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It was nighttime on the third day when the longing started.
Hans had never really been alone before. Even in the solitude of his room at Pirkstein, people had never been far away. A whistle or a shout would summon a servant to see to his every need.
It was strange, Hans couldn’t help but think. He was now resolved to hate Henry, sick of his comments and criticisms, tired of his endless need to intervene in and improve the lives and fates of every single small peasant and farmer he encountered. Did he think Hans didn’t want to do the right thing? That he didn’t take his role seriously when called for? That was all he ever wanted, and Henry had fucked it up.
And yet, Hans couldn’t help but notice his absence. He had gone his whole life without knowing Henry, yet after just a few short months of knowing him, he had wormed his way to becoming a constant presence in Hans’ life. He hadn’t noticed it until Henry was gone, and now it was hurting, like a tooth that had been knocked out, a sore socket left behind. Something that should have been there, the shadow left behind.
It felt empty. Hans curled up on his thin pile of pine leaves, the needles poking him uncomfortably in the back. He was used to always getting what he wanted, and he had rarely ever lacked anything before - at least not the easy things. Wine, clothes, diversions and schemes. But company - good company, the kind that lasted for more than a night of fun - had never been in his wheelhouse before. The women could distract him, could keep him busy for a few days or nights, could warm his bed a while if they were amenable, but they could never stay. Not like Henry could, not like he had. Until he had left Hans - or rather, until Hans had left him.
Why had he done it? It had all seemed so clear in the sickening fury of his anger, but now, a few days later with the chilly draft surrounding him, things weren’t as easy as they had been. Yet when Hans thought back to Henry’s words in the stocks, his sentiments hardened once more. Over and over again.
Nobody could be proud of you, Capon. Nobody.
Those last days had been hard, a shit continuation of what was turning out to be the worst week of Hans’ life. He had turned his hand to a few odd jobs, finally deigning out of sheer need to do the tasks Henry had begged of him just a few days prior. He had returned to Bozhena, throwing himself upon her goodwill once again, pleading to borrow the bow and arrows not being used by her daughter. His injury still pained him, twinging in his gut when he moved too suddenly, but having a bow in his hand made him feel almost normal for the first time since the first blow had struck his men. Almost, but not quite.
Even the most basic distractions and diversions of his life were gone. Hans had never been hungry in his life, never gone more than a few hours without a fine meal and good wine. Now, he had nothing but the clothes on his back and a borrowed bow, and there was nothing to focus on but absence.
Hans stared at the few embers of his fire, barely enough to keep him warm. It was nothing like the warm fires of his castle in Pirkstein, nothing like the fur lined bedding he had taken on his hunting trips, set up for him by his servants. If this was what the common people went through, Hans had a newfound sympathy for them. Yet they were made for that role, assigned it by God himself. Hans wasn’t meant for deprivation, for hard labor, for the suffering of the peasant. But in this case, God didn’t seem to care.
Henry would have laughed at his sentiments in that self-knowing, slightly admonishing way of his, the way of someone who had truly experienced the world and the mercurial whims of God. He would have said something cutting, slightly heretical but deeply insightful, something that banished Hans’ fears. But Henry had turned that sword-sharp tongue against him in a true way, this time, and Hans couldn’t find it in himself to forget it.
Hans was resolved to hate Henry, to prove himself in the right, to achieve by himself what neither of them had been able to do together. He would throw himself upon his knowledge of the hunt, which had never failed him before. Something noble, something honorable, despite his current situation and its ambiguities. Von Bergow would understand. And Hans would do it by himself, without that blacksmith’s boy trodding loudly behind him.
The night was chilly, but Hans didn’t want to risk anything bigger. This wasn’t his forest or his people. He didn’t want anyone or anything to sneak up on him ever again. Henry had often said that he wouldn’t run again, and yet when the time came, they both did. But Hans was sick of running too.
To many nobles, hunting was the purest form of warfare. It was a chance to display martial talent, unhampered by anything as confounding as a human opponent. There was a proper way to do it, of course - roles for every member of the party to play, hounds to flush out the game and servants to clean it. There was honor and there was glory, everything in its right place - a microcosm of a functioning and proper society, as created and intended by God.
Hans had grown up hunting, first learning at the shoulder of his father, watching with baited breath as their quarry was run to exhaustion and finally struck down by his father’s spear. Once the sickness had taken hold, and his father was no longer able to leave his bedroom, his presence was intermittently replaced by Hanush, an ambivalent hunter at best. Hans had learned how to hunt, learned his role and how to execute it well, and had even hosted hunts on occasion when Hanush was otherwise occupied. Hans was good at the hunt, praised for his skill despite his young age.
But Hans had never cared much for the well-ordered hunt. He cared for the escape. Why would he want to go on the hunt just to play a part, the same part he had been forced to play his entire life?
Out in the woods of Rattay, he would ride as fast as he could, leaving behind his manservants and fellows, daring them to catch up. He would dismount and follow his hounds on foot as they caught scents on the air, so alive and sure that he sometimes thought he could smell their prey as well.
With the thin veneer of solitude that the forest provided, Hans could almost pretend that he was alone, that he was as untethered as a wild dog running free, with nothing more than a thought for his next meal, no duty or lack thereof to concern him. Nothing tying him down or holding him back but his own desires.
He would wait until that prey crossed his sight, set his dogs upon it or call them back as he wished. He would take aim and shoot, or chase it until the blood was on his teeth, too, his heart pumping red hot and chest heaving as the life left his prey.
And once the prey was dead, the rush would fade, and Hans would blow the hunting horn. Within minutes, he would no longer be alone, the servants finding him and beginning their duties, collecting and skinning the animal, the jaws of a complex system of human machinery catching around him once more. And once again he would be returned to his proper place.
There was nothing of the noble hunt in this forest. No dogs to flush out prey, no servants to clean it. In some ways it was better - the solitude Hans had always imagined had become a sudden and violent reality. There was no one waiting beyond his sight to drag him back to his reality, no one trailing one step behind.
And yet.
Suddenly Hans didn’t want the silence. There was nothing but the hum of the forest, the prey and the predator, him and his thoughts.
It’s not my fault. It can’t be my fault. He crouched down, looking in the dirt for the stag’s tracks like he had done a thousand times before.
But if it wasn’t Hans’ fault, then whose was it? Was it really Henry’s, as Hans had shouted during their humiliation at the stocks? Was it God’s uncaring hand, falling where it will, punishing someone or another for their sins? Or was it all random chance, a meaningless turn in a meaningless world?
The last week had been difficult. Hans had never truly hunted by himself before, without his dogs and squires at his back, without other members of his hunting party clamoring to play their part. It was a strange feeling, running down the prey on his own. Hans barely scraped by, hunting small game and eating the meat himself, unused to the hunger pains that gnawed at him constantly. He attempted to skin the hares and squirrels he caught, making a mess of their furs more often than not. His own incompetence frustrated him as it never had before, but a noble was never expected to dress their own game.
Small, mangled furs wouldn’t get him to the Semine wedding. Hans needed something bigger, something better, something more noble. It was the only way he could build up his reputation, to get reliable buyers for the animals he poached.
The stag’s labored hoofprints had left a clear track as it labored through the forest to escape, spurts of dark blood dashing along the underbrush. It didn’t know it was already too late. Hans followed the tracks absentmindedly. He was normally so clear-minded in the forest, but he couldn’t seem to find his usual focus.
Why had Hans survived and his men hadn’t? Surely he had sinned just as much as them, if not more so. Why had his father died all those years ago, leaving him the little lord of a territory he still felt ill suited to rule? Why not someone else, some other man, since Hans had needed him?
Hans thought briefly of the man Henry had called father. Perhaps it was the duty of all fathers to die before their time. But when did a boy stop needing his father? If it was when he became a man, he feared he would never become one.
The stag was lying half-collapsed on the ground, under the branches of a large linden tree. It wasn’t dead, chest heaving erratically, but it was like it had simply given up. It looked up from where it crouched, bleeding slowly from the arrow Hans had already lodged in its flank, like it knew its death was coming. Hans shouldered his bow, exhaling and seeking the peace of the hunt, or at least enough to get to the task. His arm pulled back, arrow in hand, and almost silently, he sent an arrow through the stag’s eye.
Henry had found another father, and as awkward as Sir Radzig was at it, even Hans could tell that there was genuine affection between the strange pair. He was glad of it, even, as it brought Henry further into his world. A blacksmith’s boy couldn’t dine at the high table with lords and ladies, but a noble’s bastard son, the squire of a lord, could go wherever his lord willed him, and was duty bound to follow until death parted them.
At least, that was how the tales had always put it. But Hans was finding out the hard way that tales of honor and the glorious hunt were mostly shit. After all, a hound that had once hunted your prey could turn on you in a second once it had the taste of blood.
They had headed straight out to the hunt, just the two of them.
It wasn’t like nobles ever apologized, especially not to peasant boys like Henry. But Hans made an honest attempt. He hadn’t meant to start a fight, even if the boy - who was probably a bit older than him, to be fair - was being rude. It was just so easy to get carried away. It was becoming something of a problem for Hans.
But did this blacksmith’s boy really have to be so disrespectful? Henry had actually managed to beat him, in archery and sword fighting both, and that just couldn’t stand. When he had dared to command a lord in his own city, well, Hans had never been known to have the best self-control. He had only wanted to put Henry back in his place, back into the order that they all marched along to, no matter how much it had been disrupted as of late.
Hans risked a glance back at the boy trotting behind him. In a way, Henry’s lack of awareness and propriety was refreshing. The bowing and scraping got old after a while, even if it was only Hans’ due. Though to be forced by Hanush to take Henry along on the hunt still galled him.
Hanush had no love for the hunt, no interest in it except its role in the political posturing and maneuvering between nobles. But he knew how much Hans loved it, and that was enough to know that he could use it to punish Hans.
It isn’t exactly Henry’s choice either , Hans reminded himself. After all, he had to admit that he had played a role in instigating their fight.
He had only wanted to gain the attention of this boy who, at just a year or so older than him, had already seen much more of the truth of the world, the horror and the wonder. Who just by delivering a message, by surviving, had done more than Hans had ever cared to, more than he had ever been allowed to do.
Hans wanted something real. What he wanted had never been denied to him, except for all the things that really mattered, beyond the meaningless trivialities and pleasures of his routine existence. Real power, his parents, freedom, control over his destiny, an end to this damned war that had finally come knocking on his doorstep – all of it out of his reach, a lack that could only be temporarily soothed with wine and women.
Attention, he knew very well, could be gained in many ways, though outright antagonism wasn’t really a good idea. Hanush was right in most things, as much as it annoyed Hans to admit.
Thinking back on it, that ill-fated hunting trip had been one of the best things to ever happen to Hans, strangely enough; the beginning of an unlikely friendship. When Henry had saved him from the Cumans, the only price a few jokes at his expense, Hans had almost cried with the knowledge that there was someone out there who would risk their life for his. That loyalty had always been his due, been his people’s duty, yet it was different to see up close, from someone who should have hated him. So had begun his fondness for Henry, a desire to see him well rather than wind him up; a person who could be relied upon even as Hans failed or didn’t even try.
In those days, Henry was a strange one. Most times, he was perfectly normal, an outspoken but considerate young man. He would rib back at Hans when he jokingly insulted him, follow Hans to the tavern or the bathhouse for some fun, indulge in trouble and merrymaking just like any man his age would. Henry thought about his words more than Hans, for sure, but that just made them a good combination - restraint and reaction, circling around each other and balancing each other out.
But some days were different. Sometimes, Henry was by turns snappy and silent, erupting into sudden emotion and then fading back into quiet contemplation, as if he were a world away. He rarely laughed, barely ever cracked a smile. Sometimes, he looked as if he were seeing another life, another day, another person besides Hans. On those days, Hans considered it a personal challenge to draw a reaction, especially a chuckle. He had already managed a few.
In battle, he was already showing promise, despite his lack of experience. Hans could now see how Henry could have beaten him at their sparring - after all, to Hans, it was still all a game. But Henry’s burgeoning skill had been forged in the ashes of his dying town, above the corpses of his loved ones.
Just a blacksmith’s boy, but what a man he was shaping up to be.
When Hans saw Henry at the wedding, he couldn’t help but turn away.
They couldn’t give up the game, their plan to petition von Bergow, even if it had all gone to shit. They were so close now. And anyways, Hans couldn’t meet his eyes.
Henry looked well. That was the most galling thing about it, that Henry could have skated by with his words and his sword arm, just like usual. He had probably charmed everyone he met, done every menial task to help every menial peasant in the entirety of Trotsky. And it had clearly worked.
Hans fought in the tourney, winning more than he lost. It couldn’t hurt to recoup his funds somehow, after all. The clothes he was wearing may have been fine, but they weren’t fine enough. He met a beautiful woman talking to the dour-faced chamberlain, clearly bored and looking for a better time.
All the while, in the corner of his eye, a man dressed in green hovered. He flitted around, fighting and betting and running all over, doing God knows what for a hundred different people, as usual. Hans couldn’t help but notice him, as bright and abrupt as the sun in the sky. It had been so long since he’d seen Henry, and he didn’t know how to talk to him again without yelling in anger or pleading for forgiveness.
Later, he twirled the beautiful lady in his arms, focusing on their dance, dismissing Henry without a second glance. When the dance was over, the woman smiling coyly and grasping at his arm, Henry was gone.
Hans didn’t remember much from after it had all gone to shit. The wedding had turned into such an all-out brawl that he could barely keep track of who was on his side, or if there were even any sides at all.
But he remembered the look in Henry’s eyes when he had punched out that fool, a sort of resigned amusement that Hans hadn’t seen since their more carefree days in Rattay. And he remembered Henry at his back, face wild like he was in a pitched battle, striking anyone who dared to come too close to his lord.
When the bells rang at noon, Hans flinched.
Just a few hours ago, each ringing of the bells had counted down an hour until his death. And yet, he had survived. Now Hans stood on the upper walls of Trosky, gazing out over the plains and trying to calm the surging memories that overwhelmed him.
He remembered how Henry had been dragged away from the gallows, an agonized look on his face. But Hans couldn’t summon any thoughts to mind beyond a thrumming panic, the walls closing in. He was so used to speaking, but now he had nothing left to say.
He had just sat there in the prison cell, watching water slowly drip down one wall, waiting to die.
When the noose went round his neck, he had almost become accustomed to it, like it had been there all along. It was the certainty of death, the last gasping breaths and death throes of the noble stag, run down over the course of hours by its hunters. Hans searched his mind for anything that could stop what was coming, like he had been for the last twelve hours, and came up blank once again. He searched the crowd for the once face he knew, the one face he wanted to see, but it was just a sea of jeering strangers, the chamberlain rearing up to end the show.
How many executions had he watched, as the almost-lord of Rattay? How many times had Hanush dragged him to see the King’s justice done as a young boy? How many times had Hans had the honor of delivering the death blow to his prey, watching the light leave its eyes as his companions cheered?
Hans had become the hunted, hundreds baying for his blood as he stood on the stage. He would almost laugh at the thought, if he could take a breath at all.
“Don’t look away, lad. You’ll soon become a man, and a proper lord. You need to see the King’s justice done.”
Hanush gripped his shoulder tightly, turning him towards the gallows. Hans was scared, but he knew he had to be brave, knew he couldn’t show his fear. This was the rule of law, after all, and criminals deserved their punishment. That was the way of nobility, of society. Hans wouldn’t be a coward, afraid to see the punishment carried out. Even if the look on the condemned man’s face made him want to turn away.
He barely even knew why the man had been condemned to hang. Hanush had explained it to him as they rode through the city, but Hans hadn’t paid attention, more interested in the bustle of people around him. He was used to scampering around the castle, exploring the hidden passageways and pulling pranks on the servants, but it got boring after days and days of the same old things. Hans wasn’t often allowed out into his own city, and he yearned to explore it, to find the hiding places and excitement that came without his constant supervision.
Hanush was a busy man, often away attending to his duties, but Hans was always followed by an endless procession of maids, teachers, caretakers, and guards. He longed to get away from it all, to truly be by himself. Riding out of the city and breathing the clean air of the woods made Hans want to spur his horse out into the wilds, to see what was beyond the limits he was bound to. He was already an adept rider, despite his youth, of course he could do it! Even just thinking of it as their party took the winding road uphill felt like a weight lifting from him.
Standing by the gallows, Hanush’s hand felt like a ton of rocks laying on his shoulder. The air was hot, oppressive, pressing in on Hans from all sides. He took a quick breath, then another, as the executioner prepared to kick the stool out from under the condemned man.
With a quick crack of wood, it was over. The man was hanging, swaying back and forth with his spasms, eyes bulging out and neck reddining. Hans thought of his father’s face on his deathbed, the frothing mouth and miasma of sickness hanging around him. They hadn’t wanted Hans to see him like that, afraid the illness might catch, but Hans hadn’t cared. He had just wanted his father.
Already, the man’s movements were dying down, faint twitches fading into nothing. Hanush nodded approvingly, noting the executioner’s skill. A merciful death, good for a hanging. Hans closed his eyes and tried not to cry. He would be brave. He would be a proper lord.
Henry was talking to that soldier again, the one with the black hair.
Hans stood in the corner of the room, sipping a glass of (admittedly good) wine and watching as his fellow partygoers got progressively more and more drunk.
Usually, Hans would be one of them, pounding back drinks on von Bergow’s dime and flirting with the ladies, noble and common alike. But it just wasn’t in him tonight to let go, or to pretend.
Henry got a bit closer to the man, smiling at something he said. Hans had watched them sparring in the courtyard earlier. The pair was fairly evenly matched, although Henry’s relative inexperience was clear when pitted against a noble knight-for-hire. Still, Hans hadn’t been embarrassed by his squire, not at all.
The reticent blacksmith’s boy had truly become a man, a warrior who could stand a chance against the finest and most well-trained nobles in all of Bohemia. All this by the work of his own hands, and the favor of the Lords of Leipa.
Hans was proud of Henry, the way that a man was proud of an underdog choice in the dogfighting ring, a runt that had upset and taken the win. He was proud of Henry as his best friend, his only friend, as something more than that that he couldn’t quite name.
It was humiliating, how the second Henry wasn’t focused on him Hans was set adrift, bitter and resentful. How Hans couldn’t help but be aware of Henry’s presence, like a north star he was always orientated towards, like a beacon shining in the pitch black night. He had only just gotten Henry back, and Hans felt every step he took away.
Henry was his man-at-arms, at least for now, so it wasn’t all that strange that Hans wanted to own him – for all intents and purposes, he already did. His was an ownership ordained by God and the Church, by the king and his people, by all the systems and roles that had persisted for hundreds of years. What was strange was how very much Hans wanted to be owned in return, how much Henry’s attention and care mattered to him, that it left a deep rift when it passed him by.
Those twelve hours waiting in the dungeon to die had been agony, and Henry hadn’t been there. Now, the hunt had ended, and Hans as the prey had escaped the inevitable conclusion, but the same absent feeling remained.
The red mark from the noose was still around his neck. When he swallowed the wine, the rope burn pressed against his collar. Without Henry’s attention on him, Hans couldn’t think about anything else.
The air on the battlements was cool, the wind blowing all around him. Hans took a deep breath. The shock of his imprisonment still hadn’t faded, the musty damp misery of that small prison cell. A few days ago, he had faced his certain death. Just a few hours ago, he had faced it again.
Hans hadn’t been in many battles - just the siege of Talmberg, and the fight against Toth’s bandits. Battles were a matter of fighting, of strategy, of winning. Something frightening, and beyond any man, but a known quantity nonetheless. But the attack by Zizka’s forces hadn’t been a battle, not really. It had been a massacre.
Hans had no love for most of the soldiers he was with then, true enough. They had all been happy enough to watch his hanging. He certainly wouldn’t shed any tears for the damn chamberlain. But Hans still couldn’t get their faces out of his head, the mad rush of fighting not for honor or victory, but animal instinct and survival. The sharp crack of the muskets, the blood seeping into the ground from lifeless horses and men.
It was nothing like hunting. There was nothing organized in it, nothing beyond the dirt in front of you and your grasping hands, trying to hold onto a weapon slick with blood. It was nothing like the hunt, and yet it was - for that same animal instinct had overtaken them all then, the death throes of the stag, the heaving chests of dying men and the resignation in their eyes as they bled onto the forest floor.
The bells had rang for him, for all of them. Hans hadn’t died yet, but it felt like a postponement, like sheer dumb luck. He had cheated death once, twice, three times in a matter of weeks, and it still wanted what it was owed.
He didn’t want to be here in this small fortress, surrounded by men who had just tried to kill him. Up above the main courtyard, beyond the sight of the bandit-soldiers patrolling on the other side, Hans could almost pretend he was alone. But the sharp ringing of a hammer on steel kept drawing his eyes to the one person he wanted to see.
Henry was down below, working in the forge. He had struggled out of his armor some time after the battle, dirty white shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal his muscular blacksmith’s arms. Hans couldn’t see what he was making, but he was pounding it with heavy hammer strikes, sending sparks flying in a great shower of gold.
It was immensely distracting, the noise pounding like a spike into his injured head, the sight of Henry, somehow still alive. Hans couldn’t look away.
Henry had saved his life then, just as he had all those other times – another tally to add to the ever-growing list. He had stood over Hans like a dog protecting his master, like a hound hoarding the prey it had run to exhaustion.
Over the fortress wall, the sun was setting, painting the horizon in shades of yellow the same as Henry’s forging. Hans took another deep breath, and listened to the sound of a better bell.