wrist was firm enough to thwart any retreat. She guided him along with surprising strength.

Despite all his complaining, soon, Hans was just as breathless as the rest. He never yielded an inch in sword practice, and so he would not yield in dance either, even if it left him flushed to the ears. The village girl let out a shriek when he spun her like the sun.

“Lord be praised!” She crowed above the music. “He can dance!”

Out of breath, Henry stepped to the side for a drink. After being wrung for a dozen more circles, so did Hans, chest heaving and cheeks rosy, grabbing for a share of Henry’s ale. He drank deep and passed the mug back lighter. Henry’s lips touched the same rim, warm where Hans’ mouth had just been.

It was a trick of the trade; a man had to dance double the drink he had, or else he’d not see the end of the short night. And the first sign that Old Richka had drunk too much was his swaying step and the slosh of ale escaping the rim of his tankard. He wove past the bonfire, muttering to himself. When at last he spotted Hans, he made straight for him, ignoring the tugs at his sleeve from well-meaning neighbors.

“Ho, my lord,” Old Richka said, planting himself before Hans. “See here, if you’ve come to taste Ledetchko’s feast, why not pass your purse ‘round, mmm?”

Henry, leaning on a fence post, stiffened at Old Richka’s words. Several villagers seemed uncertain whether to intervene.

Hans cleared his throat. “I’ve paid for more than a few rounds tonight, good man,” he said quietly, “though I’d not bray it about. It is the feast of Saint John, after all.”

“Feast for some, famine for others, eh? You can afford it, sure you can...” Richka shot back, sloshing his tankard and nearly tipping it. “While the rest of us… we see our fields laid waste. Or worse: forced to pay coin we’ve not got, or lose the roof over our heads. Your harvest fails, you’ve coin to buy another field. Ours fails, we starve… Tell me, Sir Capon. Did you bury the dead when the war swept through?”

Ledetchko’s butcher reached to steady Richka’s arm, whispering his name in chastisement, but he shrugged him off. Henry, too, moved half a step forward.

Hans lifted his chin but did not speak immediately. “I did,” he finally said. 

“You did? With your own hands, an’ all?”

Henry knew the answer to that; it’s why Hans stayed quiet.

“Would’ve had squires. Knights. Half the damn countryside scouring the field if you were snatched up. But my lad—he was just another body on the roadside to some folks, never worth a glance or nothin’. Didn’t see any fine retinue searching for him. God’s mercy… the only soul was young Henry here,” Old Richka added, jerking his chin in Henry’s direction. “Tell me, my lord, do you know how it feels to bury your own child in earth so baked an’ cracked, you’ve not even water enough to wet his grave?”

Hans opened his mouth, but no words came.

“I’d trade all the silver in the world if it meant I never had to… If I could’ve looked upon that field an’ found him gone to safety instead of rottin’ in the sun. But he lay there until Henry chanced by. God in heaven, it shouldn’t be luck that grants a child a grave.” Old Richka squeezed his tankard. “I wanted to wash him clean, but there was not enough left to wash. So I sang him the old lullaby and covered him, best I could.”

Henry laid a gentle hand on Hans’ shoulder. “Old Richka,” he said quietly, “the war robbed you in ways none can repay. Sir Capon did not come to rub salt on that wound. You know me; I wouldn’t stand here if he meant ill.”

Old Richka stared at Hans a long moment. “You’ll pardon my old tongue, Sir Capon. My boy is in the ground, an’ I’ve too much drink in me. That’s no excuse, but ‘tis the truth.” His mouth twisted in a profound sadness. “Many lost sons. In Skalitz, Rovna, Merhojed… Let’s hope your boon as a lord might spare our men. To your health.”

He drained the last of his ale, some of it dribbling down his beard. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and staggered away into the darkness, humming the same tune from the earlier dance.

A scattering of villagers released uneasy breaths; a few slunk off to other corners of the feast, unwilling to linger in the aftershock of such candor.

Hans stared in the direction Old Richka had gone. 

“Let’s walk on,” he murmured to Henry. “To the river.”

 

❂

 

Dawnlight streaked across their shoulders as they made their way along the narrow dirt path leading down to the Sasau’s edge. 

Henry carried a sputtering torch. Hans walked beside him, one hand brushing the tall grass that reached almost to his thighs.

Beyond the river bend, a meadow sloped gently to the water, speckled with wildflowers. Cicadas clicked. Yards off, the bonfires still shone. A ring of trees sheltered the meadow’s edge. The grass had grown tall and wet with dew underfoot. If one did not mind a soaked hem, it was easy enough to wade through the greenery and find a restful spot near the bank.

As they were walking towards the grove, Henry turned and watched Hans carefully. He moved like a man with too little skin.

“You all right?” Henry finally asked.

Hans started to answer, then paused. He offered a shrug. “I will be.”

“Old Richka was drunk and hurting,” Henry said quietly. “You know how it is.”

“I do know,” Hans returned, almost sharply, “but we gave blood and sweat in the war, too. I nearly lost my life out there. God forbid these folk realize a lord bleeds the same color as they.”

“It’s not all that grand on the other side, either. All night, people from Skalitz kept calling me a hero, or praising me for working with Sir Radzig. It only feels good once. If I truly were any hero…”

“But you’ve at least proven yourself more honorable and brave than men born to high titles! Look at the work put into Pribyslavitz and all that you’ve continued doing. You’ve done more than most to prevent others from meeting the same fate.”

“I’ve tried more than most, you mean,” Henry murmured.

They veered off the main trail and stepped down into the meadow, pushing through shoulder-high stalks of feathergrass and goldenrod. Henry moved a branch aside so Hans could pass without ducking, and Hans muttered a half-hearted thanks as he followed.

“I suppose sometimes they look the same. Justice and rage,” Hans continued. “Is that why you held me back?”

“It wouldn’t have helped to argue. There are times you have to let them think you’re to blame, if it helps,” Henry explained. “We know better, and so do most of them. I’ve learned you simply can’t sway every heart. No matter what you say, do, look like, what your standing is, how much coin you have.”

Hans tripped over a fist of feathergrass and cursed. He brushed off Henry’s outstretched hand. “All this is so strange. Before the war, I hardly considered how a peasant lived.”

“Oh, I do recall.”

“So little separates my life from theirs. Well, a lineage, I suppose. But the fear of death is shared equally by all.”

“We’re not much different,” Henry replied quietly. “But when I’m out here with the villagers, I see the struggle again. And how all those small injustices fester into resentment. In Sir Radzig’s company, or yours, I see the importance of laws, and duty, and leadership, but also how easy it is for those in power to forget the common folk. A foot in both worlds and neither fully claims me. Wish I could bridge that gap.”

“We share that feeling, then, of not belonging in our place,” Hans said. “Because I don’t feel where I am is right for me anymore.”

“Well, neither of us remains the men we once were. You dared me to hate you at first. Not that I needed much daring—my anger had to have somewhere to land. But now I have seen in you a courage that I could never muster. At times, I think you ended up braver than I was.

“God help me, I don’t think I’d go back, even if I could.” Hans paused. “You’ve a heart of gold, Hal. Bravery has little to do with it.”

“I suppose what I’m trying to say,” Henry went on, “is that I’ve lived more lives now than I ever knew existed.”

“You’re talking more than Father Godwin on a bender, too.”

Henry blinked. “Aye, I’m drunk as a fucking horse. But I’ve plenty to say. You want me to bottle it up, go find yourself another squire.”

“I’d rather die,” Hans replied.

With Henry some paces ahead, they reached the far edge of the meadow. The river lapped gently nearby, silver over stone. The bed of grass was thick and fragrant.

Henry slowed, torch held high, and glanced around. “Here’s as good a place as any,” he said over his shoulder. “No one’ll wander down this far.”

He pulled his hose and tunic off, not to soak them with dew, and settled himself in a dip of earth where the ground was mostly flat and cushioned by thick clover. He was shirtless then, and only in his braies. It was blissfully cold. 

With both hands tucked behind his head, he studied the canopy overhead. Occasionally, a moth would brush past his temple, drawn by the salt of his skin. He felt the brush of wings, and a faint tickle, but was too drunk and content to swat it away.

Hans stood a moment among the reeds further down, rolling his shoulders to loosen the tension of the day. With a soft grunt at his neck clicking, he picked his way through the grass to join Henry. The meadow soaked his boots, leaving dark bands around the ankles. 

He came to stand just above Henry’s head. There was uncertainty in that stance, as though he wasn’t sure he should intrude on the stillness. But Henry nodded to the side, so Hans sank down beside him in the grass cross-legged, tunic unlaced, and sleeves shoved to the elbow.

“Your hose will be drenched. My back’s all wet already,” Henry drawled lazily.

“You’ve filled out. You know that?”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s more weight to you.”

Henry, still in that comfortable sprawl, gave a dismissive sniff. “I suppose so,” he quietly said.

Hans’ eyes drifted to Henry’s left arm, which rested overhead, exposing the hollow under his arm. A curious expression passed over Hans’ face. He leaned in, squinting.

Henry shifted his elbow a bit. “What is it? Do I stink?”

“No. It’s…” Hans simply reached out, the tip of his pointer finger running down the underside of Henry’s arm, near the edge of the armpit where muscle had swelled over the last year. 

Henry lifted his head, following the touch. An involuntary shiver jerked his shoulder.

By the orange wash of sunrise, he saw thin, branching lines scribed across his skin. They were not scars from blades or arrows; more like fissures beneath the surface, little striations in flesh, dark red in some places, more purple in others, already pale at the edges. Up close, these marks looked like fine cracks on an over-tightened drum.

Yes, the body had grown—too fast, perhaps, for its own hide. But Henry felt no shame. 

“Ah,” he said simply, as though seeing them for the first time, “that.”

He watched Hans curl his fingers and pinch gently at the raised lines, testing their texture. A very mild sting pricked, like the slight ache of newly beaten muscle, or even an itch of sorts.

For a beat, he was oddly mesmerized by it himself. He’d noticed them in passing, usually when scrubbing down in a washtub or by a river, but never considered them.

Henry let his eyes drift shut. To be touched. For a moment, he felt a hot surge of pride that his body had adapted to each new demand: heavier weapons, longer marches, the weight of armor. But there was, if barely there, a sadness in him. These lines were proof: the boy had grown too fast into the man, and the flesh had stuttered in this growth.

“You’re bigger in the arms, the chest,” Hans observed, voice tipped with fascination. “I suppose the skin can only stretch so far when the body swells with war. Do they ache?”

“Not truly. Perhaps a dull pull now and then. It’s not like a wound.”

Hans drew his hand back. After a beat, he said quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like that. The body must protest its forging in its own way.” Hans cleared his throat. “Are they elsewhere?”

Henry’s heart leapt. “Plenty,” he admitted after a breath. “I’ve grown everywhere these last seasons. Just the skin pulling and giving way.”

“May I see?”

For a moment, Henry hesitated, uncertain if it was wise to show more of himself. But the curiosity in Hans’ eyes was that of a reverential interest. So he inhaled, slid a hand behind his head, and shifted onto one elbow.

“All right,” he said, voice low. He braced himself against the earth, felt the clover stems crush under his weight, and lifted his hips enough to fumble with the waistband of his braies. The linen cords were damp from dew, and the knot gave a brief resistance before yielding. Henry pulled them just enough at one side to bare the slope of his hip, careful not to reveal more than he intended. But his draws were pulled lower than needed, which gave way to a darker patch just below the navel where the hair thickened in coarse spirals, deepening as it travelled down. It was not obscene. But it was pushing.

Henry didn’t look at Hans right away. He let the air hang. Part of him wanted to let Hans see—if he was looking. Then, still propped on one elbow, he let his eyes flick upward, reading the faint slack in the jaw, how the eyes didn’t know where to settle. Henry shifted his leg enough to pull the fabric tight where it clung to his thigh. Just enough to test a reaction, should one be offered.

He was, in every sense, offering something.

In the early sunlight, there was a scattering of similar striations along the curve where Henry’s torso met his leg. The lines were deeper here, like the grooves on the roads. A few extended toward Henry’s flank, partially masked by the impressions left by armor straps.

Hans shifted closer on his knees, boots pressing further into the wet turf. One hand gently pressed to Henry’s waist, just above the parted linen. The sensation of having these private changes so openly examined was unfamiliar and made Henry’s breath catch.

“Does it sting? When I pull it like this?” Hans asked, glancing up at Henry’s face.

“Only if you’d pull very hard,” Henry answered, voice a shade unsteady. “And it’s not like a true hurt, like I said—more like when you’ve worked too long your arms ache after.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Henry clicked his tongue. “Right.”

“You do work hard. I remember you after Skalitz—slighter, yes, but not half as…” Hans trailed off, eyes still fixed on the curve of Henry’s bicep.

Henry gave a small grin, tugging his braies back over the marks. “Heavy? With muscle? Here,”—he twisted, offering his lower back—“you can see better now.”

Dew-soaked blades of grass clung to the ridges of his spine from his rolling about. His weight had left the flesh patterned with grass indentations—small furrows that looked, for a moment, like scars as well. 

“God above. And this is from the wear of belts?” Hans asked, sliding his thumb across a dark band that sloped toward Henry’s hip.

“From being strapped into harnesses that weigh more than I do. Or once did, anyway.” Henry’s heart kicked in his chest and he was flushed with heat. The thought flared in his mind: Does he know how this feels to me? He wondered if the trembling in his stomach was obvious to the naked eye. 

Sitting up fully and thus losing Hans’ touch, Henry drew his knees upward, braies slipping tighter around his thighs until they bunched at the bend of each leg. The dampness made the linen stiffer to pull. With a grunt of mild frustration, he fumbled the fabric higher. There, just above the knee and along the inner curve where muscle tapered toward groin, sat those same reddened marks, though less pronounced. Henry pulled at his own thigh, nudging aside coarse hair with a thumb to show Hans precisely where the flesh had given way to growth.

“And… well, here, too,” Henry murmured. 

But Hans didn’t touch there right away. His posture stiffened slightly, and his hand twitched. That same hand that had touched him before now hovered near Henry’s upper thigh, so close that the fine hair there stirred at his knuckles.

Henry shifted on his elbows. “You’ve a free hand to touch what you please,” he said.

Hans then drew a breath and let his hand fall back, resting it on the damp grass. He muttered something to himself, eyes darting away.

Henry’s belly constricted at the retreat. It took him a second to find words, and when he did, only one came out—with a frustration he didn’t intend to let up on. “What?” 

Hans said nothing, but his jaw was tight. He looked up, scanning the horizon; searching for watchers. Far off, the last of the bonfires flickered, but not one close enough to see them in the tall grass. “I’m no fool,” he answered at last, voice low. “I’ve known want of many kinds.” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Henry jerked upright with a sudden and graceless motion; he’d leaned a bit too far into the fire. He scrambled to pull down at his braies. “I only meant…”

Hans didn’t look at him. His jaw remained tense, eyes fixed past the tree line, where ribbons of smoke curled above the village roofs. His hand still lay in the grass, fingers curled like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You were curious. And—” Henry’s chest heaved once with the effort of swallowing whatever else had gathered there. “No, that’s all.”

“That’s not what I thought. And it isn’t what you meant. I know that.” Hans exhaled, long and low, and lay back into the grass beside Henry. 

Henry stared at him a moment longer, then looked down at his own hands, clenched tight upon his knees. It hadn’t worked. Whatever it was he tried to do—offering, testing, baiting—it hadn’t landed. He’d gone too far, or not far enough. Either way, the answer was clear. Arm’s length. He would not ask for more.

“I’ve acted poorly,” he said at last. “You’ve every right to look away if you wish, but I’d rather you didn’t on account of me.”

Hans didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed shut, brow faintly drawn.

“It’s all right,” he said eventually.

Henry nodded, though it felt strange to do so when Hans couldn’t see it.

“I’ve had a headache clawing behind my eyes since we left,” Hans said. “Would you rub it out? Just the temples. It won’t go.”

Henry stared at the shape of Hans’ head against the clover. The strands of gold in his hair were dark, damp from the dew, and he was incessantly butting Henry’s thigh. He laid his fingers against Hans' temples and exhaled through his nose, beginning to rub slow circles into the muscle there, thumbing them—like how one might coax sap from a tree. He’d never done this for anyone, but he was being as gentle as he could.

Frogs throbbed in the reeds. Somewhere upstream, a fish broke the surface—a sound like a kiss. 

“…you’d make a terrible wife,” Hans murmured, eyes closed.

Henry’s hand stilled. “What?”

“No softness to you at all. Though I must say, you’ve got the hips.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Henry said aloud, while his mind raced wildly. If Radzig had me as a daughter instead of son…

But Hans was jesting again. That meant the rules were back in place.

Henry resumed the motion at his temples, firmer now. “I’ve half a mind to clout you upside the head. See if that clears your headache instead.”

Hans sat up, swaying into Henry’s space again. “But it is true. No?” His knee nudged him.

Sour, Henry stared off at the fireflies winking above the water. “I’m sure Lady Jitka will be plenty soft to you.”

Hans flopped back down. “Perfect, pious Jitka…” he said from below, arm slung over his eyes. “I dread the day, Hal.”

“Well—you could refuse her.”

“And wed whom? Radzig should’ve sired a daughter. I’d wed her, were she anything like you,” Hans said, albeit too lightly for what it implied. He turned his head, cheek pressed to Henry’s thigh. “Ah, yes; what a delight—! You but with a bosom. Well, I’ve got that already. But worry not; tits big as yours, you’re going to make someone a happy man,” he drawled over a stifled yawn.

Henry flicked at the lord’s ear.

They lapsed into silence. But soon, Hans stirred. He tilted his head to peer up at Henry, eyes half-lidded from the day’s reveling. “Why so quiet?” 

Henry tugged at a damp lock of hair. He ached with the knowledge that this closeness was fleeting. He is to be married, whether he dreads it or not, Henry reminded himself. He burned with envy—of Lady Jitka’s vantage, and of her ability to bear Hans’ name and children. He had spent his entire life wanting to be something else, but to tack Jitka of Kunstadt to the list seemed improper, if not entirely mad. 

He cleared his throat. “You jest about me being a wife, but—” He hesitated.

Hans levered himself up onto an elbow. His free hand settled by Henry’s knee. “Oh, what?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes were not.

Henry swallowed. His mouth was dust-dry. “Well, there is this part of me that… that wishes I could stand in her place. Truly stand there, you know. If I were a woman, I could…” He trailed off.

Hans sat up fully, shifting so that their faces were only a hand’s breadth apart. “And if that were so,” he ventured, so quietly that Henry had to lean closer to catch the words, “what then?”

Henry looked away. “Then I could give you everything a proper spouse should. And you wouldn’t dread it.”

Hans reached up and turned Henry’s face toward him with the back of his hand. Henry stilled at that. The whole of him froze, from his jaw to the muscles around his eyes. He did not breathe. Neither man seemed fully certain whether to move closer or stay exactly as they were.

“You’ve never done anything halfway in your life, have you?” Hans sighed. “Even your heartbreak is thorough.”

Henry’s throat tightened. “I do want many things I’m not supposed to.”

“I won’t lie to you, Hal. I’d not mind you as a wife in the slightest. If we’re speaking of what I want, then I’d have you here, in my bed, in my life, no matter what form you wear. Even if you had two heads and no lineage at all, I wouldn’t mind.”

Henry felt as though he were on the road and dozing off in the saddle again, just about to jolt awake. His heart was pounding so loud it could alert a guard from here. The Church had taught him to call on God in moments of confusion. All he could think of was, God, let me not wake up now. If this is a dream, do not rouse me. If you must, rather strike me dead so I never taste the loss.

The meadow’s hush pressed in; not even the smallest breeze dared interrupt.

“I—” Henry faltered. “Hans, I don’t know what to do with that.”

“With what?”

“With you saying that. Just now. What you said. I’ve made my peace with how it all is, and you’ve never said a word to begin with.”

But Hans remarked rather quickly: “Neither have you.”

That did Henry in good. He nodded faintly, but something inside him was buckling. “You sit there like it’s all proper to say you’d have me, if the world were different.”

“Because I have thought of you,” Hans said. “I dream of you sometimes.”

Henry’s eyes snapped to him.

“Nothing—untoward,” Hans clarified. “Not always, at least. I let it run its course. But it’s never finished with me. I cannot force myself away either. I think… I think if we were caught here, now, it wouldn’t be anything. But if I were ever to… kiss you, properly, like I’ve thought of doing…”

Henry didn’t breathe for a full dozen heartbeats. The world to him split into prisms. Grass was stabbing his calves. The Sasau’s murmur braided with his own blood-rush. Hans’ breath warmed the air between them, sour with ale, close enough to taste. Every hair on Henry’s arms stood. His heartbeat drummed in three places at once: temple, groin, throat. He registered all of it in the strange clarity that came just before pain: the full catalogue of being alive.

The ground between them suddenly felt very fragile, as did the rules they’d laid: jest, jostle, gesture, distance. Hans had gone and kicked a hole in the middle of it, and now was hiding behind his own shoulder.

“Kiss me? When?” Henry managed. “When did you first think of it?”

“Oh, there was no first. It was there since my birth.”

“You’ve truly thought of it? And more than once?”

Hans’ brows drew together. “What would you have me say if not the truth? You asked. I’m telling you.”

“No, you… It’s that you mention a hundred fleeting wants, as if I’m to accept it gracefully. I can’t just open my arms and say, ‘Oh, good to know, let’s carry on’, as if you’re not set to marry come autumn.”

“I told you I dreaded it!”

“Hans, you cannot give me half a measure of hope.”

Hans shook his head. “If it were a half-measure, it would’ve passed long ago. I think of you, Henry: on the road, in your travels, in how you return to Rattay. I wake at night, wanting you in ways I never thought to want anyone.”

Henry didn’t relent; he was in full tilt now. “Oh, damn you. For coming out with this now, with the wedding so near. You had all the time in the world to tell me.” And it was true; his world had no compartments for half-drawn wanting. He loved Hans as he loved the ache of a well-swung hammer: deeply, instinctively, without the need to ever know where it’ll land. 

“Did you want me to say nothing at all?” Hans pried. “Let the wedding come and go, and never speak of it again?”

Henry’s silence answered that clearly enough. He looked down at their points of contact—thighs flush, Hans’ knuckles brushing the coarse hairs on Henry’s arm… “I don’t know,” finally, Henry confessed. “No. Part of me wants you to never speak another word of it. I want to have you and throttle you in the same breath.”

“I suppose that’s no less than I deserve,” Hans quietly said. “But if we do nothing else with it, at least we’ll have said it.”

“As though any confession is ever the end.”

Wordlessly, Hans settled his forehead against Henry’s shoulder. The gentle weight of that bowed head softened Henry. In fact, it softened him much too deeply after everything that had been said—so fully that a tear pricked and clawed until it finally escaped, despite his best efforts. It streaked down his cheek to hide into the stubble of his jaw.

Hans must’ve felt how stuttered Henry’s breath was then. When he looked up, he wiped the lone tear away with his thumb. “Stop that. Stop, Hal. I’ll never learn how to live with this ache,” Hans whispered, “knowing I had something extraordinary in my grasp but had to let it bend to duty. But if it’s any consolation—there won’t be a day that I don’t regret the world we were born into. I want you, just as you are. You are not half, or lesser, or lacking.”

“And if I want—?” The words left Henry much too fast. “If I want—?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know what I’m asking!”

“Yes, I do.”

Henry’s pulse thrummed even in his gums. His hand found Hans’. He pressed it to his chest, and all of his body ached from the sun’s slow ascent. “Weren’t we supposed to be like brothers?”

“We are. I have dined in courts where men of my rank pay dearly to keep certain trysts hidden, or keep their brothers close, so to speak; and ladies do much the same, all to preserve a semblance of decency while their hearts yearn elsewhere. I suppose I’m no different.”

Henry turned his face slightly and pressed a kiss to Hans’ palm, which quivered faintly at the gesture. “I don’t claim to know how. But… if you think we can manage it—steal time, keep each other close when no one’s looking—I’m willing. The world’s wide, and folk do as they must in every corner of the world. I’ll not flinch from it.” Henry paused to recollect. “A man needs only a locked door.”

Regret and relief battled in Hans’ eyes at those words. “I hate to ask it of you,” he said. “We’ll be left with half-measures. That’s… hardly fair. Especially not for a man who’s always thrown himself fully into everything he does.”

“I suspect being with you in half-measures is still more than life offered me before all this. Fairness was never handed to me, so I’ll have what I can of you, long as it is given to me with an open palm.”

“I’d give what I could.” Hans slid his arm around Henry’s back. They fit together in a way that felt startling and overdue. “Which is anything you ask.”

“Within reason? Or…”

“See, I cannot speak of reason just now…” Hans’ laugh was quiet and trembled with breath. He pressed his lips, barely parted, to Henry’s shoulder. 

As a boy, Henry had thought a kiss was a kind of violence; the mouth’s attempt to consume what the heart craved. But Hans’ breath warmed his face in the brisk morning, and his lungs clenched as if to trap that air, and Henry was not feeling violent at all.

His whole body had gone hot and stupid. He wanted to whine. Like a dog. It clawed up his throat. Every bit of him was demanding he flee. But he did not want to flee.

He had never done this before—lain with anyone. And then the war came, and every playful courtship turned grim in the face of it. Somewhere in his mind, Henry had carved out an excuse: he had no room for such wants in his body. But there was, Henry realized suddenly, an extraordinary emptiness within him that begged to be filled. A yawning, animal space that the war had hollowed out and carved into a trench. It had sunk deeper every time Henry heard lovers groaning through inn walls; glimpsed men undressing by rivers and saw their bodies taut and unaware; swallowed the vulgar, stubborn heat that flushed his face whenever Hans was close enough to smell. 

Now it was rising with shameless insistence, crowding out caution, dignity, reason. There was ample room, after all. His body had always made room for such raw and brutal appetites, and now they stood at the gate, with pitchforks and torches, demanding their share.

“You said you’ve thought of it so many times,” Henry said. “Of kissing me. Is it one of those times now?”

“I’ve thought of it about a hundred times this very hour alone,” Hans replied quietly.

Henry swallowed his haste. “So…”

“If I let it happen once, I’ll want it always. That’s why I haven’t yet.” 

“…would that be so terrible?”

Hans’ answer was lost in a breath against Henry’s temple. Their cheeks grazed together, stubble catching. With an almost obscene greed, Hans inhaled at the hollow beneath Henry’s ear, pushing closer still, mouth opening slightly to taste; testing this meat before committing to a feast. He dragged his nose slowly along Henry’s jawline, nudging his chin upward.

“You smell like summer,” he murmured.

Henry arched into the touch like a sapling straining toward faint sunlight, uncertain if it was meant to survive. Hans drew back and cupped Henry’s face at either side, pressing their brows together until their noses brushed. Oh, Henry’s eyes burned and stung. He turned his face into Hans’ palm, lips grazing the heel of his hand, drinking him in. He couldn’t say anything, anything at all. There was no room for words. His tongue lay heavy and big in his mouth, pulse thrumming in places he’d only ever associated with wounds. To want so acutely after rationing all of his desire left him lightheaded.

A damselfly alighted on Henry’s knee, wings quivering. Unable to look Hans in the eye, he watched its thorax glint, iridescent as maille, tiny legs skittering over his skin, while his mind scrabbled for thought.

His body felt stretched tight. He could barely stand the friction of his own clothes. His reason unraveled entirely; he felt unschooled. All Henry knew was that he needed to press himself against something, into something; a fist, into the soil, into Hans, into anything that would yield. He scarcely cared what; any opening that might relieve this agony. This need was low in his belly, gathering strength, painful in heartbeats. His whole purpose had narrowed sharply to the animal urge of thrust and pressure; as if a lifetime of deprivation and denial had crashed into him at once. His life was irrevocably divided into the hollow chastity of before, and the wanting of Hans Capon now.

The damselfly flew away. 

Henry felt almost ill. Instinct warred with instruction. He finally looked at Hans, whose pupils had swallowed the blue of his eyes, leaving only a thin ring, like a besieged moat. Henry tilted his chin cautiously upward and pressed his mouth softly, for taste, upon the very corner of Hans’ mouth.

Like this? Is this right? Am I allowed?

But he hesitated only a heartbeat longer before yielding entirely. Their tongues met like roots seeking the same scarce water, testing each other before they slid together fully, slick and hot and so very strange. Hans gasped into him, and Henry drank it. His head spun. His heart was going to burst through his chest!

Hans shifted against him, thigh nudging between his legs. His hand slipped downward, finding where Henry was hardest.

“And does… that pain you?” Hans whispered against Henry’s mouth. He was smiling with all of his teeth. “Grown too quickly, like the rest of you?”

Henry pressed into Hans’ palm and laughed breathily. He wanted Hans to know exactly what he thought of it all.

Hans pushed him over, bracketing Henry’s hips with his knees. Dawnlight fell upon his frame and showed a knight astride his mount; Hans, born to command even in this; Henry, yielding as he’d been trained. The new pressure of a man’s entire weight made Henry shudder violently. His hips rose with instinct. He could feel through the layers of clothing that Hans was just as thick and insistent, pressing back at him.

Henry, suddenly aware of how his body moved without permission, whispered, “Forgive me.”

“No need,” Hans breathed. “God knows, I quite like it. Have you ever…?”

“No.”

“Nor I.”

Henry frowned. “You have.”

“Well, I’ve… Not with another man,” Hans stuttered.

“But I’ve not even lain with a woman.”

“Really?” Hans’ fingers flexed, indecisive. “So what am I to—?”

“How should I know?” Henry’s face burned. “Do what you want.”

Hans stared at their groins for a moment. Then, he looked up. “Turn over.”

“What?”

“Well, stallions… Dogs… How else would you—?”  

That made sense.

Henry rolled onto his belly, cheek pressed into clover. Stems of grass stabbed his lips. He could sense Hans shifting behind him, settling back into position, knees on each side of his hips again. Warm hands shoved Henry’s braies down to mid-thigh until the cool air kissed his ass. He waited.

Hans’ hand ran carefully down the curve of his lower back. He pressed a palm flat against Henry’s hip, urging him upward slightly. “Higher. Bring your knees forward a bit.”

Quietly, Henry complied. He felt defenseless in a way he never had before.

“Wider, Hal,” Hans whispered. 

Henry felt like his soul was being bared. He was ashamed of how easily he’d given himself up to this and how openly he was offering something he didn’t even understand. It required more courage than a battlefield.

Hans’ fingers brushed downward, against the skin between Henry’s legs, exploring gently along the seam of his body. Henry flinched as Hans’ hand cupped him, scrotum drawing upward beneath the touch. He felt his cock surge helplessly forward, hanging with no purpose.

Hans paused. “With a woman,” he murmured, “there’s, um—wetness when she wants you. I suppose she’s made to yield easier.”

Henry’s face pressed deeper into the earth as he absorbed the words. It wasn’t from shame at being likened to a woman; rather, it was the awareness of his body’s inadequacies—of how unprepared it was to yield, how reluctant and unknowing his flesh was, how raw and dry and resistant he felt when he was so full of wanting in the soul.

“But it must work,” Hans muttered, now more to himself, “else nature would not make it so.”

Henry heard the sound, then felt it: warm spit landed squarely on his opening, trickling downward. Hans’ fingers returned to spread the moisture around, pressing his parted mouth against Henry’s buttock. Henry’s thighs trembled minutely. His breathing quickened, body fighting and craving the same sensation, tensing even as he yearned desperately to give in. Slowly, then, Hans pressed the pad of his finger against him.

Henry’s body resisted immediately, muscles clamping tight to fight the intrusion. It barely sunk and held firm at the threshold.

“Oh,” Hans whispered. His fingertip pushed a fraction deeper, stretching just enough to send a dull burn. He was soothing Henry’s trembling back with a stroke of his free hand, steadying him firmly at the waist, breathing heavier himself now. “Am I hurting you?”

“I don’t know,” Henry muttered, trying to look back over his shoulder. It felt peculiar. Unfamiliar. Henry thought all pain was already familiar to him. This coursed strange—a serpent’s tooth lodged where no fang ought to pierce. Once, he’d split his brow open brawling and marveled at how the blood felt warm before the sting ever came. This was the inverse: the sting first, only then any warmth. But he had endured worse and understood intimately the boundary between discomfort and harm.

Hans’ finger sank deeper by increments. A slow retreat, then a shallow thrust.

“…fuck.” Henry’s voice was muffled by the mouthful of his own forearm. His body was contradicting itself. It felt horrible and strange, and also did not.

“Try not to fight me. It won’t get much worse.” 

“Easier said than lived,” Henry grunted.

“You’re lucky I’m not that big to begin with.” Hans giggled.

Lowering his head, Henry saw the clover leaves upside down. Through them, beneath him, hanging heavy and swaying with his own breath, his cock. He was bigger than Hans, not obscenely so—why is it wet? He’d never seen it like this before. It was leaking clear sap, and dawnlight caught its sole, trembling tear. He pulled himself into his fist and moved it. 

Henry’s breath stuttered out. Sounds seemed to recede. His entire being seized, and he was certain his heart had stopped, and the world with it. No sensation he had ever known could compare to this—he had never imagined such a thing could exist. The rhythm was all wrong, and there was so much blood in his head from being upside down, but it was a thousand sensations at once: the snap of ice underboot, the gut-punch of a missed stair, the cramp of hunger flaring upon the first bite. 

“Ha—” was all he managed, and barely, before his voice broke. His hips bucked backward.

“Right… You see how it is? Is that good, Hal?” Hans’ voice got muffled by skin again. “Now, move.” 

Obedience was so deeply ingrained, Henry shifted without thought. He landed heavy on his shoulder, curled somewhat. The clover was warmed and flattened by his body.

Hans settled in behind him, gripping his knee, yanking it up and back, shifting Henry onto his side completely. His groin stretched open. He felt the draft kiss the slickness there—and then, a hard, hot, wet shape bumping against him. Then again. And again, in an insistent rhythm of blunt pressure that did nothing but press and slide and nudge uselessly at the edge of him. It wasn’t entering; it was, like a frustrated fist, banging against a bolted door.

“Let me in, Hal,” Hans whispered urgently, pushing again, a fraction more pressure this time. “Will you? Just a little. Please.” His voice broke as his free hand clawed at Henry’s raised arm, dragging it upward. The armpit told all kinds of tales about the day and a body steeped in June’s longest labor. Woodsmoke from the bonfires, old sweat from hauling ale barrels, new sweat from wanting to be fucked, and beneath it all, the reek of skin that had fermented for hours under summer’s white-hot eye. Hans buried his nose in it. “Oh, Henry, please…”

This plea echoed strangely potent in Henry’s mind: Sir Hans Capon, reduced to begging. It was profoundly unsettling. But it was also working. Because between the urging and the frustrated thudding, Henry’s body was giving in. He knew this sensation; it was like splitting logs. He’d felt this before, but only in the grip of fever: the unbearable need to be scraped clean of everything.  

“Hans— you either— you fucking do it or don’t,” Henry hissed.

Sir Capon was not used to command. He’d never been spoken to like that by a commoner. Not ever. It chafed against the deference he, by blood, expected and demanded—even now.

“Hey, now,” Hans quietly rebuked, speaking into Henry’s shoulder. His voice shook in his own struggle for control.

This pronouncement of dominance was very weak; he was clinging to the vestiges of his inherited authority even in sex, and Henry saw it. A serf by birth, bred for obedience to become a tool for lords to wield through generations of servility and lowered heads, Henry had never in his life imagined himself in a position to defy. But he felt an uncharted heat within him: he had the leverage of want. 

Hans’ hips jerked forward, but Henry shifted, denying entry. The game tilted.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Henry bites out, “to have to take what’s given without question. You’ve never had to ask for anything in your life. This I give, or I don’t.”

“…don’t torment me now,” Hans whispered. 

“Is it torment, my lord, to have to ask? To not just reach out and have what you want? Is it torment to know you’re begging? Because you are begging.”

“And you relish it, don’t you? Hal, I am begging.” His mouth found the nape of Henry’s neck, dragging teeth over it. He pressed closer, grinding insistently against Henry. “To have you… to be in you, even just once. Please, let me…”

Hans never asked anything of him. And it still stood true, more true than ever now, in fact, that Henry would offer even his life, if ever it were required. For in this sweat-slicked joining, God’s hand showed itself true. The same sun that bleached Hans’ hair had baked Henry’s shoulders; the same divine breath that swelled the lord’s lungs filled the serf’s chest as they gasped against one another. Even their scents conspired: Hans’ sweeter perfume surrendering to Henry’s musk.

But it was all true: lords did not ask permission, vassals did not refuse. The fight drained out of Henry as swiftly as it had risen. With both burning agony and blinding relief, he gave, and Hans slid into him.

The sound that left Henry’s throat was not one he would have ever willingly made. His body locked. The breach was catastrophic. His own forearm filled his mouth, other hand flying backward to keep Hans from moving. What a curse; it felt much bigger than it looked. It was a force that pushed against every inch of his resistance until there was nothing left to do but give. But giving was not something Henry did easily—his body fought it every step of the way.

They were equals here, in a way they could never be outside of this. Equals in want, equals in need, equals in form. Henry knew it, and he reveled in it, and he let that knowledge encourage him. 

“Henry…” Hans’ voice frayed. His fingers tightened around Henry’s knee, pulling it higher as he sought deeper entry. His full thrusts were halting and each withdrawal drew a suck of resistance.

The Church taught that the seed of man should only be spent in the service of creation, not in the indulgence of base lusts. But what was this, if not a kind of creation? Were they not coaxing something new into being? War and fucking were kin. Both required a body to breach. Besides, Henry knew well he was a safe harbor. He was a forbidden detour and of no consequence. A place where the lord could spill his seed without fear of the binding result that came with women. A freedom born from Henry’s own inherent lack and inability to participate in the natural order.

Henry looked down at their joined bodies. Lady Jitka of Kunstadt swam into his mind’s eye, face blurred and indistinguishable from the scores of noblewomen he had seen in the periphery of his life. Her image lacked the reality of the man impaling him, devoid of color, devoid of choice. But it held an inevitability.

“It should’ve been you. This is what it would be like, were you my wife.” Hans’ fingers dug into the meat of Henry’s chest as he hauled him closer. The lord’s mouth found his neck. “Fuck, it should’ve been you.”

Henry would take these words and hold them close. He would savor the taste of them and let them sustain him through the long, cold winter that lay ahead; a catalog of firsts to hoard against the coming frost.

Hans’ hand slid down Henry’s stomach, over planes and ridges and dips of muscle, thumb pressing the hollow where a woman’s womb would swell. “Here. Here… were you made for it.”

This was Hans’ first true communion: hips grinding deep to plant his seed in barren soil. His lips moved against Henry’s nape wordlessly, and for a heartbeat, Henry felt fear. He could almost believe it—that this heat between them might take root. That come spring, something might push through. But what good was sowing where nothing grew?

Henry’s own surrender rose high. His vision whited out with a sear. Urgency overruled and raced up his spine. Forearm braced against the earth, he took himself in hand, spitting onto crushed clover. The earth drank him greedily, leaves trembling and bending with their white new weight. Afterward, he lay gasping. His mind floated loose from his body; he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. 

I’d do this all again, war and all, if it led us here, he thought.

They lay together. The rising glow painted their skin. For now, the sun forgave.

Henry was no stranger to uncertainty, but this was a new breed of it. The first edges of reason came creeping over him, and they were unkind. And yet, if guilt stalked him, it was tamed into obedience by a grandiose sense of completion. He had felt lesser after the war, from wounds and wear, and the erosion of hope; as if the best parts of him had been stripped away. But something in him had been starving for closeness that wasn’t bought or born of violence. And now, at last, it felt sated. Not whole, not healed—but seen and claimed. And no longer alone in the wanting.

Hans stirred behind him. He inched forward until his chest pressed flush to Henry’s back. 

“Forgive me if I…” Hans began quietly. “Even as I did it, I wondered if I was doing ill by you.”

Henry decided to lift himself onto one elbow and turn. He studied Hans, who looked so unlike a nobleman in this light. A strange duality lived in him: the triumph at having seized what seemed impossible, and a quiet dread at what was to come. Struggling with the press of too many words, Henry wondered if they should speak at all. He had never had occasion in life to say things that demanded so much vulnerability. 

“Do you regret it?” Henry asked, softly.

“No.” That single word was spoken with enough conviction. “I have never dared think I could love as I choose. Strange, is it not, how we share the same nights, the same roads, the same fights, and only now…”

“Hans, when you marry her, I’ll still be here. I’ll try not to resent her—God knows it’s not her fault.”

“Forgive me. I am sorry you must see it done.”

“And I am sorry you must do it,” Henry said, low and steady. “But the wedding changes nothing.”

“The wedding changes nothing,” Hans repeated after him. “I could stay here forever, just like this. Just me and you, like this.”

Henry remained on his back, watching clouds scud across God’s eggshell blue ceiling.

He pressed a hand to his own stomach. The skin there was flat, hard, covered in hair. 

No life would ever rise from this dirt.

 

❂

 

Weeks blunted into one another.

Henry rose, worked, bled a little into the day, then flattened himself thin enough to slide beneath the next sunrise. And whenever duty brought him into Rattay, Hans would find him.

A shadow that detached from a pillar, a boot’s heel on a stair, the indrawn breath on the far side of a door Henry had only just closed. They spoke little; the need was wide already. A nod in the mews sent them to a storeroom; the clink of a key in the brewery loft sealed them inside a dusk rank with hops. Hands found warmth, mouths mapped old grounds that were tilled new again.

Then back to daylight. 

Sleep refused him. Every turn of his body clanged. Dawn always found him sitting upright on the narrow cot, boots already on.

 

❂

 

Summer’s last breath came suddenly. Leaves along the Sasau had lost some of their green overnight, and the air tasted of appleskins. That was the day Henry heard the rumor: Lady Jitka of Kunstadt was due to arrive in Rattay by month’s end.

He felt nothing, which was worse feeling real pain. He saddled his horse for a patrol that needed no doing and rode hard toward the treeline.

That night, camped beneath a sky scraped new of its summer heat, Henry lay awake and realized the season was teaching him its last lesson: a ripeness, a fullness is only the preparation for a harvest. There in the starlight he measured the remaining weeks on his fingers. 

He came to three, perhaps four. 

 

❂

 

Autumn had come. In the fields, scythes bit at golden wheat, and Henry then understood very well what the harvest felt like.

He woke to bells, clutching his blanket. Any other day, it’d be dawn’s ordinary peals, but not today; they were testing the wedding carillon. 

Dawn pried its fingers through the window, carving Henry’s silhouette into the bed. In the milky, grainy light, he could pretend the pain beneath his sternum was an old injury.

He lay as the dead do before rigor sets in, body aching in places he never thought could hold memory. His thighs burned as if he’d ridden three days without rest. He had sworn, after Skalitz, never to run again; but his lungs clawed for the rhythm of flight. His ribs creaked with it. Maybe tomorrow he’d speak with Sir Radzig about leaving his retinue.

There was so much noise outside. Henry forced himself upright and crossed to the window. 

The courtyard teemed with servants hauling garlands of late-blooming flowers. A boy struggled under a yoke of ale casks, face red. 

Henry’s knuckles tightened on the windowsill. He knew what they prepared for. But no one had asked if he was ready for the sight of that carriage.

Finally, he turned to dress and made for the armory. If he was to witness her arrival, it would not be with the crowd.

The arrow slit he chose to watch from was narrow. Still, Henry eased into the gap, resting one hand against the damp stone. He had stood at such slits countless times in war. It felt like being inside of a wound now and tearing it wider to see.

She came at last, rolling under the portcullis with ceremonial slowness. The wheels crunched over the gravel, and a handful of curious onlookers clustered nearby, mindful not to overstep. 

The carriage halted. A retainer in a fine tunic jumped down to help. Henry watched as Lady Jitka of Kunstadt descended. Hans greeted her with a deep bow. Jitka inclined her head and dipped slightly in her knees as she accepted his greeting, hands folded before her. The wind caught at her cloak, revealing a rich kirtle beneath, dyed a soft woad-blue. The cloth draped perfectly over a narrow, corseted waist and fell in generous folds around her ankles. 

Their words did not carry to Henry’s ear. A moment passed in which he did not move. A strange tightness seized his throat at the sight of them, together at last, in full daylight. He felt his hand cramp against the carving of the arrow slit. 

Her hair was long, softly waving in the color one sees in a morning’s reflection on ripe wheat—a sweet blend of honey’s golds and strawberry’s reds—as though summer had kissed her just before yielding to harvest. Even from his distant vantage, Henry could see her face was finely drawn, with a brow clear and high. A gentle flush in her cheeks gave warmth to features that otherwise might have been too stately. By God, if it was not the finest woman Henry had ever seen in his life!

She looked prepared. Neither timid nor vain. Eyes lit with that large curiosity any bride might feel upon first meeting the man she was promised to marry by powers beyond her own. And she belonged, in every sense that Henry did not. She would bear children with Hans’ fox-sharp grin and her own eyes; sons who would inherit fields Henry had bled to protect.

In that moment, he understood too well that his vow not to resent her was easier said than done.

Henry wrenched himself away from the wall. The armory felt stifling. His heart pounded as though he had sprinted up a slope in full armor.

He rode out of Rattay that day. 

He did not trust himself to remain.

 

❂

 

Curtains were being aired on the west bailey where the wind ran straight off the Sasau. Two laundresses unhooked each fall from its iron crooks, folded the cloth so the goldwork faced in, and carried the bundle to the bleaching boards. There they laid it flat, beat it with supple hazel wands to drive out the dust, and brushed the nap with carding combs dipped in soap.

The great heraldic hangings—heavy wool embroidered thirty summers past with the yellow of House Capon—were treated more carefully still. The embroiderers first picked loose any frayed thread, then stitched quick tacking seams around the edges so the cloth would not crawl when it met the dye vat. A brazier kept a copper kettle just under the simmer: inside, a fresh bath of weld straw and alum waited to brighten the yellow ground. Once the color was struck, the cloth was winched aloft on a frame, selvedges laced to oak pegs so the weave would dry true and square.

Saint Matthew’s Church stood in Rattay’s lower quarter, flanked on one side by the apothecary’s neat timber shop and on the other by the butcher’s red-stained stoop. It was roomier than the church of Saint Nicholas in the upper town. A broad yard wrapped around it, the grass worn by many feet in preparation.

The walls of Saint Matthew’s had been painted with bright frescoes, telling well-worn stories of saints and devils. Sunlight slanted through colored glass set high in the windows, dappling the flagstones with shards of red, green, and gold. In the nave, rows were already filled with lords and ladies in sumptuous raiment. 

Henry hovered near the rear and in the shadow. Sir Radzig stood only a few strides away from him, half-turned so he could keep one eye on the nave and one eye on Henry. He had seen his own share of uneasy unions, and as a father, he must’ve smelled it on his son the whole year coming. 

Henry’s boots were still caked with road mud. He hadn’t cleaned them in petty defiance, as if the grime of common earth could prove he had walked here at all, in this hall where love was measured in acreage and coin and men in arms. Radzig had offered him finery for the occasion. “You’ll want to look your best,” he’d said, but Henry refused. He wanted them to remember what he was: a body that knew its place.

He knew Hans was already at the altar; he had heard the clear of his throat when the choir began the Introit. But Henry refused to look. He fixed on the open doorway instead, on the arch of autumn light where Lady Jitka would appear. He would watch her progress the length of the nave—and only when she reached the chancel step, only when she laid her hand in Hans’, would he allow himself to lift his eyes to the groom.

He told himself to count—one flagstone, two—yet when Lady Jitka first appeared, his pulse bargained the numbers away, and he only wanted to run.

She advanced as if borne by tide, kirtle whispering over stone. The ivory cloth drank the glazing that spilled from the clerestory: here a shard of chrysoprase, there a wound of carmine, so that each step dressed her anew in travelling color. 

Jitka walked bare‑headed for humility’s sake, but no humility could hide that she had been chosen to quicken a lineage: her carriage was so sure, so deft in the setting of one slipper beyond another, that Henry saw in her already the poise of giving audience in some future hall.

Every measured pace carved flesh from him. Henry felt it all gather inside his ribs as a slow, pneumatic weight.

A heavy quiet announced her reaching the chancel step. The candle flame shivered; someone drew breath for the next antiphon. 

Henry could delay no longer. 

Deep green velvet, gold awl work, shoulders squared. His collar was stiff enough to bruise and tucked high. Gone was the length of his hair that curled at the nape all summer; he wore it neatly shorn for the occasion and looked every inch the lord. But bared was the fine line of his nape—a vulnerable, childhood softness Henry knew by lips and by teeth.

His eyes swept the nave—over bride, over altar, over holy book—skimming pew after pew until they caught the darkest corner where Henry stood. Only then did he go still, every muscle tuned. Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein, heir to Rattay, was at hunt.

Henry’s vision cupped inwards at the edges; the nave tunneled to a bright nodule in which only Hans remained. Fear struck Henry then, clean as an arrow through a visor—the fear of surviving, of living all the long years after this moment with breath still in him. 

The choristers began.

Lady Jitka bent her knee for the blessing; Hans offered his hand to lift her. And Henry felt as if that hand, meant for him, were being publicly confiscated.

The priest spoke the first binding line. Hans repeated it. His voice did not crack—Hans would allow no witness of that power over him—but the timbre thickened.

I should not watch. God, if I had any sense, I’d turn away, Henry thought. But he couldn’t make himself leave. He felt like a dog that had been kicked and listened even when he wanted to bite and whimper.

The line that undid him was a simple vow from the priest, repeated in Hans’ voice:

“Et Quod Deus coniúnxit, homo non séparet.”

It didn’t hurt in Latin. But when it was repeated in Czech—“and what God has joined, let no man sunder”—it rang off frescoed walls, rebounded, and struck Henry in the breastbone.

Jitka’s father stepped forward to lay her hand in Hans’. The two palms met like pages of a book forced shut. Her fingers slid, owning what Henry had only ever touched in darkness, in ditches, in war.

Hans turned—just enough that the brilliance of the stained glass bathed half his face. He knew where Henry stood, but his eyes swept across the gathered crowd as if he was drawing strength. A message was passed from groom to squire, unseen by any other soul: Hans’ free hand, at his side, twitched with the slightest motion. Tap, tap, pause, tap. 

Henry nearly swayed where he stood. The reflex roared in him. He felt it as plainly as if they were crouched in some forest ditch again, armed to the teeth. It was the rhythm they’d coined: two quick beats, a drawn‑out silence to mark the gulf, then one last knuckle rapping hilt to guard. Hans knew every bit of him—where he would be standing, how closely he would watch, how a single twitch of fingers could drag months of mud and blood into a wedding aisle lined with cloth‑of‑gold. But the hand that had once beckoned him to charge now closed and settled over Lady Jitka’s. The war signal died there, smothered against silk.

Henry’s body kept every score. He understood that Hans could do nothing else. All that was left was the courtesy of letting Henry see that he remembered.

Some portion of Henry’s mind recognized the ring sliding onto Jitka’s finger. He watched Hans bow his head to press a kiss to her knuckles and listened to applause erupt. 

The sun picked up motes of dust drifting in the chapel’s high beams, turning them into flecks of gold swirling around the bride and groom. They turned to face the gathered throng. Light from the windows crowned them in color. Hans offered Lady Jitka his arm, and began leading her down the aisle. Their steps echoed on the stone: twin footfalls in unison, the final proof that the Capon house had secured an alliance. 

As they passed, Hans’ lashes lifted once more toward Henry, who inclined his head in the smallest nod a soldier gives when ordered to hold a breach alone.

Sir Radzig’s hand closed, unseen, about his forearm. Henry glimpsed his father stepping forward to join the recessional, and the church beginning to stir with motion. Voices murmured delight in carefully modulated tones; somewhere, a lute began a gentle melody. But Henry stayed rooted, letting the crowd pass around him like water around a stone. A young page nearly bumped him in the bustle, offering a bow before hurrying on. 

In the stillness that settled after the last guests exited, Henry found himself standing near the altar.

He had never been saintly enough to bear this with perfect grace. Henry remembered Father Godwin’s sermon on the sun, that it was the lord over all earthly life and revealed every hidden thing. 

So it sees my pain, he thought. 

He knelt where Jitka had knelt and looked around. The frescoes—Saint Matthew at the right, the Crucifixion scene on the left—loomed in witness. All the saints, all the angels and devils, Mary with the child. He wondered what those painted figures would say of such a vow. How many like him had these walls seen in centuries past?

“A man should not face God with his back to his father.”

A cuff of cold air prised at the door as Sir Radzig stepped through. Steel links whispered inside his surcoat when he lifted one hand and pressed the door to. The oak thudded shut. For a moment he only looked at Henry: his grown son, armourless and kneeling shoulders set as if he expected arrows from the apse.

“Since Skalitz you have slept with one eye open, yet I never saw you flinch until today.” Radzig’s voice came again, closer now, threading the pillars: “I have witnessed men torn in two, and I know the gait of one who strives not to bleed. I loved your mother the same.”

Henry felt the weight of his father’s eye like a mailed fist between his shoulder‑blades. He bowed his head further. “You should not speak thus in a house of God.”

“Where better?” The older man halted three paces off.

“I have not your mettle, father,” Henry said. “On Saint John’s, when you told me to watch him, I watched much too close. And when she came, I… I couldn’t stand to be here.”

“Aye,” Radzig answered, voice low enough that the plaster saints need strain to hear. “I marked the dust of your going. And when you returned this dawn with the roads still clinging to your boots, I knew you had outrun nothing.”

“It was not my place to feel thus.”

The lord tilted his head, grey hair catching a pane of pale light. Radzig moved then, until his palm settled at the hollow beneath Henry’s close‑cropped hair. The warmth of that hand was an unbearable mercy. Everything inside Henry buckled; a cry escaped him before he could bite it back.

His father’s thumb moved back and forth. “I have hauled men from breached walls who shook less than you,” he murmured. “Let it break, Hal. God made the heart a bell; it is forged to crack and still give sound.”

A tremor ran the length of Henry’s frame. He tried to anchor it behind bared teeth, but the sting blurred his sight. One tear fell, carving silence down his cheek; he swiped it away with the back of a fist as though it were blood to be staunched.

“Father, I know not what to do.”

“Begin with what you can bear. Look to me, son.”

Henry obeyed. The dim light carved his father’s features into the weary relief of a coin long in circulation; every line made sense to Henry.

“The hurt will not kill you. You carried it into the square on Saint John’s, and he into the church today. The temper was weak when a sword cracks…” Radzig continued, softer, “You know this craft. So too the heart: break, and be made the stronger at the join.”

His palm slid from Henry’s neck to his fore‑arm, then up beneath the creased linen to clamp high on the bicep—the grasp of a man yanking a comrade from a moat. With one heave he hauled Henry upright and drew him in.

“Bleed if you must, son,” he murmured into Henry’s hair, “but bleed walking. Wounds knitted in dark corners won’t heal. Walk into the day with them bared. You need not show the crowd, but let the sun see, and it will scar you honest.”

They stayed thus until the trumpets outside blared anew, summoning guests to the board. Radzig released him with a last squeeze.

“I am summoned,” he said. “The high table will note my absence—and yours. Come when you are able.” Sir Radzig turned toward the nave doors. Sun from the western oculus struck across his brow, crowning half his face in gold. He paused there, surcoat tucked beneath his arm. “Hal—”

Henry raised his eyes.

“The sun cannot mend you, but it can prove you survived the night. The world is wide, my son; even this will feel small one day.”

With that, he was gone into the fanfare and autumn sun.

Henry stood alone beneath the beam. 

He tipped his head back. High above, painted seraphs hovered on a vault the color of curdled dawn; their eyes were patient, pitiless stars. The sun shard found him through the oculus, a thin spear of gold that struck the tear‑track drying on his cheek. It was hot. It hurt. And yet it was proof he survived the night.

The hurt was receding from his body. What remained was the light, indifferent and enduring. It poured over altar and pew; over stone worn smooth by knees that had knelt before his sorrow was born, and would kneel after his name was dust. This knowledge was strangely pure, like cold water after fever. It steadied his legs. He drew a breath that filled him to the brim of his ribs, then another. Each one hurt a little less.

Thus ended the longest summer’s day he would ever know. Tomorrow, dawn would pry open the sky above Rattay exactly as it had every morning since creation.

Henry would always have the sun.

Everything else was borrowed.

 

❂

Notes:

dadzig #1

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Aurescere