Chapter Text
They meet at a wedding.
Hans is fifteen, and it feels like an adventure at first. Riding out with Hanush and a small retinue of guards, until he learns he is likely to spend the coming few days sitting and listening to older men’s dreadful talks while attempting to sneak a drink to deal with the boredom.
Much like his life in Rattay, except this time he had actually been hoping to have fun.
"Surely weddings can’t be that boring!" he exclaims with his arms thrown out either side of him to indicate the scope of his disappointment. It is at least the breadth of the seemingly endless poppy-dotted wheat fields that bracket the road.
"They are decidedly not," Hanush laughs his usual gruff bark. "I just don't want you having the same kind of fun some of us will, lad."
"So you brought me along to be miserable while you dance and go off with whores. Understood."
A guard sputters at his side, the sound grating on Hans' already inflamed nerves. "What?" he snaps. "I'm fifteen. It won't be long ‘til I have my first whore myself, no need to pretend I'm to be a saint when none of you are either!"
More laughter from his uncle, and embarrassed silence from the guards. Skin prickling, Hans pushes his mount and gallops ahead of the group for all of two minutes until a fully armoured soldier decked in Leipa yellow catches up with him again.
He wants to scream.
Desperately, he hopes nothing goes according to plan for this stupid wedding. The priest shows up drunk, the bride runs away, Divish keels over in front of the altar.
No — he takes that thought back. He actually likes the old man, he and Sir Robard have always been kind to him whenever they have met over the years.
"Remind me who else will be there?" he asks when he's let himself be surrounded again.
"So you weren't listening earlier," Hanush laments as if he has any right to be surprised.
"Of course I wasn't listening, I was too busy enjoying the fresh air you hardly ever let me breathe."
One of the guards snickers for only as long as it takes for Hanush to shoot him a venomous look.
"Tell me you at least remember what I told you about Sir Radzig."
"Um..."
"Hans—"
"No, wait!"
He frowns at the horizon, squinting against the harsh summer sun. Nature has garbed itself in all the bright colours it could find, as if the idea of this wedding aroused the hills of the Sasau region themselves: skies an obscene blue with no wisp of a cloud in sight, flowers growing orange, blue, and yellow by the edge of the road to show the way.
Before he can get too lost in his contemplation again, Hans clears his throat, remnants of old politics lessons emerging amidst his musings of the inherent horniness of nature.
"Silver Skalitz, right?"
"Good, he's got the basics!" Hanush clamours over the rhythmic clip-clop of their horses’ hooves hitting the pebbled road, and the slight creaking of armour sliding against itself.
Hans looks off to the left in an attempt to hide his sneer, fingers tightening on the reins of his mount, and inhales deeply before reciting.
"Royal hetman, clever diplomat who still somehow lands himself in trouble, a bad moustache, unmarried."
Hanush's beard fails to hide a smile and Hans' heart swells despite his best intentions when he thinks he spots pride in his guardian's eyes.
"You still forgot quite an important bit."
Hans grimaces. Would it kill the man to be satisfied with anything he does?
"What?"
"His son!"
"Oh. The bastard?"
Hans has never met either Radzig or the mysterious boy he kept hidden before apparently revealing him to the world in a flourish, and with a lack of explanation Hanush had called typical of his old friend.
"Legitimised," Hanush corrects.
"What difference does it make?"
"It means you are not to speak to him like some commoner unless you mean to get in trouble."
Hans keeps his mouth shut on the thought that trouble sounds better than the excruciating dullness that is his life.
Talmberg castle sits majestically on the hill, a proud stronghold that has Hans’ jaw dropping slightly. That is, until he notices the rest of the town, and reverts to an unimpressed pout. At least all of Rattay is fortified, and walking through it from one end to another is bound to inspire visitors. Any band of brigands could come set fire to Talmberg, and the townsfolk would have no choice but to abandon their houses and take shelter in the castle.
He keeps all those thoughts to himself as they trot inside the castle and pause in a courtyard about the size of Pirkstein’s, dismounting to leave their horses with the stable master. A servant comes to them, bowing obnoxiously to Hanush who can’t see anything below the line of his belly anyway.
“My lords, Sir Divish has charged me with guiding you into the dining hall. You are eagerly awaited.”
Hanush thanks him gruffly and follows the young man up the wooden stairs, Hans in tow. Decorations for the wedding have begun, it seems — flower wreaths are hanging on the doors and bows in Divish’s colours are tied around the railings. He has to blink when they step inside, the corridor stinking dark like in any other castle, and blindly steps behind his uncle until they reach a better-lit room.
“Ah, my friend! I’m delighted you could make it.”
God, Hans knew Divish was old but he hadn’t remembered to what extent. Or rather, the man has aged since Hans last saw him, he supposes. It must have been ten years ago, or feels like it. He’s still handsome enough, the white hair and beard giving him an air of wisdom. He doesn’t look ready to crumble either, standing with his back straight and strong shoulders that still fill the elegant red pourpoint he is wearing. He seems to be keeping up with training with Robard, who stands a couple of feet behind him, dressed to match his lord.
Hans feels inadequate, all of a sudden, in his usual golden pourpoint. Wishes Hanush had sent him to the tailor for more than one outfit, or that he hadn’t been sweating in his clothes all day before making it here. Hiding in Hanush’s wide shadow, he discreetly ducks his head to give his armpit a sniff. Eh, he doesn’t smell like flowers anymore but it’s not completely awful.
“You remember Hans,” Hanush says, stepping aside to reveal him in an awkward gesture.
Sir Hans, he grimaces internally. Why is his guardian the only one who doesn’t bother with the title when he’s supposed to set the example?
Hans advances, forehead pointed at the floor, and stops before Sir Divish. The man’s chuckle is gentle and warm.
“Of course I do. Sir Hans, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I see you’ve grown into a fine young man.”
“Heh!” Hanush barks, clapping Hans on the shoulder. “He’s a fine pain in my behind, I’ll tell you that!”
Hans’ jaw aches with how hard he has to grit his teeth to keep his mouth shut. Does he have to be humiliated in front of their hosts when they’ve barely greeted him? To his relief, Divish doesn’t pick up on the jab and merely turns to Robard to introduce them as well.
“I think I remember you as well,” the knight says, cocking his head to inspect Hans from head to toe. “Didn’t you steal arrows from the armoury when you were little?”
Hans’ cheeks go hot. He had, but he was five. And had just lost his father, mother gone back to Polna while he stayed behind with not a clue what was happening to him.
“I’ve always been quite drawn to archery, Sir,” he aims with a smile.
Robard replies in kind, laughing. “I would love a demonstration of your talent this week, then. I’ll admit I fare better with a sword and it’s been a while since I touched a bow. Perhaps you could remind me how it’s done.”
Hans preens, helpless under praise.
“I would like nothing more.”
Divish motions for a servant, the same boy who’d led them upstairs rushing back to his side. “Go fetch Radzig and the boy, and inform the kitchens we’ll be ready for dinner soon.”
“Oh, is he already here?” Hanush asks.
“Yes, they arrived in the late morning. They’ve been resting in their room since. Please, take a seat”, he adds, waving towards the dinner table that’s already been set with wine, bread and fruit. “You must be tired, and thirsty.”
Divish takes place at the head of the table, Hanush to his left while the seat at his right remains empty. For Sir Radzig, Hans assumes as he sits by his uncle. He lays his hands on the table, suddenly unsure what’s expected of him. He has to be there, and then what? Be paraded around for a week like an exotic bird?
He is lost in distracted ruminations, eyes trailing along the embroidered cloth that has been set in the middle of the table’s length and nursing a cup of wine he doesn’t feel like touching, when the door opens and two figures stride in.
Hanush, ever gentle, slams his cup on the table so hard a burgundy stain spreads over the wood beneath.
“You old bugger! It’s good to see your ugly mug!”
Radzig pauses between the door and the table, hand at his waist. He wears the Skalitz colours in subtle touches, a red sash tied around his waist and a yellow hood embroidered in thread the same shade as the previous accessory. His haircut is… a choice, although it suits him marginally better than Hanush. Or perhaps it’s the moustache and goatee that give him a distinguished air.
“I’m pleased to see you too, my friends,” Radzig politely addresses the whole of their table. His gaze falls on Hans, blue and searching, and Hans’ spine straightens up on instinct.
“Why, I think without the present company I might not have even recognised you, Sir Hans.” The man’s voice is level, polite, so Hans chooses to take it as a compliment. He rises from his seat and gives a quick bow to salute the other lord.
“I would say you haven’t changed as much as I have, Sir Radzig,” he teased.
“And a flatterer, too,” Radzig smiles. Then looks over his shoulder and takes one step to the side.
Ah, at last.
Hans pins his gaze on the newcomer and begins a thorough inspection. The boy must be Hans’ own age, although he can’t remember what Hanush said about that. His head is shaped much like his father’s, although he has gone for a haircut and shave that make him look less square.
Chestnut hair is pushed back, similar to Hans’ only shorter, and wavier. He is shaved smooth, only the hint of stubble from the day he must have spent resting in the darkness of a bedroom nearby.
Their eyes meet, and Hans’ stomach drops.
An uncomfortable feeling spreads as he realises he is being watched just as intently as he has been detailing Kobyla’s son, but those blue irises are so clear and neutral he can’t exactly tell what is being concluded. He swallows and avert his eyes to take in the beautiful, dark blue tunic dotted with embroidered flowers that the man is wearing, and the light brown leather garters that cinch the fabric around his arms and calves.
Most striking is the sword hanging at his waist. It’s sheathed, which of course hides the blade from Hans’ view, but the pommel looks exquisitely carved, as does the handle. All of it must have cost a fortune… and all of that for half a noble.
“My friends, I’m very happy and proud to finally properly introduce Henry here as my son,” Radzig says, a gentle hand landing on his son’s shoulder.
Henry takes a step forward and nods at the lot of them, before addressing Divish. Hans hears none of it, heartbeat deafening in his ears as that prickling feeling spreads through him. Divish and Hanush’s voice are soft, kind to the boy who, as far as Hans is concerned, is nothing more than a stranger.
He realises too late that he is still standing, and lands back on his chair too hard, pain spiking up his arse. Picking up his wine, he hides a grimace into the cup. The drink tastes bitter, and he puts it down again when Radzig and Henry finally join them at the table. Of course, his fucking luck, the blue-eyed bastard had to be sat across from him. Are they expected to make conversation? He would feel less insulted at having been sent to a table with children.
Servants trickle into the room, bearing dishes of roast pheasant and deer, and one stuffed goose. Hans keeps his gaze on his plate, resolutely avoiding giving an opening to be pushed into any sort of friendship with his counterpart.
He bites harshly into a strip of meat, fat juice bursting out and landing on his pourpoint. Fuck. Holding back the curse between clenched teeth, he looks for something around to wipe the stain before it can set. He hardly has the chance to ask that a piece of cloth appears under his nose.
He raises his eyes and startles at the sight of Kobyla’s son waving a fresh handkerchief at him, half off his seat to reach across the table. His expression is still set in pure neutrality, impossible to read, so Hans frowns down at his hand. His nails are clean, neatly trimmed, his fingers thick and strong. A silver ring shines bright on his right middle finger, topped with a small sapphire.
Hans snatches the piece of cloth without a word and wipes himself, head bowed to hide his reddened cheeks.
He is forced into conversation again by Hanush who asks about his last hunt too loudly, surely an attempt to brag about the beautiful forests, and bountiful game of Rattay.
“I did bring back a majestic stag,” Hans admits, turning to face the older lords and seek the wonder in their eyes. “It was grazing quietly in a clearing, and I got it straight in the heart. The lucky thing didn’t have to suffer a second.”
Robard hums something under his breath about impressive marksmanship, but it’s another sound that makes Hans’ ears perk up. Across the table, a quiet choking sound. His eyes dart to it and find, to his horror, Henry smirking silently, turned away to the empty part of the room.
“A comment to make about hunting, perhaps?” Hans snaps before he can think better of it.
Hanush’s stare burns immediately into the side of his neck, so he mellows to ask next:
“Are you fond of the sport yourself, Sir Henry?”
Blue eyes settle back on him, raising goosebumps on Hans’ forearms.
“I can be, but it isn’t my favourite occupation. I’m much better with a sword,” Henry adds with a slight, cocky tilt of his head.
“Well then. We’d have to test those confident words, wouldn’t we?” Hans grins, showing as many teeth as he can as he turns: “Sir Robard, why don’t we have a friendly duel tomorrow? A bout of archery, and a go at the sword. Your experience could let us know which of us is better overall.”
Robard frowns an eyebrow and quickly glances from Radzig to Hanush, as if seeking approval that this is a good idea.
It’s a fantastic idea, of course. Hans can’t wait to land the bastard in the dust and see his fancy clothes all mucked up, perhaps get a bit of dirt in his hair too.
In the end, it’s Divish who calls it. “Why not,” the old man laughs. “It could be good entertainment while we wait for the wedding ceremony. I am sure the ladies of the castle will be delighted to see two young cocks show off their skills and pick a favourite.”
Hans snorts and returns to his wine, which tastes much better now.
He keeps quiet for the rest of the dinner, listening to old stories the lords share at his side, and makes a point of not looking at Kobyla’s bastard again.
Hanush is out like a light within seconds of his head hitting the pillow, drunk as he is, and because Hans Capon cannot catch a break, of course his uncle snores like the largest hog in the sty.
He turns onto his stomach and slaps his pillow over his head, tries the process on his sides, and back, before he admits defeat. He will not fall asleep in those conditions, unless he gets spectacularly drunk and he’s worried the adults of the place might have been warned against providing drink to the visiting youth.
One day, when he’s ruling over Rattay, he will have full barrels of the best wines brought right into his bedroom, and nobody will keep him from a good sleep.
He puts on his shoes and wraps a coat around his nightshirt before padding his way to the door. Holding his breath, he cracks it open just enough for him to slide out sideways, and shuts it again with a relieved exhale when his uncle’s snoring does not falter one second.
The night air is fresh and crisp when he makes it out onto the walkway and creeps down the stairs. The guards are busy on either end of the courtyard, backs turned to him so he sneaks past their torchlight and makes his way around the well and towards the inner gate.
His feet pause so abruptly he nearly trips over them.
Of course. Not one break, never.
For there, leant against the wall by the portcullis, is Henry fucking Kobyla. He’s donned a gorgeous blue hood over the day clothes he seemingly hasn’t taken off since dinner, and is busy cutting an apple into thin slices, and shoving them into his mouth.
He hardly lifts his gaze from his task when Hans joins him, arms casually crossed behind his back instead of walking straight past him to get the night walk he was intent on.
“Enjoying yourself?” Hans asks.
Kobyla pouts and answers with his mouth full:
“Not particularly. I’m not having the worst time either.”
“What a great conversationalist you make,” Hans laughs.
“I didn’t come here for company.”
Hans hasn’t either. But knowing his presence bothers the other boy is reason enough to stay.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
With an eyeroll, Kobyla resumes eating before he answers:
“I am clearly deep in slumber, tucked away in my bed. What about you, are you sleep walking?”
“Yes, otherwise I don’t see how I could bear being talked to like this.”
“You’re welcome to leave.”
Hans pushes off the wall, new energy coursing through him. It pulses in his fingertips, not unlike the rush he gets going at full gallops or catching the eye of a pretty maid. The shorter hairs at the nape of his neck stand straight.
“This space isn’t any more yours to use than it is mine,” he points out, lifting his chin at the other boy who finally deigns to grace him with a look. Those blue eyes land on him, dreadfully unimpressed.
“The whole courtyard is empty. Yet you have to stand right there and disturb my peace?”
“Why don’t you find your peace elsewhere, then?”
The gaze turns icy, the jaw cocks forward.
“I was here first.”
A delicious rush shoots up Hans’ spine and has him standing straighter.
“Were you then? That’s too bad.”
Kobyla’s feet shift on the dirt floor, his weight coming off the wall until they’re almost of a height.
“What do you want, Capon.”
“For you to address me properly, to start.”
Kobyla pops the last slice of apple into his mouth and lets Hans see the full spread of white teeth, grinning as he crunches down on the fruit.
“I’m of the opinion that respect is deserved, not owed,” he says.
“Like you deserved your own title, then? Tell me, what more did you do that I haven’t, to be given the name?”
Ah. There is a specific delight in knowing a shot has landed, fully into the heart. Kobyla’s cheek twitches, as does his hand around the knife. Hans has found the opening, where it hurts, and he wants nothing more than to prod.
“I am Sir Radzig’s son. That’s all you need to know.”
“Aw, but what about your lady mother? Oh, that’s right, I forgot. She wasn’t a lady at all.”
Kobyla takes a step towards him, his weight stomping on the ground so hard Hans feels it in the soles of his feet. His chest rises faster, lungs pumping air to his blood. His body readying for something.
That knife comes up between them and turns around the boy’s fingers in a clever twist before it’s put away at his waist.
“I wouldn’t insult my late mother, if I were you. My father doesn’t take kindly to people who disrespect her memory.”
“Your father isn’t here, though,” Hans pouts in a mockery of sympathy. “Do you need to run to him and ask for help?”
“I don’t, actually. It just appears since you’ve chosen not to listen to me, I could remind you of the consequences words can have. Insulting a lord more important than you’ll ever be doesn’t shine the most positive light on your intelligence, Sir Capon.”
Heat surges. Hans’ fingers shake and he balls them up into fists. He wishes his fuse was longer, but the bastard is fighting dirty, and unexpectedly eager to play Hans’ own game.
“What would you ever know about being a lord, huh?” He throws back. “You weren’t born one, and you’ll never have the respect of a full noble. No matter what you do to earn it.”
He isn’t ready for the next blow. He watches, petrified, Kobyla lick his teeth before his mouth spreads in a slow smirk, the kind Hans himself gets when he spots an easy prey.
“And where is your esteemed mother, Sir Hans? I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing about her. Could she not join the celebrations, or was she not interested in making the journey to spend time with her only son?”
Hans lunges at him. Verbal jousting be damned, he wants the bastard to bleed.
No matter what Kobyla had expected, it didn’t seem to be a fist to the face. He stumbles, his back hitting the wall, but it seems Radzig has given him sufficient training because it takes him a second only to gather himself, duck around Hans’ next attack, and headbutt him in the sternum.
Breath leaving him, Hans heaves for air, arms flailing at his sides for balance. He finds it just in time to grab Kobyla’s arm when he darts for him, fist aiming for his jaw and missing by a hair when Hans takes his elbow and guides him off to the side.
He groans in frustration when he fails at sending him to kiss the ground, Kobyla instead gripping Hans’ knee and pulling him off balance.
Darkness doesn’t stop them. The moon is full, their spirits hot enough to keep going at each other until Hans has landed some nice blows into the bastard’s stomach. Kobyla’s knife is nowhere to be seen, and yet every punch feels like steel going through his flesh. It isn’t the pain, though.
Something else.
With a huff, he lands heavily on his backside, tailbone hitting the packed dirt. The shock pushes an angry, pained shout out through his teeth.
He thinks he swears at his opponent but his attention is only on the strangely heavy body that presses him into the ground, limbs thicker and denser than he’d expected. Christ, is Kobyla also taller than him? He hadn’t paid actual attention to it earlier. He might never recover from the humiliation of being smaller, or weaker.
The mere thought pushes new fire into his arms and hands, and he grabs the other boy by the back of the shoulders, shoving him as hard as he can off of him. He isn’t sure how but Kobyla has tangled them so thoroughly together that when he rolls onto his back, he takes Hans with him.
Hair curtaining his vision, Hans hisses and mewls, grappling to get Kobyla’s grip off his arms but the fucker holds on tight, groaning as they thrash together.
“Unhand me, you peasant!” he shouts, face impossibly hot at the idea that he’s being roughed up by someone his inferior.
The humiliation if he does not come out on top will never let him have peace.
“If I’m such a peasant to you,” Kobyla huffs, straining a leg up to try and kick Hans off balance, “then surely I don’t need to stick to proper combat etiquette.”
“Fuck etiquette!” Hans rears back to prepare a new punch, and instead of landing it in Kobyla’s jaw, misses and hits the floor by his head when the yokel ducks at the last moment.
Agony sparks in his bones, and he cradles his hand to his chest, wishing for his maid and her marigold infused bandages, the honeyed milk he’d get after falling and hurting himself, or a particularly arduous training session with Bernard.
Only his maid died two years ago and hasn’t been replaced since — it’s only nameless servants now, and he’s too old to be crying in a woman’s skirts.
He still takes a few seconds too long to remember and Kobyla surges under him, bucking up and toppling them upside down once more, Hans cursing when his skull hits the ground again.
“You’re gonna regret this!” he yells, desperation gaining ground now.
In the darkness, every grunt from the other boy sounds impossibly close, as if being poured straight into his ear, no, bypassing that even until Hans hears him right in his mind. A strong hand falls on his sternum, bunching up the fabric of his nightshirt while the collar of his coat tightens and Hans chokes.
For a brief instant, his will recedes and he thinks he might allow himself to be crushed into the dirt.
He doesn’t get to find out what that would feel like.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?” a familiar voice booms through the courtyard, quickly followed by another, gentler one:
“Henry? Is that you?”
Both boys freeze right where they are, Hans defeated and panting, legs parted and loosely holding onto Kobyla’s sides while the other boy’s grasp on Hans’ clothes slackens.
Torchlight appears, and gets closer until it shines bright enough to blind them, forcing Hans to avert his eyes, blinking hard. He coughs weakly, the aches of the fight finally making themselves known all at once.
“Hans?” Hanush asks in disbelief, as if there’d be other blond boys fighting with Kobyla’s son in the middle of the night. As if it isn’t always Hans bringing shame onto his uncle and the family name. “For God’s sake, get up! Both of you!”
The expletive finally seems to kick his victor into action, weight lifting off of Hans’ legs so quickly he fears he’ll fly away for the sudden lightness.
He gasps in great gulps of air, hissing when something twinges between his ribs.
With a hand in the dirt, he pushes himself half upright, cocking his jaw left and right to check for damage. They haven’t been vicious enough to draw blood or break any teeth loose, at least. It almost makes him laugh that they went for hidden wounds, keeping noble faces intact. And half noble ones, too.
A hand appears in front of his face, muddied and offered palm up as if to help.
He sneers at it, and gets to his feet by himself.
His chest tightens anew. Only this time, it has nothing to do with the hits he’s taken and everything with having to face Hanush and admit to his behaviour.
“What is the meaning of all this, Henry?” Sir Radzig asks, granting Hans a few seconds more of respite.
He eyes Kobyla’s son and finds his eyes wide, jaw set in self righteous anger.
“He came out of nowhere and started talking ill of mother and —”
“I don’t want to know. No matter what he said, I shouldn’t ever find you brawling like that, and with our friend and ally too. Go back to our room now. You’ll think about making amends tomorrow.”
Without another word, or ever raising his voice, Radzig pivots on his heel, confident in his expectation that his son will follow. Hans holds back a little gasp when he does indeed, Henry wrinkling his nose and stepping into his father’s wake, silhouette retreating into the night quickly enough he wonders if any of that truly happened.
He waits another few seconds before daring to raise his gaze at his uncle, but when he does, Hanush’s own eyes are aimed off into the distance, expression cold and closed off.
He doesn’t open his mouth. Doesn’t tell Hans to follow him, or how much of a disappointment he is. Instead, he turns away, and Hans has no choice but to stride after him lest he be left completely alone save for the presence of guards up on the ramparts. Were they the ones who alerted the adults of their fight?
They could have come down and separated them themselves, the cowards.
Hans seethes all the way back up into their chambers but the moment he closes the door behind them, something gives inside him.
Swallowing, he turns to his uncle and finds himself facing his broad back again, Hanush’s head angled down as he removes the coat he’d hastily thrown on, readying himself to return to bed.
“I expected better of you,” Hanush sighs, before blowing out the candle by the larger bed reserved to him.
Breath catches in Hans’ throat and he chokes on it.
Why would you, though? I never gave you reason to.
He finds his way to his own bed in the dark and sheds his coat, letting it drop to the floor. He slides under the sheets, grabs his pillow with one hand, scrunching it under his head as he curls up into the smallest ball he can, ignoring the soreness in his flanks, his lower back, if anything pushing his knees harder into himself until all he can feel is the pain of the fight, and forget the other, older pang around his heart.
When Hans awakes on the second day, he is alone.
He isn’t sure whether to feel relief over it or not. He rolls onto his back and presses a hand over his forehead, eyes open on the ceiling. His shirt has stuck to his torso in the night, skin crusted with the salt of his sweat and the dust that crept through his nightclothes during his tussle with Kobyla’s son.
He hopes the bastard got grit in his arse and is chafed raw with it.
His whole upper body protests with a giant twinge when he sits up, shoulders hunching in a groan. They might have avoided breaking each other’s nose, but they still didn’t hold their strength back. With a little luck, the other boy is suffering just as much, if not more.
He doesn’t think he can show his face at breakfast yet, not if there is the slightest chance that the Kobylas are there, laughing with his uncle and Divish, ready to mock him to pieces as well for being the one to end the night on his back.
Despite his hunger, he slips past the dining hall and down into the courtyard, footsteps quickening as he passes by the spot where the dirt still bears the shape of his body’s failure, and makes his way out of the castle.
Already, he breathes a little better as he strolls down the little road into the village, past a small shrine and a few yokels who shoot him curious looks but know better than to question his presence. He finds the baths without too much trouble, and without even parting with any groschen, gets taken inside to a nice, large tub already filled with steaming water.
The bathmaid, whose name he forgets as soon as he asks, gasps politely at the sight of the bruises already blooming across his chest.
“My lord, what happened?”
Hans snorts as his mind circles through all the ways he could tell her the truth. And settles for a lie:
“Bandits on the way from Rattay.”
“Oh my,” the girl smiles, running a warm palm over his shoulders, gently coaxing him into the water.
Hans steps in, and the lapping of warmth up his ankles, shins, thighs and pelvis as he sinks in is the first true relief he has found since his arrival the previous day. He lets out a pleased moan and extends his legs until his feet hit the edge, then lets his own weight drag him down, pausing when the water kisses over his chin.
Eyes closed, he lets the girl wash his hair, groaning a little when she rubs him behind the ears, then works the top of his chest. The grime from the day and night wash away, marring the water and for some reason Hans can’t keep his eyes away from the brown swirls as it all detaches from his skin.
Curious, he prods at a light blue patch spanning the width of his right, lowest rib, spilling over his belly a tad. The ache is there, grounding, and he traces the edge of it while the maid scrubs his back.
“Are you excited about the wedding, my lord?” she asks when she is done, and offers to rub some rose oil into his hair.
“I was until yesterday,” he confesses. “Now I’m not sure the company will be pleasant enough.”
“Oh?”
He knows she doesn’t care much about his own thoughts, merely prying for gossip that she can share with other clients and get herself a nice laugh from men who will pay her to do more than Hans is allowed.
He shakes his head, and brings his knees up to hug them.
“Nevermind. Thank you,” he says, a dismissal she knows to take.
He waits for her to shut the door before he reclines against the edge of the tub, head resting on the rim of it and lifting his feet out of the water to dangle them over the other side.
The baths are quiet still, no other voices covering the quiet whispers of the maid as they ready the place for a day of activity.
So Henry didn’t get the same idea as him, at least. Must have gone to breakfast all dirty and still rough from their fight. Hans’ stomach growls at the idea of food, but he digs the heel of his palm into it to silence the noise. He is master of his body, and hunger can wait.
When he drags himself back to the castle, clean and nice-smelling, he finds the dining hall relatively empty, with a plate of pancakes left behind for him. He wolfs it down without a care for elegance, honey trickling down his chin, until his belly is full and his head swims at the pleasant stretch of skin.
He contemplates going back to bed, making himself scarce for the rest of the day. With the wedding ceremony being tomorrow, surely he can’t be expected around much? Perhaps he can find his way to the kitchen and sneak some wine out of there, to have by himself until he forgets about how awful the beginning of this trip has been, he thinks, leaving the dining hall and falling face first into a broad chest in leather armour.
“Oof!”
“Sir Hans! Apologies,” comes Sir Robard’s gentle voice.
Hans’ hackles lower as quickly as they’d risen, and he takes a step back to properly appraise the older man and smile at him in greeting.
“My own fault,” he says. “I was in too much of a haste.”
“Eager for the challenge you’ve set Sir Henry, I see,” Robard smiles.
The mention of that name kills the flame of Hans’ good mood right away. His mouth opens on a few aborted attempts at a protest before he catches himself:
“I wasn’t sure if he was serious about it,” he says.
If he is honest with himself, he’d hoped the whole thing was forgotten. His ribs sing whenever he takes a breath in, surely shooting a bow will be worse.
“Oh he very much is,” Robard chuckles. “He is fully dressed and waiting by the training pen. But do take your time to join us, Sir Hans,” the older man says with a pat on Hans’ shoulder. “I heard you had a first round at unarmed combat last night that ended without a winner being called. We should do things properly today.”
Hans keeps his mouth shut, painfully aware that if there had been witnesses, it wouldn’t have been his name proclaimed in valour.
“I will get ready right away”, he grits out, and slides past Robard’s sturdy frame to head for his and Hanush’s room.
The trip had not called for the packing of lighter armour, so he dons a full suit, hoping Robard hadn’t been lying and Kobyla’s son will meet him in the same state. There is no one to dress him, today, although there could be but Hans can’t find it in himself to call one of their men in and see him so bruised and pitiful.
In between pained hisses, he shrugs on his chainmail, and ties the plate around his chest, legs, and arms. He keeps his helmet under his arm, wondering if they’ll start with bows or swords. His own weapon tied at his belt, he strides out, feet stomping with resolve as he prepares for a new battle.
He goes through the courtyard painfully unacknowledged, blood flushing his cheeks while he wonders what they all think as he passes by more servants than even the day before, the castle aflutter with the last preparations for the wedding. Lady Stephanie’s entourage, including the Lady herself, are set to arrive in the evening for a first dinner before the actual ceremony tomorrow, so heavy baskets of fruit, chests full of presents, and loaves of bread long as Hans’ arm are being carried up from the village and fill the courtyard with warm, homely scents even as he angrily strides out of it.
The sun, already high, shines bright down on the training pen, in which a boy in armour is pacing, swinging a training sword in elaborate arcs left and right. Hans pauses under the edge of a roof, shielding his eyes from the invasive light, and observes.
A few girls have gathered around the fence, likely peasants’ daughters from the village attracted by the notion of two young knights putting on a show. Three of them, dressed in light beige dresses and aprons, lean against the wooden posts in a cluster like swallows readying for winter, giggling to each other and pointing at Kobyla’s parading. Hans chokes on a hiss.
Time to show the half noble who is master in all things.
He steps forward, announcing himself with a booming:
“God be with you all!” that is half addressed to the girls now turning towards him, half to Kobyla who pauses with his sword raised in the air, chest heaving already.
The fool, Hans thinks. He’ll have exhausted himself before they even begin. This’ll be easy work. He ignores the sweat already gathering at his lower back and purposefully slows as he reaches the fence, shaking his hair back a bit to the sound of a few murmurs from the gathered girls around, before jumping over and into the arena.
“I wasn’t sure you would remember our little duel,” Hans addresses Kobyla with a smirk, lifting the helmet up over his head and settling it down.
“Don’t tell me a few bruises will keep you from a friendly bout of sword fighting? Or did I hit deeper than your arse and touch your pride?”
“My pride is doing just fine,” Hans snarls. “Where is Sir Robard? I believe we need his expert eye to call a winner.”
“He’s gone to fetch an extra training sword. Unless you feel you need the advantage of a real blade?” Kobyla grins, swinging his stick around a few times again.
“I will be fine. Do not waste energy worrying about me.”
That too fails at knocking the smug smile off his opponent’s face. He hasn’t put a helmet on yet, chestnut waves flowing in the light breeze that is rising to fend off the heat. Kobyla’s armour is shined to perfection, golden edges far too similar to Hans’ own plate for comfort. He wishes they looked more different, a black and a white knight to set them apart properly. Perhaps Hans should have worn the Leipa colours, but the thought of a coat atop his armour makes him sweat even more than he already is.
His footwork will have to do the job at reminding everyone who the only real noble is, here.
“Gentlemen,” Robard announces himself behind Hans. “I see you are raring to go already.”
His voice is fond, a comfort despite it all. Hans only has to kick Kobyla into the dirt now, and all will go back to normal. Nobody will pay attention to the peasant who thought he could rise above his rank and disrupt the natural order of things.
Hans turns, gracefully accepting the new training sword from Sir Robard and twisting his wrists to feel for the weight and balance of it. The wooden handle is familiar in his gloved grasp, years of training shaping the way Hans’ fingers curl around it. He rolls his shoulders, and spreads his feet a little.
The ground in the pen is not as stiff as in the rest of Talmberg castle, soldier’s feet plowing through it too often for the dirt to properly settle, and he logs that tidbit of information away too. If he can trip Kobyla up, his feet might slip enough to give him the upper hand so Hans lands the boy on his back this time, and let him claim the first victory.
“Well,” Robard begins. “I suggest focusing on technique instead of measuring who bows out first from exhaustion. I will count the strikes you land and call the first one who reaches ten, how does that sound?”
Hans bites down on a smile. Kobyla can’t possibly have trained for as long as he had, and Hans, on rainy days, likes to read up on foreign techniques as well. If the other boy was hoping to go at him with brute force, that option has just gone out the window for him.
“Of course,” Hans agrees eagerly, eyes searching for Kobyla’s face, looking for any sort of frustration. The other boy is disappointingly cold, as expressionless as his father can be.
But Hans saw through the cracks, last night. He knows there is fire in there, and he fully intends to stoke it.
“En garde!” Robard announces.
Hans lifts both hands in front of himself, grip steady on the sword. Kobyla makes no move to put a helmet on and Hans grimaces behind his own visor. Is the man mad? Or does he really wish for Hans to bat him across the ears that much?
Only one way to find out.
“Fight!”
He expects his opponent to charge at him at the first call of battle, and is slightly thrown off when that doesn’t happen. Instead, Kobyla takes a few measured steps to the right, Hans’ own following the motion on instinct.
They circle each other for a minute, Hans’ eyes darting from the other boy’s focused expression to his arms, his stance in search of the first sign of weakness.
His patience, worst of his enemies, runs thin first. He lands his right foot forward, hoping to provoke Henry into a strike, and instead finds him rearing back so he takes an extra step, and swings his sword from the bottom to hit the man between his legs.
The parry comes easy, almost graceful, and shakes Hans’ arms to the right. He holds back a groan and pulls back to prepare his next move.
He nearly doesn’t see Henry’s attack as a girl gasps and draws his attention away. It is a testament to Bernard’s thorough training that Hans’ body takes over the response when his mind is too slow, and he blocks, pushes Henry back off balance before his sword makes contact with the boy’s shoulder and Hans laughs, elated.
“One to Sir Hans!” Sir Robard shouts into the yard.
Kobyla’s eyes have gone dark, his mouth parted on heavy breaths. Hans only notices now how pink his lips are. Time to make the man red all over, until he can turn blue under Hans’ expert strikes.
If that was all it took to get to his opponent, this is going to be easy.
The next three strikes are a breeze, Henry barely putting up any resistance before at last, as Hans gets him across the thigh, he reels on him and swats Hans hard on the upper back. He stumbles, coughing, and lands with his chest on the fence which unfortunately gives Kobyla a perfect opening to slap his arse with the flat of the sword.
Hans turns around with a cry of outrage, fortunately remembering just in time he can’t let go of his sword to cradle his poor behind.
Kobyla’s expression has turned from sheer annoyance to a new kind of smile. Muted, but satisfied.
Hans breathes hard through his nose and begins circling again.
“I see you’ve learnt how to fight with the rabble,” he says.
“In a real fight, it doesn’t quite matter where your blows land, so long as they do,” Kobyla recites as if he’s practised his little speech.
Hans huffs. “This isn’t a real fight,” he reminds him.
“Oh but it is,” Henry grins. “Just not to death.”
And with that, he lunges at Hans, who dodges the strike by a hair before turning round and lowering his arms with force, missing knocking Kobyla’s head full on and instead getting his neck where the armour begins.
The boy staggers back with a hiss while Hans’ body cools at the idea he might have killed him then, if he hadn’t remembered himself enough to divert his strike. Is that part of Kobyla’s plan? Fight bare-headed to force Hans to hold his blows back for fear he’ll crack the other boy’s skull open?
He is too lost in that contemplation to prepare for the next assault and to his absolute horror, loses his footing when Henry’s sword catches his right flank, then his left, and his hip again on the way down.
“Five to each!”
Hans clenches his jaw. This should not be an equal fight. He steps back, catching his breath and assessing what he needs to change. It could be that his best bet is to accept knocking out his opponent completely and deal with the consequences later. But he can already hear the clamour of disappointed shouts that will follow.
He might hate the yokel’s guts but he can’t possibly kill him.
And, to his absolute dismay, it seems the bastard knows it.
Their eyes meet, both squinting against hard light. There is no missing the proud smile that stretches that pink mouth before Henry goes at him again, and Hans winces when the point of the other boy’s sword catches him in the groin.
“Jesus!” he curses, blasphemy pouring out before he can stop it.
Another hit at his hip sends him to his knees in the dirt. He fumbles his sword, and catches himself with both palms on the ground before raising a befuddled stare to Henry’s looming shadow.
He pokes the tip of his weapon under Hans’ chin, and cocks his head to say:
“Get up. There is no victory in hitting a man when he’s already down.”
“Eight to Sir Henry, five to Sir Hans!”
Hans’ eyes widen in horror. Did Robard just count that slight tap against his helmet as a strike?
He scrambles for his sword and rears back to his feet, ready to put an end to this buffoonery.
“I thought you said it didn’t matter where you strike, so long as it lands?” he pants, hoping to goad Henry into offering him an opening.
“Yes, and I maintain that. Although I took great pleasure in aiming so well.”
Hans would kill him, if only he was sure it would bring him any peace.
“Let’s see if you can maintain that streak then. I might not best you at sword play, but there is no way you can ever defeat me at archery.”
“Try and survive this first, then you can talk.”
On a sharp inhale, Hans closes his eyes.
He summons Bernard’s words, a decade of teachings, even before he was allowed to hold a training sword.
A fight is won half in the mind. If you lose your grip on yourself, that’s as good as giving up.
He is too pent up, and Kobyla knows it. Uses his anger against him.
Rolling his head, Hans exhales slowly through his mouth. Time to show peasants what’s what.
This time, he doesn’t charge. He doesn’t raise his arms too quickly, doesn’t falter, and is on Henry like a hawk at the next step he takes in Hans’ direction.
In one quick sweep, he hits his opponent’s shoulder, right hand, and left knee. Kobyla missteps and finds himself reclined against the fence, gaping at Hans with his eyebrows tightly knitted in anger.
There, Hans grins to himself.
“Eight to both!”
Two more strikes before either of them can be declared victorious. And it will be Hans, everything be damned.
“How’s that for showing me what you’ve got?” Hans prods, letting his sword dangle lazily between his legs, a clear show of confidence.
It takes Henry longer to recover from his shock than Hans expects. The quiet conversation of the girls right in the corner doesn’t help, he supposes. Whoever takes the first win will have a clear advantage in their second bout. Perhaps Hans doesn’t have to count what happened last night as part of their little tournament.
Hans still falters when Henry slowly rises, shoulders squared, and instead of making any attempt at subtlety, slowly walks towards Hans, whose feet take him backwards on instinct.
“You really are a petty cunt,” Henry drawls, low enough for only them to hear.
“And you’re just a bastard,” Hans chuckles.
Touché. Rage fuels Kobyla’s next move and as he roars and rises his arms far too high above his head, Hans only has to pluck his victory with a touch of his sword to the man’s front, and another to his underarm before it can fall.
He steps back, and waits.
“Victory to Sir Hans,” Robard declares, with less fanfare than Hans had expected, although as he lifts his visor, the girls are clapping and batting their eyelashes at him.
He smirks, and gives a little bow, before turning to Kobyla again. The other boy’s eyes are cold now, dragging calculatingly down the length of Hans’ body.
He shivers under the burning heat of a near midday sun.
“You fought well,” he says, and throws the training sword at Kobyla’s feet.
It clangs against his chausses, the sound absolute music to Hans’ ears as he turns his back on the bastard and strolls out of the arena.
Hans doesn’t linger long enough to find out how Henry makes it out, or where he goes. He only asks Robard when and where to meet for a quick archery contest, then disappears up into his room.
Or at least, he attempts it, and runs into Hanush and Radzig sharing a jug of wine on the balustrade. Hans stops in his tracks, suddenly aware of the state he’s in. Sweat has stuck his hair to his forehead, and he isn’t sure he still smells of roses. His armour is covered in a fine layer of brown dust, nothing that cannot be washed off, but not how he expected to meet his uncle and Sir Radzig again after the incident of last night.
“Er…” he trails off, while Hanush turns, still leant against the wooden railing on an elbow, to give Hans a pouty look.
“And where exactly have you been?”
“I was fighting with Ko— He— Sir Henry,” Hans babbles, grimacing at himself.
The tilt of his right arm to keep hold of his helmet is beginning to sting, pulling on muscles that have already been battered in the night, and thoroughly stretched just now.
“What?! Again?” Hanush exclaims.
Hans only then hears what he’s just said. He opens his mouth, ready to explain but Radzig beats him to it, resting a hand over Hanush’s forearm and redirecting his attention. The lord of Skalitz, dressed in a fine white tunic hemmed in red today, gently corrects:
“I believe Sir Hans was talking of the friendly confrontation he and Henry arranged yesterday. How did that go, then?” he then asks Hans.
I kicked your son into the dirt. Since he cannot possibly say that, Hans bows his head quickly, hiding his pleased smile as he admits:
“Sir Henry fought valiantly, and I defeated him by two points only. We are to reconvene after lunch time for a rematch at archery.”
Which he expects to win, of course, but doesn’t need to say. Radzig nods, smiles politely, and passes the wine to Hanush, who takes it with a gruff exhale.
“I expect you and Henry apologised to each other and made peace, then?” his uncle asks, turned back to face the courtyard.
Hans barely holds back a scoff. He has nothing to apologise for, and he will perish before he’s made to offer kind words to that bastard.
“Of course. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just go refresh myself in our room.”
He strides off, and locks the door behind himself. He sheds his armour, heaving with relief as the weight comes off his shoulders and he can finally strip out of his undershirt and hose. Left in his braies, he dips a clean cloth into a water basin that has been left for them and wipes the sweat off his arms, chest, and legs. The brush of fabric against his bruised ribs and belly stings, and he gasps at every pass. The skin has already turned a shade darker since morning, on its way to a lovely violet.
He twists his spine and curses at the state of his backside. A similarly purple stain is spreading at the top of his arse, where he fell during the night, but nothing where Henry’s sword got him, his armour having diffused the blow.
He remembers another pointed jab and gingerly lowers his braies. Swallowing around a dry throat, he finds an indigo spot in the crease between his thigh and crotch, and pokes at it before he can think better of it. Well. The bastard can aim, but it could have been much worse. Hans has to hope a difference of a few centimetres can be the headstart he needs when it comes to shooting, later.
Skin now refreshed, he dresses again in a set of clean underclothes, and a lighter tunic. This one should not have been part of his attire for the trip, something a little too simple for the days around a wedding, only he knows his uncle will string him up by the balls if Hans ruins the exquisite tunic he got made by the tailor for the festivities of tomorrow.
He shrugs the green hunting garb on, the fabric softened by use settling nicely over his shoulders, if a bit tight. This one was made last year, and despite the slight discomfort of it being too small, Hans relishes the reason for it. He started growing all at once in the spring, hose turning shorter and shorter by the day, legs aching in the night and his belly rumbling at any hour of the day.
Perhaps, with a bit of luck, he can beat Henry at this game too. They’ll have to see next summer, who is the tallest after all.
He asks a servant for food to be brought into his room, still set on avoiding Kobyla’s son until he can boast a full victory at last. He eats more lightly than for breakfast, with the intent of keeping his focus sharp for shooting. He can stuff himself full later at dinner, in celebration.
A short nap later, he is on his way to the training pen again, where Robard has set up two targets at one end. Hans links his arms behind his back and bites his lips when he notices the glaringly obvious absence of Henry.
“Is Sir Henry not joining us?” he asks, searching then for the presence of the wenches who admired him in the morning.
Only two have returned, but they do meet his eye and giggle before looking away.
Robard chuckles, and produces two similar, equally banal bows.
“I believe he’s simply a few minutes behind. I don’t imagine him pulling out of this yet.”
Hans pouts, but accepts the weapon and the arrows. “Well, I wouldn’t want an empty victory anyway,” he says.
Robard’s moustache is curled, eyes glinting with mirth when Hans gazes up at him.
“Aye,” the older man says, although Hans isn’t quite sure what he’s agreeing to.
He takes a swig from the water skin he carried with him, and drops a little onto his own head before shaking the excess off. If the girls look a little harder after that, Hans cannot be blamed for it.
He settles with his bow, testing the strength and bend of it, plucking the string a few times and listening to the quiet twangs of it. He has been doing this for a few minutes when at long last Sir Henry Kobyla graces them with his presence.
He has changed too, into a light blue shirt that is absolutely not in the Skalitz colours, in a painfully obvious attempt to highlight the clearness of his eyes and gain the favour of the girls.
Hans scoffs and returns his attention to the target ahead of him. He won’t let Henry win the wenches off him either.
He keeps his focus straight on, ignoring the vague outline of the other boy settling at his side.
“I don’t suppose I need to explain to you how this works,” Robard says, taking place further to Hans’ left and with far too much laughter in his voice. “I suppose someone of lower rank could have been here to count the arrows and where they land, but… I admit I am keen to see this play out. Well, then. To your bows, and may the better man win!”
Right. This is the easy part.
Hans nocks his first arrow, and begins to pull the string back.
Oh, damnation.
His whole shoulder burns, muscles working against him instead of with him. He grunts through the pain, forcing his arm back until he can hardly feel it.
He has had nightmares kinder than this. The muscles of his upper back shake, and his whole right flank seizes up. His hand releases on instinct, and his first arrow lands in the dirt, halfway to the target.
He stares at it, refusing to blink until the tears dissipate.
He doesn’t even need to look to his right to know Henry is laughing. The wenches probably are too, and Robard is too polite to be doing so outright but before tomorrow, Hans will be the laughing stock of Talmberg.
He wishes to disappear and die, rather than sustain the humiliation, but a forfeit will be worse on his honour than a painful defeat.
With shaking fingers, he grabs another arrow. This time, he doesn’t draw the string quite as far back, and aims a little higher in the hopes to compensate for the lack of strength. This arrow at least lands on the target, if wildly off the bull’s eye.
God, maybe he should ask Kobyla to shoot him next.
Vision blurry with hot tears of shame, he makes quick work of his remaining arrows, settling for landing them anywhere but the ground. In the end, all but that first one lodge into the target.
It is still a miserable score compared to Henry’s clean, if not perfect shots.
So in the end, their midnight brawl did count for something. He would call it sabotage if he hadn’t taken immense joy in beating the other boy up as well, before he could think of the consequences.
Hans lowers his bow, numbness taking over the searing hurt that has settled in his arm and ribs. He returns it to Sir Robard, and bumps his shoulder into Kobyla as he walks away, the sacrifice of his own pain worth it if only to hear him huff as Hans flees.
That night, at dinner, Radzig asks in between two bites of roasted boar:
“So, who won your little challenge?”
Hans speaks first, because he needs to gain something back, and if it’s a few seconds of Henry’s silence, that will have to do.
“No one.”