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In February in the year of 1412, in the city of Kolín, long after the tavern has closed for the day, Samuel opens the door to somebody who has been knocking on the door incessantly for what feels like hours. Behind the door stands his brother, Henry, his eyes sad, sympathetic.
Samuel feels a twinge of fear.
Still, he invites Henry in, because he will not let his brother stay outside in the cold winter night and shuts to door.
Henry continues to stand, not taking another step deeper into the tavern.
“Sam, you know that John was supposed to join us, in Rattay, right?”
“Yes, I… did something happen?” Samuel forces out, his throat tightening with dread and anticipation.
And Henry starts talking, like he cannot stop once he starts, but it also starts rehearsed. Like he thought the whole journey from Rattay about these few sentences.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry. He never made it. The two men he rode with, they came to Rattay, all bloodied, said that they were attacked by bandits, that they got John,” spills out of Henry, words coming all in one breath, without pause.
Samuel didn’t want John to go to Rattay, not at first.
“Is it truly necessary for you to go? Surly they have enough brain to figure themselves out without you, no?” Samuel had asked, little concerned, little desperate, a week before John had left. The “You no longer have to dance to Jobst’s tune. He’s dead. You’re a man of your own. Why did you poison him, if not for this,” was left unsaid.
John had just laughed then, “You act as if I am to meet Sigismund himself, not Hans Capon.”
Even though this did not completely erase the doubts from Samuel’s heart, it eased them enough for him to smile too and to agree, though not without a bit of good-natured grumbling.
Henry takes a breath then, and Samuel is forced out of his memories. He holds onto the doorframe, because he already knows, because if John was fine, he would have sent a letter for Samuel not to worry, and then he would have come himself, expression bashful. Samuel would have scolded him for not being careful enough and they would have dinner together, their legs touching under the table.
But this is Henry. And he says, “We rode out to the place where they last saw him, searched the nearby forests, but there wasn’t anything. He wasn’t anywhere. I’m sorry.”
Samuel sits down heavily onto a nearby bench and puts his head in his hands. Henry sits down next to him, not saying anything, and Samuel feels gratitude, even in this moment, that he found his brother, all those years ago. That Henry understands.
They stay sitting like that for a long time.
Eventually, Samuel offers Henry a bed in one of the free rooms and Henry asks whether Samuel is sure, that he would not want to intrude.
“I am quite sure, Bruder.” Samuel responds and his own voice sounds distant to him, muffled, like he is wrapped in a blanket, and someone is speaking from the outside.
And still, he feels grateful to Henry. They could have just sent word by a messenger. They wouldn’t have had to bother at all, leaving Samuel to learn the news through the grapevine. But Henry is here.
He shows Henry his room and then goes to his Mame. When he tells her the news, there are tears in her eyes, and suddenly, Samuel’s vision is blurry too. He buries his head in her shoulder, and cries. In the end, he falls asleep sitting next to her on the bed, still pressed to her shoulder, her fingers tracing calming circles on his back. He dreams of curly hair.
Henry leaves a few days later with apologies on his tongue, but it was clear to Samuel he hated being parted from lady Jitka, from young Hynce, from Hans. And so, Samuel bids him farewell on his travels.
The days, weeks following feel like melted snow passing through Samuel’s fingers- present, painful, but gone the next instant. He only remembers saying the Mourner’s Kaddish.
***
In April in the year of 1412, in the city of Kolín, a short while after Samuel closed his tavern, someone knocks on the door.
Samuel weighs his options- to stay late in work or leave a stranger outside in the chilly spring air. He chooses to open the door.
Outside stands John II of Liechtenstein, hair slightly unkempt, clothes plain, the only jewellery a ring on his finger. His expression is pinched, as if he cannot choose between crying and smiling.
A few thoughts flash through Samuel’s mind then. He’s gone mad with grief, he’s gone mad altogether, it’s a dybbuk, it’s a nightmare, it’s the most pleasant dream he’s had since Henry stood in this exact same place.
But the air is crisp on his skin, the doorframe slightly worn underneath his fingers and when he puts his other hand on John’s arm and squeezes, he feels the warmth of John’s body and hears the slight inhale of his breath.
John does start crying then, little wordless sobs, Samuel’s hand on his arm shattering something inside him. Samuel is prepared when he flings himself into his arms, door closing behind him. He thinks he has never been more prepared for anything in his life.
John lays his head on Samuel’s shoulder, and Samuel curls his body around him, grateful for his height, grateful that John lets himself be enveloped by him. He cards his fingers through John’s hair, not all that gentle, pulling slightly. He knows John likes it, anyway.
Then there are tears in his eyes too, so he puts his face close to John’s neck and inhales his scent. They stay like that, holding each other. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes, maybe an hour.
Eventually, John moves to pull away, but then he lays a kiss on Samuel’s forehead, his brow, over his eyelids, his cheeks, his mouth.
Samuel leads them to sit on a bench nearby and, holding John’s hands in his own, says only two words. “Explain. Please.”
Their legs are touching.
John swallows, then starts talking. “After Jobst died, and I could spend more time with you, here, I realised that I wanted even more. More then a few days every month, more then letters. I just… wanted. But even without Jobst, I still had my obligations, and I would continue to have them-“
“Until the day you died,” Samuel finishes for him.
He suddenly feels so very angry. But he holds John’s face in his hands, gently, like a fine piece of porcelain. “Why haven’t you told me? Did Henry know? Do you even realise, what it is like? To mourn?”
“No, no, do not be angry at your brother,” John says, “he didn’t know anything. I… I wanted to be sure that everything would go according to plan, so I didn’t tell anyone. Not even you. I thought it better to let you mourn without cause for a month, then to let you mourn forever, for a reason.”
“Alright.” Samuel says. “Alright.”
He thinks he will still need more explanation later. He thinks he might be angry at John, for some time, even if he is so very grateful to have him here, to be allowed to be angry at him. But for now, he takes John by the hand to tell his Mame the good news. She missed someone to gossip with.
When he wakes up the next morning, just before the sun rises, John is in his arms. He shakes him awake too. “Now that John of Liechtenstein is dead, you will need to find some way to earn money,” Samuel tells him, only half joking.
“Come with me. I will show you how the tavern opens.”