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Barnaby wasn't devout anymore, but he thought if anyone but Henry himself had a hand in bringing him to the herbalist's hut in the middle of a storm, it was God.
He was safe inside, watching the rain gather in his garden and course through the channels he'd dug so carefully years ago to run safely down the hill. The dog snored by the hearth, but Barnaby's life was in those plants, and despite the gloom it was the middle of the day still. He could only watch and hope that the herbs hadn't all drowned by the time the storm moved on.
It had come in hard and fast, like Henry of Skalitz came to him that day.
A horse and rider were suddenly in his garden.
The rider yanked the reins before the horse crashed into the hut, and then he and Barnaby were staring at each other through the window.
Barnaby found his voice first. "Jesus, boy. What are you doing?" He set his cup of tea down, freeing his hands. There were bandits about, after all.
"I… sorry," the lad said sheepishly. "Got lost. Which way back to Trosky hill?"
Barnaby blinked at him, at the horse shuddering in the rain, at the downpour still slicing down like swords, like the very sword he could just spy on the lad's hip.
He made a decision.
"You're not going back to the castle in that state, boy," he said. "Put the nag in the shed and get out of the rain."
"I…"
"Now. You'll catch your death and hers out there."
It was the stranger's turn to blink. He was a stubborn one; Barnaby had put his most commanding tone on for nothing. He had just opened his mouth to add a plea when the lad slid off his horse and was gone around the side of the hut, hopefully to obey.
It took a long time, and Barnaby had just resigned himself to the lad catching his death out in the rain when a knock came at his door.
"Come in," Barnaby called.
The fellow creaked the door open slowly, poking his head inside and, when not met with a sword, entering fully and closing the door behind him. Up close he was clearly in a bad way, shivering hard as soon as the heat of the hearth hit him, and covered in scratches. Most likely from the bramble-bushes by the path to the hut. His clothing was simple, a dull brown gambeson over an equally dull shirt, patchwork hose, and boots so muddy Barnaby immediately gestured for him to take them off and set them outside, under the eaves.
He obeyed, dripping all over Barnaby's floor.
"Sorry," he said, catching where Barnaby was looking.
"Nothing for it." Barnaby found the blanket, smelling faintly of chamomile, that he had set aside as soon as the rain started, to dry himself should he have needed to dart outside to save his herbs. "Who are you, lad?"
"Henry, of Skalitz. Thank you," the lad replied, taking the towel and setting to work on his hair.
"Barnaby, of right here."
Henry snorted. Barnaby hadn't thought it particularly funny. "You're a herbalist? Only I saw the alchemy setup while I was settling Pebbles down and…"
Pebbles? The horse? That was why he'd been a while. Barnaby didn't know a lick about horse care. "Yes. Now let me take a look at your wounds."
"These?" He gestured at his face. "Nah, they're just scratches. Crashed right into a raspberry bush when the lightning spooked Pebbles."
"They're bleeding."
"Are they? Oh."
"Sit down."
Henry reluctantly sat at the table, and even more reluctantly shucked his gambeson and shirt. Barnaby swallowed; he was well-built, muscles rippling as he moved. But Barnaby was a healer, above all, and shoved these observations back down into the deepest part of his mind reserved for the memories of being run out of every town from Semine to Jitschine.
This lad was a patient, not something to ogle at.
There was a bruise along his ribs, and Barnaby pressed it gently before deciding nothing was broken. Henry shivered under his hand. Scratches first. A couple of them were deep, particularly on Henry's cheeks, but there were more on his neck and high on his forehead. None needing stitches, thankfully — Barnaby wasn't sure his hands were up to the task. He was more familiar with potions.
"What are you doing out in this shit, anyway?" Barnaby asked, to take his mind off Henry's long lashes brushing his hand as he rubbed salve on a gash across the lad's eyebrow.
"Getting hopelessly lost, it seems."
"Really."
"It's true. I get the feeling I strayed rather far from where the Gamekeeper said… ah, that is, I'm looking for a poacher called the Ghost."
Barnaby paused. "The Ghost? Why?"
"'Cause I said I would. I'm not much of a tracker but I did promise."
"The Gamekeeper? Which one? Vostatek?"
"No, Varel."
Salve applied and decision made, Barnaby sat down opposite the lad and fixed him with a look across the table. "Listen, Henry, the Ghost is dangerous. I don't get much news out here but even I've heard of him. Are you absolutely sure you want to pursue this?"
"Yes. I… well, besides my promise, I have other reasons." His eyes darted.
Barnaby knew that look. He didn't press. "All right. I go out east sometimes, near the castle, for rarer herbs. Belladonna and the like. I've seen signs — blood, antlers, drag marks — concentrated near the crossroads, by the left fork headed north. Try there."
"Thank you," Henry breathed, sounding altogether too grateful.
"Don't thank me. Just get out alive." Barnaby gently shoved the lad back down when he made to stand up, pulling his hand away even before he was sure he'd gotten the message. He couldn't be chased out of here, too.
But Henry got the hint. He settled down, letting Barnaby scoop some stew into a bowl and pass it to him. He ate like a man starved, but at least he didn't get food in his wounds.
Outside, thunder boomed, and a whine came from outside the door right after.
"Oh, Mutt," Henry sighed. He glanced at the dog on the floor by the hearth, who'd woken up to a stranger in his home but wasn't alerting yet. "Can I… that is, I hate to impose."
"You have a dog? As long as they get along, it's fine. Might make it warmer in here." The hearth was not doing enough; Henry shivered violently though he was trying to suppress it. Barnaby pulled more blankets from his chest while Henry went to open the door.
The dog bounded in, headed straight for his master and proceeded to lick him on every inch he could reach. Henry wisely pushed him away before he could lick up the salve, though, and Mutt accepted the apology ear-scratches before wandering over to the other dog. They sniffed each other as dogs do, then both curled up by the hearth.
"Well, phew," Henry sighed, as if he'd been afraid they'd fight as soon as they saw each other.
"Looks like this isn't ending anytime soon," Barnaby said by way of reply, glancing out the window where the rain still lashed to Earth. Henry had set his sword by the door at some point. Barnaby was no expert, but it looked more expensive than the rest of the man's belongings combined. "You aren't going out again, are you?"
"In that? I don't want to wander around in the dark and wet anymore, to be honest. If I'm not imposing?" Henry looked so hopeful that Barnaby's chest ached a little, remembering when he was that young.
"No, I'd welcome the company. We can share stories and a mead or two. Let you get some sleep and dry out before you go. I'll set up a bed for you. It won't be an inn in Prague but it'll be warm at least. 'Specially if that Mutt of yours hogs the blankets like mine does."
Henry chuckled, bright. "I appreciate it. I'll take a look at your wares, too, in the morning. I can brew a bit but I'm always looking for new recipes."
"Those, you can have. I've got them all memorized anyhow."
Henry seemed surprised at that, and brought out his recipe book to show Barnaby. Barnaby couldn't read that well, but the book was carefully transcribed in what must have been Henry's hand, in large letters and with clear drawings too, as if the lad was afraid he'd forget how to read someday. Barnaby flipped through it, recognizing recipes he knew by heart and making mental notes on which ones were missing. It wasn't many. Henry was better at alchemy than he had admitted.
They sat talking long into the night, first with heads bent over the book, then as Henry made new entries from Barnaby's stash of recipes he had planned to sell, then just telling stories. Barnaby let Henry talk more, unwilling to delve too deep into his own pain. Henry didn't seem to have such trepidation around his past, though he didn't reveal much about the day he lost everything, which was fine. Barnaby could guess.
Instead, he told the most amazing and outlandish stories of his adventures after that, from becoming a novice for a week to swimming for the first time while arrows rained down around him. Throughout all of it — and there were many to tell, Henry seemed a bottomless pit of fortune and misfortune — Henry kept coming back to one name.
Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein.
He was a page, Barnaby found out, and it was meant to be a punishment for his lord. But they'd become fast friends within a few days, and had been through it all together, until a falling out just recently.
"I just hope he comes to his senses," Henry said with a sigh. "He hurt me but he's a good man, deep inside. It's not the same, without him. I keep thinking if I keep helping, keep making a name for myself, that someone will have seen him. At least to know he's alright."
Barnaby studied him, that earnest, honest face, and recognized some of his own youthful yearning there. He sighed internally. "I hope for your sake he is," he said, though he wanted, wanted with an aching, to say more.
"Thank you."
When Barnaby woke in the early dawn with a mild hangover, it was to sunshine through the window and two pouches — groschen, and dried belladonna — on his table, along with a note.
Herbalist Barnaby,
For the company.
May we meet again.
Henry of Skalitz
#
When next they met, it was overcast and Barnaby was kneeling in his garden, fighting the endless war against weeds that was his life. His hands were sore, gloves worn thin, and he hadn't seen another soul in days or he'd have traded for a better pair. He was debating going into Troskowitz or Tachov, but until he got that desperate he had mixed more salve for his raw hands than he'd ever kept around before.
A shadow fell across him.
Barnaby scrambled back, fists raised, crushing a patch of marigold in his panic. Why hadn't his dog barked? He was right there, sprawled out by the side of the hut while this fellow snuck up on him—
It was Henry.
Henry, who smiled sheepishly and offered him a hand.
"Good God, man," Barnaby gasped, accepting the help. "How'd you get so close?"
He blinked, then glanced at the dog. His own Mutt was lapping from Barnaby's trough. "I, uh, I was hunting wolves for Herdsboy Siegfried. Took an Aesop, then thought I'd drop in on you. Sorry."
"Must've been a strong fucking Aesop," Barnaby grumbled, heart still racing but panic giving way to embarrassment.
"Seems so. I brewed it myself. Didn't know it'd be that powerful. You alright?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Come in, if you like."
"Actually, I had a question. I was, er, in a tournament down in Zhelejov—"
"I know about Zhelejov, boy." He didn't like where this was going.
"Okay, fine, I was fistfighting. And I won, then the innkeeper said something about a master in the woods 'round here. Couldn't remember your name, but I figured it was you — uh, probably you." He scratched the back of his neck. "So. Are you?"
"Am I an unrivaled pugilist? Maybe. Have I used my fists too much in my life? Yes. Are you challenging me, boy?" He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to beat Henry to a pulp because the lad clearly didn't know when to yield.
"Yes."
Fuck.
Nothing for it. He could tell Henry wouldn't give up, and maybe the lesson would be good for him, even if it would weigh on Barnaby's conscience. "Fine. I have two rules. First, you get one chance. You lose, you drop the issue. Fair?"
"Fair," Henry said, nodding. The fool.
"And second, I'm not dragging you inside and patching you up. You yield the instant you know you're beaten. Got it?"
This rule seemed to rankle Henry more, as Barnaby had guessed. He dithered, until the herbalist raised an eyebrow in challenge. "Fine, I will."
"The question is, will you know you're beaten? Come on, get ready."
He stripped out of his shirt, hat, and threadbare gloves, standing with his hands on his hips while Henry took considerably longer to get his armor off. He had acquired more of it in the days since the last visit, just as drab and emblem-less as his previous outfit, but well-maintained.
"Ready?" he said when Henry looked as much, raising his fists and bouncing on his feet to warm up.
"Alright, old man, you get ready," Henry taunted.
Barnaby rolled his eyes. "I am—"
He barely saw the fist coming for his face mid-roll, leaning back just enough to let it fly harmlessly past and darting around Henry's right side. Henry pivoted far faster than he expected, though, blocking Barnaby's own jab to his stomach and grabbing his wrist before he could pull back. He yanked, and Barnaby used the momentum for a left hook to the ear that should have laid him flat.
Or made him yield.
Henry did neither, just released Barnaby's wrist and backed away, shaking his head like a dog. Barnaby didn't allow him the reprieve, coming in hard with a flurry of punches, left, right, kick, right again—
His wrist gave way with a crunch on Henry's forearm.
"Fuck!" he howled, cradling his hand and nearly dropping to his knees. Henry backed away, alarm clear on his face through the film of tears that sprang, unbidden, to Barnaby's eyes. That hurt. "Fuck, I yield. Help me, please."
Henry dropped his fists, going to Barnaby, alarm growing when he saw Barnaby's limp wrist. "Come on, lets get you inside," he said, hauling Barnaby up by the shoulders and steering him into the hut.
Barnaby sat down heavily, breathing through pain he hadn't felt in years, since the last time he'd been run out of a town. Henry knelt before him, producing a potion and a roll of bandages, which he set on the floor, then gently prising Barnaby's right hand out from his left so he could see the damage. He was gentle, more gentle than Barnaby could have ever expected, cradling the herbalist's rapidly-swelling wrist like a baby bird.
"Well, the good news is it's not broken."
"It's not?" It sure felt like it was, but he hadn't been on the other end of an examination in… ages.
"No, just sprained. I'll give you a marigold decoction and splint it. Rest it for a few days and it should be feeling better in no time."
"Did you brew the marigold yourself?"
Henry looked up at him. His eyes were a darker blue in this light, but as honest as ever. "Yes."
"Then I'll trust it. Wouldn't mind a spot of something, either."
"For this, of course," Henry said, passing him the potion and a bottle of wine. "Hold still."
"I know the procedure, thank you very much." The pain was making him snappy, but Henry just chuckled under his breath and, as soon as Barnaby had downed the decoction and started in on the wine, began to splint the injury.
It was over quickly. Barnaby tested Henry's work and found it impeccable; his wrist wouldn't bend at all. "Not sure how I'm going to weed the garden or brew like this, but it could be worse," he said.
"I am sorry, you know," Henry said quietly. He got to his feet with a soft grunt and went to retrieve their clothes before Barnaby could reply. He helped him get his shirt back on, but the herbalist waved him off when he reached for the buttons, catching his wrist in his good hand instead.
"Don't be, lad, I should've known better. You're damn good, letting me injure myself like that. I'm still strong in my old age, but that comes with a cost, too."
"You're not that old," Henry scoffed. "Anyway, where did you learn to fight like that?"
Barnaby thought back to everything he knew about this man. Could he trust him with the truth? "First. Tell me. Did you ever find your Lord Capon?"
Henry blinked. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"Humor me."
"Well, yes. We crossed paths. He was still angry, and I guess I was too, but we ended on better terms than we started. He's still off somewhere, doing God knows what, but at least he's alive." He narrowed his eyebrows. It was comical when light still shone in the eyes themselves at the discussion of his Lord. "Now, why?"
Barnaby told him the whole sad tale, of the girl who was sweet on him long ago, and her brother, and how word had spread, chasing him like hellhounds themselves.
At the end of it, Barnaby clammed up, watching Henry out of the corner of his eye as he stared into the bottle of wine. It was mostly gone.
Henry, for his part, was silent, staring off into the middle distance in the general direction of the hearth. The dogs had curled up next to it again, snoozing with their bodies pressed together shoulder to tail, but Henry didn't seem to notice.
"I'm sorry you were treated like that," he said quietly, at last. "No one deserves that."
"Not even a sodomite?" Damn it, Barnaby shouldn't push his luck. He downed the rest of the wine and stood abruptly, suddenly wanting to get good and sloshed. Easier to face Henry, then, out of his mind with booze.
Henry stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. It was a light touch, and he pulled away when Barnaby looked at him, but not in disgust. "No. They were wrong, Barnaby."
Barnaby stared. Henry's eyes were unwavering even in the dim light; it had turned to evening while they talked. He waited for the other shoe to drop, for it to be a cruel joke, but that face which gave away everything remained open, waiting too for Barnaby to agree.
"Alright."
"I mean it, Barnaby. They had no right to judge. Only God can."
Barnaby wasn't sure he even believed in God anymore, but he found himself placing his faith: not in God, but in the young man before him. "Thank you, Henry. For everything."
"Even breaking your wrist?" His mouth quirked in a lopsided smile.
"I did that. And you treated it after. I'd say I'm in your debt."
"Nah," Henry said, waving a hand. "No talk of debts. It's late; can I stay again?"
"Of course."
They ended up talking more, of Barnaby's grandmother and Henry's own upbringing as a blacksmith's son, and neatly avoided the unhappier memories. They lurked still, in Henry's eyes even as he smiled and laughed and knocked mugs with Barnaby, but were kept at bay that night.
In the morning, Henry bid Barnaby goodbye, and said he'd bring him a kolach from the wedding in Semine.
#
Barnaby's wrist healed well — perfectly, he'd say. Henry did not return, but Barnaby wasn't worried until the news reached him, late and third-hand, that the Semine wedding was a disaster and Henry had ended up in Otto von Bergow's dungeon. They said he had been caught fucking the bride in the cellar, but Barnaby knew better than to believe that.
Days passed with no more news. Barnaby worried.
He worried right up until von Bergow's men flooded the woods and stormed into his hut late one night, snarling about treason. Barnaby had no particular opinion on von Bergow, but he hated his men, and so he told them nothing, though even what he knew wouldn't matter.
As soon as they left, he downed his entire stock of mead, and grieved.
#
Life went on. The summer ripened and rotted. Fall approached swiftly, unerringly, and the nip in the air promised a harsh winter. On one of the last days of glorious sunshine before then, was it not fitting that he received his last visit?
Barnaby had worked up a sweat in the garden, preparing the perennials for winter and plucking every last annual before it died, and was giving himself a scrub in the cool water of the trough before diving back in, when his dog barked.
As soon as he had, the clatter of hooves, too, announced visitors.
He turned, beard still dripping.
The horse and her rider he recognized instantly, and Mutt running ahead to greet the other dog.
There was a stranger, too, but Barnaby only had eyes for Henry.
Henry, alive by some miracle, laughing as he dismounted Pebbles and strode up to crush Barnaby in a hug.
"You're— but I thought—"
"So did I, for a while there," Henry replied, breathless from laughter and Barnaby squeezing him back. He still had his strength, after all. Henry pulled back to just look at him, and he at Henry.
New, pink scars littered him, including one across his temple where the stitches still peeked out. But he was alive, and whole.
"Now, aren't you going to introduce us, blacksmith's boy?" teased the other man, coming up behind Henry to loop his arm possessively around his waist, and Henry let go of Barnaby to lean into the touch.
"Ah. Yes. Barnaby, may I present Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein. My lord, the herbalist Barnaby."
"I know who he is, Henry, you've sung his praises enough the whole way over here," Hans said, accepting Barnaby's short bow with a gracious nod and a wave to be at ease with his free hand.
So this was Henry's lord! Barnaby had been right; Henry's eyes shone with adoration when he looked at the man, even moreso than when he had merely talked about him. And Hans, despite his teasing, smiled at Henry, whole face lighting up, eyes crinkling at the edges when Henry smiled back.
They were in love.
"My praises? It should be the other way around," Barnaby said sheepishly. "He's a wonder, but you know that, I'm sure."
"I do," Hans said, leaning up to nibble at Henry's ear.
Barnaby's heart swelled even as his stomach flipped to see such open affection between them. It was beautiful, but also so, so dangerous. "Would you like to come inside? It may be cramped, I'm afraid, but I've restocked my mead. I would love to hear everything. The last news I got was when von Bergow's men were combing the woods for you."
"Fucking von Bergow," muttered Hans.
"It's done," said Henry.
"He tortured you!"
"It's done," Henry repeated, gently but firmly, and Hans settled down with a sigh and a nod at the herbalist. "We'd love to, Barnaby."
They gathered at the table, Hans almost in Henry's lap on one side and Barnaby puttering about for the mead before sitting on the other. He poured them all generous portions, and Hans reached for his with both hands, taking a sip. He paused, pursing his lips, then dove back in with a bigger gulp.
"That's good stuff," he said.
"Isn't it? Where do you get it, anyway?"
"I have my sources," Barnaby said, smiling. His sources were finite, and he liked the stuff too much to risk running out.
"Fine, keep your secrets," Hans allowed with a snort.
"Speaking of secrets, I'm sure you've guessed ours," Henry said, but he was smiling, too. His arm tightened around Hans. Was he afraid?
Barnaby shook his head fondly. "Henry, I think a blind and deaf man could have guessed. You two are too obvious." He raised a hand before Henry could reply. "But I am happy for you. How did it happen? You had barely stopped arguing, last I heard."
Hans raised an eyebrow.
"After I caught you poaching," Henry said, by way of explanation. Ah, so he had found the Ghost. That made a lot more sense, actually.
The nobleman's lips quirked, but his eyes were dark with memory. "Ah, well, after that, dear herbalist, we went to the wedding, got thrown in jail, I most brilliantly talked about my liberation of the local wildlife in earshot of the guards… and was almost hanged for it. The executioner had his foot on the block beneath me, actually. But Henry delayed them enough that Otto von fucking Bergow rode in and that was that."
"They tried to execute a nobleman?"
"Well. They didn't know that, the idiots. Could have talked to me enough and figured it out. But whatever. Henry saved the day as far as I'm concerned, not von Bergow." He pecked Henry on the cheek, making him blush scarlet and look down at his mead. "After that he strung us along for a bit until it all went to shit and he turned on us, and we had to get out of there quick."
"The search party? And the— the torture?"
"Aye," Henry said darkly.
Not a good subject, not that torture ever was. "What happened after that? It's been months."
"A lot, my good man," Hans said. "Our adventures could fill a tome, that I can tell you. But along the way I realized… I had fallen for Henry, and I took a chance. On the eve of a siege, so not the best timing, but—"
"It was perfect. It was just what you needed to get your ass in gear," Henry said, shaking his head. "That was the spark. I tell you, when he kissed me, I couldn't believe it. Both that he was doing it, and that it had taken so long for him to realize."
"Yes, well, you were never going to make the first move," said Hans.
"You know why."
"I do, love." Hans tucked his head into the crook of Henry's neck.
Barnaby smiled, heart swelling once again with fondness. "So what are you going to do now? I imagine your adventures are over for the moment, or you wouldn't have trekked all this way to visit me."
Henry lifted his head from where he'd laid it on Hans', but returned when Hans made a soft noise of protest. "Well… yeah, they are. But duty calls; Hans has to get married. We're still lord and page, so it's not like we're going to be separating, but it may get complicated soon."
Barnaby nodded. "It's always going to be complicated, lad. My advice? Take what time you have, seize it in the fistful and don't let go. Life has a way of ripping people apart even without the judgment of society, so enjoy it."
"I know. And I will. Thank you."
"You may get lucky, you may not, but know you will always regret the path not taken. Just— be careful. Nobles may have more leeway, but not that much, and you, Henry, won't have any at all." If they're caught, Henry will be ripped apart for 'corrupting' a lord.
Hans extracted himself from Henry's embrace, leaning on the table. "We know that too. Lord knows I've had enough nightmares, watching the gallows from where I'm locked in a tower somewhere…" He shuddered, draining his mug.
"It's always a possibility. But," Barnaby said, "anything is a possibility, lads, and I wouldn't let what hasn't happened yet ruin what is here and now. You love each other, I can see that plain as the day, and love opens doors more often than it shuts them, even love between men."
"You're a wise one, Herbalist Barnaby," Hans said wistfully. "I hope I live to be as wise as you in my old age."
"He's not that old," Henry said, rolling his eyes. The somber mood had passed, thankfully.
"Old enough." Barnaby stretched, glancing out the window to see it was still daylight. Plenty of time left for talk. "If you're eager to be going off by yourselves, I give you my blessings, such as they are. But I'd also appreciate the company. It's been a while and news of the outside world is scarce around here—"
"Say no more," Henry and Hans said at the same time, then Hans broke into giggles while Henry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and continued, "We'll indulge your need for gossip, don't you worry."
"Thanks. I owe you, again."
"Nah. Now, how much do you know about Kuttenberg…"
They talked over their mead until Hans fell asleep at the table, slumping over into Henry and stopping him mid-tale. Barnaby's eyes drooped, too, then, and they bid each other goodnight while Henry gently — so gently — lifted Hans and put him to bed on the pile of blankets made up for them.
In the morning, two pouches of groschen sat on his table, and herb paris pressed between the paper of another folded note.
Barnaby—
You've been a dear friend. We will take your advice.
Carpe diem.
H and H