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When one of the servants knocked on Henry’s door that morning to inform him that Žižka ‒ back on his feet, though one eye short ‒ was requesting his presence to finalize their departure, she was surprised to find it standing wide open, revealing an empty room.
Henry, for his part, woke only to the sharp crack of one of the logs collapsing in the hearth, the fire dwindling as it gave way to the warmth and pale light of the new day.
Hans Capon was no longer just sleeping beside him. Sometime during the night ‒ despite having surrendered to the deepest sleep he’d allowed himself in over a month ‒ he had sought out the warmth of Henry’s body with such determination that he had ended up sprawling over him, his head resting on Henry’s chest, legs stretched out and relaxed between his own.
Instinctively, Henry reached up to stroke his hair, fingers slipping through his golden locks.
Hans squinted, as though the daylight had suddenly pierced his eyelids, then fluttered them lazily, trying to chase away the last stubborn remnants of sleep. When he finally managed to open his eyes ‒ still watery, still clouded by some lingering dream ‒ he lifted them slowly to Henry’s face, and a radiant smile lit up his own.
It’s the finest way anyone could wake up, Henry found himself thinking, a little flustered at the thought.
“Good morning,” he murmured, smiling back.
“You stayed…” Hans mumbled. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, then let himself slump down again onto Henry’s bare body, cheek pressed to his chest.
The weight of those words hit Henry like the charge of two hundred horsemen. Hearing it from Hans’ lips, in such a simple remark that nonetheless carried an entire universe within it, Henry understood what waking up in each other’s arms truly meant to him.
The first night they had spent together ‒ when Hans had confessed his feelings, so naked and sincere, yet so dangerous ‒ had slipped away in the space of a breath. Henry had been forced to leave, and Hans had put his clothes back on alone, eyes swollen with tears as he watched him go, the darkness having fallen only hours earlier, swallowing every hope of seeing him return.
That morning, instead, Henry was still there. He was holding him, stroking his hair; his steady, unhurried heartbeat filled Hans’ ears.
“I’m starving…”
“You and me both,” Henry chuckled. “Want me to bring you something from the kitchen?”
Hans considered it, lips twisting in a doubtful grimace before he shook his head. “Mm, no… You’re the most comfortable bed I’ve ever laid my arse on. I’ll have to get one to the same pleasing standard for my rooms at Pirkstein.” He winked, clearly about to suggest they stay there all day, when three sharp knocks at the door made them both jump.
“Lord Capon?” It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar. Probably a servant. “Are you awake? Is Henry with you? Captain Žižka has asked that you join him in the courtyard for the departure.”
Henry hesitated, scrambling for a plausible excuse to justify his presence in that room.
Hans was quicker. And sharper.
He pushed himself upright so his voice wouldn’t sound muffled and called toward the door. “I’m awake. And Henry is here with me. He rose at dawn to help his lord get dressed.” From beneath his lashes, he shot Henry a look that clearly said More like undressed. Henry bit his lip to keep from laughing. “I couldn’t ask for a more diligent squire. You may tell Žižka we’ll join him in less than ten minutes.”
The servant replied that she understood, her footsteps retreating quickly toward the main hall.
“I was just in the middle of praising my wonderfully comfortable bed,” Hans sighed, stretching his back. His slender profile arced gracefully through the air.
Henry would have gladly lingered a moment longer, tracing with his eyes the elegant lines of his muscles and the shape of his lean hips as he sat there, but Hans let out a small, frustrated groan, his hand going to massage his right shoulder.
“Sometimes I forget it hurts.”
“That’s a good thing,” Henry replied. “Means it’s not that bad.”
Hans nodded with a shrug and smiled at him, then stood, offering a hand to pull him up as well.
“You do know we’ll never be ready in ten minutes, don’t you?” Henry glanced around, trying to remember where he’d flung his clothes the night before.
“If you stop staring at my cock and hurry up tucking yours back in, we might even manage it in five!”
“I’m not ― hey!” He’d barely lifted his head when a pair of dark trousers came flying straight at him.
He was about to throw something back but refrained, finding his lord standing perfectly still with a pair of linen breeches in his hands, studying them with the focused expression of an art enthusiast contemplating a fresco of some epic battle.
Hans turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Are these mine or yours?”
“I don’t know ― what size cock do you wear?”
Hans promptly tossed those at him as well, settling the matter once and for all.
By the time they were both dressed and ready to head down to the courtyard, the ten minutes ‒ which could very well have been five ‒ had stretched into a good half of an hour.
❄
The journey back to the Den felt interminable. Even once the horses had been settled and the saddlebags unpacked, when all that remained was to sit at one of the wooden tables outside the tavern and toast ‒ again and again ‒ their victory, Henry was so worn out by the long ride that he took his leave as soon as the sun went down. After all, the Devil had lifted only the third of the endless tankards awaiting him that evening, and Henry valued his health ‒ mental and physical ‒ enough to spare himself any further rambling.
He wanted to celebrate in his own way, in the quiet of his room, and when he drifted away from the others with a tired wave of his hand, his eyes lingered a heartbeat longer on Lord Capon, hoping he might favor that sort of celebration over a vulgar drunken stupor.
He undressed and went to bed without even bothering to put his clothes away in the chest.
During their absence, the innkeeper had had the sheets washed and the beds remade, and the scent of clean linen went straight to his head as he pulled the blankets up beneath his chin.
He didn’t have to wait long before he heard the light steps of his lord entering the room, followed by the reassuring sound of the bolt sliding into place, shutting the world out.
Hans hastily shed his clothes, wavering over whether to keep his linen breeches on, then slipped silently over to Henry’s bed, lifting the sheet just enough to slide beneath it. “Is there room for me too?” he murmured, brushing his lips to Henry’s ear.
Henry edged toward the wall, feeling a little squashed once Hans stretched out fully at his side. “Do you think we should try pushing the beds together?”
“We’d make an unholy racket. And someone might start asking questions, I’m afraid.” Hans pressed himself flat against Henry’s back, wrapping him in a warm embrace. “Don’t worry — my noble arse doesn’t take up all that much space.”
“If you’re happy, my lord, who am I to complain?”
Hans laughed, his face buried against the nape of Henry’s neck. Henry could feel his soft breath ghosting over his skin. “And you? Are you truly so exhausted you don’t feel like celebrating our victory… a bit more privately?”
“I saw you stay awake for about half an hour yesterday before you started snoring like a cow.”
“Fine. Consider it unsaid.”
Henry shifted in his arms, and Hans lifted his arm just enough to let him roll onto his back. “I’ll never recover from this month.”
Capon curled up beside him, scooting closer to the pillow so their eyes were level. Henry slipped his left arm beneath Hans’ neck and drew him close.
“Truth be told, when I think back on it, I don’t do so with bitterness,” Hans admitted. “At least not until the hunger set in, and… the fear of losing you. But before that, well… Even when we were on different watches, it was still good having you around. Knowing you were there.”
“It was cruel of Žižka to put us in separate divisions. He knew perfectly well we’d fare better together.”
“You think so? Mm… He must have noticed the way you stare at my arse when I fight.” He said it so naturally that for a moment Henry could have sworn he was serious. “He feared for your well-being. Imagine you’d taken a sword to the head while admiring my backside. You’d have died beholding something incredibly beautiful, but I’d have carried the guilt for the rest of my life.”
They both laughed, then Hans sighed. His expression dimmed slightly, though his lips remained curved in a relieved smile.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” Henry was about to say the same when Hans went on. “And that you came back. Not just from the Praguers camp. I mean — obviously that too! But what I mean is…”
Henry tilted his head toward him and silenced him with a gentle kiss. “I get it.”
“When I saw you heading for the door, I was sure I’d lost you. Even as a friend. As my squire. That you’d never speak to me again.”
“I admit you caught me off guard. At first I didn’t know what to do with my feelings. I think it all hit me at once, everything I’d been working through since Trosky. And besides… I’d already promised myself once — that I wouldn’t run away again.”
Hans didn’t answer. Absently, he was tracing an abstract pattern on Henry’s stomach, toying now and then with the waistband of his breeches. Almost by accident, his hand slipped lower, discovering that his kisses and caresses had stirred a particular kind of desire between Henry’s thighs.
Capon didn’t pull away at once. Since the damage was done, he allowed himself to cup him through the linen, trying to trace as precisely as possible the shapes hidden beneath the fabric.
And their size.
The unexpected touch made Henry jolt, and he instinctively squeezed Hans’ shoulder, as though to stop him.
“Not up for it?” Hans asked simply. He was calm, seemingly unconcerned with the answer. Henry was there, lying beside him, and that was enough.
“Hm? No, no, not at all!” He turned to look him straight in the eyes. “It’s just that… it’s the first time you’ve touched me like this.”
Capon grew thoughtful. Henry was right. The night they’d spent together before his departure, they’d been so busy kissing and touching with the haste and rising desperation of people on the verge of losing each other that there’d been no room for that kind of contact. They’d lain naked in one another’s arms, just as they had the evening before, their bodies brushing, arousing, warming each other, but neither of them had sought something so direct.
A seed of doubt began to take root in his mind. What if he doesn’t like it? He frowned, trying to chase the thought away before it could settle.
He startled when Henry moved awkwardly and lowered his breeches with his free hand, kicking them off and leaving them bunched at the foot of the bed.
Hans stayed perfectly still, watching him, his face faintly flushed with growing embarrassment, his hand hovering a few inches from Henry’s shaft, as though he no longer knew what to do with his limbs, his fingers, or movement in general.
They’d already been naked in each other’s presence, but both times it had felt different, almost as if that part of his body didn’t belong to him. There had been little chance to truly look, to take it in, and now he couldn’t tear his eyes away, committing every vein, every fold of skin, every involuntary throb to memory.
“Are you keeping them on?” Henry nodded toward his underclothes. In shifting, he’d let the sheets slip just below his hips, revealing the light fabric of Capon’s breeches, stretched taut over his unmistakable arousal.
He tugged the garment downward in encouragement, and Hans finally let himself be rid of it.
Henry didn’t hesitate. When he touched him – gently, without malice, almost as though afraid he might break him ‒ Hans felt a pleasant warmth bloom in his belly and between his legs.
Henry’s touch was different from the experiences he’d had before. He tried to tell himself it was mere suggestion, that he only thought so because Henry was a man and the bathhouse girls were not. But there was that little voice, pressed to the edges of his consciousness, insisting on being heard, offering an alternative to that shallow explanation.
It feels this good because you both want it.
Henry shifted onto his left side to face him. With his free hand, he stroked one of Hans’ shoulders, then slid it to his hip, squeezing just enough to enjoy the softness of his skin beneath his fingers. He began to move slowly, timidly, glancing up at him now and then from beneath his long dark lashes to gauge his reaction.
After a few seconds of simply lying there, enjoying the touch, Hans reached out toward Henry’s thighs, searching for his cock.
Tilting his head slightly, Henry could see Hans’ fingers close around it, elegant and graceful. They were so slender and beautiful that, had his lord not been lying there beside him ‒ and had he not himself been wrapped around Hans’ warm length ‒ he might have pretended they belonged to some girl he’d paid for the pleasure.
“Have you ever done this?” Hans asked suddenly, without stopping.
“What? You mean to someone else? Or had it done to me?”
“Both. I’m not judging. I’m just curious.”
Henry shrugged and kept moving, trying to match the rhythm Capon had set for him. “Back in Skalitz I had a girl, Bianca. Sometimes we did things like this. She wanted to… remain pure until marriage. And as for doing it to someone else… You’re the first man I’ve ever seen naked, so it goes without saying that no, I’ve never had the chance.” He fell silent for a few seconds, weighing the question that had come to him unbidden but that he hesitated to voice. “What about you? Have you ever been with a man?”
“No. You’re my first as well. Which at least spares us the need to compare each other’s cocks to some former lover’s.”
“Afraid you wouldn’t measure up?” Henry teased. Hans clenched his fist, drawing a pained groan from him.
“If I don’t, then you certainly won’t.”
“Mine is definitely bigger.”
“Mm, they look about the same to me.”
“Not a chance.”
“It’s my hand that’s smaller, you idiot!”
“If my noble liege wishes to believe that, I’ll let him… Christ, be gentle!”
Hans had quickened his pace ‒ not only to punish his squire for those overly insolent remarks. In his competitive nature, he saw even this exchange of pleasure as a challenge. He’d set his mind on being the more experienced of the two, with countless women behind him ‒ beautiful, skilled women paid to do what Henry was learning to do for the first time.
And the fear of failing to satisfy his lover before the opposite occurred plagued him, making it all the harder to keep his focus, the steadiness of his movements, of his hand now jerking unevenly along Henry’s length.
His breathing had grown ragged. His chest rose and fell frantically, desperate for air, wracked by gasps he did his utmost to keep clenched between his teeth. Not for fear of being discovered. Muffled through the floorboards, the shouts and laughter of drunken men celebrating and bickering over dice still drifted up from below. No one would hear him, not even if he screamed.
No, his restraint was nothing but his pride’s futile attempt to remain intact, to deny that satisfaction to the untrained commoner who, unlike him, remained composed, lips pressed together, eyes half-lidded. Henry was enjoying himself, but discreetly.
I won’t give him that victory…
But the unyielding movements of Henry’s hand were drawing him ever closer to a resounding defeat.
His head felt light, his entire body weightless, as though floating on the surface of water or drifting among the clouds. Without realizing it, he began to move his hips, thrusting into Henry’s hand in an effort to bend the rhythm to what he needed. To free himself. To bring an end to that sweet torment holding him poised a breath away from the peak of pleasure.
Suddenly, it seemed as though a hollow opened in his ears, as if every sound ‒ the rhythm of Henry’s breathing, the soft noises of their hands moving against one another, his own sighs ‒ had vanished, wiped away from the face of the earth. From downstairs, the muffled voices of Žižka and the others reached him, abruptly reminding him of their existence. And of the existence of the entire world beyond that door; beyond that bed.
And it was precisely that thought ‒ the thrill of secrecy, the awareness that their actions belonged behind closed doors ‒ that sent the final spark of pleasure through his belly and tipped the balance against him.
Henry felt him tense, then Hans spilled into his hand. Warm seed slicked between his fingers and across the sheets, but he scarcely had time to notice, distracted by the sound of pleasure ‒ slightly too loud ‒ that escaped Hans’ lips without restraint.
“Easy, my lord. Someone downstairs might start applauding.”
Breathless, Capon lay still for a few seconds, his body trembling, his hand still closed around Henry’s cock, taut and very much in need of attention.
He tried to collect himself, drawing in a greedy breath. When he finally looked up, he realized Henry was looking at him, brow faintly furrowed, as though he were waiting for something.
“It was… pleasant,” Hans remarked, punctuating the word with a small cough.
“Pleasant?” Henry arched a brow, feigning offense. “I suppose that places it rather low on the list of bold Sir Hans Capon’s many amorous adventures.”
“Average, I’d say.”
“If you weren’t my lord, I’d have torn it clean off by now.”
“Brave words, considering I’m the one still holding yours.”
“That’s only because, despite your countless conquests, you’ve yet to give me the pleasure I’m due.”
“Due?” Hans lifted his chin, all lofty pride. “Are you yanking my noble pizzle?”
“I’ve just finished.”
Hans shifted more comfortably and nudged him onto his side, rolling him onto his back as he went back to massaging him.
In that position, Henry felt his muscles melt beneath Hans’ touch. Finally, he could simply lie there and enjoy it, free of the unspoken obligation to return the pleasure being given to him.
Hans brushed his leg against Henry’s, pressing with his foot to coax his thighs slightly apart. A spark of mischief flickered in his eyes as an idea took shape. He had done this before ‒ more often for his own pleasure than that of whichever lover he’d had to please at the time. He wondered whether those girls had only pretended to enjoy it just to flatter him – or because they were paid to do so – and whether Henry would find it strange or inappropriate.
Hesitant, he leaned down and let his tongue trail over Henry’s chest, grazing his nipple before taking it gently between his lips, testing his squire’s reaction.
Henry jolted, and for the first time that evening Hans heard him let out a soft, breathless sound of pleasure. He was so absorbed in what he was doing that he nearly cried out in surprise when Henry grabbed a firm handful of his arse and thrust his hips forward.
Hans felt Henry’s cock pulse eagerly in his hand and guided him toward release with slow, deliberate strokes.
Henry mumbled something incoherent ‒ an inarticulate exhalation of pleasure, perhaps, or a pleading request ‒ then his tense muscles suddenly slackened as he let himself come in Hans’ hand.
Hans pulled his mouth away from his nipple, grinning, and wiped his seed-slick fingers on the sheets. For a few seconds, he lingered there, admiring the way Henry’s cock dripped onto his stomach, silently congratulating himself on the sight ‒ something worthy of a painting.
Satisfied, he let himself fall back onto the bed, one arm dangling toward the floor, the other sprawled across Henry’s body.
They lay there with their eyes closed, both still panting, shaken by the intensity of the pleasure they had shared, when footsteps sounded on the balcony, accompanied by the Dry Devil’s voice bawling out a filthy song ‒ so drunk and off-key it made one’s skin crawl. Moments later came the unmistakable sound of his body slumping against the railing as he vomited several pints of beer into the void below.
“Christ…” Hans was staring up at the ceiling in a vain attempt to drown out the awful noise beyond the door. “If we hadn’t finished a moment ago, I can guarantee I wouldn’t have been able to carry on.”
Henry laughed, wiping his fingers on his thigh. “We’ve made quite a mess,” he scolded under his breath. “So much for freshly washed sheets…”
“Perhaps it’s best if we sleep in my bed tonight. Your take?”
“And how do we explain to the innkeeper that my sheets are already in need of another wash?”
“How should I know? Tell him your dog pissed all over them!”
More noise from outside. Katherine was shouting at Hynek, telling him not to even think about coming into their room until morning. He, of course, hadn’t taken it well ‒ assuming he’d actually understood what she’d just said ‒ and had started pounding insistently on the door.
“I hadn’t missed this place at all,” Hans sighed.
Henry shrugged. “At least we’ve got our own room… and we can sleep together without raising too many suspicions.”
“If this is what it’s like out there every night, I don’t think I’ll get hard again for the next ten years.”
“I might have a solution,” Henry improvised, pushing himself upright.
Hans looked at him with curiosity, wondering whether he was about to suggest cutting out Hynek’s tongue or calling for a vote to send him to sleep in the stables.
“How would you feel about spending a couple of days in Kuttenberg? You still haven’t seen how I’ve set myself up!”
“As long as there’s a bit of peace and privacy, I’ll follow you wherever you like.”
Henry laughed, amused by that exaggerated note of exasperation. “Just let me write a few lines to the landlady. If I have the letter sent first thing tomorrow, she’ll have left the city by evening. She and the boys have been running the place on their own for a month now. They’ll be more than happy to take a few days off.”