Chapter Text
The bells at Trosky tower slowly tolled the hours. Four, five. Dawn would be a short ways off yet. Henry found himself remembering the last time he had counted those bells, during the mad dash to find a way to rescue Sir Hans from the hangman’s noose. He shuddered, resolving to turn his thoughts to more pleasant things.
Bartosch stirred next to him, slinging his arm over Henry’s middle and murmuring something in his sleep. Henry snuggled in gratefully, smiling as he took the man’s hand into his. He found himself playing with Bartosch’s hand idly, stroking his palm and along his fingertips, exploring the swordmaster’s callouses. What a strange circumstance to find himself here, finally having had the chance to ease some of that aching loneliness for a change.
Again Henry found his thoughts drifting to Hans, as they so often did in his early waking hours. He felt a small pang of guilt, but resolutely swept it away as nonsense. He’d have to be mad to have rebuffed Bartosch’s advances the night prior; he was sure he’d never seen Capon miss the chance to lead away a lovely barmaid or bathhouse girl. And besides, he’d gotten quite sick of spending those same evenings drinking himself into a stupor to quell the feelings of jealousy and frustration, maybe allowing a barmaid to lead him off to bed as well, just to close his eyes and imagine it was Hans’ mouth not hers that pleased him.
But ah, this time had been wholly different, hadn’t it? Henry felt a flush of heat sweep through him as he remembered the night before; Bartosch was incredibly strong and clearly experienced, not to mention naturally gifted. And that tongue! Sakra, Henry hated to think that loving a man was sin, but only the devil himself could have taught the man to use his mouth like that.
A warm, deep chuckle came from behind his ear. “Well good morning to you too,” Bartosch rumbled, caressing a hand up Henry’s leg.
Henry smiled and turned himself to kiss those taunting lips. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Bartosch scoffed. “I can’t think of any way I’d rather find myself the dawn before a battle.” He pulled him in for a longer kiss. “Do you have time to linger longer or do you have to dash away for your Lord Capon?”
Henry groaned mildly at the knowing tone in Bartosch’s voice. He did still have to stop by the blacksmith and get Capon’s armor, it was true. But then he let himself remember his lord’s sullen and dismissive goodbye at the feast the night prior and felt a fresh dash of irritation. “I’m sure the lordling will be taking his beauty rest, and we have some time before dawn. Besides, you never did get around to reading me your poetry,” Henry teased.
“I’m fairly certain the poetry will have to wait once more,” responded Bartosch, pressing Henry to the bed as he rolled on top of him.
***
Hans Capon tossed and turned in bed, irritated at himself for a miserable night’s rest. First he’d been hot, then cold, then hot again. He knew it was important to get decent sleep before a battle, but he’d been seething with impatience to get out of this hellish castle. Every time he looked at someone he was certain he’d seen that same face looking up at him with the frenzied excitement he’d seen in all those fucker’s eyes as he stood there on the block with a rope digging into his neck, moments from a shameful end to a shameful life.
God how he hated that dreadful feeling of helplessness, his fruitless pleas for anyone to believe he was a nobleman as they jeered and laughed while leading him to his end.
Fuck this. Hans got up and began to get dressed. He’d go for a ride to clear his head and then visit Henry for his armor.
***
The cool morning air was brisk and refreshing on Hans’s face, and the chill wind whipping through his pourpoint made him feel alive again. He stirred his horse to move faster, racing across the grounds and down to the trees. This, this was living. Enveloped in the morning stirrings of the forest, no one to watch him, no one to perform for.
There had been times when he’d been on his own in his hunting camp in the woods that he’d fallen to fantasizing about abandoning everything and just living out his life as a gamekeeper. No Hanush to hamper him, no court politics or gossip. Cool forest air to fall asleep to instead of a dank and smoky castle cell. But then Henry had stumbled into his camp and gave him that humiliating scolding about poaching, and the illusion had crumbled. Of course he’d been right. One could not have the freedom of the peasantry without the consequences of it too. And as Hans knew well by now, there was nothing like a noose around your throat for learning a lesson.
At least now he need not use such daydreams for escapism. He had the rage of battle to look forward to: a place that Hans could throw himself into with abandon, where he could feel like he had some power again, some influence on the outcome. Distantly he heard the Trosky bells ringing and he counted the hours. Six. He reigned his horse back in and turned toward the castle. Time to prepare.
***
By the time he got his horse stabled he found himself mystified that Henry had not come found him yet. What was keeping him? If he was still in bed somehow Hans was going to give him a vicious scolding. He had half a mind to go pound on Henry’s door now, but he realized he had no clue where Henry slept. He spied one of the other knights nearby fussing with his horse. Sir Littlehead was it? What a ridiculous name.
“Excuse me but have you seen my squire? Henry is his name, ” Capon called over to him. “He was to get my armor but he’s not back yet.”
“Oh, Henry? Yes of course, I saw him this morning with...” the man trailed off a moment.
“Yes?” Hans said, biting back his impatience.
The knight stirred uncomfortably. “Ah, sorry. Yes I saw your squire Henry accompanying Sir Bartosch to the smith this morning. I don’t know any more.” He turned his back to Hans and busied himself with his saddlebags.
Why did Hans get the feeling that he did know a lot more? And why was he being so awkward? “Alright then, thank you” Capon responded. He didn’t have the energy to dig further. At least he knew his way to the smithy. Hans struck out to find his wayward squire.
As he approached the blacksmith’s forge he heard the telltale sounds of hammering. It stirred a warm feeling of comfort in him that surely had something to do with Henry. As he rounded the bend he saw Henry striking some plate, and noted another man next to him. They seemed to be in some sort of pleasant conversation; he could see them laughing together and smiling. Hans stiffened. What did Henry think he was doing?
“Henry!” Hans called out as he approached.
Henry jumped like a vagrant caught thieving. “Ah, Sir Hans!”
“What are you doing? I thought you were going to bring me my armor first thing this morning?” Hans demanded.
Henry flushed guiltily. “My apologies. The blacksmith gave me your armor but it’s in abysmal shape. I’m trying to correct some of the glaring issues with the breastplate before you must wear it.”
The man with Henry straightened and cleared his throat. “Well I’d better be off to get ready myself. It’s been a pleasure, Henry” he said, and reached out to touch Henry’s shoulder. They caught each other’s eyes and Hans felt like he might as well have fallen through the floor. What was this? Who was this man? Hans looked at him more closely now. This must be the knight that Hermann Littlehead had been referring to. Bartosch. Hadn’t such a man earned quite a name for himself in Prague recently? Yes, he’d won a number of tournaments. Hans realized this was surely the same man. He moved in armor like he lived in it, graceful and self assured. Hans found himself feeling an intense and inexplicable dislike of the man.
“Henry.” Capon repeated, and the moment broke between them. Henry looked down (was he blushing?) and then back up at Hans. He was surprised to see what looked like anger in his eyes.
“Give me just a moment, will you? I’m almost done.”
Hans looked back at Bartosch and the man smiled at him before turning on his heel. There was something smug in that look and Hans wanted to wring it from him. What in the devil’s name was happening here? “Henry I am going to get some breakfast. Find me when you deign to be ready and help me into my armor.” Capon sniffed, then headed off again, face burning.
***
Henry watched Capon walk away and gritted his teeth. Why did the man have to act like such a horse’s ass sometimes? He brought the hammer down swiftly, treasuring the feel of working iron. And what had just gone down between Capon and Bartosch? If he hadn’t known better he would have sworn there was some sort of competition between them.
Henry did feel guilty about the armor though. He’d gotten so swept up with Bartosch that morning he’d barely remembered to get Capon’s armor and by the time he arrived that whoreson for a blacksmith had tried to give him the most bedraggled suit of armor he’d ever seen. Henry had managed to convince him to cough up better pieces for the rest but the man swore this was the only breastplate he had left. So Henry was left doing what he could to repair the worst dings in it at the last possible moment.
By the time he had helped Hans into his armor the whole castle was bustling with the preparations for the upcoming march. Capon was acting like a right twat about the delay and even with his guilt Henry had tossed back a few burning retorts of his own. But finally they were ready to go and Sir Hans seemed in a better mood. They met with the others in the courtyard.
Henry’s eyes sought out Black Bartosch, looking quite fine in his customary red and black armor.
Immediately Chamberlain Ulrich started with a dig about whether they’d overindulged on Hungarian wine.
“Don’t worry lord Chamberlain, my head is clear. A real knight knows how to behave on the eve before battle,” retorted Hans, turning his head toward Bartosch coldly.
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Bartosch. “Sir Otto has charged me with keeping you safe. I hope you don’t have anything against me escorting you this morning, Lord Capon?” Bartosch caught Henry’s eye as he said it and winked. The boldness of the man!
“I can’t say what an honour it is for me,” responded Hans dryly. Capon looked like he’d rather spit on him.
Hans turned his attention to the chamberlain. “I suppose someone doesn’t want me to mess up again, eh?” The two continued to jibe each other.
Henry looked at Bartosch and shook his head. Bartosch just smiled playfully in response, which pulled a similar smile from Henry. Alright, it did feel good to get this sort of attention for once.
The others spurred their horses forth and Henry did the same, taking his place next to Hans. He noticed Bartosch made a point of falling into line just behind him. He could feel the man’s gaze on him, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
“What are you grinning about?” Henry looked over to see Hans looking at him bemusedly.
“It’s nothing” responded Henry, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m just excited to get those bastards.”
“Aye,” responded Capon, and Henry was able to pull him into some banter about how much the bandits deserved a beating. Satisfied, Hans let the matter drop, and they passed the next few hours of the ride amicably.
***
Smoke. Explosions. The rank, hellish scent of sulfur on the air. Through the deafening ringing in his ears he heard horses screaming, men screaming. What the hell had just happened? He struggled to move but a hot heavy weight was on him. Henry tried to make sense of the last few moments. The company had ridden down into a narrow pass. There was a sudden loud bang from the tree line, striking the man in front of Henry, knocking him from his horse. And then the trees erupted. An ambush.
He tried to turn to his side but was trapped under a dead horse. A man fell beside him, eyes wide with fear and then pain as a soldier stabbed a spear into his back. Hadn’t he sparred with that man in the yard just yesterday? The man shuddered and his eyes went vacant as he died. Henry realized his face had been splattered with the man’s blood.
“Henry!” Suddenly Hans was in view, stabbing the attacker through the stomach. He vanished and then Hans returned through the smoke.
“I’m stuck!” Henry manged to gasp.
Hans was gripping his arms, pulling him out from under the horse. “We have to move, come on!” He shoved a sword into his hands. Henry followed, steeling his nerve against the terror he beheld as he raced forward to battle.
The rest was a blur, fighting for his life as he slashed at the men that came before him, shots ringing from the trees in blinding streaks of fire, taking down men indiscriminately.
For a brief moment he saw Black Bartosch, stepping back and forth like a dancer, pressing back two men, then one, then moving onward out of view.
Another attacker was upon Henry now, blade flashing again and again and again, not letting up. He barely had a moment to catch it finally on his own hilt and a flash of memory struck him. He slammed the pommel up into the man’s chin, sending him reeling back. Henry kicked him so he fell on his back then struck his sword deep into the man’s belly. Bartosch had taught him that trick in the ring yesterday.
Capon was screaming for him now. “Henry I need you here! Cover me!” He rushed forward to find the chamberlain crushed under a horse. Henry almost didn’t understand why they were helping the vile man, but he knew Hans was only making the noble choice. He moved to help and they managed to free Ulrich, only to have him take a shot to the chest just moments after standing.
“Fuck! Ulrich’s dead,” shouted Hans in shock. Henry grabbed Hans’ arm and pulled him onward. “We have to keep moving.” Hans nodded and obliged.
They made it down the ridge and they could see Nebakov Mill just ahead. They fought off another round of bandits, but Henry could see fewer and fewer friendly colors among the fighters. He heard Capon calling for him again from just ahead, but then a dense weight clipped him on the side of his helmet and he saw stars. Next he knew he was on his back and the wretch was standing over him with a mace raised. Henry’s hand palmed the dirt for his sword but found nothing. Then the man grunted in shock as another fighter shoved a blade into his armpit. He collapsed to the side and Henry was delighted to see Bartosch reaching down a hand to help him up. He took it gratefully and retrieved his sword. Together they raced onward to the mill. He could just see Capon at the forefront of the men when another volley of fire sounded from the trees. In front of him he saw Bartosch take the brunt of it to the chest and go rigid, collapsing down to his knees.
Henry let out a guttural cry and raced forward, “Can you stand?” he asked, trying to wrap Bartosch’s arm around him, but the man refused him. “No, Henry, go. You have to go.”
“I can help you―” he could hear Sir Hans ahead calling orders. Calling for him.
“Henry. Go to your lord.” Bartosch held his gaze, then gently but firmly pressed him forward. Henry hesitated a moment more before turning and charging ahead after Hans.
He reached the clearing just in time to see Capon brilliantly dismantle one man only to be rewarded with a slam to the face from the next that sent his helmet flying and Hans down into the mud. Henry closed the space in a blur, slicing his blade up the man’s back then across his face. “Hans?” He knelt down near Capon, gingerly cradling his head with his hand. “Hans. Look at me, Hans!” But his lord looked at him blankly, coughing, uncomprehending.
Gradually, Henry became aware of a dreadful quiet descending. He turned slowly to see half a dozen crossbows trained on him as men closed in.
“That’ll do!”
The man who stepped forward from the parting bandits carried himself wholly unlike the others. This was surely their commander. Henry realized suddenly this was the same man from the lake, the one who had killed his own for refusing an order to take his hands off Katherine. There was something in the way he held his shoulders that reminded Henry of a knight. Perhaps this man still held an ounce of pride in him?
“We’ll surely get a nice fat ransom for Lord Capon of Pirkstein,” came the next haughty drawl.
Henry glanced back down and saw Hans on his side, gasping for air. His concern quickly bridled into anger. He took his sword and stood to face the bandit lord, stepping protectively between him and Hans. “You’ll have to take him first.”
“My boy, courage is a thing of honour...” The man lifted his face guard to reveal a striking set of grey eyes and a strong, handsome face with a luxurious mustache. He continued: “...but what you’re proposing isn’t courage, it’s foolhardiness.”
Henry felt his anger blacken. What did this man know of courage? “Better to have honour than to sneak up and ambush people from hiding!”
The man removed his helmet, watching Henry with a wry curl to his lips. He stepped forward. “It works though! War is a nasty business. And it is better to have your head on your neck and your foe on his knees than the other way around.”
War is a nasty business. Aye, and nastier still with men like this at the helm. Henry wanted to punish this man, punish him for what happened to Bartosch. Punish him for Hans, gasping at his feet. He took another goading jab at the bastard. “Why does a coward turn to banditry? You should have been a knacker! You’d still have your head on your neck, and your own seat in the tavern!”
“Shut your stupid mouth,” said another bandit. “You’ve no idea who you’re talking to!”
Henry didn’t miss a beat. “To a weasel, who shoots from the bushes instead of a fair fight!”
That caught him. Henry saw the lines of the captain’s face deepen in outrage. “You think so, eh?”
“Why dirty your hands with him, Captain?” his man said through gritted teeth, “One shot...”
The captain shook his head and handed him his helm. Henry felt a small spike of victory that he’d gotten the man to behave so rashly. “I’m actually starting to think this young knight deserves a fair, chivalrous duel,” he called out mockingly, “If he’s good enough, I’ll let him live!” A round of knowing chuckles came from the others.
He squared up a few paces from Henry and readied his weapon. “So, my boy... Let’s see what you’ve got!”
***
Hans? Hans. “Look at me, Hans!” Capon felt a hand at the back of his skull, the touch gentle. He tried to turn his head to the voice, Henry’s voice, but the movement sent a blinding sear of pain through him. Hans gasped from it but instead of air he just felt a sick wrenching in his chest. He couldn’t breathe.
Distantly, he could hear a man calling out to them, stopping the men. So the battle was lost. Hans managed to roll to his side, his body screaming in outrage at the act. He nearly fainted from the pain but managed to pull a few daggers of air into his lungs. He was dimly aware of Henry standing next to him and stepping forward. What did he think he was doing? Christ, this fool. Desperately, Hans tried to reach out for Henry’s leg. To stop him. This was pointless. “H-h” Hans attempted to protest but couldn’t get a sound out. He reached for words but felt a scramble in his brain in response.
The two were talking now, but Hans could tell from Henry’s voice that he was trying to goad the man into a fight. Kurva! Why must he always play the hero? He should have ran for the trees, saved himself. Or even surrendered, and let Hans try to negotiate for his life.
“If he’s good enough, I’ll let him live!” Laughter all around. Hans winced, tried again to protest, to stop Henry from this foolish act. Instead he was left to lie there impotently as the duel began. Capon felt his chest constrict in fear. Was he about to watch his only friend be slaughtered before his eyes? Lord God of all that is Holy, please not that. Not again.
But there they were, clashing, retreating, circling each other. Dully, Hans felt himself admiring Henry’s careful, panther-like movements. The bandit lord swiftly closed with a whistling swing from his mace, which Henry deflected with his shield, side stepping at the last moment. He returned with a thrust of his sword toward the man’s neck, which was blocked by the other’s arm, and then the two were separated again. Hans tried to focus on the fight, to keep watch, but his eyes began to blur and his vision swim. More sounds of clashing, some shouts from the men. Hans scrunched his eyes and fought back the blackness threatening to take him. He opened them again in time to see Henry lunge forward desperately, swiping up with his blade and catching the captain across the face. Yes! But then the others were on him, dagger to his throat. Capon felt that victory sweep out of him to be replaced with dread.
“Enough!” the voice cut through the air, commanding silence. “Damn it, you bastard! You’re good.”
“Zizka, you alright?”
The man was standing, holding his face. Hans felt a warm satisfaction go through him as he saw blood blooming between the man’s fingers. He approached Henry, still bound by the arms of the other men, blade at his neck.
Another spell of dizziness took Hans and he fought to remain conscious, wrestling with the wave of black pushing his mind sideways. His eyes closed and all he could capture were Zizka’s next words, hissed in the dark.
“So, do you reckon you can trust an outlaw to keep his word of honour? Hm?”
***
The next thing Hans was aware of was that he was laying on his back in a dim room, faint candlelight in the corner. A woman’s hand touched his forehead and then the sound of water being wrung and a warm cloth was being placed to his head. Hans tried to struggle to sit but the woman shushed him and pushed him back down. “You’ve taken quite the blow to the head, Lord Capon. You need to rest.”
“Where’s Henry?” Hans asked, worry seizing him.
“Shh, he’s being tended to also. Your friend will be alright.” Hans acquiesced to her gentle pressure on his chest and relaxed back down again, sleep coming back up to take him.
***
Hushed whispering in the dark, now. The candle was low, the woman was gone. Hans realized it was Henry’s voice he heard. That and another man.
“I thought I’d―I thought we lost you.” Relief in Henry’s voice.
“I thought the same, for a time. But my armor took the worst of it it seems, though they had to pull at least a dozen shards of metal from my chest after. It’s just as much a wonder you’re still alive though,” a dark chuckle cut off by a hiss of pain. “I heard you challenged their captain to a duel, you crazy bastard.”
Small laugh. “Aye, it took a bit of goading but he warmed to it eventually.”
“What were you thinking?” Bafflement. “It was a foolish risk.”
My thoughts exactly, thought Hans.
“I don’t really know what came over me. The man was threatening Sir Hans and I just...” trailing off into silence.
The other man―Bartosch, Hans realized―just sighed. “I understand. Love is a strange thing.”
Love?
Silence now. Hans could only hear his own heart thumping in his throat, his face suddenly hot, chill down his back.
“...Henry?” Concern. “What is it?”
“I... I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help but feel like we were being punished, somehow.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Not logically, I guess. But while it was happening I felt somehow sure of it. Choking on smoke, fire in the sky, smell of hell on the air. It was like the devil himself had come to claim me. But what had the others done to deserve this?”
Shifting, rustling sound of sheets moving. Small noise of protest and then hushing. Hans’ racing heart stopped dead at the sound of the kiss, a crackling thing that split the still night air.
“No priest nor feat of man’s cruelty will ever convince me that God would punish a man for an act of love,” came Bartosch’s firm reply.
Fuck. Fuck! Hans felt his eyes prick and burn, and pain shot down the hollows of his arms as he tensed, stomach tightening in fury. If he could he would leap to his feet and strangle Bartosch now, but he couldn’t bear letting Henry know he’d heard them.
With cold clarity all the signs from the morning came tumbling back to him. That knight’s stiff and awkward response about Bartosch; he’d known. The shared glances. Henry’s smile. Bartosch’s leering glance to Hans before taking off. Taunting him, flaunting what he’d taken. Henry smiling. Hans yearning to be the cause of such a smile. But it was doomed. Didn’t they see that? Henry’s smile, though. Warm in the light, his blue eyes catching the sun through his lashes, sparkling hints of green.
Hans suppressed a groan. Somehow, he thought morbidly, this had to be his fault.