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Karolina
It really all starts with Karolina. With the moon full and bright and the stars glowing softly, perfectly romantic; with Henry crouched in the bushes and Hans’s face all red with itchiness from the botched aphrodisiac.
It starts with Henry’s idiotic poetry, and Hans stumbling over his words, calling Karolina’s lovely, pert breasts all manner of strange things – including, but not limited to: downy bosoms; wet, summer mountains; silky mounds – and still going up to her room, only to be almost caught by her father and having to race back to Pirkstein in blind darkness with Henry in tow.
It starts that way, at least, with it being only half Henry's fault.
“Are–Are you alright, sir?” Henry pants out, as Hans pulls him into his room and slams the door shut.
“Yes, yes, don’t worry, mother hen.” Hans watches as Henry plants himself on his bed. “Or should I say goose?”
Henry laughs breathlessly, and flops onto his back to look up at the ceiling. “Christ, what were you thinking?”
“Not my best moment, I’ll admit,” Hans replies, beginning to laugh himself. But by God, does his face itch. He resists the urge to touch it. “When will this damn rash go away?”
Henry laughs again. “I’ll make you something to help tomorrow, sir. But I wasn’t lying, you look perfectly dashing, even with those lumps all over your face.”
Hans feels strange about that, so he turns away and rummages through his chest. “This night was a fucking disaster, but I’ll admit that it wasn’t entirely your fault. That poetry was atrocious, though.”
He finds the love letter, crushed into a ball, and tosses it to Henry. “I won’t be needing this anymore. Have it. Read it every night, maybe it’ll teach you a thing or two about writing sonnets.”
Henry stares at the crumpled paper, and his ears go red as tomatoes. “Oh, thank you.” He looks up and smiles, and Hans has to look away again.
Agnes
Despite the spectacular failure of Karolina, Hans has no one else to help him seduce maidens. Not that he needs anyone, of course he doesn’t, but Henry is good company. And he certainly makes things easier.
“I’ll need a bouquet.”
Henry is devouring a stick of dried meat, and he manages to send Hans a very confused look, all without pausing his chewing.
“Something green, I think. Agnes likes green.” The dried meat is finally all gone.
“Sorry, who?” Henry asks, with his cheeks still full. Hans has the sudden urge to squish his face between his hands.
“Only the love of my life, Henry! Agnes, the farmer’s girl who lives by the river.”
Henry swallows his food. “I thought you were in love with Karolina.”
“That was last week.”
Henry sighs, scratching his chin. “If we’re already going hunting, I can pick some flowers for you as well, I s’pose.”
“My saviour! They shall write poems of your heroic deeds! A god amongst men, you are!”
Henry trips on a stone and almost falls over. When he straightens, his ears are all red again. “Let’s not get blasphemous, now, my lord.”
Hans laughs and claps him on the shoulder, which only makes him stumble once more.
“Oh, that is green.”
Henry nods and hands the bouquet over to Hans, wrapped delicately in wax paper. It is lush and emerald green and smells like a forest clearing.
“Some lilies, and ferns, and–”
“Don’t bore me with all that, Henry. It’s perfect.”
Agnes seems to think much the same, when he delivers it to her at dusk. She touches the dewy edge of a fern with the tip of her forefinger and smiles.
“As green as your eyes, dear Agnes.” Hans delivers the line with perfection.
She preens, and looks at him from under her lashes. Her eyes are barely green, really. More brown than anything. But she seems flattered enough.
However, the next morning when he visits, she refuses to see him. The bouquet is rotting in the pile of manure behind her house.
“What is wrong, my dear Agnes?” he asks, from outside her window. He is lucky that her father is in town, else he would probably be getting walloped as they speak.
“Nettles.” She says, coldly. “Stinging nettles. My hands are burning and itching like ants have been biting them all night.”
Hans searches for a reply, and when he comes back empty-handed, he just tries to recite the poetry he had prepared the night earlier, “Sweet Agnes, your tits–”
He is only mildly surprised when she throws a raw carrot at him.
“Nettles, Henry, really?”
“Christ, I’m sorry.” Henry runs a hand through his hair. “I completely forgot. I usually wear gloves, and by now I’m used to the sting so I didn’t even…”
He droops, like a wilted flower, those huge downturned eyes of his all miserable and framed with his ridiculous long lashes. “I hope I didn’t hurt her.”
Hans gives into his previous urges and squishes Henry’s cheeks, making him jolt in surprise.
“Don’t worry, blacksmith. She was crazy anyway. She threw a fucking carrot at me, can you believe it?”
Henry laughs, smiles, and Hans presses his fingers in until he screws his face up and pushes him away.
Mary
“Announcing Henry of Skalitz, squire to our Lord Hans Capon!”
Hans sees Henry grimace, adjusting his helmet.
“Please, Henry, I’ll be in your debt.” Hans is not above begging, not when it’s this important.
Henry just sighs and continues to sharpen his sword.
“All this just to please the baker’s girl?”
“And to protect me from getting my balls ripped off by Hanush! Two birds, one stone!”
Henry sends him an annoyed look. “How sure are you that I’ll win?”
“I am more than sure, my friend.” He lays a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I have complete and utter faith in your abilities.”
Henry stares at him, wide-eyed. The gentle rumbling of the grindstone takes on a sharp, grating quality, and a dark smoke begins to emit from the blade. Henry glances down and scrambles to stop the wheel.
Hans tilts his head. Henry really acts so strangely, sometimes.
In any case, they’re getting some strange looks from the blacksmith, so he pats him once more on the shoulder, and tells him, “The tournament is tomorrow morning. I trust that you’ll be there, my brave squire.”
Henry goes red and drops his sword onto the floor.
He spies Mary, peeking around the gateway with her basket of bread in her arms. She’s terrible at hiding her fascination with the tournament.
“They will fight with longswords!”
Henry glances back at Hans, once, drawing his sword and looking a little bit ill. Hans gives him two thumbs up, just as Mary indiscreetly walks over to stand beside him.
She’s very pretty, and small, with wide eyes and a curious sort of curve to her lips. He smiles at her, and she offers him a bread roll.
“You enjoy the fighting,” he says, eyes drifting away from her breasts to where Henry and the other man are circling in the arena.
“I…No. I just–”
She struggles for a good long while, and her body angles itself away, as if she is about to flee. Hans reaches out and touches her elbow, causing her to stiffen.
“It’s a good quality, I think,” he says, as nobly as possible, “For a woman to be interested in the affairs of men.”
She blinks at him, then gives a very short smile. He is so good at seducing people.
“I am…glad you think so, my lord.”
They both turn, in unison, toward the arena, where Henry is advancing toward his opponent. Henry is better than he thinks himself to be; his training and hard work have paid off, after all. He wields his blade well, movements swift and powerful.
“My squire is impressive, isn’t he?”
Mary’s eyes dart towards him, then back to the fighting, almost hungry. “Yes, he is. Your squire is very skilled, but his movements are sloppy, at times. He doesn’t shield his left side as well as his right.”
Well, what does she know? “I’ll have you know that he is my squire, trained under my guidance, so any of your little criticisms extend to me. He’s a little green, sure, but he’s improved brilliantly in his short time being trained.”
That quick smile again.
“I apologise, my lord, I spoke without thinking.”
Quite right, she did. He looks back toward the fight, feeling strangely restless.
Henry doesn’t protect his left side well, that’s true. Regardless, his heart feels a bit like a caged animal, pacing in circles and banging into the walls.
Henry is being backed into the corner of the arena. Christ.
“Go on, beat him already!” He surprises even himself with his volume. “Destroy him, Henry!”
Mary stares at him in shock. Henry jolts at the first sound of his voice, his head whipping towards him the way it always does, like a dog hearing its name being called.
The moment of distraction is all his opponent needs to finish him.
“It’s all right, Henry, don’t fucking apologise.”
Henry looks dejectedly at the ground as he washes the wound on his leg. “I lost in the first round.”
“Your opponent was a beast, I mean, did you see him?” He was a perfectly normal-sized man. He was rather scrawny, actually. Hans absolutely does not mention such a thing.
“He was skinny as shit. He just had better technique.” Henry wipes his wound sluggishly. “And I ruined your chances with yet another woman.”
Hans snatches the rag from Henry’s hand and sets to cleaning the cut with a little more force. “Don’t worry about that. She was a little too much for me, getting all high and mighty about your technique. I’d like to see her get in that arena.”
Henry sighs. “She seemed very nice. I had a nice chat with her afterwards.”
“Well! Maybe you should fuck her then. I don’t get why you’d want to, but to each their own I suppose.” He stabs the cloth directly into the wound and Henry winces. That same strange restlessness starts up in his heart.
“Christ, Hans, I didn’t want to fuck her.”
His heart calms down in an instant. “Of course you didn’t. Who would?”
Henry rolls his eyes and takes the cloth back.
Rose
The night is warm and all syrupy, in the way that only a great deal of ale can make one feel.
Henry’s face has been flushed pink for hours now, as they sit with their knees bumping under the table. They’ve played dice four times now and four times has Hans lost; he is almost certain that Henry has weighted dice, but he hasn’t said a word, too happy to hand Henry his money, or to buy him another drink, if only to keep him all red in the face and smiling giddily.
“Another, Rose, if you please!”
The barmaid, Rose, walks over with an indulgent smile. She is fun, far more fun than the other women Hans has had his eyes on in the past, and he smiles seductively up at her as she pours them another drink.
“Rose, Rose, Rose.” She looks at him, laughs.
“Is it perhaps time to get home, my lord?”
He waves a dismissive hand, and somehow almost smacks Henry in the face in the process.
“Nonsense, I was only trying to recall some poetry. I had something to say about roses.”
Henry watches him with his eyes all glassy, the way they only get when he’s three sheets to the wind. “A rose–a rose by any other…”
Hans snaps his fingers. “Yes! Exactly, Henry! A rose by any other name is…er…still a…”
Rose snorts. “You’re a riot, my lord.”
“Come, Rose, sit and drink with us for a moment. We shall regale you with tales of chivalry and knighthood.” His voice slurs half the words.
She peers around at the mostly-peaceful tavern, then smooths her skirt and perches on the edge of the bench, beside Hans. She smiles amicably at them both.
“Well all right, only for a moment.”
Hans claps in delight. “Wonderful! What shall we tell her first, Henry?”
Henry blinks, slowly. God, he’s drunk as shit, isn’t he?
“Mmm, what about the time you got captured by those Cumans and I had to stab them both before they took your–”
Hans barks out a laugh before Henry can fuck this up for him.
“Oh, Hal. What about the siege on Talmberg? You remember, don’t you? Sneaking into the castle in the dead of night, rescuing all those captives in the courtyard?”
Rose smiles. “That’s very noble, my lord. It must have been very dangerous.”
“Yes, very dangerous indeed, it was a difficult affair.”
Henry snorts. His head looks like it will fall into his mug at any moment. “Yes, most of all when you got shot in the arse.”
Hans blushes, despite himself. “It was my lower back–”
“Arse. And then I had to carry you all the way back to our camp like a maiden.”
Rose glances between the two of them, that persistent smile of hers wavering around the edges.
“Come off it; it wasn’t that romantic. You carried me like a sack of potatoes, over your back! It was as painful as anything!”
Rose coughs, as if to smother a laugh. Hans turns to her before she can lean away.
“Anyhow! That is hardly a gripping tale! Come now, tell Rose of my prowess in battle!”
Henry smiles dopily. “Yes, you are very skilled, sir. I remember how terrified you were. You were practically pissing yourself.”
Hans splutters while Rose begins to leave the table.
“I’ve really got a lot of work to–”
Henry straightens, as if finally realising his mistake. “Oh. No, no, you’ve got it all wrong!” He waves his hands wildly, attracting the attention of the other patrons. Rose stares at him, smile having finally left her face.
“Sir Hans was really very noble!” he slurs, knocking over his empty mug. It rolls onto the ground with a dull thud. “Bravest man I’ve ever fuckin’ met! It’s true bravery, when you can–can keep fighting even when you’re ‘bout to wet your braies–”
Hans smacks his hand over Henry’s mouth. “That’s enough,” he hisses. “Let’s get out of here.”
He tosses a pouch of groschen on the table and hauls Henry out of his seat, who continues to loudly and boisterously defend his lord, all the way back to Pirkstein.
“Christ, will you stop that?” They’re at the door of Henry’s hovel of a home.
“Stop what? I couldn’t let them think you were–”
Hans pinches the skin between his brows. Somehow, he feels a headache forming.
“It’s all right, Henry.”
Henry’s eyes go all wide, at that. They really do get so glassy when he’s drunk off his arse. They reflect the stars and the dim amber torchlight like crystals.
“Oh, kurva. I fucked it up again, didn’t I?”
Hans sighs. Drags Henry into his home. It smells like old hay in here.
“I know you didn’t mean to, you blockhead.”
He dumps Henry on his bed, facedown. Henry makes a miserable little noise, muffled into his pillow.
“Sometimes you must embellish the truth. Such is the way of courtship, my friend.”
Henry turns his head so he can look at Hans in the darkness. His eyelids are drooping, like a child up past midnight.
“I don’t like to lie,” he mumbles.
“I know, Hal.” Hans cannot resist; he pats Henry’s head twice, like he would a puppy. Henry’s lashes flutter.
“I meant it, you know. You’re brave.”
Hans smiles. Henry acts like such a child when he’s a few bottles deep. “You’re better at courting me than you are at helping me seduce wenches.”
Henry’s eyes are suddenly more open than before. He stares at Hans in a very peculiar way, like his gaze is an arrowhead that’s piercing through Hans’s chest. He suddenly swears.
“Fuck.”
“What? What is it?”
He turns his head so it’s pressed into his pillow again. “Kurva.” Hans can barely hear it.
Hans tries to ask him again, to no avail. A lost cause, then. Hans sighs, and leaves the room.
Henry is still mumbling swears into his pillow when he walks up the stairs to Pirkstein.
Myriad other women
The next morning, Henry is changed. He charges up to Hans, hungover and determined. He hands him a flower.
Hans stares at it, a bright red poppy all bedraggled and heavy with dew. Looks back up at Henry.
“What?”
Henry stares back at him. Swallows. Blinks. Opens his mouth, loses his nerve.
“I. Er. Would you. Um.”
He says each phrase like it’s its own sentence.
“You’re getting red. Are you ill?”
Henry flushes even brighter. Shakes his head fiercely.
“Okay,” Hans twirls the poppy between his thumb and forefinger. Henry watches the movement with rapt fascination. “Would you like…breakfast?”
Henry nods.
He acts strangely for the rest of the day.
Then comes the failed courtships, only now they seem more amplified. Henry has seemingly found a way to weaponise his gormlessness, increasing it tenfold.
To the tailor’s daughter, he tells of how Hans tried to kill a boar with an arrow and failed miserably. To the merchant selling fabrics in the courtyard, he says that Hans tried to seduce Klara and almost got drowned in a bathtub. To the pretty young maiden picking flowers on the hill by Rattay, he tells of Hans’s failed courtship of Karolina.
“Oh, don’t you remember that time you forced me to brew you a potion to attract women, and it only gave you a terrible rash on your face? I swear, it looked like you had laid with a frog, you were so covered in warts.”
“No, Sir Hans, you didn’t fight him off. You called him ‘arse-n-balls’ and then he almost killed you. I had to come rescue your sorry arse.”
“What are you talking about? I completely trounced you in that bet. You really thought you could beat me. You should’ve. I had only just started swordfighting.”
It is only so strange because Henry jumps to defend Hans at seemingly any other opportunity. But whenever a woman so much as looks in his direction, he must bring up Hans’s terrible stench after a hunting trip, or how they sometimes sleep in the same bed in the winter and Hans snores terribly, or how Hans once fell into a puddle of mud and had to walk back to Pirkstein with it smeared all over his backside.
It really is peculiar.
Theresa
The miller’s girl is very pretty. She’s got a nice face to look at, and lovely eyes – sharp, piercing, eyes – eyes that know things. She smiles politely in response to Hans’s advances, and better yet, it pisses Henry off like nothing else.
“My, you are lovely, dear Theresa. I can hardly believe Henry’s been keeping you all to himself, the bastard.”
He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, chastely. She glances over at Henry, who is practically grinding his teeth to dust in frustration, and laughs.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“We’ve got to get going,” Henry starts, trying to pull Hans back, but he is silenced by a sharp look from Theresa. There is an amused glint in her eye.
“We’ve hardly spoken, Hal. Who’s gone and put a bee in your braies?”
Hans laughs, louder than he normally would, if only to see Henry get redder. “What a charming turn of phrase. Very peasantlike.”
Theresa narrows her eyes at that, but any annoyance seems to come secondary to teasing Henry. Hans can agree.
“I made it up myself, my lord. You’re a fan of wordplay, I hear.” She smiles at him, and Henry is fuming.
“That’s enough of that, both of you,” he snaps. “Christ, Theresa, you’ve no idea what you’re getting into.”
Hans gapes at him. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Henry says each word very slowly, on an outward breath, like the hot exhalation of air from the bellows. “That you treat any woman like she’s just a body you can fuck. Theresa deserves better than that.”
Hans laughs. “Like what? You?”
Theresa glances at him, quickly, then lunges for Henry just as Hans ducks out of the way of his punch.
“Christ, Hal, I was only playing around! Calm down, please!” she says, gripping his arm as his chest heaves.
She’s stronger than she looks. Henry struggles against her for a moment before he yanks his arm away.
“You have no right. No right to treat anyone this way. I’m done playing matchmaker.”
Hans laughs bitterly. “You were doing a piss-poor job of it anyway.”
Henry looks like he will punch him again, but after a warning glare from Theresa, he pulls away. The restlessness grows from a seed to a sapling in Hans’s stomach, branches poking at his guts. He shakes his head, trying to dispel the feeling, but it only worsens.
Klara
Henry looks unsurprised to see him at his door the next day. He glares at him, then glances once, twice, at the warm pretzel in his hand. The tight line of his mouth wavers at the edges.
“Please forgive me?”
Henry snatches the pretzel. “You didn’t even apologise.”
“Right, I’m sorry, but–”
Henry raises both eyebrows, pretzel in-mouth.
“I was being perfectly chivalrous! Theresa had no complaints, as far as I could tell!”
“And what of the other poor women subject to your seduction?” Somehow, the pretzel is already gone.
“Right, right, I understand. I’m terrible. Let me take you to the baths tonight.”
“You cannot be serious.” Henry is actively closing his door. Hans shoots out a hand to stop it.
“Please, Henry. Let me beg for your forgiveness.”
Henry’s still glaring at him, but, Hans notices, his ears have gone slightly pink.
“Fine.”
Henry is staring resolutely at the bumps of his knees that rise like two pink islands out of the water. He had looked, once, at Hans, gone completely red all over, and turned away, just a few minutes ago.
“You never were this shy before.”
Henry startles. “I’m…still mad at you.”
“Right, of course.” Hans splashes him. “Do you want more wine?”
Henry stares at his knees with passion. “No.”
Hans snaps his fingers, and yells, “Klara, darling, more wine!”
She walks in, amused and exasperated all at once, carrying a pitcher. He cheers, and kisses her hand when she pours it for him.
“You know, Archibald doesn’t like it that I still serve you.”
Hans laughs. “What does Arse-n-balls care?”
She sighs, leaves.
Henry has gone from glaring at his knees to glaring directly at Hans. The relief he feels at Henry’s eyes on him is so strong, he feels as if he has been kicked in the chest by a horse.
“What is it now?” Hans takes a long, slow sip of the wine, licking it from his bottom lip. Henry glares at that bottom lip with conviction.
“You’re still flirting with Klara, even after everything that happened?”
“What are you, a monk? It’s just some harmless fun.”
Henry grips his knees. His knuckles turn white. “You always think it’s just some harmless fun, but it’s not. You think you can do anything, just because you’re a lord.”
Hans throws up his hands. “I can do anything!”
“You know, that might just be the fucking problem. Do you really think any of these women can reject a noble? Once you take over, you might as well have a ruling that orders any woman to lift her skirts as soon as you come near!”
“That sounds like a wonderful idea, actually, because it seems that you cannot help but ruin any chances I could possibly have, with any manner of wench!”
“Someone had to!” Henry bellows, “Someone had to fucking stop you before you ruined another woman’s life!”
Hans splashes him triumphantly. “So you admit that you’ve been sabotaging me on purpose! All that ‘I’m so sorry, sir’, ‘I didn’t realise, sir’, ‘I didn’t want to lie to them, sir’, all for nothing!”
Henry’s face goes red and blotchy all over. Steam is practically pouring from his ears.
“Who else was going to protect those women? Certainly not you! I don’t regret it.”
Hans laughs darkly, and lifts himself so he can tower over Henry in the bath. Warm droplets of water slide down his chest, and Henry’s eyes drift downward, briefly, before he can snap his gaze back up.
“You think you’re so chivalrous, don’t you? But there’s something else. I can tell. Even when I’m being perfectly polite, you still get pissed. You get even angrier when I’m nice to them.”
Before he can stop himself, he is caging Henry in, gripping the sides of the bath. They are close enough now that the water slipping from his hairline and down his temple plops onto Henry’s cheeks. Henry’s eyes have gone wide, a little wild, his lashes all wet and sticking together.
“I–”
“You’re jealous, aren’t you? Afraid I’ll steal away your Theresa?”
Henry surges upward, and Hans is so sure that he will strike him, so sure that he squeezes his eyes shut, bracing for impact. But there is only warmth. He opens his eyes, with Henry’s wet hands gripping the sides of his face. Hans makes a small noise of surprise, swallowed immediately by Henry’s ravenous mouth against his own.
It is not really a kiss. There is so much teeth, everywhere. Henry’s nose digs uncomfortably into Hans’s cheek. He feels pain bloom in his bottom lip, tastes blood. He does not really know what is happening, but he clutches the back of Henry’s neck regardless. The hair there is so short, and wet, and when he scratches his blunt nails across that spot, Henry groans, and Hans has never felt anything like this before.
Henry is still talking, he realises, the words being fed like grapes directly into his open mouth.
“You’re so stupid,” he mumbles, “Annoying. Can’t fucking kill a boar. You snore like a pig. Fucking arsehole.”
Hans feels himself grinning, even as Henry is still trying clumsily to kiss him. Henry’s lips and tongue slide uselessly over his exposed teeth.
Everything clicks into place, all at once – Henry’s behaviour, his eyes, the flower, his churlish, red ears. His restless heart expands, grows, running in circles round and round like a dog with too much boundless energy.
“You like it,” he says, finally kissing Henry back with some sense of technique. Henry grips his wet shoulders and whimpers when Hans presses his tongue against his. “You want me.”
Henry is bright red all over. It extends all the way down his chest, disappearing into the water. Hans leans down to kiss his neck, and he shivers.
“I do want you. God knows why.”
Then Hans reaches for him under the water, and neither of them speak for a while.
Henry
The shed they have Henry sleeping in is hardly a tower, nor is Henry a princess. Hans clears his throat, and his love appears at the window, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His heart flutters the way they speak of in the stories.
“What is it, Hans? It’s midnight.”
“My dearest Henry,
I think of you day and night,” he starts.
“In the mornings, I wish to wake and see thy face,
And I must rut into my pillowcase,
I need your cock at any time or place,
It’s really fucking nice.”
Henry has frozen like a deer startling in the woods. Even in this darkness, Hans can see the flush beginning to grow on his cheeks.
“That doesn’t rhyme.” But he is looking at the floor, bashful. So easy.
“With an arse that launched a thousand ships,
I dream nightly of kissing thy lips,
Of fondling thy tits,
And…er…balls?”
Henry looks seconds away from melting into a puddle of lovesick goo, leaning heavily on his hand like it’s the only thing supporting his wobbly bones. His grin is so wide and dopey that his face looks like it has been stretched sideways.
“I wonder how Karolina didn’t like your poetry.” He aims for sarcasm, clearly, and misses the mark by miles, landing in a warm wet puddle of unfortunate, embarrassing sincerity.
Hans continues, grin growing on his face.
“I am sure thy hath been touched by evil,
For my constant visions of you must be the work of the Devil,
But I prefer thou worship to any other, however sinful,
Will you do me the honour of yanking thy pizzle?”
Henry reaches through the window and grasps Hans’s pourpoint by the collar to yank him forward into a passionate kiss, with Hans’s body half hanging into the house. He kisses him clumsily, sweetly, even though the angle is all wrong and the windowsill is digging into Hans’s ribs.
“Yes, yes, I will. Fuck. Come inside, you oaf.”
Hans is all too happy to comply.
He really is just that good at seduction.