Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bell came first. 

Dull and distant clangs rolled through the valley like a warning, but had lost their urgency on the wind. She had barely heard it at first - muddled beneath the steady galloping of her mare. 

But her ears had caught the sound. She knew the town’s rhythm well enough by now to sense when something had broken the usual morning calm.

She drew in a breath, nostrils flaring as the chill stung her lungs. Her hands pulled sharply on the lead rope, bringing her mare to a reluctant stop. It whinnies and tosses its head in protest, before settling into a jittery standstill.

The woman rose slightly in her saddle, scanning the horizon. 

It’s good we’re here , she thinks to herself. From this hilltop, there’s a clear, full view of the town below. Her favorite place to ride when the morning was clear, when the roads were still kissed with frost. Here, every house turns into a little hut and every townsman into a tiny doll. She adored playing at this hilltop as a child, pretending to pinch roofs and flick chimneys. 

But the illusion is broken with how thick plumes of smoke darken the sky. It would be difficult to not notice them now - they’re certainly not coming from any chimney. Her eyes narrow to follow the forms of each violent cloud, trying to distinguish just where they’re coming from. 

It’s from one of the houses, right at the far edge of town. Not the grocers, no , it was the tilted hut that sits further up the road, a little isolated. The road leading to the manor. She’s sure it’s the carpenter’s house. 

Her leather glove grip tightens on the reins. 

“Come on, girl,” Alžběta murmurs with urgency lining her voice, whilst leaning towards the mare’s ears. She isn’t able to just stand there and watch. That's not in her nature. 

The mare kicks forward, sensing the tone shift. Another gust of wind catches the girl’s hair, tossing the long, brown strands behind her as they race down the hill. It felt like she was racing time itself, as all her senses focused on the plumes of smoke. They’re only getting heavier with each passing moment. 

By the time she reached the town's outskirts, chaos had fully bloomed. 

Smoke clung to the air, stinging her eyes and scratching her throat. Yells and shouts echoed in every direction and off the walls. People ran with pails, barked orders and tossed water with shaking hands. Some even carried pots or rags - anything that could keep water and fight the fire that’s devouring the carpenter’s home.

The blaze snapped and crackled, bright against the pale morning sky.

Alžběta leapt off the saddle before the mare had even come to a full stop, the chill of the wind now replaced with dry heat from the flames. There was no hesitation in her as she grabbed the nearest empty bucket and joined the frantic chain of townsfolk trying to put out the blaze, her boots digging into the hard ground. 

“What happened?” she asks breathlessly, trying to catch someone’s eye. “Does anyone know?”

“No idea!” a man - Janek, the butcher - shouts as he runs past, hardly sparing a glance, “It started so fast!”

Alžběta felt sweat lining her forehead. The rhythm was frantic and clumsy - no time for efficiency, only desperation. Hands shaking, arms aching, they passed heavy pails back and forth, flinging their contents into flames that only seemed to grow stronger.

“Faster!” Someone yells, whilst she heaves. She doesn’t think she can go any faster. She feels the pain shoot up her muscles, her hands faltering as she spills some of the water onto herself. 

And in that small faltering pause, a woman steps into her path. Magdaléna - the grocer’s wife. Her brows are furrowed, as she asks, “Young Mistress, are you sure-”

But her question is cut short by rising panic, “Watch out! Get away! It’s going to collapse!”

It was too quick of a warning. 

The weakened, charred wooden structure falls inward with a groan and collapses with a roar. Ashes get sent up in the air. The timber had splintered everywhere. People scrambled backwards, coughing, wheezing, shielding their faces. They clutch each other, staring in stunned silence. 

Alžběta stands frozen for a heartbeat, solely her chest rising up and down. A sole second of stillness and silence. 

Then, the commotion returns.

Still lots and lots of chatter overlapping in a rising din - as townspeople try and get a grasp of what just exactly happened. Whispers, shouts, questions but no answers. The carpenter’s wife stands at the centre of it all, saddled with tears in her eyes, her face pale with shock. Soot on her face and clothes, and a mouth ajar.  

But Alžběta turns to Magdaléna once more and Magdaléna doesn’t even get the chance to repeat her question. Instead, it’s she who clutches the older woman’s arm, wide-eyed, and asks everything at once. How? Why? Is anyone hurt? 

But Magdaléna doesn’t get the chance to answer either. 

The sound of hooves disrupts the crowd.

No one seemed to notice at first - until the horses pushed their way through the crowd and one figure led the way. Horses - large and imposing, armored in fine leather - parted the sea of people. 

At the head, the nobleman rode tall, red cloak billowing behind him. His eyes scanned the chaos and the people. Concern colored his expression at first - until his eyes landed on her .

“What are you doing here?” he demands, sharp and immediate. Still upon the horse, he towers over her with a strict gaze.

“I was helping,” she said, turning from Magdaléna. Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming fast, “I saw the smoke- I couldn’t just-”

“That’s dangerous.” he snapped, cutting clean through her words, “You can’t just run into town whenever you feel like it, especially not when there’s a fire and straight into danger. You’re not a child anymore and I didn’t give you permission to come into town.”

And he didn’t wait for a response. His attention had already shifted, stepping off the horse and toward the soot-covered carpenter with his soot-covered wife, who were staring numbly at the charred remains of their home.

“We’ll speak later,” he tossed over his shoulder without turning back.

Alžběta’s lips parted, but no sound came. She swallowed hard, biting back the bitter frustration rising in her chest. Her hands, still soaked with water, curled into fists at her sides. Without another word, away from Magdaléna who did not try to stop her, she turned and walked back toward her mare, who stood just as she had left her - ears perked, patient and unshaken. Much more level-headed than all the people here.

“I’m deeply sorry. This is terrible. Listen - let me help.”  Behind her, the voice of her father - calm now, composed - swept through the ash-thick air.

***

Henry hadn’t known what to expect, not truly. 

People back in Rattay spoke of Prague as though it were something mythic: streets paved in coin, churches taller than castles, people so clever they spoke Latin on the streets.

He knew most folk were talking out their arses, really. But Kuttenberg - that was different. People there held Prague in a kind of reverent regard, calling it the heart of Bohemia. Everyone had told him that if you wanted to become something, you went there. And he had more faith in what they said since Kuttenberg was supposedly only second to Prague. It had stuck with him - that weight and idea of the city. 

But now that he was here, riding under the sprawling arms of the city’s walls with the sun barely lifting through the morning fog, Henry felt like a stranger wrapped in borrowed armour. He passed beggars in patched cloaks, merchants hoarsely barking over each other, carts stuck in half-frozen mud. No one had told him how loud Prague would be, or how gray. 

He’d thought it would feel different - he would feel different. He'd thought he'd feel larger. Brighter. More. Instead, the cobbled roads pressed in from all sides, slick with mud and frost, and the crowd flowed around him like water around a rock. 

Still, it was beautiful. The bridge alone took his breath away - an enormous structure of stone crossing the Vltava, its big arches perfectly curved like they were carefully drawn by a monk’s steady hand for a manuscript. He’d seen stones in buildings - castles and churches and a lot of Kuttenberg - but never in bridges, never on that scale. 

But beauty and grandeur aside, the reality hit quickly.

With every town he had been in and every village he’s passed through, he seemed to have this accidental pull towards helping people. Maybe it was his face or maybe the way he spoke, that people turned to him and trusted him to get things done. Maybe it was the way he carried himself or maybe he seemed more charming than he had thought - but whatever it was, they trusted him. A pregnant woman, a poacher, a priest or a lord of a different land. Henry had seen it all. 

Not in Prague. 

Here, he was just another face. A sword on a horse. Another foreign country lad trying his luck in the capital. No longer the bastard of Skalitz. No longer the man who scouted for Hanush or rode for Sir Radzig or earned the respect of Hans Capon. Not the man who’s bested robbers, heretics, nobles and monks alike. 

Before he’d left, Radzig had told him he earned his rest. That Henry had served with honour so now he can take time to breathe. To do what he wants and not what’s expected of him. Not because someone asked, or begged, or needed saving. To live outside of duty for a while. 

And so he had come to Prague. But Kuttenberg had felt easier. Simpler. There, he could still talk to people, help out, feel like he mattered. But Prague was another beast entirely. Prague didn’t need him - it barely noticed he was there. He supposes that he did indeed miss being needed. Whether it was something he had gotten used to or actually enjoyed, he’s still unsure. He thought he wanted peace from endless favours and selfless deeds, like how Sir Radzig had suggested, but maybe they were both wrong.

Soon, desperately looking for something, anything to do, he got wind of a tourney happening in the city. The first thing he could latch onto - finally something he could do to feed his hunger and his pouch. A bearded man with bony fingers told him over a game of dice in the inn he was staying in, whilst shaking the small cup. Henry never caught his name, but was thrilled with the new piece of information. 

“Really?” he asked, straightening up in his seat, “How can I enter?”

A skeptical once-over from the man, “You sure you want to enter?”

“I’ll have you know I’ve won multiple tourneys before.” he said, grinning in confidence. 

“Well then, if you say so, lad. There's a big pen near the city walls, by the North entrance. Ask for a Petr and someone will surely tell you where to find him to sign up.”

And so, the first tourney he entered, he was brimming with excitement and confidence. Petr asked some usual, brief questions - how many fights, what weapons, whether he understood the rules. Not out of interest, Henry realised, but to weed out the less experienced ones. A sieve for fools who’ve been tricked by the sin of Pride. 

“Yes, I’ve been in tourneys before. Won, too.” He had shaken his head at Petr, crossing his arms over, “I know how to wield a longsword, a shortsword and other weapons. I know how the rules go.”

And with all that boldness, Henry’s first tourney in Prague, with no ounce of regret as his opponent mocked him before the match - he had lost.

Not badly, but badly enough that his pride took a bruising. He thought he had experienced enough things by now to not place so lowly in a tourney. Again, his sore loss reminded him that Prague wasn’t Rattay nor even Kuttenberg. These men had trained in the city yards, fought in the king’s retinue, boasted scars older than Henry’s boyhood, his ego realised. 

But Henry knew how to push himself harder. He spent the next two weeks studying other contestants. Watching the footwork. Watching the strikes’ timing. Watching the parries and the ripostes and the rhythm. It’s not like any of them would notice him - or even care if they did - in this city. Too many people to keep track and care of all the eyes on you.

But when the next tourney came, he had secured third place. And it fed the hunger he was feeling. The one after that, he had won. 

It felt good. It felt good when Petr had finally remembered his name and face. Still gruff and still brisk - but only nodded when Henry passed over the groschen to enter. Previously, he would have the same exact talk with Henry as when they had first met: how many fights, what weapons, whether he understood the rules? Anywhere else, he would have been shocked by how unbothered the man was, but not in Prague. 

And so, by the fourth tourney, the crowd knew his name too. 

A steady chant of, "Jin-dřich, Jin-dřich! ” or “ Hein-rich, Hein-rich!” among those watching, with their thick and thicker accents. 

Some women in the audience had taken a liking to calling out "Jindra!" or even “Jindřišek!”

A smile, a wave was enough to appease the people watching him for the fights and enough to stir more cheers. For a moment, he thought this recognition would change his position in Prague. He had received a free drink or two, a couple of curious chats from watchers and friendly banter, a bold tavern girl making passes at him at some point - but it was all so brief and short. Nothing that lasted.

People got bored quickly and moved onto the next thing there. He isn’t the first tourney champion and he certainly won’t be the last. Henry had felt he was once more just a sword on a horse. 

Nonetheless, the prize was good coin and more than that, the sparring had made him feel as sharp, necessary and alive as he could in Prague. 

Well, until nightfall. 

At night, in his rented room above a tavern, he would stare at the warped, wooden ceiling and feel the weight of the victories press down like winter snow. The window in the room wouldn't shut properly. Cold crept in, along with the stench of the city.

Was this what he really wanted, when Radzig had told him to give himself a break? He had expected much more of the city. More of his life here and more of himself. 

He was two days out from the next tournament when a messenger found him.

It was a cold morning, fog curling through the alleyways like hungry fingers. Henry had just finished sharpening his sword over at a nearby blacksmith’s. He had found the rasp of the whetstone strangely soothing in the otherwise bustling life of the city. 

Henry’s unsure of how the short man who arrived behind him had found him. You really can’t feel all the eyes on your back in this city. He was waiting for Henry to finish with the sword, dressed in a dusty cloak, hands too clean to be a peasant, but not dressed like a noble either. He bore a wax-sealed letter with an unrecognisable crest. 

To Sir Henry of Skalitz, Proven Man-at-Arms, Victor of the Golden City’s Tourneys, and Sword of Good Repute,

Henry almost laughed at the title. He read it twice. It seems grandly exaggerated to compensate for how little they actually know about him. 

Following that, was a request for protection on behalf of a noble family in the countryside. Travel west to remain on retainer for security. A large sum of groschen promised.

It would take him out of Prague. To a smaller town and a quieter one. Like all the towns he’s used to from the past. Somewhere he could matter again. Henry leaned against a building wall, letter in hand. Near him, his horse snorts softly, shifting his feet whilst waiting for his owner. 

This is a sign. A gift from God , Henry thinks to himself, as takes his eyes off the piece of parchment to look at the street in front of him. 

He thinks of the fleeting cheers and the merchants who don’t recognise him no matter how many times he’s stopped inside shops to trade. He thinks of the dice player who had never even told Henry his name and he thinks of the tavern girl who seemed so very interested in him till he told her that Skalitz is actually far, far from here and was only a small village. He thinks of the German who gave him a free beer, before bumping into some glasses-wearing scholar who he found far more interesting to talk with than Henry.

Prague hadn’t welcomed him with open arms, it doesn’t seem. It does seem like the perfect time to move on from here. 

Henry looks back at the quiet messenger, standing straight as a stick with an equally straight face, waiting for Henry to answer. 

“Protection from what exactly?” he pushed himself off the wall, curiously looking at the shorter man. 

“Just…” he gathered his thoughts, “Unrest. There’s some unrest in the town. My Lord is confident that a man like you would be able to handle it.” 

Henry folded the letter neatly and tucked it into his belt’s pouch. He’s dealt with all kinds of unrest. Cumans in a tavern. Disease striking a whole town. The overflow of injured in a small monastery space. A whole mill overrun with bandits, with the residents tied up as hostages in the pantry. 

“Aye, let me gather my things from my room, and we can leave together to get there before dusk.” 

Chapter Text

The ride was long and largely uneventful. The messenger wasn't one for conversation. 

Henry had tried, at least at first. He’d asked his name - Zbyněk, came the short reply. He’d asked what he thought of his lord. That earned even less.

Lord Oldřich of Lesníci, he’d said eventually. A not so large town that’s out of the way. The Lord had a daughter. His wife had died some years ago. 

Henry let the silence stretch before trying once more, his voice low and idle, “What’s going on in town, then? All this unrest?”

“There was a fire recently. That’s got folk uneasy.” he explained,  “The carpenter’s house, because of a hearth left unattended. Wood and fire don’t mix - he probably left some materials too close to it.”

Henry nodded slowly. That doesn’t sound like a reason to have extra security, though, he thought to himself.

 “Anything else?”  

Zbyněk shifted in the saddle, “The townsmen aren’t happy, lately. There’ve been bandits in the area. Lord Oldřich is looking into it.”

“Bandits?” Henry echoed, with faint interest, “I’ve dealt with my fair share of those. I could help.”

“We’ll see what the Lord asks you to do.”

The rest of the road passed in silence. The sky above was clear and pale, and the wind bit at their clothed layers as the horses trotted on, hooves dull against the frozen dirt path. Henry watched the trees pass, thinking about the Lord. About the fire. Thinking about whether this was the right decision. 

Though , Henry really wished Zbyněk was more of a talker. A grunt here and there, maybe the occasional shrug. Small talk didn’t work on him, either, Henry did try at some point when he had enough of thinking.

 At the very least, in the long strung silence only broken by the horses and wind, he was able to gather some more concrete ideas about the whole thing. It’s the bandits causing all the unrest - but there’s a high chance now that some folk believe that fire wasn’t an accident. That belief has only worsened the unease - added fuel to the fire, so to speak.

And with those thoughts in mind, he had entered the town of Lesníci. 

Narrow streets curved gently between them. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys. 

It really wasn’t big, Henry had seen many towns as such. It was probably just a bit smaller than Skalitz, even. Some people littered the streets still, but most Henry could hear were at the tavern. Any of those that did pass by Henry and Zbyněk, gave looks of raised eyebrows. 

He’s a newcomer, afterall. He had treated newcomers in Skalitz the same way - raised eyebrows of curiosity and confusion. What could they possibly want in this tiny town? 

Soon enough, further out from the main area, Henry had passed the charred remains of the carpenter’s house. It’s not his first time seeing burnt down homes, obviously. This one had collapsed completely, timber beams jutting out like broken bones and walls dropped into the ground. It couldn’t have been a small fire with the blackened mess of soot and ash.  

He caught a man standing nearby, arms folded tight, jaw clenched. Henry met his eyes briefly. Not grief, not fear, simple and clear distrust.

Henry broke off his gaze from the man. Instead, he tilted his head up - from here you could already see the manor of the Lord. It sat atop a hill, stone walls pale against the darkening sky. Big and imposing, and Henry’s sure that from there you could watch the entire town. It was a grand sort of building that clearly suited a Lord with wealth. Maybe even a bit too grand for a town of this size.

“That’s where we’re going, aye?”

“Yes, that’s the manor.” The other man nods, as plain as he’s been the whole journey. 

They reached the gates, where two guards in the Lord’s colours glanced them over and waved them through. Henry dismounted at the stables, patting Herring’s side before handing off the reins.

Zbyněk turned to him then, “I’ll take you straight to the Lord. Bring your things.”

Inside, the manor was warm. Rich oak beams, stone floors polished smooth, tapestries on the walls - some showing the family crest, others depicting old hunting scenes or saints. Henry walked quietly, taking it all in. 

They entered a study, where a man stood behind a wide desk, parchment in one hand and a wine goblet in the other. He was in his forties, perhaps, dressed finely, with a fur-lined cloak draped over the chair behind him. A couple streaks of silver on his auburn head and a beard that was trimmed neatly of the same colours.

When he looked up, his gaze was steady. Appraising.

Lord Oldřich of Lesníci , Henry presumed.

“Perfect, let us bring in the other man I’ve arranged for this job. He had arrived earlier than you have, finding his own way here. He was also a Prague tourney champion, you know.” he starts with no hesitation, and a certain smoothness to his voice, “I do enjoy a good tourney.” 

And with that, Zbyněk left to fetch the other man. 

Henry stands patiently, but curiosity forces him to ask, “Does that mean you’ve watched me fight, Sir?” 

“Of course. I had business in Prague - but I had the time to watch one tourney, which you had won. You’re a fighter of brute strength, I’ve noticed. Then, when I returned and all the unrest that had broken out, I knew it would be a good idea to ask you for aid.”

“I see,” Henry nods, keeping himself as formal as possible,  “You can trust me, Sir, to not let you down.”

Lord Oldřich grins, clasping his hands together, “And the two of you will work together. It won’t be hard work, don’t fret. Easy groschen for a man like you. I’ll explain what I need from you both in a moment.”

Once again, Henry nods, hands placed behind his back, listening - until the door clicks open. The sound pulls his gaze away from the Lord. 

The messenger returns, but Henry barely registers him. Behind him walks a tall man with dark, neatly parted hair and a face built of sharp lines. Defined cheekbones and a strong jaw - coupled with a look of confidence.

Henry knows that face and those features. 

How could he forget it?

How could he forget the face of the first man to put his cock up his arse?

And the recognition flashes on Bartosch’s face too. Henry sees the exact moment he looks over from Lord Oldřich to himself. A subtle flicker of surprise, quickly contained. His eyes widen just slightly - then he half-smiles, slow and practiced, like he’s in on a joke no one else knows. 

Henry feels heat rise to his cheeks. He straightens almost reflexively, trying to school his expression as he looks back at the Lord.

It doesn’t help that the last time he’d seen Bartosch, he was in a prison cell in Nebakov - on opposite sides of a battle. No privacy to speak then. No room to speak of what had happened between them that night. 

Yet Henry knew Bartosch didn’t hate him. He wasn’t a shallow man with blind opinions. He hadn’t bought into the idea that they needed to be enemies solely because they happened to end up on two different sides. That’s just how life is and where life had taken them to. 

Henry had thought of him since, more than once. The passion of their night. The unexpected tenderness under all that hunger. He hadn’t expected to ever see Bartosch again. And he had experienced other men since Bartosch. 

Henry doesn’t even know how he feels now. Pleased? Caught off guard? Curious? Nervous?

Christ, he needs to focus. 

“Henry,” Bartosch says, his voice calm and low, “it’s been a while.”

Lord Oldřich perks up before Henry can, “The two of you know each other? Of course -  I’m not surprised that two tourney champions know each other. Though it has been a while since you’ve participated, Bartosch.”

“All because I hadn’t been in or around Prague for quite a while.” Bartosch takes place right beside Henry, his sight focused onto the Lord. 

Lord Oldřich hums before speaking up again, “Then you’ll both be wondering what I’ve brought you here for. I’d like you to serve as protection here at the estate - my guards, essentially - and, more to the point, as personal watchmen for my daughter.”

Henry blinks. Watchmen? He hadn’t expected glorified child minding duties. 

“Alžběta is downright uncontrollable.” Oldřich continues with a sigh, “She’s of age to be married yet insists on acting as if she were raised in a tavern or barn. Running off to town whenever it suits her. During unrest, no less. She even joined the townspeople when they put out a recent fire - imagine that! A nobleman’s daughter, doing physical work like a commoner. It's - well, shameful.. I’m trying to arrange a proper match for her, and she insists on behaving like a peasant.”

Behaving like a peasant? Henry bites back a smirk. He’s starting to sound like Capon, he muses. But fine. Let the man gripe.

Still, the mention of bandits is what caught his attention earlier. Something with teeth, finally. Something he knows he can help with, with more experience under his belt. 

“Your messenger mentioned trouble with bandits, Sir,” Henry says. “Would you have us assist with that as well?”

Bartosch shifts slightly beside him, his voice stepping into the conversation, “We’ve both had more than enough experience with such matters.”

But Oldřich waves the thought away adamantly, “No, no. That’s a matter I’m handling directly - with my own retinue. It falls to me, as Lord of this land, to maintain order. What I need from you is to keep a close watch on my daughter. Keep her within the manor. Keep her safe . ”

He says the last word with such finality that it’s clear the conversation - at least in his eyes - is settled.

“Henry and I can handle it, I’m sure. Are we to meet the young mistress today?”

“It’s almost dusk - it can wait till tomorrow morning. Zbyněk will show you the way to your chambers, but first to the cook - and she’ll provide you with some food. Get a good night’s sleep and make sure you feel comfortable here. Now if you excuse me, I’ll head off.” 

Zbyněk did just that. He moved through the manor with the sure-footedness of a man who had memorised every corridor. He didn’t look back often, just trusted that the two men behind him were following. 

Bartosch kept quiet, which surprised Henry more than he cared to admit. He walked in silence beside him, matching his pace, eyes skimming the details of the manor. 

It was probably because of Zbyněk’s silence , he told himself.

Henry risked a glance at him. Bartosch hadn’t changed much - not in any way that mattered.  More lines around the eyes. A faint crease between his brows that hadn’t been there two years ago.

Henry looked away before he could be caught staring. A strange coincidence , he thought, that they’re both here. He’d wait for privacy before asking any questions that sat at the back of his throat. 

They arrived at the kitchens. The cook - an older woman with sleeves rolled up and flour on her hands - didn’t ask questions, just fed them. Stew, mostly. Something simple, thick with root vegetables and pieces of salted meat. A hunk of bread that had gone crusty at the edge. Zbyněk sat nearby, eating with the silent efficiency of a man who did everything with quiet purpose.

Bartosch, in contrast, tried his hand at conversation. 

“Any rules we should be aware of? Places to avoid?” he asked, voice low and civil, directed at Zbyněk. 

“Don’t bother the Lord, unless he seeks you out first. Don’t take any food or drinks from the cellar - if you’re hungry just ask the cook. Don’t enter the young Mistress’ chambers.“ Zbyněk gave a brief glance over his shoulder, “But that is obvious.”

He led them to their room once their plates were clean and cleared. 

“It’s this door.” Zbyněk nodded at them both, “Good night.”

Left alone, Henry and Bartosch stand in the silence he leaves behind. A beat passes - then both men shift slightly, hands moving toward the door at the same time. The mirrored motion draws their attention, but neither says a word. Just a faint pause, a moment of hesitation.

Bartosch is the first to look away. He doesn’t glance up at Henry, doesn’t offer a smile or a jest - just reaches out and takes the handle, turning it without ceremony. The door creaks open. He steps through, and Henry follows.

Close behind, close enough to feel the warmth off his back.

Finally, the two of them were alone. Finally, Henry could talk to Bartosch, both in privacy and in peace. But what had been left unsaid about two years ago at Nebakov - would either of them bring it up? It was clearly a one-night thing. It was passionate, but nothing more than lust, right? 

Still, Bartosch seemed to be the kind of man who would bring it up. Henry remembers it well: the smirking little remarks Bartosch would push his way whilst they sparred, the charmful cockiness when he had won. And it had all translated into the way he spoke to him in bed. 

So, when Henry closed the door behind them - the latch catching with a soft thud - he expected something to shift. A look of further recognition, a teasing jab at Henry. 

But nothing. 

The room is plain but well-kept - two beds, a small fireplace, cupboards for their belongings. He turns just in time to see Bartosch loosen the belt around his brigandine and tug it off, calm as ever. Like this is nothing. Like they hadn’t kissed each other’s throats raw. 

“...Well this is not exactly what I was expecting.” Henry is the first to speak, testing the waters. 

“The job?” Bartosch asks, his tone light but unreadable as he tosses the belt over one of the bedposts. He doesn’t look at Henry. He’s surveying the room, tugging at the laces of one sleeve absently. 

What happened to the knowing smile he had offered back in the other room? Like he remembers what had happened between the two of them? 

“The job,” Henry echoes, not voicing his thoughts, still watching him. And you. 

A silence stretches between them - thick, odd, unfamiliar. 

He could ask. Why haven’t you said anything about it? He could joke. You’re not going to pretend that night didn’t happen, are you?

But he doesn’t.

Because Bartosch isn’t looking at him the way he used to. No soft glint in the eye. No stupid, smug half-grin that used to make Henry want to grab him by the collar and argue about sword techniques just for an excuse to be close.

Now he looks, well, cautious. Reserved. Like a man playing a part, keeping his shoulders squared and his smile safe. As if he’d folded up whatever had existed between them and hidden it somewhere too far to reach.

Henry thought - was sure - that Bartosch had understood him, by their talk in Nebakov. That he didn’t hate him. 

“Strange coincidence,” Henry offers instead, crossing the room to the window and leaning against the sill, “That we both ended up here.”

Bartosh doesn’t reply at first. Just the soft rustling of fabric loosening and leather creaking faintly. 

And then, “Stranger things have happened.”

A vague answer. A deflection. Henry’s brow furrows. You bastard, you’re really not going to bring it up.

He turns, leaning back against the window frame now, arms folded across his chest.

“You knew it was me when you walked in.”

That earns him a glance. A direct one. Bartosch’s expression softens for a second - almost like an apology - before that hardened, stoic mask returns.

“Of course I did,” he says. “How could I not?” 

A beat. Then Bartosch moves to sit on one of the beds, exhaling through his nose.

“Look-” he starts, rubbing a hand over his face, “I didn’t know you’d be here. That’s not... why I came. But it is good to see you’re alive.”

“Neither did I.” Henry's lips tighten, “But it’s good to see you alive too.” 

So there isn’t any harboured resentment. That’s something. 

They look at each other across the small room. It’s not hostile. It’s not warm either. Just that taut, silent thread between them, tugged by things they’re both too careful to say. 

It’s strange. Henry remembers how easily Bartosch had slipped in his suggestion. Brandy in his room , that the two could share. How easy was it for Henry to understand the pretence. 

He doesn’t usually wish he could read minds - he’s always been good with people - but God , he wishes he could hear Bartosch’s thoughts now. Maybe he just didn’t want Henry like he did back then. Maybe he’s moved on from that night, far quicker than Henry had. It’s not like Henry ever knew what it had meant to Bartosch in the first place.

“We’ll meet the girl in the morning,” Bartosch says after a while, “She can’t be worse than your friends at Nebakov, before they became your friends.”

Henry lets out a breath, “Don’t jinx it. She might put you in a cell.” 

His voice holds a small, reluctant smirk.

And there it is. A flicker. The almost . Bartosch chuckles lightly, but continues the conversation no more. 

Instead, he continues to rid himself of his layers for bed. Henry wavers for a brief second, before getting off the sill and turning around to face his own bed. He should also get into bed. And stop thinking about this situation with Bartosch so much. 

It was two years ago. And they have more important duties now. 

***

Their morning began with turned backs and quiet dressing. Neither of them spoke nor glanced as they pulled on layer after layer of clothing. It’s odd, when they both know what the other looks like bare.

Henry pushed that thought out of his mind.

They’d been told where to wait for Alžběta, and wait they did. The corridor was quiet, the air faintly chill. A few servants passed by, but none lingered. Between Henry and Bartosch, only the barest words passed.

“How’d you sleep?” Henry eventually asked.

“Not the most comfortable bed I’ve been in,” Bartosch murmured, without looking over.

Not quite cold, but distant - like something held carefully at arm’s length. And Henry didn’t want it to be that way. Not really. Bartosch was keeping space between them, deliberately, and Henry could tell it was an effort. Measured. As if he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. 

And then she appeared.

Gloves only half-pulled on, coat hanging open like she hadn’t had the time to bother with the buttons. Her boots struck the manor floor with sharp steps, her posture bold and unrepentant. No apology for being late. Not even a greeting.

Just a level look between the two of them like she was already sizing them up - and not impressed.

“So,” she said, “I want to go riding.”

Henry blinked, she didn’t even let them introduce themselves, “Your father asked us to keep you on the estate.”

“What’s the point of you two, then if it’s only to watch me wander about the manor? That doesn’t make sense, does it?” her tone somehow perfectly pleasant, before she takes quick strides to the door. 

Bartosch and Henry shared a wordless glance. Uncontrollable , Lord Oldřich had said and he could see why. 

They followed, forced to toss in rushed introductions as they caught up.

“I’m Henry.”

“Bartosch.”

The outdoor morning air was crisp, frost still clinging to the edges of the stable roof, cold mud squelching faintly underfoot. Each of their horses stationed patiently. She took hers and swung herself into the saddle with practiced ease. Henry and Bartosch could only do the same. 

“I’ll lead the way.” she said with confidence, no wait for agreement. 

The ride started calm enough. 

The morning mist clung low to the fields, and the trees bordering the manor grounds still held the weight of winter on their branches. Henry assumed she’d trot around the edge of the estate a few times, then demand to go back because of the chill biting at her skin or out of boredom.

She didn’t say a word to either of them and in turn they didn’t say a word aloud. 

But then - she took off.

No warning, no call out - just a sharp kick to her mare’s flanks and a sudden burst of speed as she charged toward the forest. 

“Christ,” Henry muttered, digging his heels in. He shot Bartosch a quick look, who met it with wide eyes and a muttered curse of his own. Then they both took off after her.

She was fast. Far faster than Henry expected. She wove through the trees like she’d done it a hundred times before - ducking branches, taking turns sharp and sudden, hooves splashing through old puddles and patches of melted snow. Henry and Bartosch struggled to follow her exact path, their horses slower to trust the ground. 

Henry fought to follow her trail, branches snapping at his shoulders as his horse slogged through the wet terrain. Bartosch wasn’t faring much better. Neither of them knew this forest - she clearly did.

“I really didn’t think that this is what we’d be doing.” Henry muttered, ducking under a low branch.

“We have to convince Oldřich to let us help with the bandits instead.” Bartosch shot back. 

And then - nothing.

Silence.

No pounding hooves ahead. No glimpse of her coat through the trees. They reined in their horses at a fork in the trail, breathing hard, scanning the woods.

“We’ve lost her,” Henry said. 

A beat. Then, he added dryly, “First bloody day and we’ll be hanged from the manor gates.”

“If we can’t find her, we’ll just have to ditch this town too.” Bartosch muttered, turning his horse in a slow circle, scanning the tree line.

They both clicked their tongues and urged their horses forward, splitting off just a little before slowly converging again as they moved through the forest.

“She’s fast,” Henry said, “For someone raised in a manor.”

Bartosch gave a faint huff, “Noble brats tend to learn how to run before they learn how to listen.”

That earned the ghost of a grin from Henry, “You would know, nobleman of Prague?”

“But I wasn’t raised in a manor.” Bartosch huffed in slight amusement, “What were you doing in Prague, anyway? With your Lord Capon?”

“No.” Henry shook his head, “I was supposed to be resting.” 

“Resting? And you ended up as tourney champion before signing on to nanny a noble’s daughter?”

“That’s how it happened.”

A short pause.

“How did you like my home city?”

Henry hesitated. He could lie, tell him that he fit right into the atmosphere of the city. But instead - 

“It was awful,” he said, “Felt like I didn’t belong there. Not once.” 

Bartosch raised an eyebrow, “Is that so?”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure everyone saw me as a country bumpkin and nothing more. Practically felt invisible.”

“You did win the tourney, though.”

“I’ve never been good at sitting still.”

“No,” Bartosch murmured, “you haven’t.”

The air shifted - softened. The space between them felt less brittle, less strained.

Then Bartosch looked away, like catching himself in the act.

Henry watched him for a second longer than he should have.

And then, before he could stop himself, he asked:

“What about you? Did you come out here just for the coin?”

Bartosch thought about it for a couple moments, before words came tumbling out, “You could say that. I felt the need to go back to my home city after everything. Then I got offered this job.” 

After everything? After Nebakov? After Lord Von Bergow? 

Before Henry could respond, Bartosch reined in his horse.

“There.” Bartosch said, pointing past a rise.

Henry squinted. Just a flash of movement - her mare, definitely. And the girl, standing beside it, arms folded, looking entirely unimpressed that it had taken them so long to catch up.

Bartosch exhaled through his nose and similarly Henry sighed a sigh of relief. 

“You want your father to cut our heads clean off?” Bartosch said, once the two of them got closer to her.

“It’s fine,” she replied coolly, stroking her horse's well-kept mane, “These woods are safe. It’s the forest off the east side of town that has the bandits.”

Henry perked up at the mention of bandits. It seemed that Bartosch did as well, the face of annoyance he had earlier replaced with curiosity. 

“Anything more you know about the bandits?” Henry asked, watching the girl plop back onto her horse. 

“Not really. They’re just causing trouble in town. Stealing and the other typical-bandit stuff.” 

Ah. He hadn’t expected her to know much anyway. 

She took the lead again whilst riding, though in a much slower pace. Bartosch and Henry fell in behind her, trotting side by side now, hooves muffled by wet earth.

“...So,” Bartosch said, voice low, “Prague didn’t suit you.”

Henry let the quiet stretch before answering.

“It didn’t.”

More silence from Bartosch. It seemed like he would speak - his jaw had loosened just just a moment, his lips parting. 

But, something stopped him.

In fact, hardly anything more was said from any of them three for the rest of the horse riding trip. 

It’s really going to be strange , Henry thinks to himself. 

Chapter Text

“I want to go into town.” The girl says, one afternoon, whilst saddling her horse. 

It’s been a couple of days since Henry and Bartosch arrived at Lesníci. Every morning, like clockwork, Alžběta demanded a ride - either around the manor grounds or into the woods - until she grew bored. 

Once back at the manor, she’d be whisked away by staff and attendants for whatever duties and lessons noblewomen were meant to do. Henry wouldn’t know. Then she would be back in their hands till dinner, which wasn’t very long. 

For the first few days, he had watched this routine with a detached sort of curiosity. Then that curiosity frayed into boredom. And eventually - frustration. After all, he wasn't here to stand at the sidelines. He wasn’t the kind of man to let time slip away like this. He came here to escape whatever he was missing in Prague.

Henry thought that with this routine, he’d be able to speak some more with Bartosch. They’re given around two blessed hours of free time before they are needed again whilst Alžběta is away in the manor. But all Bartosch does is keep him at arm’s length. Always polite, always cordial, but never close. It gnawed at him, he needed to figure something out to fix it, with no clue where to start. 

It shouldn’t bother him , Henry tells himself, but it does . Especially when Henry can tell Bartosch has his moments of teetering at the edge - where, for a second, Henry believes he will actually reveal an annoyingly charmful smirk before making some sort of teasing and devilish jibe. 

Like the day before, Henry remembered. They’d been taking the horses back - Bartosch had reached over, wordlessly, and adjusted the strap on Henry’s saddle. Just a slight tug - precise and deliberate. 

“It was slipping,” he said simply, but there’d been something about the way he’d said it. Dry. Offhand. But not unkind.

“You could’ve let me fall,” Henry had replied, half-smiling.

Bartosch had glanced at him then - just for a second - and one corner of his mouth had lifted. Not a smile, not quite. More like the ghost of one, there and gone again.

“That would’ve been tempting.” he had said and nothing more. 

“For what reason?” Bartosch now quirks his brows together at Alžběta’s demand, whilst checking his own mount. His voice, smooth and neutral, as it has been everyday. 

“I’ve ruined one pair of my riding shoes.” And with that, there’s a gleeful smirk playing at her lips, whilst tugging at the saddle cinch, “I need to see the cobbler.”

It’s the most excited she’s seemed yet - a sharp shift from the cold detachment they expected. Instead of her usual frown, there’s a first spark of genuine excitement breaking through that unimpressed exterior.

“We should probably ask your father first.” he briefly looked back at the manor. 

“No need,” she said airily, “He doesn’t like being disturbed. He’d be more annoyed if we bothered him over this.”

There wasn’t much room to argue. No one had complained yet about taking her horse riding into the forest, and neither Henry nor Bartosch could find a solid reason to refuse. So they agreed - reluctantly - and set off.

As they made their way through the gates of the manor and into the open road, Alžběta seemed to be brimming with excitement. She seems to really want to go into town. 

“How about a real race down to town?” Alžběta teased once they were past the manor gates, her smile sharp and daring, “See who’s really the better rider?”

Despite the reluctance to leave in the first place, Henry doesn’t hesitate in his answer once he sees the challenge in her eyes. A smile played on his lips, “You’re on.” 

With a kick of his heels, Herring leapt forward, hooves pounding right into the dirt path. The sound of hooves galloping powerfully was soon joined by the rhythm of Bartosch’s horse. He had followed a beat later, a flicker of concern on his face - presumably less convinced of the idea but unwilling to be left behind.

“Follow the path down hill and first one past the fence at the bottom wins!” Alžběta called over the wind between them, already leaning low over her horse’s neck, coaxing it faster, “Come on, girl!”

The wind rushed in Henry’s ears as the race sped up. The world blurred past, but he could still hear Bartosch’s steady, measured pace behind him. And then, there was Alžběta, her horse not far behind.

In the end, it was Henry who crossed the makeshift finish line first, Bartosch close at his heels with an unexpected effort to participate, and Alžběta thundering in as furious third. She wasn’t even that far behind them, but groaned dramatically all the same.

Then, she laughed, the sound careless. 

It seems it really didn’t take her long to ease into their company. At first, all disinterested remarks and presumptuous airs - and now, quick laughter and reckless dares. Odd , Henry thought, but maybe not so odd . He was quite charming, after all. A lot of women tended to like him. And it helped that he hadn’t treated her like something rare and delicate, just because of her nobility. 

He was of noble blood, after all, and so was Bartosch. 

Or perhaps her behaviour is from all this excitement to go into town? That does seem to be the deciding factor here , the more Henry thinks about it. 

“Fine, you won fair and square," Alžběta conceded, catching her breath, "But can you do this ?"

Without waiting for an answer, she tossed a glove onto the dirt road ahead and, without slowing, swung nearly upside down from her saddle to snatch it up.

“Christ,” Bartosch muttered, reining his horse instinctively as if preparing to catch her, “No wonder your father thinks you were raised in a barn.”

“He said that? To the two of you?” she called back, swinging upright with a triumphant flourish.

“A barn or a tavern, to be exact,” Henry added.

She only laughed again, before slipping her glove back on.

But as the three of them rode down into the narrow streets of town, the mood shifted - in a way that was obvious to Henry. 

It was subtle at first. 

The townsfolk barely looked their way.  No smiles, no greetings, no curious glances spared for Alžběta or the newcomers. Only curt nods. 

Then it became worse - a hasty glance away, a quick step back into a doorway.

Henry straightened slightly in his saddle. Whatever cheer they'd carried from the ride slipped away like smoke.

And it was obvious how Alžběta dimmed down too, all of a sudden, matching the town in its atmosphere. Her brows were knitted as she held the reins, her head turning to look at the place. Her posture shifted from her earlier bravado to something more guarded. The easy confidence with which she had spoken to them seemed to shrink. 

But she knew exactly where the cobbler was. A small building and nondescript sans for the red cobbler sign hanging from the front wall. When they entered the shop, Alžběta had the damaged shoes ready in hand and she greeted him with a hopeful smile. To no avail, though, as he took the shoes off her with hardly a moment of eye contact. He looked over the shoes and promised they’d be ready for the next day. 

“How’s your wife? And your two boys?” Alžběta asked, pressing a little harder against the table in front of the cobbler, her voice strained in its attempt at casualness.

“They’re fine, thank you for your concern.” A clipped answer.

The conversation, if it could even be called that, ended there. Alžběta’s shoulders stiffened, and without another word, she turned on her heels and barged through the gap between Henry and Bartosch to get out of the shop. Disappointment was etched into her expression. 

They followed her into the street, but the mood had shifted entirely. She was quiet now, almost brooding, her fingers gripping the side of her horse’s reins tightly.

“They used to talk to me," she muttered, almost like she was embarrassed to admit it, whilst clutching onto the side of her horse, "The townsfolk. They used to call me Eliška. We were closer than this.”

Henry, feeling the weight of her words, tried to issue some words of comfort, “Whatever is going on, must not be easy on them.” 

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the cobbler’s door, as if trying to piece together the fragments of a world that no longer seemed to fit her. Then, she turned her head, her eyes flicking toward Bartosch before resting on Henry.

“Do you think it’s because of that?” she tilted her head, “Or because I’m older now? That they can’t treat me like they used to because I’m not a little girl anymore? The cobbler used to laugh at me when I was a child and I would bring my riding boots every ten days for him to fix.” 

"From experience,” Bartosch began steadily, “Tension’s enough to make decent people turn cold.” 

Alžběta glanced away from them, her expression hidden away to look up at her horse. She didn’t say anything, just pulled herself up into the saddle in one fluid motion. Henry exchanged a look with Bartosch - one quick, silent acknowledgment that they should let her be for now. 

They spent the rest of the morning in the forest, but whatever noval warmth she’d shown earlier was gone. The Alžběta they rode with was quiet and distant again. Even more distant before , to be truthful. 

Somewhere in the middle of the ride, she mentioned offhandedly, “Father bought the carpenter’s land - the one that burnt down. They should be happy.”

Henry was unsure of what to say. 

Bartosch simply agreed with her - probably just letting her hear what she wants as it is most of the time with the younger nobility. 

The rest of the day unwinded at a sluggish pace, in stark contrast to the relentless, rolling speed of a mill that was quick and busy. 

By the time it was evening, he and Bartosch had returned to their room and Henry’s thoughts had become consumed by this weird, little town. 

Henry rubbed the back of his neck. He needed answers. Sitting around the manor wasn’t going to get them.

“How about we go into town tomorrow?” Henry said at last, trying to keep his tone casual, even as the idea stirred a flicker of excitement in his chest, “Just the two of us.”

Bartosch didn’t look up immediately. He pulled his boot free, setting it neatly aside, and only then did he glance over, one brow arched, “What- have you ruined your riding shoes as well?”

Henry could only respond with a bemused huff. “No,” he said, stepping away from the window, “But we could ask around a little. Find out what’s really going on. About the bandits.”

Bartosch leaned back slightly, folding his arms. His face didn’t give much away - thoughtful, but not yet fully convinced.

“We aren’t supposed to,” he said after a beat, his voice low and even. “The Lord was pretty clear about that.”

Henry shrugged, “He said he was handling the bandits. He didn’t say we couldn’t ask questions.”

Bartosch’s mouth twitched - something halfway between a frown and a smile. For a moment he said nothing, just studied Henry with those unreadable eyes of his.

Finally, he gave a soft grunt, “Curiosity’s getting to me too. Whatever’s going on... You can feel it.”

Henry nodded. “Exactly.”

Bartosch pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. “Alright. Tomorrow, during our free hours. But we keep it quiet.”

“Wouldn’t dream of being anything else.”

***

The two of them rode side by side down the sloping path into town again. 

Every face they passed was drawn tight with suspicion. People slowed their steps or shifted their gazes. Voices dropped off mid-sentence. A woman hauling water paused at the well and stared until Henry met her eyes - at which point she turned her back altogether. 

No one wanted to speak to the two men. The weight of all the eyes was heavy. 

“Sakra.” Henry muttered, voice just loud enough for Bartosch to hear as they slowed their horses near the town centre, “Do they think we’re here to tax them or take their livestock?”

Bartosch gave a low hum, “Or they don’t like outsiders. Many people tend to not.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Henry nodded, “...I remember how you had told me the garrison at Trosky kept treating you like an outsider - even after all the time you spent training them. And, well, I wasn’t exactly welcomed in Trosky at first, either.”

Bartosch seemed to stiffen when Henry had mentioned his time at Trosky. Kurva , Henry thought, he really isn’t doing a good job of figuring Bartosch out. Henry barely caught the sharp, abrasive look Bartosch gave him - like steel grinding against steel.

Henry could only clear his throat before dismounting, his boots hitting the dirt. Bartosch followed a beat later, leading his horse toward a post with practiced ease and without a word and without waiting for Henry. 

Had he struck a nerve with Trosky? 

Changing the subject would be the only way out of the hole he had dug himself. 

“They’re not talking. And even if they are, it’s not to us.”

Bartosch takes a moment to answer, before shaking his head, “We don’t need everyone to talk - we just need to find the right person.”

With that, he’s scanning the market edge which wasn’t too busy with people. It seemed that he had spotted someone, his gaze steady before taking quick steps towards them. Before Henry could ask, Bartosch was already moving toward a nearby stall - a humble spread of eggs, half-browned apples, and a very few selection of gathered mushrooms. A girl stood behind it, young, no older than twenty, with her hands tucked in her apron and her eyes cast firmly downward.

She didn’t look up when Bartosch approached.

But she did when he leaned in and said, with that voice of his - becoming low, almost gentle, rich as good velvet, “Forgive me, but I must ask - are the apples this sweet, or is it just the seller?”

She blinked, caught off guard, and then - slowly - smiled. She flushed, eyes darting down and then back up again, just briefly.

“They’re a little soft, actually,” she said, fidgeting with her apron. “End of the season.”

“Soft can still be good,” Bartosch replied smoothly. “Depends on how you handle it.”

From where he stood beside the horses, Henry could feel himself become equal-parts shocked and, well , flushed. Of course Bartosch would know how to speak to women with honeyed words so they would spill secrets. 

It was no different to the teasing and words of filth he had told Henry when they had spent the night together. Christ, Henry thought, he shouldn’t think about it now. No. 

But his mind didn’t listen to him. 

“You’re loud, you know that?” Bartosch murmured utterly bemused, mouth hot at his Adam’s apple, “Keep moaning like that and half the manor will know who’s making you feel so good.” 

Henry had cursed, breathless, with Bartosch’s hands on him and mouth trailing down. And Bartosch had only chuckled - almost mockingly but definitely indulgent - before whispering against his skin, “I doubt any woman’s made you this loud.”

All Henry could do was shiver from underneath him and moan more. 

Kurva. Sakra. Christ. 

Bartosch is using the exact same tone on that girl as he did with him. 

“You’re not from here,” the girl said, a bit breathless now.

“Just passing through,” Bartosch said. “But it’s hard not to notice the quiet. It seems like something has everyone on edge.”

Her expression shifted. The flush didn’t fade, but her smile dimmed slightly. Suddenly she's a little on guard again. 

“You’re the men seen with Alžb- uh, the young mistress yesterday, no?” she says.

“That we are,” Bartosch confirmed, then a smile subtle enough to intrigue her, “You’re an observant girl, aren’t you?”

She hesitated, the smile on her lips twitching, “I sometimes help my uncle at the tavern. You learn how to notice people.”

”Then you’ve probably heard more than most,” Bartosch said, “We just want to know what’s going on - why no one seems to like us here.” and then he chuckles, playing the sentence for laughs. 

There was a moment of pause. Henry watched the shift in the girl’s body - not just flattered now, but deciding. Balancing fear against the urge to talk. She glanced around, then leaned just a little closer.

“It’s the bandits,” the girl murmured.

“I’ve heard about them.” he nods, “What have they been doing to this town?”

“Stealing.” she crossed her arms over, “They demand food and groschen. Or otherwise they’ll burn the whole town down. That’s what I’ve heard. And I heard from the bailiff that Lord Oldřich is trying to deal with it.” 

Burn the town? Like the carpenter’s house? No wonder people are tense - the bandits have shown they are able to keep their word.

“All of us are barely scraping by - that’s why all I have in this stall are stale eggs, brown apples and mushrooms that I don’t even like the taste of.”

Bartosch reaches down to his pouch - and he takes out a sum of groschen. He passes her it and - in exchange - grabs a single apple. Certainly not of equivalent value. 

“Thank you for clearing that up for me.” he offers one more smile, “I need to get going now.” 

He turns around as she gasps a thank you and goodbye. As he walks back towards Henry, he can tell that Bartosch seems satisfied with the information he got out of her.

“And if all goes to plan,” his voice drops to something quieter yet less seductive - again neutral, ”she can tell the others how kind we are - maybe that’ll earn us some trust.” 

Henry furrows his brows. And scrambles to say something of use and not remind himself of the thoughts he had just moments ago. Suddenly the layers of fabric on his back feel too much - he feels far too warm. He can only hope his cheeks or tips of the ears aren’t a pale red. 

“...I thought I was good with women. All you did was compliment her apples and imply you're good with your hands.”

He is good with his hands, Henry knows. He remembers. 

Bartosch stuffs the apple into his pouch and swings back into the saddle, “And she talked, didn’t she?”

Talk about anything else. Try to chase that memory away. 

Henry mounted up beside him, “Aye, she did. Bandits have been threatening the town. No one’s got money or food anymore.” 

“We could go to the tavern tomorrow night - and ask about a little more. She probably would have gossiped enough about me by then for people to want to talk to us.”

“You seem much more eager now to do this.” 

“Well, this is what we’re good at - neither of us have ever been nannies, correct?”

“Correct.” Henry nods, “Do you think it was the bandits who are to blame for the carpenter’s house?”

“It sounds likely. But we’re only scraping the surface of this, I suppose.” 

Chapter Text

Kurva. 

The air was thick - close and stifling with heat, the scent of sweat clinging to every breath. But none of it mattered. Not when every nerve in his body was burning with pleasure.

He didn’t know - he didn’t know you could feel so good with another man. 

His breath came hard and fast - practically panting like a dog - against Bartosch’s ear, too far gone to care about shame or restraint. Their bodies moved in tandem, hips grinding together in a rhythm that was both desperate and unrelenting. His cock pressed against Bartosch’s, the friction maddening, the sensation near-overwhelming. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t bear to look, couldn’t spare the focus - because Bartosch’s hands were everywhere, his mouth trailing fire across his skin, and every point of contact sent him spiraling deeper into a pleasure he wasn’t aware he craved. 

Henry let out a broken sound, almost a whimper, low in his throat as Bartosch shifted against him, dragging them both closer to that unbearable edge. 

The rhythm between them grew more urgent - frantic, even - his hands clutching at Bartosch’s back, his shoulder, anywhere.

Bartosch didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His mouth was busy - nipping at Henry’s collarbone, then smoothing the sting with his tongue, kissing him in places that felt too intimate, too knowing. 

It was too much. It wasn’t enough.

It was- 

Kurva. 

Henry’s body jolted hard. 

His- his eyes snapped open to darkness. The room was still, thick with the quiet of the early morning, save for the soft rustling of linens and his own ragged breath. His pulse thundered in his throat.

Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the sheets, and his hand was still clenched in the air like he’d been gripping something - someone - that wasn’t there.

He blinked. Once. Twice. The ceiling slowly took shape above him. The weight of reality settled, harsh and unwelcome, as the remnants of the dream bled away - its heat, its sound, its unbearable closeness.

He hadn’t even come. His cock ached, hard and neglected beneath the blankets, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. Not when his chest still heaved so heavily, not when the ghost of Bartosch’s mouth still lingered hot on his collarbone. 

Henry let out a sharp breath and scrubbed a hand over his face. Of course it was just a memory. 

He turned onto his side, jaw clenched, forcing himself to breathe slower. Calm down. Forget it. But his body still thrummed with frustration, and not just the physical kind. Something in him had shifted, and he wasn’t sure how to put it back the way it was.

Across the room, Bartosch still slept. Peacefully. Obliviously. He felt guilty for having such a dream, whilst Bartosch was asleep so near and unknowing. He felt guilty for having such a dream in general. 

Henry swallowed hard and turned his back to him, curling into himself. 

Christ. What is wrong with him? 

Was that smooth voice of Bartosch enough to subconsciously bring back those memories? Was he that weak? And all Bartosch is doing is keeping him away. A clear sign that he doesn’t want any of this that Henry is thinking of.

Yet the day moved on like any other, it had to. Henry got up before Bartosch and dressed himself. His hands moving quickly to keep his mind busy from what it subconsciously wanted to think about. 

It was when Henry was inspecting the wear on his weapon, when Bartosch had stirred and rose from his bed. 

“Morning.” Henry had drawled, not daring to peer up from the weapon as he spoke. 

Bartosch had exchanged a brief good morning too, before getting himself ready.

Alžběta had arrived exceptionally late today for their morning ride. She had barely said anything to them once she finally arrived at the agreed spot to wait for her. 

And Alžběta led the way, reins loose in her gloved hands. She was in one of her independent moods, glancing back only occasionally to ensure they still followed. They gave her distance - purposefully. She liked the illusion of freedom, and they liked the brief reprieve from feeling like they’re child-minding. 

Henry rode in silence. The sound of the horses, the birdsong, the rhythmic creak of saddles - it all faded into the background against the noise in his own head. 

The dream still lingered.

His body remembered it more clearly than his mind wanted to. The heat, the tension, the way Bartosch had touched him like it meant something. Henry hadn’t realised how much it had meant to him till he met face-to-face with Bartosch again. 

He had understood in the moment that it was an uncommitted thing - a one time thing. He still understood it now. So why is Bartosch being so distant with him? It's not like any feelings were hurt. 

He was halfway lost in that thought when came a scream, high-pitched, piercing through the trees and bushes like a blade. 

Both men snapped upright, heels to their horses before they could even speak. The animals surged forward, hooves galloping as branches whipped past them on either side.

“ Kurva .“ Bartosch spat out.

It was Alzbeta’s - clear as day. They had let her ride out of their sight, let her brood and wallow on her own. That’s what she wanted, after what had happened in town. 

So the two men, without needing each other’s confirmation, chased after her direction. 

But they found her just off the trail, half-dismounted in place beside her mare, one hand still tangled in the reins and one foot in the stirrup. Her face had gone pale and her free hand had cupped her cheek. 

There, in the bushes, lay the carcass of a fawn.

Or what had once been a fawn.

Its body had been butchered brutally - jagged cuts, gutting done with no precision, and most of the pelt still hanging in uneven strips from bone and muscle. Flies already swarmed the open flesh. It looked less like a hunt and more like a mauling. 

Henry swung down from his saddle, boots hitting the ground with a solid thud.

“Wolves?” He had asked, speaking to no one but himself. But upon closer inspection, it hardly seemed like wolves. The mess might have indicated as such but the straight incisions from a blade were clear. It couldn’t have been canine or claw tears from even the clumsiest of animals. That, and the arrows sticking out of the body. 

“Poachers.” Bartosch said grimly, kneeling beside the remains, coming to the same conclusion as Henry. He didn’t reach for it, just stared, “No hunter with half a brain would leave a mess like this. They took what they needed and left the rest to rot.”

Alžběta swallowed hard, “I always hated hunting. Father did try to take me a couple of times but quickly gave up. Why would someone do this?”

“Either more money or more food.” Henry shrugged, “That’s almost always the case. I wouldn’t be surprised if the bandits were poaching the land.”

“But they’re in the east forest - not here?”

“Well,” Bartosch cleared his throat, “They very well could be poaching here - if they have overhunted in the east forest, it would mean they can barely find anything over there anymore.” 

They were already stealing the food from town - how many of them are there for them to need to poach in this forest as well? 

Henry took another look at the rotting animal - the multiple arrows that had killed it were still wonkily sticking out the body. One was buried in the haunch, another skewed at a shallow angle beneath the ribs. The third barely clung to sinew at the neck. 

Whoever shot it had no idea what they were doing. 

Skin hung in jagged flaps, peeled in the wrong direction, with no sense of tension or clean flaying. Blood pooled in places it shouldn't have, meaning the body hadn't even been positioned properly during the gutting.

The organs had been hacked at, not removed. What meat had been taken was done so wastefully - slabs torn from the shoulder and thigh with no regard for quality cuts. One leg had been half-detached and then abandoned entirely, as if whoever started couldn’t finish the job.

Henry crouched beside Bartosch, his jaw tight. 

“But bandits would still do a better job than this. ” Henry muttered, so that only Bartosch could hear. 

“Unless we’re dealing with idiots.” Bartosch shrugged, equally in a quiet tone, “But this very well could have been…”

Someone from town .

Henry finished the sentence in his mind, understanding Bartosch’s implication. They’re desperate. Probably more desperate than the bandits at this point. 

Then, he straightens himself and turns around to look at the girl, “We have to tell Lord Oldřich.”

Not that he wants to. Poaching has been an uncomfortable subject for Henry, ever since Capon’s near miss with capital punishment. Bartosch surely remembers the whole affair as well. 

She nods, slowly having shook herself off the shock. No longer as meek, but still a little rattled. 

So, their morning ride was cut very short, as the three of them rode back towards the manor. Alžběta asked a few more things about the fawn and poaching.

“Could it really be the bandits? Here?”

“The crime for poaching is the gallows - I don’t understand who would think it’s worth risking?”

“Why would they do this so close to the town and manor? We have so much forest surrounding this place - why do they think it’s called Lesníci?”

In a sense, Henry could feel some naivety in Alžběta. She said it herself, her father couldn’t convince her to watch his hunting trips. But he did try his best to answer all her questions earnestly.

“We aren’t sure yet.” 

“People stop fearing the risk of gallows when they’re at risk of starvation.” 

“Maybe they wanted it to be found. Or maybe they’re slow. Or maybe that’s all they could find when hunting.” 

She listened with an open curiosity, not doubting any of Henry’s words, nodding gently. And she refused to leave them once at the stables. 

“I’ll join you in telling my father - I was the one who had found the animal.”

Neither Bartosch nor Henry qualmed. They walked together at a quickened pace. Alžběta was the one to knock on the door, three confident knocks with her knuckles. 

“Come in.” His voice carried through the door.

He sat behind his study desk, a look of confusion with their presence. His finger tapped against the wooden surface, as if he had no real patience for them but couldn’t show it. 

So, Bartosch gave him a brief account of what they had found. The corpse of a fawn in the forest.

Alžběta told him quite descriptively where the fawn could be found in the forest and how she was the one to find it. 

Henry filled in the rest. Arrows, blood, poachers.

Lord Oldřich’s expression was already sour with each following word coming from their mouths, but once Henry had spoken the word poachers was when he stood up from his seat, clenching his jaw and crossing his arms. 

“I must investigate it with my men.” he said, “I’ll find the bastard who did this.” 

Then, his gaze turned from the two men onto his daughter. 

“And you - you’re not to ride into the woods again. Nor anywhere. You’re to stay within the manor grounds from now on.”

She blinked once and then twice, “What? That’s ridiculous-” 

“You’ll listen to what I say without any complaint, like a proper lady.”

“Yes, I’m a lady, not a child - you can’t just keep me here!”

“I don’t care. Stop making a fuss in front of other people.” he raises his voice.

“You never cared for where I’ve been before - even as a child - you only care now because you want to marry me off!”

“That’s enough. ” he uncrossed his arms, “And don’t even think of going into town. If you need something, Henry or Bartosch will get it. That’s what I pay them for.”

Her mouth parted, but no more words came. Just a breath - sharp and furious - and she turned on her heel, storming out of the study without a single glance behind her.

Oldřich didn’t watch her leave. He only looked at the two men.

“Do not listen to her whims. My orders are clear. Don’t make me regret hiring you.”

Dismissed.

They found her pacing briskly through the corridor, her dress brushing against the stone as her heels clicked with purpose. She was muttering under her breath - and they followed, slowly, letting her vent without interruption for a moment.

When they finally caught up, Henry spoke first.

“He’s just trying to protect you. You saw what we found. The forest isn’t safe.”

She scoffed. “So suddenly, he’s a father now?”

Bartosch added gently, “He may not say it kindly, but he’s keeping you from danger. That means something.”

Alžběta stopped in her tracks, spun around.

“How dare he act like my father - when he didn’t even raise me!”

The words echoed in the hallway. Then quieter, though the frustration still bubbling in her voice:

“He didn’t raise me. He was hardly ever here when I was young. My uncle raised me. His brother. He lived in the manor - it suited Father, since he was always off on business and affairs that didn’t involve me. It was my uncle who taught me how to ride. Who took me into town, introduced me to people. Who made me feel like this place could ever be home.”

“Where is he now?” Bartosch asked, his voice soft-spoken. 

“He left ,” she muttered. “Father said he had to- had to ‘reclaim property in Moravia.’” Her voice broke just slightly, “I thought he would have come back to visit. Just once.”

She paused again, then looked up at them. “He used to take me to the tavern, you know. When I was a little girl. Said that the town’s folk were better company than the nobility.” Her lip curled in a smile - faint but real.

Henry blinked, “So you were raised in a tavern,” he said, straight-faced.

That earned a laugh from her - soft, surprised, but genuine.

“Yes,” she chuckled, “I suppose I was.”

Bartosch offered a small smile of his own, “Well, your shoes should be ready by now. We’ll get them from the cobbler today for our rounds around the manor tomorrow.”

Her shoulders eased, seemingly appreciating the quips,  “Thank you.”

It was obvious she was still mad at the whole thing, at her father, but she knew neither Bartosch nor Henry could do anything about the situation. If they stepped out of line, they’d be gone and replaced with the next best men.

***

They had accompanied her around the manor for a little longer - letting her talk their ears off with complaints. Venting about how just the manor grounds aren’t enough for her or arguing that every single potential suitor Lord Oldřich was considering wasn’t what she wanted.

It wasn't until Alžběta was forced back to her duties as noblewoman, that she had left the two men. She had huffed and sighed without shame in front of the servant woman asking her to come to the library, telling her that she really didn’t want to and that she didn’t feel too well. 

The servant woman said that Lord Oldřich insisted on not skipping any lessons, no matter what the Young Mistress had to say about it. 

That only grew her irritation, but she gave up in thinking of excuses. She nodded solemnly and left for her duties with nothing but a quick wave goodbye.  

In turn, it was time for Henry and Bartosch to go into town. 

The cobbler hadn’t become any more chatty than he was the previous day. He simply handed over the shoes after they had handed him the groschen Lord Oldřich gave for them. They decided not to press the man, but rather follow through with their plan of going into the tavern. 

It’s the liveliest place they’ve seen so far - more people than at the market that’s for sure, louder too.

The air inside was thick with warmth and drink. People no longer talked in whispers. Red-cheeked men leaned heavily into their cups, while women with sharp tongues gossiped behind raised hands. It was, in many ways, a familiar scene you could find in every town. 

As they entered, there was a brief lull. Heads turned. Eyes lingered. The sight of two unfamiliar men - especially ones with ties to Oldřich - drew more than idle curiosity. But just as quickly, the moment passed. Conversation resumed. The tavern exhaled.

They took a table near the back. They both sat down whilst Bartosch seemed to be scanning the room. Henry can guess who he’s looking for and when he does, he raises his hand.

“Oh- it’s you .”

Henry turns his head towards the familiar, feminine voice behind and it’s the girl from the market and she almost looks pleasantly surprised at Bartosch’s appearance. Henry couldn’t deny the small flicker of amusement that stirred in his chest.

“We never did introduce ourselves to each other,” he laughs with an effortless charm, “I’m Bartosch. He’s Henry.”

“My name is Anna.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl. Can my friend and I get some beer?” 

“Of course.” She doesn’t hide her expression, quite happy to hear Bartosch’s buttery words, her cheeks already a slight red.  

And then, once she’s out of earshot, Bartosch leans over the table, closer to Henry. He speaks sotto voce, “I think she’s talked enough about me, seeing as we haven’t immediately been thrown out of here.” 

A faint smile plays on Henry’s lips and he nods, “Aye, not the worst reaction.” 

It doesn’t take long for Anna to return, with two tankards. She places on the with a clatter against the rough-hewn table.

“Thank you.” First Bartosch and then Henry said. 

She nods her head, before looking over her shoulder, “I can’t talk much right now. My uncle wouldn’t be happy if I was just standing around in the corner instead of handing out beer.” 

“It’s quite alright. We don’t want you in trouble.” Bartosch replied, before taking a swig of the beer.

“See you around.” She waved. 

Henry tears his gaze away from Bartosch and Anna, looking over the room once more. Dice are being played, drunken stories are being told. It’s a good place to find out any more information. 

“Lively tonight.” He muses, more to himself than anything. His head turns, eyeing Bartosch once more.

“Quite well observed.” Bartosch chuckles, as he leans back in his chair and stretches lightly. The movement is casual, effortless, yet Henry can’t help but notice how it makes the light catch along the lines of his jaw. 

”So,” Henry distracts himself with more talking, “You also think the fawn was killed by someone in town?” 

“I do,” He hums, “I really don’t think bandits would do such a bad job of it - or pick a fawn to catch. Bandits would go for something bigger and better.”

“Yes, they don’t seem as desperate as the people here are. Though, it seems the bandits haven’t yet taken any barrels of beer from the tavern.” 

“Who’d want to carry that to their camp? Without a wagon, I don’t think they’d want to.” 

“Aye, that’s true. Should we-” but Henry has to cut himself short. In the corner of his eyes, he can already see a figure approaching. 

A bald, red-faced man saunters over to their table, visibly wobbling on his legs like it’s his second time walking, “Aren’t you working for Lord Oldřich? What are you doing here ?”

“Can a man not get a beer in these parts?” Henry is quick to answer, before taking a swig from the tankard.

“ Oldřich’s men don’t come here.”

“We’re hardly his men,” he clears his throat, “We’re just to guard his daughter, the young mistress Alžběta.” 

“Is that so?” And then he sits right down next to Henry, practically barging him in the process.

Another man joins them, placing himself haphazardly next to Bartosch. 

“So what has Lord Oldřich told you?” 

“Honestly,” Bartosch joins in, “Not much at all.” 

“That ain’t surprising. He’s doing a poor job of this town, I tell you that.” 

Then the one next to Bartosch speaks, slurring slightly, “He’s good for nothing - I’m sure you’ve heard about the bandits.” 

“That we have.” 

“And if you're guarding his daughter for him, I’m sure he’s told you that they're pretty well armed. Good weapons, good armour for a bandit group.” 

Good weapons and armour? That they had not known about. It seems they’re dealing with something much more serious than Henry had expected. 

Henry knits his eyebrows but before he can say anything, Bartosch interjects, “Aye, we did.” 

“Kurva, so do you know then why he can’t chase them out? You two should tell us. He should still be better than some bandits with swords and helmets.” 

One of the men leaned forward, voice tightening, “Aye, you have to know something - so tell us. Or we’ll convince you to talk in another way.” 

“We know as much as you do. We’re new - do you really think he’d tell us much if we’ve only started working for him.” Henry huffed, trying to maintain a calm. They really don’t need a scrap right here right now, in front of everyone. 

“I don’t care.”

“You have to know somethin’ -“

The tension was sharp, a blade poised to drop - until two full tankards slammed onto the table with a loud thump. 

“You two,” Anna snapped, “Knock it off. They don’t know anything.”

One of the men sneered, “You trust them that easily? Just because one of ‘em batted his eyes at you?”

“Maybe I trust them because I’ve got better judgment than the lot of you when you’re five cups deep.”

A pause. Then laughter broke the tension, and soon they took those two cups sitting on the table and started drinking once more. The townsmen eased, little by little. 

“Anna does usually have good judgement of people.” One of them nods.

“These bandits have ruined our abilities to trust anyone at the moment - we’re all desperate.” 

“At least the beer is still flowing.” And then both of them laugh, almost over the top, with a loud noise.

So, the night continues. It continues well. 

They offer to play dice - to which Henry agrees. He wins the first round but loses the second round. 

“How long has this been going on for?” He tried to ask subtly while throwing the dice onto the table, “And they’re really armed? How well?” 

“Too long.” The man groans, watching the dice fall, “But I’m just a peasant, what do I know about armour? To my eye, they looked damn well armed.” 

Bartosch uses this time to talk to them - but also to other people in the tavern. At one point, Henry sees him find his way to Anna again, the two having a laughter-full conversation.

More drinks flowed. The ale burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat, the warmth seeping into his limbs. The tension of the day, the dream, the fawn, Alžběta and Oldřich, of thoughts he refused to acknowledge, all dulled at the edges.

Bartosch returns to Henry and they both acknowledge that it’s time for them to leave, the strumming in their bloodstream more than enough. 

As they left the tavern, dusk had already settled in with a dark sky and their steps had grown slower, looser. The crisp air bit at their flushed cheeks as they made their way back to their horses and mounted them.

“That went well,” Henry mumbled, a small, dimpled smile curling on his lips.

“I’d say so,” Bartosch replied, mirroring the smile, “We work well together.”

Henry scoffed lightly, reaching out and pushing his shoulder, “Was that a compliment?”

The brief contact was nothing - casual, playful - yet the jolt it sent through him was far too much. Was that really the first touch they’ve shared since being here? 

“Don’t let it get to your head.” Bartosch shrugged, an unbothered grin with a sideway glance lingering. 

The teasing tugged something loose in Henry - something warm and unguarded. For a moment, it felt like old times again, like the closeness they’d once shared was still within reach.

And then, like a cruel reflex, his mind drifted to the dream he’d had that morning. His body tensed. He exhaled hard, trying to push the memory away.

“...You’re insufferable.” Henry hums, finally turning his gaze away from Bartosch and onto the path ahead of them. The cool air felt nice on his skin. 

Yet, something tugged him back. He cast another glance toward Bartosch, who caught it and raised a brow.

“What?”

Henry looked away quickly, “Nothing. Just making sure you’re not about to fall flat on your arse.”

“Worried about me, are you?” 

The sound of his voice was low and rich. 

“Only because I’d have to carry you.”

“And I’m sure you’d manage.” It was a recognisable tone, “You’ve got the arms for it, blacksmith boy.”

Henry flushed, just faintly, cursing the heat that climbed up his neck. He hated how easy it was for Bartosch to undo him with just a few words. 

Kurva, was alcohol all that was needed to loosen the tension between the two? Really? All this coldness gone in just an hour at the tavern? Something seemed not right about this. 

Henry looked up and blinked - he hadn’t even realised they had ridden up to the manor already. 

The banter faded - silence filled the moments between when they stabled their horses and walked into the manor. No words, just soft footfalls over packed earth and the gentle rustle of harnesses. It wasn’t strained, at least Henry didn’t think so, not after that banter from Bartosch. 

They climbed the stairs in a comparable silence, the flicker of torchlight dancing over stone and wood. Their footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor. When they reached their chamber, Henry paused at the threshold, one hand still on the door.

An idea - an idea Henry hadn’t thought through before it left his lips. 

“Do you have any brandy?” he asked lightly, a shadow of mischief in his voice.

Bartosch froze. Just for a second. It was slight - so slight Henry had nearly missed it. 

The air changed. Henry could feel it - see it, in Bartosch’s changing expression. 

“No, I don’t.” Bartosch said shortly, “I’m going to sleep.”

He turned away before Henry could respond.

The room was dim. Quiet. A heavy sort of quiet.

Henry’s voice was low when he spoke next, “Why are you pretending nothing happened?”

Bartosch didn’t answer. He stripped off his outer layer with slow, practiced movements. Henry’s eyes lingered on the planes of his back, the tension in his shoulders.

“You’ve been cold ever since we got here. Just tell me why.”

Henry reached out before he could stop himself, fingers brushing Bartosch’s wrist, “Did something-“ 

Bartosch caught his hand - held it fast. His grip was firm, his eyes dark.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he stepped forward - close enough that Henry could feel the warmth of him. Close enough to breathe him in. The room seemed to shrink around them.

Henry’s heart hammered in his chest.

Bartosch didn’t speak. His gaze flicked to Henry’s mouth. His own lips parted - just a fraction. And for one charged, maddening moment, it felt like something would give. That he would close that final inch between them and-

He shoved Henry back, his touch was gone like a candle snuffed in the wind. 

Henry stumbled, blinking.

“That’s not an answer,” he said, voice hoarse, “You’re not a coward, Bartosch. So what are you so afraid of?”

Bartosch turned away, jaw clenched. His silence said more than he ever would.

And Henry, standing in the hush that followed, felt the familiar sting of something he couldn’t quite name - rejection, yes, but also confusion.

This wasn’t about sin. It wasn’t about shame. Not with Bartosch.

The Bartosch he’d known - back in Trosky, in the easy hush of night - didn’t flinch at such things. He’d been bold. Certain. He was the one who had leaned in close, murmuring about the brandy in his room. The one who had kissed Henry like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like it was second nature.

Bartosch hadn’t been ashamed then. Why now?

Henry’s thoughts spiraled, looping through memory like a dog chasing its tail. He remembered the warmth of Bartosch’s laugh, low and amused, when Henry had admitted he’d never been with a man before.

“During my studies,” Bartosch had said, “there were plenty who were willing. You just had to know how and where to look.”

He’d spoken with that same unshakeable ease, as though bedding men was no different from drinking wine or sneaking a carrot when the grocer wasn’t watching. He was practiced. Unapologetic. It wasn’t new to him.

So it had to be something else.

But why the coldness? Why the tension? Why did it feel like there was resentment blooming behind Bartosch’s eyes every time they lingered too long on Henry?

Henry clenched his jaw, trying to keep the frustration down. He didn’t remember it feeling like this in Nebakov. There, Bartosch had been guarded, yes - but not hostile. There’d been no venom in the silence between them.

Kurva. Sakra.

“I’m not afraid.” Bartosch said gruffly, putting his stuff away, with his back still turnt away from Henry.

He doesn’t think he’ll get any answers tonight. Or rather, Henry doesn’t want to fight against this resistance for any longer tonight. 

Chapter Text

“Maybe I should just run away,” Alžběta said. It was how she greeted the morning - no formalities, no pleasantries. Just that.

 “A thought that’s crossed the mind of every noble’s child at some point,” Bartosch said, dry yet almost knowingly, “Rarely ends well.” 

Henry sighed - he was tired. Sleep had evaded him last night, leaving only twisted sheets, clenched fists, and the lingering taste of frustration in his mouth. He and Bartosch hadn’t said a single word while getting ready that morning. Not even a forced good morning.

Finally, he spoke, “Where would you even go? And how? Sure, with a horse and a handful of groschen, you could put distance behind you. But after that?”

He wasn't going to sugarcoat it - there was no point, “Most women who run share the same fate. A bathhouse or a brothel. Unless you know someone who can give you a proper job, or decide to become a nun and live within a convent.” 

He’s heard it plenty of times. Warm water infused with chamomile and rosemary up to his waist, whilst a bathmaid would tend to his various wounds, speaking freely of her life and what she had experienced. People - except Pražáci, of course - liked to share their stories with him. And from what he’s heard and seen, women can’t find jobs to take on as easily as men can. 

Bartosch glanced at her, then at Henry. “He’s right, unfortunately. Not a kind world for women on their own.”

Alžběta’s face tightened. She hadn’t expected such a response from either of them, he supposes. Maybe she’d expected a softer kind of sympathy and it does make him feel a little guilty for speaking to her in that way. She's not at fault for anything - she’s frustrated with her situation. 

“Well,” she said at last, crossing her arms, “you two make such pleasant company this morning.”

Bartosch let out a short, humourless breath, “Must be something in the air.”

Henry glanced at him, “Or maybe it's the company.”

The two men didn’t look at each other. The tension was still there, obvious enough for Alžběta to pick up on it. Not that Bartosch had tried to be subtle with that comment. 

“What’s going on with you two?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “Did you quarrel over the last bowl of stew or something?”

Neither answered.

She stared between them for a beat, then gave up with a scoff, turning her gaze back to the horizon like it might offer something better. Her arms dropped, shoulders curling inward again.

She shook her head and muttered, “Maybe I’ll go to Moravia.”

Henry raised a brow. “Do you even know where your uncle is in Moravia?”

“No,” she admitted flatly.

“Sounds like a solid plan, then.” Bartosch didn’t miss a beat in answering. 

She let out a long, frustrated sigh, fed up with this conversation with them. In fairness, neither Henry nor Bartosch were being good conversationalists right now. 

 “Jesus Christ, you two-”

Henry, trying to salvage something from the moment and defuse her grievances with them, interrupts her. 

With a crooked smile, “Careful, sister, that’s no way for a good Christian woman to speak.”

Alžběta gave him a look - a glare at first, as she digested what he said in her mind - and a second later her expression wavers. She stifles a laugh - her expression a dead giveaway of her restraint - and yet she still lets out a short chuckle. 

“I won’t be joining a convent, that I’m sure of.”

“Well, you’d have an interesting life story to tell if you did. A noble lady raised in a tavern, before turning to Christ to become a nun.” Bartosch must have realised how they’d been acting in front of her also. His expression doesn’t change at all from his straight face, but the joke lands for Alžběta, as it is rewarded with a soft smile. 

They began walking the halls of the manor, her leading the way as usual. The morning sun was creeping higher now through the windows, casting soft gold across the walls.

“Have you tried writing to your uncle?” Bartosch asked. “Surely your father could get a messenger to pass it along.”

“I did ask once,” she mumbled. “Father shooed me off. Said he had more important matters to worry about than responding to my letters.”

Bartosch looked at her,  “That doesn’t mean your uncle wouldn’t want to hear from you. You deserve better than being left in the dark.”

Alžběta smiled faintly, but didn’t reply. Instead, she pivoted on her heel and declared, “Come on. If I’m not allowed to ride today, we might as well pretend to be civilised. To the library.”

The manor’s library was small, but quiet, with high windows and dust suspended in the shafts of light. The scent of aged vellum, wax, and wooden floors lingered. Dozens of books lined the shelves - some well-used, others barely touched.

“I know it’s not horse tricks,” Alžběta said, moving ahead whilst brushing her finger along the spines, “but books can be fun. Sometimes.”

She wandered over to a different shelf, only to pause as her gaze caught something on a low table: a dusty recorder, narrow and pale.

Without hesitation, she picked it up and played a simple melody - a folk tune, one Henry vaguely recognised, the words of the song just at the tip of his tongue but not quite there. 

He stared. So did Bartosch.

“You can play?” Henry asked, a little off guard. Instruments were foreign to him, not once had he ever struck a string nor covered the holes of a musical instrument.

Alžběta gave a shrug. “Father thought it would keep me in the manor if I learned an instrument. Not my thing, I found it dull. Then he tried to get me to do needlework, which was worse. I bled more from that than from falling off my horse.” She grinned, certainly proud of that fact, “My embroidery looked like it had been done by a blind pig. He really tried to stop me from riding as much. Said my future husband wouldn’t like it.”

Bartosch tilted his head, dry amusement tugging at the corner of his lips, “A shame. I imagine many men would see the value in a wife who could double as their personal courier. Saves money on messengers, at least.” 

Alžběta rolls her eyes with a bemused chuckle, then looks at them curiously, “Can you two read?”

“I can.” Bartosch confirmed.

“As can I.” Henry nodded. 

“Well then,” she said, clearly impressed,  “Help me find something decent, then. Nothing theological. No farm talk.”

Henry drifted toward a shelf near the corner and started pulling a few books free, thumbing through worn pages. His reading had gotten smoother with time. He rarely had to mouth the words anymore. 

One thin volume he picked caught his eye - not for the contents, which were dull, but for the title inked faintly on the spine: On the Nature of Temptation .

He stared at it for a moment, the title somehow cutting close to bone, then quietly slid it back onto the shelf.

Bartosch, meanwhile, handed a book to Alžběta - something about the architectural history of Bohemian castles. She took it, looked over the front, then smiled.

“Read it before.” she said, “but at least it has pretty illustrations.”

Alžběta had sat at the table with her book, legs tucked beneath her - not exactly proper form that would be taught to a noble lady who’s nearing marriage.

Henry found himself watching Bartosch as he browsed the shelves, selecting a worn volume and settling against an empty stretch of wall. He stood there, flipping through pages with a steady sort of focus, the light catching in his hair.

Henry knew he should do the same - pick something, pretend to read - but none of the titles called to him. Instead, he let his eyes roam the spines, unfocused, pretending to browse while mostly just letting time pass. His thoughts drifted, unanchored, until Alžběta spoke. 

She explained a passage from her book - about something she found interesting. It sparked a few quiet comments between the three of them, just enough to keep the silence from taking over completely. Thinly veiled interest passed between Bartosch and Henry, though neither acknowledged it.

Eventually, Alžběta left her seat and urged Henry up to help her search the higher shelves. Bartosch remained where he was, eyes skimming his pages with that same concentrated look. 

In that moment, he did resemble the student he claimed to be in the past. Henry could almost see it - Bartosch, younger, thinner, tossing through books in the University of Prague, almost like a scholar, or whatever students actually do.  

But he knew Bartosch mainly preoccupied himself with other things during his studies. Fighting. Drinking. Money. Men. 

He extinguished the thought before it had any weight. There’s no point in thinking about that now, or it might just remind him of his detailed dream from before.   

Henry found a book about a knight - some local legend or other - and handed it to Alžběta. She smiled faintly and took it, flipping through the first few pages.

Before long, with the girl already sat and engrossed in the pages, a voice rang through the corridor. “Young mistress, Alžběta!” A servant, searching.

She sighed but didn’t resist like she had the day before. With a patient roll of her eyes, she stepped out into the hall and called back, “I’m here!” Then, turning toward them with a small wave: “Hope you’ve forgiven each other for the stew.”

Henry raised his brows but dismissed the sentence by giving her a mock bow. Bartosch barely looked up. She left.

The silence that settled behind her was immediate. And strange. And stifling.

The door barely fell shut behind her.

Henry had enough of being in this room. He was itching for something physical - some training or sparring. Something that would let him wield his weapon again - it feels like it’s been an eternity since the tourney in Prague. 

He would have asked Bartosch to spar, if it weren’t for last night.

Henry sighs quietly to himself. Maybe he could find a guard or someone to train with him instead. He stretches his arms in front of him, flexing his fingers. 

The words are ready on his tongue - to tell Bartosch that he’s going to leave, take a walk outside or something of the likes.

But Bartosch beats him to it, barely looking up from his book. 

“You know, I had to tell Anna that I’m a good Christian to get her off my back.” Bartosch muses, his tone indifferent, “She was trying to convince me to go get some fresh air outside with her.” 

Henry’s jaw tightens. It almost feels like it’s a dig at him. Not almost - it certainly seemed like one. Yet Bartosch said it so nonchalantly, as if there wasn’t any deeper meaning laced in those words. A good Christian.

Oh, how noble, how high and mighty and holier-than-thou, Henry bitterly thought. Bartosch was acting as if he carried no sin on his conscience, as if laying with other men wasn’t practically second nature to him up until now. 

Christ , Bartosch has gotten under his skin. 

“I’m sure you’re no better Christian than she is.” Henry mutters under his breath, unable at all to mask the frustration simmering beneath his calm expression. 

Bartosch’s eyes flick to him, “And you think you’re some sort of saint, then? The best Christian in the room?”

Henry’s teeth clench. “Maybe I am. I spent time in a monastery, after all.”

“Wait-” Bartosch stalls, the book moves down, “What? You were in a monastery? For what reason - your great piousness and devotion?”

 “I did my everyday labours. Prayers in Latin before dawn, laboured in the fratery, the library... more prayers before dinner. Received the name Brother Gregor whilst I was there.” 

There’s a long pause. Bartosch is silent for a moment, as if trying to gauge whether Henry is being serious or not. His gaze flickers with a mix of disbelief and uncertainty. 

Henry’s lips curl into a wry smile, seeing the effect his words have had. He doesn’t bother giving him the true context of nature as to why he was in a monastery in the first place. With a hint of smugness, he raises his chin and repeats the very small Latin he remembers from the monastery, as if to prove a stupid point, “Suscipe me, domine, secundum...” 

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe just to prove a point. Though what point, exactly, he couldn’t name. That he could be holy? That he could carry guilt better? It was a fool’s gesture. He’s just needlessly throwing something back at Bartosch’s face after that unwarranted comment. A good Christian? What is Bartosch trying to prove here? To whom is he trying to prove it? They both know what they’d done. What sin clung to them. He just never would have thought that Bartosch would become one who would care about the Christian opinion of his sin. 

But beneath that snide, a slow understanding coiled in Henry’s thoughts.

Was Bartosch saying he’d turned away from all of it - not just Henry, but men entirely? That it wasn’t about him , but about who Bartosch was trying to be now? That he was no longer that confident, passionate man he once knew in Trosky? 

Was this distance not rejection, but some twisted form of repentance?

Henry swallowed the thought, but it stuck in his throat like a big lump of iron.

“ How about you tell me then ,” Henry says, his voice sharper than he intends, “ what useful information you got out of the tavern instead of starting any sermons with me? ”

He doesn’t even look at Bartosch as he speaks. It’s hard to ignore the distance that’s settled between them. Then, there’s a long beat of silence, the tension thick enough to choke on. Henry doesn’t see what sort of expression Bartosch currently holds - not trusting what he might pull from it. 

Eventually, Bartosch spoke, his voice quieter, drier and hollower. 

“Most didn’t want to talk to me. Those who did just spat complaints about Oldřich like he personally pissed in their ale,” Bartosch muttered, “I spoke to the innkeeper - Anna’s uncle. Grumbled the most, actually. Called Oldřich a coward, a fraud, said he’s been ‘too quiet for a man whose lands are under siege.’”

Henry’s brow twitched, but Bartosch continued, voice low, almost cautious.

He paused, then added with a tight, humourless smile, “Then, he accused us of sniffing around where we didn’t belong - and said I was standing far too close to his niece. He did finally say something useful, though.”

“He did?”

“Aye. Said the guards haven’t been around the eastern road for weeks now. That they used to patrol it once a day, maybe twice. But ever since the last winter ended, no one’s been posted there. Found out because a passing merchant had asked about it.”

“Odd place to pull back from. That’s the only road from town beside the east forest.”

“He seemed bitter about it. Said it like a joke: ‘Maybe Lord Oldřich’s hoping they’ll just walk in the front door and ring the bell like civil men.’ ”

Henry exhaled. “No wonder no one wants to speak to Alžběta - or us. And I hadn’t much luck. Just heard of bandits too well-armed for their kind, it seems.”

Bartosch didn’t respond. He just mulled over Henry’s words, or rather the situation in town. The silence between them stretched awkwardly. 

So, the words he was originally going to speak, find him again, “I’m going for a walk. I need some fresh air.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He turned to the door, and made his way out.

The courtyard wasn’t busy. He found a young guard leaning against a stone wall, clearly bored of his post. Henry had managed to convince him into a few rounds of fistfights - not exactly what he wanted but the guard wasn’t too keen on using steel in a fight with Henry, and they didn’t really  keep blunt weapons around for easy access.

It would have to suffice, even though h e had to pull his strikes, keep his footing light, and ease off just to keep the boy upright. Still, it helped. His body shook off its stiffness, and his mind grew quieter with each punch, each dodge, each surge of breath and muscle. It was better than stewing in silence, but it wasn’t the same as the rhythm of sparring with someone who could meet him blow for blow.

Someone like Bartosch. 

He thought of their bouts - the way elegance seeped into every move of his, far less brutish than the way Henry was taught to use a sword.  

He remembered the sting of a wooden sword to the ribs, the flash of a grin when Bartosch landed a clean strike, the shared, breathless laughs after a particularly long bout left them both sweating. They'd lean on their knees when the match ran long, trying to talk while catching their breath, though not stopping any teasing remarks thrown at each other. 

That was a long time ago. It feels like a long time ago. 

The guard calls quits first, panting hard as he stumbled back and shook his head. His stamina isn’t exactly up to par with Henry's.

“Take the groschen.” he bemoans, clearly regretting being the one to bet alongside this. 

Henry pocketed the money without much thought. The afternoon sun hits his face whilst he walks away from the man. It’s already started its slow descent, casting rays across the courtyard. It’s about time to circle back to Alžběta. 

And when he finds her, Bartosch is already there. She was talking animatedly - more noble gossip, more pressure from her father about who she might marry, and what lands or coin might come with them. Bartosch stood off to the side, hands tucked behind his back, eyes unreadable but nodding with interest. Feigned or not, Henry could not tell. 

Yet, once she greets Henry, the conversation turns. 

“I want to check on my horse,” she insisted, “If I can’t ride beyond the grounds, I can at least take care of her.”

So the three of them find themselves at the stables - Henry, Bartosch, and Alžběta - each brushing down their own steed, checking hooves, running hands through manes dulled by the cold.

“What are their names?” Alžběta asked after a quiet stretch, breaking the quiet as she worked a brush down her mare’s flank. “Mine is Marigold.”

“Nera,” Bartosch said simply, running a steady hand along his mare’s neck, “It means ‘black’, in Italian.”

Henry glances sideways at him, resisting the urge to snort. Nera means black. Of course it does. It fits - both the horse and the man. Black Bartosch on a black horse. He'd laugh if he wasn’t bitter with Bartosch. 

“Herring,” he said, patting the side of his own horse.

Alžběta wrinkled her nose. “Herring? You named him that?”

“Weren’t me who named her.” he shrugged. “He came with the name. Someone must have been hungry while naming him.”

But as his hand lingered on her side, his mind wandered - back to Trosky. That’s where he’d received the horse. Herring, the stableboy had said. Good, reliable, fast. Never had the chance to return him to Bergow. Never will, really. 

Henry glances away from Herring quietly and onto the girl. Alžběta pulled an apple out - from a pouch hanging off her waist - and held it up to her mare. The mare took it eagerly, crunching it down with a pleased huff. 

He thought about the townsfolk - about the brown, mealy apples they’d been stuck with. It was all that Anna girl had to offer. But it’s best not to dwell on that. Not now.

The horses were groomed by the end of it - Herring was in a cleaner state than Henry was.  Alžběta gave her Marigold a final pat before stepping back, the brush swinging loosely from her fingers in the other hand. 

It was time to retire for dinner, in their separate ways. 

“Go ahead without me.” Bartosch said suddenly, still giving Nera some attention. He didn’t look at either of them, just kept a hand on Nera’s neck, his gaze somewhere far off.

Henry didn’t ask what he was doing or if he was going anywhere. He didn’t care to know. Or so he told himself. 

Maybe he was just going to stay in the stables for a little longer? 

Henry wasn’t going to complain - any more time with just them two alone would lead to more relentless tension, clashing like steel on steel. He didn’t need anymore of Bartosch’s snide comments.

They bid their goodbyes without questions and left. 

Henry ended up in the manor kitchen, where the cook handed him a warm bowl of stew without asking. The kitchen was warm and humid, the air thick with the scent of onions, herbs, and slow-cooked meat. 

Again, he tries not to think too hard on how much meat - or food in general - the manor has. 

“You eat like you’ve not seen food in days,” the cook said, watching him tuck in and distracting him from his thoughts.

“This is how I usually eat.” Henry replied around a mouthful. 

“You’d think you’d have some more manners than that, working for a noble family.” 

He wanted to laugh - or even roll his eyes - and tell her that he is noble blood himself. But he stopped himself. He simply decided to change the subject.

“What do you make of Lady Alžběta?” 

The cook wiped her hands on a cloth and leaned against the table with a sigh. “Poor girl. Lost her mother. Then her uncle went. Didn’t even leave a note. One day he was here, next day, nothing.”

Henry raised his eyebrows, “Didn’t say goodbye?”

She shook her head, before turning around to stir the pot on top of the fire once more. 

It is odd, but he ends up pushing the thought away. 

By the time he finished and handed back his bowl, Bartosch still hadn’t come for dinner.

No sign of him inside the room either.

Henry had thought that maybe he simply skipped dinner and went straight to bed, but the bed was untouched.

He waited for a while, feigning a casual lean by the window. His eyes tracked the falling dark, the courtyard below empty and quiet. It was under a blanket of stillness. 

Where in God’s name is he?

His thoughts teetered somewhere between worry and frustration. Eventually, frustration won out. If Bartosch wanted to wander off, let him. Henry wasn’t his keeper.

Maybe he’s at the tavern again, he thought, jaw tightening. Maybe he changed his mind about Anna after all.

With a huff, he pushed off the windowsill.

He can do what he wants. 

***

Bartosch hadn’t meant to linger in the stables after they left. He told them to go on ahead, thinking he just needed a few more minutes with Nera - some simple, silent task to settle the thoughts clattering in his head. But even brushing the mare’s coat didn’t help tonight. His hands were steady, but his mind wasn’t.

The quiet in the stable pressed in around him. The scent of straw and horsehair, usually grounding, felt cloying now - too close, too heavy.

He didn’t want to be in that small servant’s room with Henry.

Not after that night. He had no words for how the brunette looked at him that night - using the word brandy like it had been some sort of code word between them. The word had hung between them like a thread pulled too tight, taut and fragile. 

Of course Bartosch remembered the implication. 

And he met it with deflection.

He had been too banterful, too teasing - just like back in Trosky. It was his fault, really, for letting it get that far after they had let alcohol into their bloodstream. 

And so everything he was doing to Henry now was calculated, purposeful. The distant approach to him and the comment of being a good Christian . A quick way to draw a border and show Henry where they stood now. He'd meant to pull the conversation back onto dry land, but it had felt more like dropping an axe. He could still feel the blade swinging in the silence that followed.

He sighed and leaned a hand against Nera’s flank, fingers curling into her warm coat. The mare shifted beneath his touch, calm and unbothered. Not like him.

Was he really that unsettled by that conversation? That Henry was at one point a monastery man? He told himself no. Told himself it was the town’s poor atmosphere, the long days, the claustrophobia of being so close to Prague. 

But he wonders whether Henry had joined a monastery before or after their night in Trosky. 

Not that it changes anything. Up until now, Henry still looked at Bartosch like they were standing in Trosky again - before the orders, before the attack and before the banquet.

It's been two years since then , he thought to himself. 

He just knew he couldn’t sit across from Henry tonight - and see that look of irritation from him once more, for what Bartosch had said or rather implied to him.

He drew a breath, slow and deliberate. His gaze drifted to the stable doors, the moonlight faint beyond the slats. The manor was too still, the walls too tight, and the distance he was trying to put between them didn’t seem to be working from a single room away.

So he did what he always did.

He saddled Nera and rode. He’d rather return whilst Henry was already asleep. 

The evening air was cooler than it had been for days, but the heat of his own thoughts clung to him like a sweat he couldn’t shake. 

He rode through the thinning trees and along a curving trail, around the edge of the town. Not one soul was outside at this hour. Not even a drunkard swaying his way home, the tavern had been long closed for the night. It was something he had noticed, the night before - the tavern had closed earlier than any other typical one he had been in before.  

It was as if the people themselves had bent to the rule of the bandits without needing to be told. A silent, unspoken curfew hung in the air. 

The wind, insects and far-off scurrying animals were the only entities who dared to speak. 

Bartosch kept to the back roads, letting his mare pick her way between weedy garden plots and crooked fences. He passed narrow courtyards, sagging gates, and homes closed up tight.

The farthest edge of town lay just ahead round the final bend - where the tallest building within the town stood. 

And just behind that building, was when Bartosch heard voices. 

He instinctively ducked low in the saddle, hand pressing to his mare’s neck, “Hush, Nera, slower.”  

The voices weren’t loud - but sharp, biting. Almost urgent.

Bartosch dismounted quietly, letting the reins drop. The mare didn’t move. Loyal. Trained. A soldier’s horse.

He crept forward on foot, slipping past a stone wall and the looming bulk of the house.

Three men. One was unmistakably the bailiff - the robes, the posture and the blue chaperon nearly tipping of his head with every backward step he took away from the other two men.

The other two, he didn’t recognise. They weren’t dressed like locals.

The gear told him that much - partial armour, travel-worn and piecemeal but well-maintained. Leather reinforced with steel, vambraces, battered greaves. No matching colors. No crest, no livery. 

From his own personal experience in the profession, they looked like mercenaries. 

Is this - what he thinks it is? 

“That old man, Tanner Matěj-” the taller of the two growled, “he’s the one that’s going to hang for poaching.”

The bailiff’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The gleam of steel -  small and narrow, a dagger meant for quiet threats - glinted in under the moonlight and stole the air from his lungs.

“Unless you want a tragic end to your life,” the man continued, inching closer, “you’ll make sure it’s him who swings.”

The dagger rose until the point hovered beneath the bailiff’s chin 

The bailiff backed up until he met the cold surface of the stone wall with a thud. His eyes widened as the blade hovered - barely touching Adam's apple.

“By noon tomorrow,” said the second mercenary, voice tight with command, “you’ll speak to the Lord. You’ll see to it that Matěj is in your jail, ready for the noose. I don’t care how.”

The dagger pressed closer, somehow still without cutting any skin. A tremor passed down the bailiff’s body. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, vanishing into his collar.

“I- I will,” he stammered. “It’ll be done. I swear it.”

The mercenary stared for a long, breathless moment. Then he stepped back.

“You’d better hope so. Or we’ll be waiting for you.”

Bartosch’s brows pulled together, as he ducked back behind the wall.

His jaw clenched - this isn’t how bandits operate. Bandits don’t organise. They don’t manipulate lawmen. They don’t twist the arm of a bailiff with threats. They take what they want from the ordinary people and disappear. 

And why would they want to frame that man?

Unless he had seen something. Or knew something. Or - more likely -  was just a convenient scapegoat. But for poaching? It just didn’t make sense. 

Bartosch's thoughts churned. Mercenaries meant coin. Which meant someone was paying them.

And if someone with that kind of money was working behind the scenes, then whatever was happening here wasn’t just about poaching - it was about power.

A noble is behind this, maybe. Not Lord Oldřich - he supposes - but perhaps someone who wanted Oldřich’s holdings. Someone sowing disorder, making the Lord seem weak. If locals were being dragged to the gallows for crimes they didn’t commit, how long before the town turned on its own ruler? Or welcomed new leadership with open arms?

Chaos first, Bartosch thought grimly. Then conquest.

He ducked away before the voices moved or the torchlight shifted.

Back by his mare, he hesitated, running a hand over her neck. His jaw was tight with the weight of what he’d overheard. 

And what about the eastern road? No guards there for weeks. Was Oldřich even aware? Had they been ordered away? Or were they bribed? Threatened?

Too many questions. None with clean answers.

This whole town - it was strange. 

If he were a superstitious man, he’d call magic into play. Some foul trick by a witch he had wronged during his adventures and travels. Magic that had dropped Henry into his life again all the way from Rattay. Magic that soured the townsfolk against Alžběta. Magic that put mercenaries in the forests.

Or rather, he should say it’s God mocking them all. God’s hands at play, pulling the strings from above. Almost like a trial for Bartosch. It’s much more likely, he thought to himself bluntly, it would not be the first time.  

But peculiar, strange, cursed - he could call it whatever he wanted, he just knew there was something wrong with this place and what had been going on. 

Nera shifted beneath his hand, huffing, and he realises he’s been standing here for far too long whilst thinking. He doesn’t want to be seen by the leaving bandits or the bailiff. So quietly, quickly he mounts Nera and takes a route back to the manor.

Back to the manor, with hopes that Henry is already asleep. 

He’ll probably tell Henry tomorrow - but tonight, he did not want to face him in that room alone. He did not want to bear the tension between them. If only Henry knew how to mind his own business - but Bartosch knew that’s not what kind of man he is.