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Hans is drunk and so is Henry.
But Henry is the sort of drunk that makes the ground beneath you a little unsteady and where nothing you say seems to be of much consequence. Hans is the sort of drunk that leaves you lying on the ground outside the baths because you can barely put one foot in front of the other.
“Henry”, he groans, looking rather dramatic sprawled on the ground with his arm draped across his face and his pourpoint half-open to reveal his wine-stained undershirt. “Henry, get me up.”
Henry would oblige but he is busy laughing. Doubled over, hands on his knees, barely able to breathe. It was the suddenness of it. One moment the great Sir Hans Capon had been stumbling along beside him, in the middle of some repetitive tirade, the next he went dead silent and when Henry turned around there he was: face-down in the mud.
“You don’t respect me”, Hans laments, trying to get on his feet but only managing to roll back over on his belly, one knee drawn up under him.
“I’ve seen your bare arse too many times, my lord”, Henry manages to say, looking away as to not burst out laughing again. Hans is drunk enough not to remember this tomorrow anyway. Nothing is of much consequence.
Besides, it’s Hans’ own fault that he lies there in the mud. Of course he was the one who insisted they had to go drinking despite barely having exited the stables after their return from Talmberg. Henry could have done with a rest, maybe a visit to the mill to see Theresa, but Hans didn’t want to hear it.
“Come on, Hal, we have never been more deserving of a drink! Wenches can wait, but celebration of a great victory cannot!”
And he had waved a reprimanding finger in Henry’s face before snapping and pointing to the general direction of the bath house.
“A drink and a soak! Your lord commands you! You stink so bad that wench of yours won’t want to touch you anyway.”
Henry doesn’t much like the dismissive way Hans speaks about Theresa. It sounds like he presumes she means as little to Henry as any girl means to Hans. He never says her name, just calls her the mill maid, or the wench, or a distraction.
But Hans was right, Henry did stink. And they did deserve a drink. And it was nearly sunset, and Theresa would still be at the mill the following day. So he had gone to the bath house with Sir Hans and now it is probably nearing dawn and Sir Hans lies drunk and helpless on the ground while Henry laughs.
“What the fuck are you laughing for”, Hans whines when Henry regains enough composure to get the poor lord on his feet. His head lolls over to Henry’s shoulder. “I could have died.”
“Of what, my lord?”
“I don’t know, hitting my head on a rock? Drowning in a puddle? And then you would have been sorry. It would have ended in the gallows for you, for neglecting your lord so.”
He tries to poke Henry in the chest but it ends up as more of a meek pat. His sleeve is wet with mud, his face smeared with dirt. He is desperately in need of another bath, but it’s late and if Henry dropped him in the tub in this state he would probably just slide down beneath the water and never come up again. Instead he tries to lead him to the trough and wets his sleeve a little for a makeshift handkerchief.
“Are you ready to go home?”, Henry asks, wiping away a speck of mud from Hans’ forehead while Hans tries to swat his hand away with little success.
“I suppose”, he grumbles.
“Alright, Sir Hans, one foot in front of the other and we’ll be home in no time.”
Maybe, possibly, before sunrise.
Hans tries to turn his head, but it seems too heavy for him. “Where’s my horse?”
“We walked here, remember? Our horses were all spent after the ride from Talmberg.”
He frowns at that. “Surely there were other horses?”
“You said you wanted to stretch your legs.”
Hans swears under his breath, then he regains just a little bit of posture to slur out a command: “Go fetch my horse then, blacksmith’s boy. Chop, chop!”
“And leave you to drown in a puddle?”
Hans glares, but obliges when Henry urges him to start walking by nudging his hip with his own. With Hans putting all his weight on Henry they list heavily, and make it about twenty steps before Hans slides out of Henry’s grip and down onto the grass beside the road.
“I could just sleep here”, he mumbles, closing his eyes. “You could watch over me, Henry.”
“I’d prefer sleeping in a proper bed, my lord.”
Hans lays quiet for a long time. So long that Henry has to kneel beside him to make sure he hasn’t dozed off. But his hand fumbles for Henry’s.
“I’ve seen your pitiful bed”, he says with a snide smile, thumb pressing into the palm of Henry’s hand. “The ground can’t be much worse.”
“The ground isn’t fit for a noble though.”
A long pause. Then a small laugh. “True that. Alright, you’ve convinced me, good sir!”
Henry might as well have hauled a corpse to its feet, but he is used to Hans being of no help at all. Theresa said once that she felt sorry for him for having to spend so much time with the boy king of Rattay. Henry had rolled his eyes and nodded to indicate that he knew exactly what she meant, but the truth is that he likes being needed. With Hans he gets drunk on wine and praise, on bright smiles and bursts of overwhelming generosity.
I can’t believe you did that. I’m in your debt. What would I do without you. Have this letter. Have this bow. I had these made for you. My right hand man. My squire. My friend. My Henry.
They stumble on, up towards the castle. Hans hums to himself, head on Henry’s shoulder, possibly falling asleep. It was almost easier to escort him wounded and bleeding from that damn hunting trip than it is now. At least then the ground beneath them had been steady.
Hans almost slips again, leaving a small trail of drool on Henry’s shirt. Henry has to put his arms around his waist to hold him upright.
“My lord…”, he sighs when Hans is of no help at all. “May I carry you?”
“Like a sack?”, Hans says, abruptly coming to life. He gives Henry’s chest another pat that’s probably meant to be a firm poke, squirming out of his grip while still leaning on him for balance. God, his breath reeks. “I don’t think so! I’m still bruised after you hauled me out of Talmberg.”
“You can barely stand!”
“Fine then, if you insist!” Hans stops and holds up his arms like a surly child waiting for their mother to undress them, swaying a little and almost losing his footing.
He is heavier than he looks, but lighter than he was clad in plate and mail. Henry holds him steady by the back of his thighs as he trudges up the hill towards the castle. A sleepy guard lifts his head when they approach.
“Halt”, he says, sort of uninterested.
“I’m bringing the lord back to Pirkstein”, Henry says, turning a little so the guard can see Hans swaying like a dead weight behind him.
“Go on, then”, the guard says with a little eyeroll after looking them up and down. It’s clearly not the first time someone brings the lord back to Pirkstein in the middle of the night.
When they finally reach the courtyard the stars above are fading and Henry can hear distant birdsong. He thinks then that he is lucky to be here, lucky to have survived, lucky that he can carry his friend’s limp body home to a soft bed instead of burying it under a linden tree.
It feels like coming home. An overwhelming feeling after all that has passed. He never thought that he could find it anywhere other than Skalitz.
Hans is suspiciously quiet and Henry shakes him a little.
“Stop it, I’m awake”, he mumbles with the hoarse voice of someone who probably wasn’t. “Are we home?”
“Yes.”
He squirms, sliding down from Henry’s shoulder. For a brief moment they’re caught in an embrace, Hans' arms resting around Henry’s neck and Henry’s hands on his hips while the lord finds his footing. Hans grins sheepishly, blue eyes unfocused.
“What a valiant steed you are”, he says and pats Henry fondly on the chest. This time he means to. His hand lingers, a soft pressure just above Henry’s heart. Then they both awkwardly withdraw, even through the drunken haze realising that this is different than seeing the other naked in the bath.
“Well, your valiant steed is tired after carrying its’ lord all the way up the hill and now wishes to bid him good night”, Henry says and bows his head.
“Ah, yes. Back to the stables”, Hans says, glancing towards the small shed where Henry usually sleeps. Then he frowns and shakes his head. “It doesn’t seem fair, though. Me sleeping up there and you sleeping here. There’s a spare bed in my room, you know. A down bed, even. Come now, my steed, you need proper rest after the long journey.”
And he puts his arm around Henry’s shoulders, and Henry can do nothing but follow the boy king of Rattay up the stairs. It’s not different from how it usually is: a task executed and a reward given. But it feels different when the door closes behind them and they are alone in Hans’ room with only a fading fire and the grey light of dawn for company.
Hans manages to unbutton his muddy pourpoint, letting it fall to the floor before he falls into bed. Meanwhile Henry stands a little lost in the center of the room, wondering if he’s allowed to feel at home here after all. But there is indeed a spare bed. He dares to sit down on it. The mattress is soft, the sheets cool and smelling faintly of soap.
“You seeing that miller girl of yours tomorrow?”, comes Hans voice from the other bed, barely discernible, muffled by the pillow.
“Theresa”, Henry corrects him from the inside of his overshirt. “Yes, of course.”
He folds up the shirt and places it gently on the floor along with his belt.
“You know that nothing will become of that”, Hans drawls, sounding like he’s half-asleep already.
“Shut up”, Henry says. He feels dead sober all of a sudden. “She saved my life, you know. I owe her everything.”
“Yes, yes, you keep bringing that up”, Hans’ hand pops up behind the footboard to give a dismissive wave. “But do you see me courting you? I mean, you saved my life twice for God’s sake.”
“Well, that would be less than proper, wouldn’t it?”, Henry says with a laugh.
Hans laughs too. A lazy giggle. “Exactly! So you see what I mean.”
“That’s hardly the same thing, though.”
Hans is quiet.
Henry closes his eyes, picturing Theresa’s smile when he comes to see her. When she sees that he is fine. When he asks her to marry him, whenever that will be. Who cares if a bastard marries a peasant girl anyway?
“I suppose I understand though”, Hans mumbles after a while, maybe in his sleep. The remains of the fire crackle softly. The room smells of soap and hearth and a mix of sweat and musky perfume that is so distinctively Hans. Henry can hear him shift in the bed, the wood creaking, his voice soft when he absent-mindedly continues: “Had I been some noble damsel saved by the great Henry of Skalitz, I’d move mountains to marry him.”
Henry laughs again. He has to. “Well, you’re not a damsel, so I’m afraid you have to settle for having him as your page.”
“That’s fine too”, Hans says into the pillow, barely audible. “As long as he's by my side."