Chapter Text
When Hanush stormed into his study, Hans was reading, or so it seemed. The book lay open on the table in front of him, flickering candle light illuminating the thin, fading letters just enough against the darkness that gloomed outside. His eyes were rushing across the parchment like a swarm of wasps, hectic and fast, and just like wasps, they couldn't understand the words that they touched. His mind was wandering elsewhere, and yet this elsewhere was still too dreadful for his thoughts to acknowledge it properly. It can't be, was the only thing they brought forth occasionally. They must be wrong. How could they not? It can't be.
Whatever hope for doubt there was got shattered when Hanush flung the letter down on the table, with such force that it left a cut as thin as a hair where it hit Hans's outstretched hand. Hanush didn't say anything, but his breath was heavy and hoarse. He didn't need to talk. Everything he could have said was explained in the letter, and even that letter wasn't necessary, because Hans knew already. But it can't be, his mind screamed one final time, helplessly, hopelessly, then it gave up. It was. The wasps had landed on the letter, and they had finally found a sentence that they could understand. Radzig Kobyla's bastard, they read, in Prague, conspiring with the Hussites.
“Read it.”
Hans's eyes slid over to the window, behind which the world was collapsing in on itself, dripping from the rain like carelessly applied paint on a wall.
“Or read it not then.”
“There's no need to.” His own voice was hard to recognise, it could have just as well been the wind howling in the cracks of the walls, had the words not burned in his throat.
“So you know already.”
“I found out this morning.”
“How? Did he tell you?”
Hans didn't reply. It hurt too much. In his throat, he tried to convince himself.
“He didn't then.” Hanush took a step back, turned away, hands pressed into his sides, as if he had just ran up all the stairs of Pirkstein thrice, robbing him of all the breath he had in him. He proved this supposition wrong immediately. “For fuck's sake!” His voice was so loud that it echoed from the walls like a bell. “How many people in this godforsaken country know about it already?”
“Not too many, I reckon.” Against Hanush's bellowing screams, Hans's words were not much more than a breath of wind.
“Well I sure hope so!” Hanush spun around again, his finger slamming down on the letter as if he wanted Hans to look, just look God damn it, but Hans's eyes were still fixed on the window pane, where the world melted into ugly splashes of varying greys. “Radzig Kobyla's bastard! Knight of the house of Leipa! Siding with the enemy!”
Hans swallowed, and it hurt but not in his throat, Christ, he couldn't even feel his throat anymore, couldn't feel his face or his hands either, only his chest and the sting in it. “Seems like he has made a decision.”
“But he had no right to ever make this decision!”
“If he feels like this is the more sensible battle to fight in, then he will go for it, there is no stopping him, he is a free man, he will –“
“But he isn't!” A noise tore through the air, as Hanush gripped the letter so harshly that it ripped, only to throw it back down a moment later. This time it caught the candle flame on its way and tumbled to the ground like a shot-down bird. “Fucking hell, he isn't! He has never been! But you, you always felt the need to treat him as one. And now all of us have to lie in this shit-covered bed that you have made!” Hanush leaned in closer now, close enough for Hans to smell his breath and the stench of way too much wine in it. His voice was quieter when he spoke again, nothing more than a threatening hiss. “He is your vassal, Hans. So bring your disloyal dog to heel. Before someone mistakes him for a wolf and cuts his treacherous head off.”
* * *
Heinrich swung the wooden sword around as if it was a burning stick with the most detestable insect dangling from its end. He would blame the heavy rain for it if his friends asked him about it, or the clothes that were just a little too big for him still, or perhaps the cawing of the crows that had distracted him, he always found an excuse. It was a miracle, Hans pondered, how a boy could be so skilled with a needle or a chisel or even a forging hammer, and yet so ungifted with something as simple as a sword.
Hans shivered, the cold creeping under his pourpoint, biting into his skin. He blinked quickly a few times against the rain drops that got stuck in his lashes, and for a while the greyness of late autumn vanished in front of his eyes and gave room to lush summer sun, so bright that he was convinced he could feel the warmth on his skin. The vision seemed as real as a dream often did, and it had been real once, more than ten years ago. Jitka sitting on a chair in the middle of the grass, a servant had carried it outside for her. She was leaning over the back rest, one hand pressed to the roundness of her belly, her eyes were closed, her face seemingly at ease for someone who didn't know her as well as Hans did. He had been watching her closely during his training fight with Henry, as if that could keep it from happening. A part of him – a big part, that was – was scared for her, since he knew damn well what giving birth could do to a woman. Another, even bigger part was scared for himself.
The sword hit his shoulder, ever so lightly, not to harm, only to bring him back to reality. “What's that long face about?” Henry laughed. He had the fucking guts to laugh! “You'll be a father soon! That's some cause for celebration, eh?”
“Celebration?” Hans glanced over to Jitka, hoping he hadn't squeaked out the word loud enough for her to hear, or that if he had at least she wouldn't notice the repulsion in it. Cautiously, he lowered his voice as he continued. “What is to be celebrated about this? It's more like this child has already tied an iron chain around my ankles. I can feel it dragging me down to the bottom of the river!”
“This is a gift, you know, not some cruel divine punishment.” He laughed again, the fucker. “And let me tell you this, from bastard to becoming father: A child doesn't even have to change anything, if you do not want it to. You might as well give it over to a wet nurse, and talk to it once every other week if that's what you prefer.”
Hans let his sword cut through the air, metal hit metal, a spark broke away from their blades. His skin felt as if it was on fire, too, and the air was filled with the smell of sun-burned grass, blending in with marigold and sweat. “But that's just the thing, I do not prefer! I had the pleasure,” he spat the word out like venom, reinforcing the meaning with another blow of the sword, “of growing up without parents. I won't let my children suffer the same fate.” Henry blocked the stroke, followed it up with a quick aim for the upper thigh that Hans parried lazily before letting his shoulders sink down. “It's just that I don't feel ready for it yet, either.”
The smile that Henry gave him was warmer than the summer sun and way more pleasant. “You won't be alone in this, you know? Jitka will be a wonderful mother, I'm sure of that. And I will keep a close eye on little Heinrich as well. Or on Henriette.” His mouth twisted to a crooked smirk. “Although I have to admit, I'm wishing more for a boy. I could teach him some things on the anvil, so that one day, when he grows tired of politics, he can just run off and become a smith. Like his father.”
It had to be a joke, a half one at least, but it sounded so sincere that Hans just couldn't hold back the soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A child with a mother and two fathers?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Hans closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief, and then he stepped forward and lowered his voice once more, while his left hand, covered in a thin leather glove, found its way to Henry's shoulder. “You don't need to do this, you know that. This is my child, my blood, my responsibility. Not yours.”
“You are my responsibility.” Henry brought his free hand up, placing it on Hans's, their fingers intertwining, and, God, after all this time this one simple touch still seemed to lift all the weight of his sorrows off Hans's chest. “And so is Jitka, by extension, and so is this child. I wasn't of Martin's blood either, yet he was the one who raised me, the one who called me son. I don't see why that has to be any different with this one.”
Heinrich screamed as he hit himself with the training sword. The summer sun disappeared, the warmth, the smell of grass and flowers and sweat, the sight of Jitka, her hand resting on the unborn boy. Here he was, right in front of him on the practice ground, and everything was different, every sweet word uttered all these years ago twisted into a lie. Because Henry wasn't really to Heinrich what Martin had been to him, or maybe Martin hadn't been that either, who knew. Hans's children weren't truly Henry's, and every hug, every kiss on the forehead, every lesson at the forge and every bedtime story hadn't kept him from running off to pursue his own goals. Not giving a fuck that he was putting the whole house of Leipa in danger, Hans and Jitka and the children, his responsibilities, as he had called them once, but the word felt like a mockery now. Maybe, Hans thought bitterly, blood was truly running thicker than anything else. Maybe, in the end, Henry had more of Radzig Kobyla in him than he himself believed or wished.
There were footsteps approaching, softly placed but still distinguishable from the rain. Jitka came to a halt next to him, leaning over the balustrade of the training ground just as he did, and for a brief moment he could have sworn that there was a round belly underneath her poppy-red dress, but it had just been the memory, clawing itself out of the pits of Hans's mind one last desperate time, before he banished it for good. Jitka didn't look at him, but she didn't say anything either, and there was a sadness in her eyes. So she knew.
Hans allowed himself one final deep breath before he uttered the inevitable. “I will be going to Prague.”
“Prague?” She laughed as if surprised but it sounded shallow. She had always been a smart woman, sharp with her wits and words, but never with her lies. “What business does the Lord of Rattay have over there in sacred Prague, and in these troubled times no less?”
“My visit is concerning the Hussites.”
She nodded. The feigned smile faded completely, the sadness returned stronger than before, but not because of the truth this time, but because he lied. “It's concerning him.”
Hans didn't reply because it wasn't necessary. They watched Heinrich for a while, as he fumbled around ineptly with his wooden sword. The boy's movements had become even more sluggish now, though not from exhaustion. He was listening, and of course he wouldn't let them know just yet, hoped to keep his parents in ignorance just a bit longer, so that they would continue their conversation. Only later would he come running to his father and whine about his departure, perhaps he would even wait until tonight when Hans was already tired and worn out from the day's preparations. He was almost as smart as his mother, that little brat.
“He is acting foolishly!” Hans sighed suddenly, and, at first, he wasn't even entirely sure who he was talking about. “I have to go and see him myself, bring him back to his senses somehow.”
Jitka laughed, but there was no happiness in her laughter, only bitter valerian and sharp steel. “Well, good luck then. You will need it.” She turned to go back to the city, arms wrapped tightly around her chest, against the cold, or so Hans hoped. Then she stopped again after a few steps, faced him once more. “This is Henry of Skalitz we are talking about.” Her voice was loud and clear against the rain, and heavy from concern and despair. “No one can bring this man to his senses, Hans, as long as he doesn't will it himself. Not even you.”