Chapter Text
Chapter 1: True hearts
The woods east of Bylany, August 1403
Hans is ready to become a hermit.
It’ll be quite the change, that much is true. Goodbye, gaudy halls and stuffy chambers—hello, endless canopy and limitless sky. But he can pull it off. They’ll never go hungry as long as he can build a snare. He’ll polish his bow religiously. It’ll be roasted hare and venison every day—with just enough berries mixed in to ward off gout. He can build a shelter, too—although admittedly, Hal is probably better equipped to deal with that. But it’s summer now anyway, so why fret?
Most importantly though, Hans has all the company he’ll ever need. His best friend, his closest companion, his loyal squire and the fiercest lover any man can ask for—all rolled, most economically, into one man: Henry. His Hal.
Huh. A thought strikes him.
“Do you know if there’s such a thing as hermits that come in pairs?” Hans asks, stretched out on his bedroll, belly down, chin resting comfortably in his palm.
Hal turns around, brow furrowed. It looks quite fetching, especially with all that dappled sunlight reflecting off the water’s surface onto his bare chest. He puts down the shirt he’s trying—unsuccessfully—to rub clean and taps his chin.
“Aren’t they s’posed to live alone? Isn’t that the entire point of being a hermit?”
Hans groans. “Fine,” he says. “Then we’ll have to be hedge-knights together. Maybe just as well. I don’t think hermits get to see much action. Or travel a lot.”
That part, the last bit, seems by far the best thing about his new… entanglement. After a short stint to Kuttenberg—where Hans did his very best to stuff his face until the hollowness the siege of Suchdol carved into him disappeared—they’ve been on the road constantly. It’s a delightful tapestry of long evenings in taverns—wine-laden fumblings in dark corners included—secluded hunting camps and one memorable night spent in a bathhouse run by some friend of Hal’s. Their second time sharing a tub was quite different from the first, Hans remembers, blushing.
But perhaps they could stay here for a few days before moving on, he muses as his gaze wanders over their little camp by the water. Hal’s still scrubbing his shirt as if that mess of berry juice and hare’s blood was salvageable. Pebbles chomps on the underbrush and Mutt’s nowhere to be seen. Probably off to find more hares.
The woods near Bylany don’t come close to Rattay’s hunting grounds, of course. But it is rather enchanting here, nonetheless. A soft blanket of leaves covers the ground, ancient oak and hornbeam trees strain towards the sky, their canopy shifting in the lazy wind. After dusk, the woods are blessedly still—apart from the soft murmur of the brook, the nightingale’s song and the steady thrum of Hal’s heart, lulling him to sleep as he nestles up against his chest.
And—so far—their little garden of Eden has been free of snakes. Human or otherwise.
If only this summer would never end.
“You know,” Hans says, getting to his feet. “I think we were born in the wrong century, Hal.”
“How so?”
He walks up to where Hal sits on the fallen tree, bare back toward the camp, and sinks onto his knees on the soft forest floor. Then he loops his arms around Hal’s midriff and presses his lips against the scar on his shoulder blade. He’s got a similar one to match now, Hans realises, smiling.
“Imagine if we lived in the age of Charlemagne,” he murmurs. Another kiss. “What fun and adventure that would be. We could be like Roland and Olivier, fighting side by side for a legendary emperor.”
Hal puts his shirt down and looks over his shoulder. “I thought you wanted to be that other fella, the one who surrendered to Lancelot.”
Hans scoffs. “Galehaut? I’ve grown quite weary of him, to be honest. Too much pining. Although, now that I think about it, Roland and Olivier might not be ideal figures to mold ourselves after, either.”
“Not up to your chivalrous ideal, are they?” Hal asks, interlacing their fingers.
“No, that’s not it,” Hans retorts. “They were pretty chivalrous. I just don’t much like their ending. Too French. They just love doom and gloom. I’d rather not have you on my conscience just because I’m too proud to blow some horn.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
Hans smiles against his skin and slides his hands upward, fingertips brushing over Hal’s ribs. “Roland and Olivier were very close,” he murmurs. “Though, perhaps not as close as we are.”
Which, truth be told, isn’t quite close enough for Hans at this moment. It’s still somewhat of a small miracle that he’s now allowed to do this whenever he pleases. And Hal’s eager participation is a wondrous thing, too.
Nuzzling his face against Hal’s cheek, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear, he drops his voice to a whisper. “Won’t you come back to bed, my heart?”
A shiver runs through Hal in response and Hans—quite pleased with the result—dips his head to nibble at his neck.
The unflappable squire, it turns out, is in fact quite flappable. If you know where to focus your efforts. And Hans has made good progress mapping him out.
After all, he needs to grasp every chance he gets. Carve his love into Hal as deeply as he can. Make sure he never forgets. And if need be, lavish a lifetime’s worth of tenderness on him before—
No. Stop that.
He pushes the thought away, back into the far corner of his mind. Right next to the Latin lessons and the memories of Maleshov.
Then a soft push—
And Hal turns around, grabbing him gently by the shoulders.
He’s flushed down to his chest, breathing shallow and ragged. But there’s the stubborn line on his brow again.
Hans blinks. “Rebuffed? Good God. Have I lost my charms already?”
Hal coughs. “No, I assure you. But duty first. We meant to restock our supplies today and if we don’t leave soon, we’ll go hungry tonight.”
“That wouldn’t be a problem if you gave me back my bow.”
Hal snorts. “Firstly, haven’t you learned your lesson about poaching?” A quick glance to where Mutt just frolicked into the camp through the underbrush. “Also, I’d appreciate it, if you stopped egging on my dog about the hares. And secondly, that shoulder still needs a couple of days to mend.”
Hans sighs and gets up to his feet. “Fine, Hal. But we’ll get wine as well if we can. If I can’t hunt, I’ll at least drink.”
Hal pulls on the soiled shirt, frowns at the mess and stands up. “Let’s see if we can launder our clothes in Bylany, too. I swear this was white as a cloud when we left Betty’s.” A pause. “And maybe tomorrow, we can go back to the horse trader and take another look at that Friesian.”
Hans stiffens. “It had a choppy gait. Would shake my bones to pieces.”
Aethon’s was smooth as silk. The thought of who might be riding him now makes Hans’s lip curl in disgust.
“We’ll find one you’ll like.” Hal flashes him a small smile that takes the edge off the pang.
After putting on the gambesons they procured in Kuttenberg—all sensible browns and greys to not draw too much attention—and fastening their weapons to their belts, they depart on foot.
Back into civilization. At least for a while. Truth be told, Hans isn’t too eager to mingle with people after being holed up in Suchdol for weeks on end. He throws one last, mournful glance at their bedrolls—splayed out side by side close to the fire pit—and consoles himself with the knowledge that Hal will be easier to flap when they’re both less hungry and a bit into their cups.
* * *
On a good day, Bylany might be a charming little hamlet, despite the long trench of mud running right along the middle of the main road. But the sky is overcast and a thick haze cloaks the village in gloom today. Travellers heading north for Kuttenberg drag their feet along the path. All of Bylany—from the crooked tavern to the baker by the village green—converges onto the one road, eager to loosen their purse strings.
At least that makes it easy to find what they’re looking for.
Hans stands leaning against the tavern’s wooden fence while Mutt stays close, muzzle pressed against the ground, tail wagging happily. He sighs as he watches the road, eager for Hal’s return. Just off to buy some wine and smoked meat, he said. That was probably half an hour ago. Knowing Hal, he got roped into some kind of errand or game of dice.
Hans contemplates going after him—but the noise drifting out from the tavern’s ground floor gives him pause. If it were some fine inn in Kuttenberg, things might be different. But he’s not in the mood to rub shoulders with the locals.
He could be rubbing something else by now, Hans thinks wistfully.
He yawns, trying to ignore the dull conversations around him—crops, births, deaths, soldiers turned to banditry—and scratches his back, when his eyes snag on a gleam of metal.
Huh.
That fellow seems out of place, somehow.
A young man wearing a padded jacket with steel spaulders strapped across his shoulders walks along the path. There’s something wolfish in his narrow face as he leans toward one of his companions, muttering something Hans can’t make out. The other man—one of three thuggish looking lads in filthy gambesons—nods and darts off to talk to another traveller up the road.
It takes a moment until Hans realises what’s bothering him. The wolfish man carries a well-maintained sword and there’s a signet-ring glinting on his finger. Either he’s stolen that off a corpse or Hans has stumbled across a peer here in sleepy, gloomy Bylany.
Not eager to make an introduction, and thankfully as good as in disguise due to Hal’s sensible choice in clothing, Hans turns away.
Just at that moment, his wayward squire steps through the tavern door, carrying a bundle over his shoulder and—to Hans’s delight—two full wineskins on his belt.
“Finally,” he murmurs and stands up straight, stretching his limbs.
Hal spots him, grins and then strides forward—only to be intercepted halfway out the tavern’s yard by the wolfish might-be noble.
The stranger offers an easy grin and clasps his arm.
Hans startles, frowning.
“Sir,” the stranger says, addressing Hal, “you look like a man of experience.”
Hal blinks.
“And that—” he points at Radzig’s sword hanging from Hal’s belt “—is a fine piece of steel. Were you part of King Sigismund’s host?”
Hal scoffs, offended. “There’s only one king of Bohemia and it isn’t him.”
“Ah, well.” The stranger doesn’t seem deterred at all. “All the same now, isn’t it, sir? The usurper’s turned tail and good men like you are out of work. Heard the story a thousand times. You’d be surprised how common it is—capable fighters, roaming the countryside without aim and purpose.”
Hal offers a curt nod and tries to sidestep, but the stranger is nimble.
“But there are still opportunities for men like you and me,” he says. “Need some silver? No need chasing hens for supper. If you can work that fine blade, I have a proposition for you.”
At that, he extends his hand—not with the hesitant deference of a peasant, but the easy confidence of one accustomed to men-at-arms obeying him. “There’s a captain gathering men by the tavern west of Kuttenberg, right on the main road. Just tell him Jakub sent you and you’ll have your second chance at glory and riches.”
Hans can’t watch any longer. He steps forward, eyes fixed on Hal.
“Henry,” he says in his haughtiest tone. “There you are, my loyal squire.” An assessing look down his nose at the stranger. “Pray, what took you so long? Just because we’re idling about in the countryside doesn’t mean you can dawdle.”
The stranger’s brows knit together, his eyes flick from Hans’s face to the simple gambeson, his muddy boots, ring-free fingers and then snag on the masterfully crafted longsword at his hip—a gift from Hal.
“Recruiting another man’s squire, sir? That’s bold—even for a nobleman out of favour,” Hans says. “I daresay, I’m surprised to find a man of breeding like yourself gathering mercenaries in a place like this. Deo volente, sir. But you’d best take your offer elsewhere.”
The stranger hesitates for a heartbeat—perhaps torn between Hans’s disheveled appearance and the casually dropped Latin. Then he smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Apologies, my lord. I mistook your squire for someone else.” He gives a slight bow. “Jakub Vok, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Hans sighs inwardly. So much for going unnoticed. “Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein. Idling about right now, as you can see.”
“Clearly,” Jakub replies, smile unwavering. “Let me apologise again for the misunderstanding, my lord. I wish you good fortune… idling.”
With that, the strange noble hurries off towards the road, where his cronies wait for him. Hans watches them mutter in low voices, eyes flickering back to Hal and him. Then they head north, toward the road to Kuttenberg.
“What was that?” Hal asks.
Hans sighs. “Soldiers of Fortune. Recruiting displaced fighters for their crooked games, no doubt.”
Hal scoffs, rubbing Mutt’s head as the dog bounds up to him to sniff the bag of supplies. “No lack of fighters without cause after Sigismund turned tail.”
“Exactly. Maybe we shouldn’t linger here too long,” Hans replies. He startles. “What is that?”
A gleam of silver in Hal’s palm.
“He pressed it into my hand when he shook it,” Hal says, handing the coin to Hans.
He turns it over in his hand. “Pristine,” he mutters, eyeing the sharp edges and the distinct lettering of “GROSSI PRAGENSES” on its front. Why, there’s even still a thin layer of red wax clinging to it. Kuttenberg coin—clearly new, as if freshly minted.
“Indeed,” Hal muses, frowning. “That looks familiar.”
Obviously. With the proximity of the city, you’d expect Kuttenberg silver to dominate around these parts. And yet…
“We’ve seen that before, haven’t we?” Hans asks.
They exchange a grim look.
“Aye.” Hal’s voice is flat and foreboding. “I reckon we hauled a ton of pristine silver coin just like this one out of the Italian Court.”
* * *
Sighing, Hans takes a sip from his wineskin.
Their bags are already packed, although it is too late to leave right now. But Hal insists on moving on early in the morning. The strange encounter in Bylany spooked him, apparently. So much for extending their stay in the garden of Eden.
“He’s not coming back,” Hans says, pouting. “Clearly some minor noble’s younger spawn. Didn’t you notice how quickly he ran off?”
“Aye,” Hal replies, shaving another thin layer of wood off a branch with his dagger. He’s leaning against a giant old oak, carving a toy for Mutt. Hal continues: “But I also saw them whispering together, looking at you. And I’m in no mood to sneak into another fortress to free you from captivity. Don’t you remember what Hanush said?”
Hans scoffs. That’s a name he wasn’t eager to hear spoken aloud any time soon. “My bloody uncle never stops prattling on.”
“He said your importance has grown. So, any ransom demands will likely rise as well.”
Hans takes another sip of wine. Hanush, the old goat. Ruining things even when he’s not present.
The dagger stalls and Hal’s brows knit together as he’s gazing at Hans with a puzzled expression. “Don’t you think it’s time we dropped by the Devil’s Den?”
“Whyever would we do that?” Hans asks, trying to avert his eyes. “The walls are too thin and it smells of sausage. Isn’t it much nicer here? Much more… private?”
“Well,” Hal replies. “Aren’t you curious to see what Zizka and the others are up to? And it’s the place we were holed up in the longest. Likely Hanush will look for us there when he learns we left Suchdol.”
Hans takes another sip of wine. That’s exactly the reason he’s been avoiding that place like the plague. And come to think of it, Hal should feel the same. After all, once Hanush calls for him, all of this might come to an end.
His squire needs some flapping, to get his head on straight.
And he’s got several ideas on how to accomplish it. Though he’ll need a bit more liquid courage. Hans takes another sip, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and scrambles to his feet. Heart beating a little too fast, he strolls over to Hal and leans against the tree trunk next to him.
The familiar scent of marigold lingers about Hal and it’s starting to have an effect on Hans. After nearly two weeks on the road together, marigold’s been the background to quite a few heated encounters. If this continues, Hans might never walk past another herb garden without his hose getting uncomfortably tight.
“We’ll go back there soon enough, I promise,” Hans says, leaning closer. “But can’t it wait another day or two? The open sky just suits me and I felt too cramped in Suchdol. Don’t walk me right into the next cage, Hal. Please?”
When the bashful little smile tugs at his lips, Hans knows he’s got him. There’s a little pang—using Hal’s kindness this way isn’t Hans’s proudest moment. But he’ll make sure he’s generously compensated.
Hans swallows. Nerves, damn it.
“I thought some more about it, you know,” Hans says, clearing his throat. “The hedge-knight thing. I realised Roland and Olivier really aren’t a great fit for us.”
Hal blinks, confused.
“But there’s another story that we might look to. Shall I tell you?”
“What? Like the tale of Lancelot and that other knight?” A faint blush creeps up his neck. Perhaps he too remembers what happened the last time Hans talked chanson de geste to him.
“Better,” Hans whispers. “This one is a rarity, because it has a joyful ending. You don’t encounter that often in the old tales.”
He hands Hal the wineskin, links their arms and then marches him over to the campfire where they hauled in logs for comfortable seating. Hal sinks down on the trunk, takes a sip and watches him curiously.
Sitting down next to him, Hans takes his hand and whispers: “It’s the story of Blancheflor and Floris, the lily and the lion—true hearts.”
“No knights this time?”
Hans smiles. “Well, Floris was the son of a king, if that counts. The Saracen king of Spain. And Blancheflor was his sweetheart. The daughter of a Christian woman of low birth. They grew up together and became inseparable.”
He glances at Hal’s face, bathed in flickering firelight and feels his heart flutter in his chest. For a moment he wonders—is this what Blancheflor felt when she gazed at her brave saviour?
“Of course, when the king found out about them, he meant to put an end to it,” Hans says. He swallows, willing his nerves to calm down, then slips off the tree trunk in one fluid motion, planting his knees on the soft, leaf-covered ground between Hal’s boots.
“Maybe that’s what they do,” Hans’s voice hitches as he slides his palms lightly onto Hal’s knees, easing them apart to slip in between. “They tear apart what they can’t understand.”
Hal’s eyes are wide and dark and even the camp fire can’t disguise his blush.
Emboldened, Hans slips his hands upwards, brushing over Hal’s thighs, up his waist—tugging the linen shirt out of the hem of his hose along the way. Hal bends his upper body to help him pull it off and—
Hans’s breath catches.
He’s so beautiful bathed in the orange glow of the fire. Chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, the criss-cross of faint scars across his skin. Someone should paint him.
Leaning in, Hans presses a kiss to Hal’s stomach, just beneath the ribcage. Marigold, salt, the earthy notes of the river water he bathed in. The taste goes right to his head, like fine wine. Hal’s muscles flinch under his lips.
“The king sent Floris away to study,” Hans whispers against his skin. “And sold Blancheflor into slavery. He thought that would stop them from loving each other.”
Slowly, his lips wander downward, ghosting open-mouthed kisses on Hal’s abdomen until he reaches the navel.
“What a silly idea,” Hans murmurs. “As if he could stop a force of nature with his cheap little tricks.” With a shaky exhale, he dips his tongue in, swirling it around softly until—
“Oh God…”
Hal gives a shudder—and Hans leans in closer, fingers digging into his thighs.
Hans can feel him squirm in his embrace, feel the skin erupt in gooseflesh under his lips and his cock stiffen in his braies, pressing firmly against his chest. Hot and urgent. His own body responds—pulse throbbing, heat pooling low in his gut like molten metal.
“When Floris learned of her fate,” he says, coming up for air, “he starved himself until his father told him Blancheflor’s whereabouts. And then he crossed the sea in disguise to rescue her.”
Looking up, Hans catches Hal’s eyes. He recognizes the expression. It’s how he gazed at him that night in Suchdol. When they finally gave in, finally understood what was in each other’s hearts. It’s too precious a thing to lose, under any circumstances.
“But Floris wasn’t the only one,” Hans continues, out of breath. “Blancheflor loved him in equal measure. She was locked up in the tower of the emir of Babylon. About to be forced to marry him. Of course she wouldn’t. She could never love another.”
With trembling hands, he hooks his fingers under the hem of Hal’s hose and braies. Suddenly unsure, he hesitates.
Hal’s done it for him.
The night in the bathhouse in Kuttenberg. The private room upstairs.
Hans thought he’d die. Hal’s soft lips around him, the eager tongue. The scrape of stubble against his inner thigh. Hal’s patient devotion. He remembers writhing on the mattress, begging him not to stop.
He can still feel Hal’s fingers dig into his hips. Hear the content hum in his throat as he coaxes noises out of him he’s never made before.
It felt so different with Hal. It meant something.
And now that he wants to repay the favour, his nerves catch up with him.
Then Hal’s warm palm cups his cheek, fingers calloused but gentle. He tilts his face up and holds his gaze.
“You don’t need to,” Hal says, breath ragged.
Selfless as ever, the sweet fool.
“Oh, do shut up, Hal,” Hans replies, slightly miffed. “I’m trying to be romantic here, indulge me.”
A snort and then Hal withdraws his hand.
Well. Now the mood’s ruined, he can’t fuck it up at least.
Hans tugs on the fabric and Hal lifts his hips to help him peel off the hose and braies. He pulls both of them down until they sag around his ankles and then—
Yes.
Yes, that is definitely a stiff cock in front of his face.
Quite an impressive one, at that. His mouth goes dry, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.
It’s not like he hasn’t seen or touched it before, of course. But… Well, this is a bit different.
Hans swallows.
“What… what about that Floris?” Hal’s voice is rough and low, out of breath.
“Huh?”
“What did he do to save her?”
Hans blinks for a moment, confused. Then a smile tugs at his lips.
“He smuggled himself into the tower by hiding in a flower basket. And when they finally reunited—”
Hans leans in to brush his lips against the inside of Hal’s thigh, just above the knee. With a low moan, Hal spreads a little wider for him. Hans nips at his skin, moving slowly upward until he can press a kiss into the crook where thigh meets hip.
“—they embraced, kissed and fainted for joy.”
His eyes flicker up to Hal: leaning back, mouth slack, lips parted, flushed up to the tips of his ears.
For a moment, he marvels at him. Heart full of affection. Too much to contain.
“They were overcome with love.”
Then he dips his head and flicks his tongue across the glistening tip—Hal bucks his hips in response and chokes back a moan.
The sound makes Hans’s gut clench hard, as if he’d been kicked.
He wants to hear it again, hear Hal unravel for him. Make him feel what he felt, back in that private room upstairs.
So he curls his fingers around him—eliciting a groan and a shuddered “Hans!”—and dips low again.
This time, his lips part to take him in. Heat, salt, the faint scent of sweat and river water. Silken skin gliding over his tongue. Hans closes his eyes and moves. Not the way he remembers the bathhouse wenches doing it, quick and efficient—the way Hal did. Slowly and with devotion. Until he can hear Hal pant and feel his thighs shake under him.
It’s strange at first, the odd position of his jaw, the fullness, the taste.
But it’s Hal. And they’ve never been closer.
Then Hal’s hand curls around the back of his head, fingers raking through his hair, rubbing over his scalp. Neither pushing nor pulling—just connecting.
His own free hand slips down between his legs, palming himself over the fabric of his hose. Oh God, he’s going to spend with Hal’s cock in his mouth.
Hans can tell he’s close now. From the way he’s throbbing against his lips, the erratic jerks, the tang on his tongue, the way Hal’s fingers twist in his hair, the breathless panting.
It’s dizzying, working Hal up to a crescendo, while his own pleasure is just an afterthought. What he wants is Hal. Wants to undo him. Feel him shatter, drown in pleasure. He needs it more than his own release.
Hans glances up, catching Hal’s eye, holding his gaze.
His brows are knitted together, lips parted, panting. His skin glistens in the firelight as if doused in flames and his muscles shake and tremble.
Hans’s gut clenches at the sight and then—
“Wait,” Hal chokes out. “Wait, I’m—I’ll—”
He means to pull him off, but Hans won’t be outdone by his squire this time.
Surging forward, he slings his arms around Hal’s waist, locking them in place.
A whimper, a choked back cry, then Hal’s legs stretch out suddenly, as his hips buck up.
Breathing hard through his nose, Hans swallows around him, as best he can, holding tight until Hal is spent and his legs stop trembling.
Then he pulls back, coughing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
For a moment, they stare at each other, stunned. Hal half-fallen off the trunk with his braies tangled around his ankles and Hans slumped on the forest floor, still uncomfortably hard.
And then an awkward sort of laugh escapes Hans’s throat and a moment later they both chortle as if they’d just pulled the funniest prank on each other.
Hal hitches up his hose and braies, leans forward to press a kiss on Hans’s lips and hands him the wineskin.
“Did you plan this all along?”
Hans takes a swig, then another—a longer one—for good measure. “Of course not. It wasn’t a plan, just an idea I’ve been working towards.”
Hal chuckles. “That’s different, obviously.”
Hans is about to retort, when a distant crack interrupts his thought. A moment later, the sky rumbles and the wind picks up suddenly.
“Oh shit,” Hans says. “When did it get so dark?”
Another rumble, closer this time.
“I think we’ve no choice now,” Hal says, pulling him to his feet. “We don’t want to be in the middle of the forest by the time that storm rolls in.”
He pulls on his shirt, then hurries to put out the fire, spreading the embers with a sturdy branch and smothering the flame under wet leaves. Hans picks up their bags and slings them across Pebble’s back while Hal gathers their bedrolls.
God’s wounds, Hans thinks. Their time in the garden comes to an end after all. There really is no opposing the force of nature.
By the time the rain starts coming down, they’re on Pebble’s back, heading toward the road to Kuttenberg and the nearest inn. Hans spreads his cloak over Hal and himself as he holds on with his free hand.
“So, what happened in the end?” Hal calls over the noise of the wind and rain, just as lightning lights up the sky above.
“What do you mean?”
“Floris and Blancheflor! What happened to them?”
Hans grins, pressing his chest closer against Hal’s back and yells: “What do you think? No emir or king was a match for their bond! Of course the true hearts triumphed in the end!”
At that, Hal nudges Pebbles into a canter before the worst of the storm can catch up with them. They’re no easy prey either, after all.