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Hans had caught Henry in the courtyard early in the morning and insisted he join him for a hunt, shooing him away to settle up their horses when Henry lingered a moment too long. It was to bite his tongue, to tell Lord Hans he had too many irons in the fire, so to speak. Various little errands that kept seeming to find him around every corner, but who was he to deny his lord?
But he should have known nothing could ever go smoothly when Hans was involved, the bruises healing over his ribs from the bathmaid’s furious husband were still a nagging reminder.
Insisting on a deer hunting spot in the forests south of Rattay, Hans had lead them deeper into the trees, the road becoming narrower as they moved away from civilization.
It was peaceful, only the birds singing and Hans’ occasional running commentary from up front interrupting the silence. Henry kept his eye roving between Mutt running ahead and the back of Hans, watching the way his neck muscles shifted as he rolled out a shoulder.
It distracted him enough that he almost missed Mutt snarling suddenly and Hans’ horse coming to a halt on the path. Shaking himself from the daze, Henry nudged Pebbles further around, so he could see around Hans up the way.
When a figure appeared up ahead on the path, Henry was off his horse with a hand bracing over the pommel of his sword before he could even think about it. Mutt was still snarling and barking, inching closer to the man with each snap of his maw, and Henry called him to back when two other men appeared behind the first.
They were bandits, and shoddy ambushers, based only on the fact they were already brandishing weapons. There’d be no need to try and talk them down then, and Henry would wear no guilty conscious for their deaths.
Hans, on the other hand, almost appeared bored by it all, still astride his horse, looking down his nose at the men before he shot Henry a look. Get on with it, and Henry didn’t need to be told twice, immediately unsheathing his sword and releasing Mutt again with a sharp “go.”
They could hardly be called bandits, how badly they fought, more likely hired hands who grew rebellious and thought themselves intimidating enough robbers to ambush travellers on the road. Unlucky for them to run into Lord Capon and his loyal guard dog.
Henry easily blocked and cast off blow after blow, the clanging echo of metal meeting, letting the man wear himself thin, until Henry could press in close to slash his blade across his belly. It made the second man hesitate, allowing Mutt the chance to catch his teeth around his ankle, shaking and tearing. When the man fell, he stumbeld hard and almost toppled onto Mutt.
It left the man prone long enough for Henry to pin a boot against his chest to keep him still and drive his sword through his throat, uttering a silent, short prayer as he did. He’d done it enough to convince himself this was merciful, not toying with them men he intended to kill.
The third tried to turn and run for the cover of the trees, and Henry considered letting him go, wrenching his sword loose from where he’d stabbed it clean through the bandit’s neck and into the ground below.
The instinct to chase and put him down was strong, his grip strong on his sword, but before the bandit could even make it to the edge of the wood, the fsh of an arrow flew over Henry’s head to sink through the back of the man’s ankle, a wailing scream scattering a few birds out of the trees as he crumbled. The screaming turned into wet, gurgling sounds when Mutt descended onto him, and then silence.
Henry glanced back at Hans, who was beaming wide still astride his horse.
“Excellent shot, if I do say so myself, moving target and all.” Hans had slid his bow onto his back and tugged on his reins, trotting closer to where Henry stood wiping his soiled blade over the sleeve of his jacket. It was already soiled by now, there was no point in being fussy about it until he could have it laundered.
“He was running in a straight line.” Henry couldn’t help himself, a needling little secret joy from watching Hans huff and puff at his insolence.
“Mind yourself, Henry. Next time you’re too slow to finish someone off, you can chase him into the woods, then.”
“Aye, sir.” Henry turned so he could grin, using the heel of his boot to kick one of the body’s over onto its back.
Hans looked pointedly away as he dismounted his horse, while Henry tugged off his gloves to freely wriggle his fingers under layers of leathers to find pockets and satchels, trying to decide what was worth taking or not. Hans had his face turned to gaze up at the sky, as if to allow himself deniability in case they got caught by a wanderer.
There wasn’t much to pick at, the meager offerings of dead bandits left Henry with barely any groschen to rub together. He almost found it insulting, for them to be foolish enough to try and ambush them only to die on his sword, and leave him with their heavy, penniless bodies to bury. But it seemed more cruel to leave their corpses to rot and bloat in the sun, even if it meant their grave would be a shallow ditch under the cover of trees.
With a sigh, he gave Pebbles a pat on her snout as he moved to grab his spade from his pack. When she turned and nibbled at the edge of his sleeve, Henry swatted her with a laugh.
“Okay, okay, you silly girl.” he murmured softly, digging through his overstuffed satchel until he found a slightly bruised apple at the bottom. Pebbles paid no mind to the mottled skin, happily gobbling it up, spraying bits of apple as she chewed. Hans made a disgusted noise behind him, Henry turning to catch the end of a pinched look on his face.
“Between that beast and that dog of yours, I don’t know who has worse table manners.” Hans seemed to barely be holding back his disgust, moving away to lead his own horse towards the half hidden meadow beyond the road, understanding Henry’s intentions with his spade. “Oh, for God’s sake, Hal, stop giving me those sad cow eyes. She can’t actually understand me, you do realize?”
While he didn’t appreciate the comparison, Henry still rubbed a hand over the velvety underside of Pebble’s neck. “She’s smart and sensitive, my lord, be kind.” Her ears flickered as she turned away to start sniffing at the ground, her interest in Henry lost when he didn’t supply another apple for her.
Hans made a loud scoffing noise in response before he disappeared beyond the treeline, leaving Henry to watch the space where he’d just been for a few long moments before he followed, guiding Pebbles through the trees to let her graze in the overgrown grass. The shrouded meadow where Hans had led his horse wasn’t very wide, mostly just a thatch of undisturbed greenery and a large, half rotted log with a patch of worn down dirt. Maybe once it had been someone's forgotten camp spot, but now it mostly just provided some decent privacy away from the road.
Henry moved to spear his spade into the ground near the trees, where the ground was still soft from the previous night's rain.
The work was dull, the wood of the handle of the shovel leaving his palms raw by the time he dug a grave deep and wide enough to fit three men stacked close together.
Every few minutes, he stole a glance towards Hans, who had apparently grown bored of complaining about being bored and was crouched with his back to Henry in the small meadow, seemingly picking around in the dirt. It was mostly to keep an eye on him, to keep his lord safe after already surviving such a brazen midday ambush.
The other reason was to watch the curve of his back as Hans curled over himself to reach for something out of sight, the way his hair was almost a soft, glowing halo under the late day sun. The long, lean line of his neck and the way his shoulder shifted to expose more of his nape as Hans turned, tucking something into his satchel. The shape of his mouth as it twisted in concentration, the ways the corners softened on a smile when he caught Henry’s wandering eye.
The feeling of something hot and shameful tugging in Henry’s chest made him avert his gaze, using the back of his sleeve to wipe the sheen of sweat off his face before focusing on digging.
It didn’t take long to finish up, the worst part was making the hole. After he’d dragged each body by the legs into the pit, all that was left was pushing the dirt back in with the back of the spadehead and patting it down until the disturbed ground wouldn’t be so obvious from the path.
By the time Henry finished up, returning his spade back to his saddlebag, Hans had made himself comfortable in the grass with a wineskin, lounging against the fallen log. He was settled in and content to just relax in the shade, while Henry longed to find a cold stream to wipe himself down in, blood and dirt caked built up under his nails, and the creeping sour feeling of sweat cooling under his collar. He would even take a semi clean puddle at this point.
“Here, you’ve more than earned a drink.”
The words pulled Henry out of his daydream of cool spring waters as Hans shook the wineskin up at him. Grateful, Henry accepted it, careful to not brush their fingers together, and sat on the log beside Hans with a pained grunt, his back muscles aching and screaming. Forget the cold stream, he mused as he took a long drink from the skin. He wanted a real bath with steaming water, flowery scents and women with nice, soft hands who could massage the knot out of his neck.
He nudged Hans’ shoulder with his leg as he handed the skin back, the sharp, acrid taste of sweet fruit still lingering over his tongue. The meadow was silent except for the sway of the branches and the crackle of twigs as Mutt darted in and out of the treeline, likely on the hunt for some poor hare. He pretended to not watch Hans from the corner of his eye, the way Hans’ throat worked as he drank, a small bead of red spilling from the corner of his mouth, his eyes tracking it as it beaded down his jaw.
The urge to catch it with his thumb was strong, and Henry had to curl his hands tight against the insides of his knees.
Hans made a sudden noise, pressing his palm against his mouth to catch his sip of wine, speaking before he swallowed, “Mm, here, I have something for you,” before he shoved the wineskin towards Henry for him to hold. While Hans picked through his things, Henry took another small sip, trying to focus on anything but Hans’ wine reddened lips spreading into a soft smile.
Hans produced a small bundle of white flowers, tied together with a simple rip of linen. “You’re always scrounging around in the dirt for these things, aren't you?” Henry wanted to protest, he did not scrounge around, he was gathering ingredients. But he supposed Hans had a point, there had been a few too many instances lately where he’d made his lord wait a moment so he could hastily collect belladonna. He was tired of haggling for it with the herbalist in Rattay and it was rare to find.
The bundle was not belladonna though, nor anything else truly remarkable. Herbalism likely wasn’t one of the lessons Hans picked up on in his youth in Rattay either, not much value in the craft for a nobleman. So Henry supposed Hans had likely mistaken the small daisies for chamomile instead.
“I-” Henry frowned, finally accepting the flowers from Hans, turning them over in his hand. Hans stole the wineskin back and drank, but his eyes were still on Henry, something hesitant and vulnerable there. Almost like he was nervous.
Henry forced himself to smile, trying to ignore the sensation of something fluttering in his stomach. “Thank you, sir. You didn’t have to go to the trouble.”
It seemed to ease Hans, as he relaxed back again, waving a hand. The highpoints of his cheeks and ears were flushed from his wine. “Ah, well. There wasn’t much to do besides waiting, just think of it as a reward for cutting down those bandits earlier.”
Henry didn’t serve his lord for rewards, but as far as rewards went, it was a silly thing, a bunch of flowers he couldn’t brew into anything useful. But he found himself holding them with something close to reverence, thumb brushing over one of the small, white heads. He’d given Theresa a bouquet once, the cursed bunch from the night at the bathhouse, and she’d been happy and bashful about it. He wondered if her stomach fluttered and tightened into knots like his did now.
Beside him, Hans rose to his feet and clapped a hand onto Henry’s shoulder. “Enough dallying, there’s no point in continuing for the day, might as well head back now. I want to be back in Rattay in time for supper.” With that, he left Henry on the log, still staring at his flowers, while he walked back over to his horse. He sat there for a few moments too long, frowning still at the bunch in his hand, long enough that Hans called back out exasperated “Today, Henry?” from where he waited near the edge of the meadow, before he jumped to his feet, carefully tucking the flowers away into his pack.
Later, alone, as he unpacked his satchel by his bedside, Henry carefully unwound the small bundle of flowers.
A few of the blossoms were wilted and bruised from the trip back, and he brushed a gentle thumb over the velvety soft petals, a silent apology.
There was no real reason to keep them beyond not having the heart to tell Hans they were essentially useless, just a pretty little thing. But it had seemed rude to do, especially when Hans was so eager about it, like picking flowers was some herculean task to be praised for, and it was the thought that counted. That's what his Ma always used to tell him, anyways. He’d considered letting Pebbles munch on them as a treat, but he found himself unwilling to part with them, like a burning secret in his pack.
Sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, he toed off his boots and laid back sideways over the sheets, still clutching the bundle against his chest.
Henry plucked one flower loose from the bunch and laid the rest beside himself. With trembling fingers, he pressed the flowerhead close to his nose, the sweet perfume catching a hard knot in his throat.
It was comforting and sweet, but agonizing; a earthy, floral that reminded him of his mother. She’d kept a humble garden, thick with herbs and flowers, where he spent hours kneeling beside her in the dirt, learning how to care for the plants. The daisies reminded him of the bitter concoction she would brew whenever he was bedridden with a fever, her tender touch cool on his burning forehead. The garden was gone now, the bed wilted and unloved without his mother to care for it, another grave beside their empty home.
Henry quickly blinked away the stinging feeling from his eyes, closing them tight to push away the wetness clinging to his lashes. The hurt cut deep still, refusing to scar over.
When it finally felt like he wasn’t about to burst into tears, Henry blinked his eyes open, focusing on the daisy. He slowly rolled the stem between his trembling fingers, goosebumps breaking out across his skin when the petals bumped and brushed over his mouth. His mind wandered back to the meadow, to Hans pressing the flowers into his hand, his golden hair glowing and eyes bright, and Henry shuddered as he dragged the petals over his mouth again, intentionally this time, like a stolen kiss.
That hot, shameful feeling bubbled in his stomach for the second time that day, but Henry didn’t push it down this time. He could allow himself this, tucked away in the private sanctuary of his room.
He could allow himself to close his eyes and breath in the smell, and pretend he could feel the heat of Hans cupping his cheek, close enough where Henry could kiss away the astringent, cloying taste of the flower stems off his fingertips. Would Hans’ mouth be as soft as the petals? Would his tongue taste sweet of their shared wine? Would he hold Henry with the same gentleness he’d used to pinch the flowers for him from the earth?
It was too much compounding heartache for him to handle, this silly affection that held his beating heart in a tight grasp. He sat up quickly, bending over on himself, letting his head hang between his shoulders as he clenched his knees, steadying his breath until his heart stopped jackrabbiting.
The flowers had been a thoughtful gesture, uncharacteristic of Hans, but nothing to allow such sinful delusions, and he wanted to be able to look Hans in the eye tomorrow without the self induced images flashing across his mind.
Quickly, he rose to his feet and set about finishing unpacking for the night, shedding off his leathers and laying them out carefully for the morning. Despite how much he’d ached for a trip to the baths, Henry settled for the cold bucket of water in the corner of his room, too exhausted to do much beyond give himself a thorough wipe down with a rag.
Henry put the bundle of flowers back into his satchel to give to Pebbles in the morning, but the lone white flower still lay near his pillow.
In one last act of insanity, Henry grabbed a thin layer of bandage from his satchel and knelt by his bed, laying the fabric out flat. His fingers no longer shook holding the stem, his determination winning as he placed the flower in the center and gently folded the cloth over it.
His mother had shown him how to press and preserve flowers too, her green thumb an everlasting gift now.
The memory was no longer bittersweet as he tucked the folded package between pages of one of his books, petting the spine as he stacked a few more books on top to hold it tight.
When he would think of the canary yellow of the daisies, he would no longer be choked by the ghost of his mother’s love, but instead would remember the warmth of Hans sitting close in the meadow, the way his hair shone like spun gold in the lush grass.