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Bianca was born in June. She would have been nineteen now, had she lived. Theresa wakes up one day to the scent of blooming elderflowers and she remembers. All morning she tries to forget, despite knowing that she will only end up feeling guilty. Bianca deserves to be remembered for her life, not her death, but it’s just too much to bear with things being as they are; with Henry absent.
Not that he would have made remembering easier.
Not that it is possible to forget.
The ring on her pinky glistens in the sun, and when she goes down to the river Zdena is there. The bathmaid is splashing her feet in the water, smiling at Theresa as she approaches, obviously not burdened by the elderflowers. Beside her sits two buckets filled with water. As usual she is in no hurry to fetch them back to the bathhouse. A black lock of hair falls down in her face when she turns her head. The sun catches in it, turning it copper-red. It reminds Theresa of sitting by the river with Bianca and Johanka, cooling their bare feet in the water, fingers stained with the red of wild strawberries. The sun looked just like that, caught in Bianca’s hair.
At first Theresa didn’t like Zdena. Not until she laughed and it sounded like a memory. Now she often catches a glimpse of Bianca in the curl of Zdena’s lips, in her shameless magpie laughter. Mostly it’s comforting, just not today.
“Have you heard? The lordling’s gone missing”, Zdena says in a way of greeting, holding her feet above the water to watch glittering droplets run down her heels. “They say that Lord Hanush sent someone to look for him.”
Theresa doesn’t really answer, merely makes some vague grunt in acknowledgement as she wades out into the reeds. The current pulls gently at her ankles. It’s the same water that ran through the landscapes of her past life, the same water that cooled their bare feet during summers in Silver Skalitz.
“I reckon he ran off”, Zdena continues, amused. She never seems to mind Theresa’s moods. At first Theresa took it for obliviousness, but now she knows that it is acceptance. “He was always complaining about his duties anyway. Not that he actually tended to them.”
“Maybe”, Theresa says, not believing it.
It sounds like Lord Capon to shirk his duties, true enough, but not Henry. He wouldn’t just run away, not even for the lordling. Had Lord Capon truly fled, surely Henry would have showed up to tell them by now. He is still bound to Rattay, to his actual liege lord and father.
And to me.
She presses her thumb against the sun-warm silver around her finger.
Henry is not one to break promises.
It’s not the first time he’s gone. Sometimes he disappears for days, even weeks, eventually coming back like a famished dog finally finding its way home. He’s told her about monasteries and bandit camps and night time raids, trying and failing to hide bruises and barely healed wounds, telling her not to worry. The last time she saw him he had mentioned something about leaving Rattay for a few days, maybe a week. She was almost happy to hear that he would do so accompanied by Lord Capon and his entourage, instead of heading into bandit-infested woods with nothing but a dog and a sword for company.
The last time she saw him, it was a sunny afternoon and they had shared a chicken at the Broken Wheel tavern, which felt a little lavish but nice. During their months in Rattay Henry had gotten habits like that; eating and drinking good, splurging for no reason at all, dressing in well-tailored shirts and sporting ridiculous golden spurs. Groschen ran through his hands like an everflowing river, and he was more than happy to share. It was fine that he paid for their meals but she always said no when he offered to buy her a new dress or jewelry. It felt vain, and she didn’t want everyone to start whispering about the spoiled mill maid who thought herself above her station, flaunting wealth that wasn’t even hers. Besides, she knew where the money came from. Some of it was for his services to Lord Radzig which was all well and good, but some of it she knew came from Lord Capon, and that knowledge gnawed at the back of her mind.
“I’ll go with Lord Capon as his body guard”, Henry had told her with ill-hidden pride, trying to wipe chicken grease out of his poor attempt at a mustache with an even greasier finger. “Actually, it was his idea.”
Had she asked about the when and the where he probably would have told her, but it was a sort of private protest not to inquire when Henry mentioned the lordling. They used to laugh at him together. Sometimes they still did, but it was all too clear that somewhere along the way Capon had stopped being a nuisance and turned into a friend. Whenever Henry mentioned him he smiled, as if he couldn’t help it. He’d still call him a prick and a spoiled brat, but the insults had lost their bite.
No matter how much Theresa tried to weed it out, envy sprouted within her. Back in Skalitz, God forbid, she had often been envious of Bianca. Not because of Henry, but because Bianca was quick to laugh and quick to forgive and held her heart in her hands like it wasn’t something fragile.
And now she is envious of Henry. Not because of Lord Capon, but because Henry so easily shed his past and stepped into the shoes of someone different: someone who could ride through the wild forests on his very own horse, beloved and needed by all.
Meanwhile, ever since Skalitz burned, her days are nothing but endless menial tasks, no longer softened by all the things she took for granted.
He must have noticed that she grew quiet when he mentioned his new mission, that evening at the Broken Wheel Tavern. Ever so understanding he steered the conversation to safer waters until she could forget that he was a lord’s son and she just a commoner. Then he walked her back to the mill and in the shadow of the barn they kissed and his brow pressed against hers as he told her that he loved her. She only ever answered I know, trusting him to understand that most of the people she had loved were gone now.
Now weeks have passed since she last saw him. Nearly a month.
I know is growing a sour aftertaste.
She thought that she could rest in simply knowing, she thought that it would spare him her terrible curse. But sometimes loss doesn’t come suddenly, sometimes the current sweeps it away, and you don’t even notice until it’s too late.
Once, in the beginning and way before the end, Bianca told her that she wasn’t sure if Henry loved her.
“He’s stupid if he doesn’t”, Theresa had said then, putting her arms around Bianca’s shoulders as she cried. “Everyone loves you.”
Then, quieter, when her tears wouldn’t stop: “I love you, Bianca.”
“I know”, Bianca had mumbled. “I know.”
Sometimes when Henry said it she thought of that.
Bianca crying.
I love you.
I know.
Did she?
She finds the fish traps and she lifts them out of the water. They are empty.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
The elderflowers wither.
Theresa had pictured summer differently. How foolish of her. She should have known better than to expect anything. How blasphemous to believe that her words would have the power to change God’s will. She thought she could save Henry from his fate if she guarded her heart. How foolish, how childish. When they went on their walks, when they ate at the tavern, when they kissed in the shadow of the barn, she had made space for him. Now all that is left is a cavernous tomb, an echoing silence.
There is nothing to fill it with, because the lord taketh away and taketh away and taketh away.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
Eventually, Theresa stops waiting. By then the leaves are yellow, and the mornings cold and crisp. In the shadows of the trees frost lingers on the grass, and ice crusts the puddles in the muddy road. For months all sorts of rumors have circulated, until Theresa decided to shut them out entirely. It doesn’t matter if Lord Capon is dead in a ditch or taken hostage or getting married; there are no riders stopping at the mill, no dog barking in recognition.
It’s just another morning when she runs into Zdena by the river again. She is standing with her shoulders hiked up to her ears, blowing warmth into her hands that are still red from being plunged into the cold water.
“Did you hear?”, she calls out when she spots Theresa. “The lord of Rattay has returned!”
“With his blushing bride?”, Theresa asks. Zdena always tries to coax her into speculating about Lord Capon’s alleged bride-to-be.
Zdena smiles slyly. “Aye, an ugly, hairy bride named Henry. They stopped by the bathhouse yesterday. I think our lordling has spent the summer repenting, he only had one cup of wine and barely even glanced at my arse.”
Theresa gapes at her. Henry is alive. Henry is here. Henry has not bothered to tell her anything at all.
“When did they come back?”, she asks.
Lord Capon told him to come with him to the bathhouse and he couldn’t refuse. You can never refuse a noble. It got late and he didn’t want to wake her. And now he is busy speaking to his father. Yes, maybe he has already been asked to ride out again. Maybe he will stop by on his way to Sasau or Talmberg or Uzhitz. Maybe he is already at the mill, looking for her, wondering why she isn’t there waiting for him.
“Just a few days ago. Klara attended them so I didn’t find out much. She hates gossiping, as you know”, Zdena says, doing her Klara-voice; all breathy and innocent. Then she rolls her eyes and bends down to pick up the water buckets, until now forgotten by her feet, marking the end to their conversation. “If they show up again I’ll tell him to stop by.”
“Don’t”, Theresa says.
When she returns to the mill she can’t help herself. She looks down at the mud, grown soft in the sunshine. There are no hoofprints.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
She thinks of Bianca, crying, saying that she didn’t know if Henry loved her.
What if he had told her that he did, and she just hadn’t believed him.
What if she was right not to.
·•—–٠✤٠—–•·
A week or so later she sits outside the mill, mending her woolen hose for the fast-approaching winter. She has forced herself to stop constantly glancing towards the road, and listening for the sound of hooves. The sun warms her face and leaves rustle softly in the wind, some of them leaping out into the air, ready to wither and die. She tips her head back, closing her eyes, letting her aching hands rest for a moment.
Then there’s a bark. Two barks. And before she dares open her eyes there is a tug.
It’s Mutt, with her hose caught between his teeth, his tail wagging so fast that it’s nothing but a brown and white blur.
“Mutt!”, a voice calls out. Despite all her waiting, she finds herself wishing that she didn’t recognise it, that it didn’t make her heart skip a beat. Boots crunch against the frosty grass as Henry comes running towards them, one hand outstretched to catch his disobedient dog. Pebbles is nowhere to be seen, so he can’t have been in a hurry. She already knew that, yet it stings.
None of them know what to do. When Mutt bounces out of reach they both stand sheepishly watching as her hose trails through the mud along with needle and thread while Mutt trots around all pleased with himself.
“Ah, leave it”, she says when Henry decides to take up the chase and Mutt happily darts out of reach again. “He’ll tire himself out.”
For the first time in months Henry looks at her.
Theresa realises that she has pictured someone else; a boy in Skalitz, asking her to play with swords. The man that stands before her looks a little like him, but he is not that boy. At first her eyes snag on his clothes: a woolen pourpoint, pointy shoes, a hood with a bitterly familiar shield embroidered right above his heart. When he straightens up he is taller than she remembers, and broader still, his thumb hooking into his belt in a movement that speaks of someone used to the pommel of a sword. A tiny scar splits his lower lip and his face is lined and sharp as if years have passed, his attempt at a mustache grown into a beard. The haircut is the same at least; showing off his big ears.
He smiles and it’s not the bashful, fond grin he always gave her before leaning in for a kiss; it’s uncertain, even a little ashamed.
“You look well”, he says, painfully polite.
“So do you”, she says.
“Do I?”, he says. In the blue of his eyes there is a glimmer, a hint of the way things were.
“Well”, she says and a breath of laughter escapes her. “Rugged might be a better word. I heard you had quite an adventure.”
In truth she has not heard much because she has done her best not to listen. He looks adventurous though. Knightly.
“I suppose we did.” His smile broadens into something recognisable.
We.
Mutt rolls over in the grass beside them, tired of not getting attention. Theresa reaches out and grabs her hose, tugging lightly. He lets go with a half-hearted growl that quiets as soon as she scratches his belly.
“Do you have time for a walk?”, Henry asks, watching her hastily fold up the fabric.
She does. But she sits silent for a moment, feeling around that empty space inside her, wondering if it will grow bigger and if she can afford that.
Maybe she can fill it with answers, if nothing else.
“Alright”, she says.
He offers her his elbow, so gallant. She can feel his muscles and his warmth even through the thick fabric. There is that smell of sweat and stable and smoke, but it is half-hidden beneath a whiff of perfume. She doesn’t remember him ever wearing perfume when he came to see her. Is it just another new habit of his, or is he trying to impress her?
The conversation starts out halting, until she asks him about the summer. Then the tale flows out of him quickly, and she can hear that he has gotten practice telling it. How many have asked before her? Has Zdena heard it all? Has Klara? Does all of Rattay know what became of Henry of Skalitz, while she has waited for him to come tell her?
He lingers on silly escapades and tidbits of exciting battles, only briefly touching on hardships and losses to fill in gaps. Does he think that her feeble mind cannot take such horrors? She who wandered among the rain-bloated corpses of everyone she had known, covered in the ashes of her home?
That, or he just doesn’t want to talk about such things with her anymore. He’ll give her the story he’d give to anyone, nothing more.
“And what about you?”, he asks when his tale has ended at the tail end of summer. There is a glaring gap between then and now; one he is clearly not willing to get into.
“Oh, things have been much the same around here”, she says, skipping over the entire summer.
They walk in silence for a moment. They’ve almost made it to the spot where they used to sit down in the grass, his hand a comfortable weight upon hers. Mostly they talked; about the past and the present but never about the future. Sometimes they kissed until they could forget time existed at all. Had he been there this summer, they would have sat there surrounded by elderflowers, but they are shrivelled and gone now.
They do not sit down. Instead they stand side by side, looking out over the river leading all the way to Skalitz, their breath turning into ghosts in the chilly air. She touches her thumb to the ring. If it wasn’t for Bianca she would have thrown it into the river and forgotten about it.
“What took you so long?”, she says.
He looks like a struck dog, avoiding her gaze.
“I told you”, he says.
“You said the siege was over at the end of summer?”
“It was. We got held up in Kuttenberg. Lord Capon… It doesn’t matter. I asked father to send someone to tell you.”
She wants to laugh at that, at him. Is he really stupid enough to believe that Sir Radzig would remember to tell a mill maid the whereabouts of his bastard son, or did he just not care?
“Well, no one told me. You could have been dead and buried and I would have been none the wiser.”
Henry’s jaw works silently, chewing on words he cannot say. His face flushes pink.
Then: “I’m sorry.”
She tries to judge the weight of the word. There is too much to be sorry about. Where would they even begin?
“For what?”
He blinks. “For leaving”, he says. He tries to look at her, then he turns back towards the water. “I feel like I abandoned you.”
You did, she thinks. You disappeared like everyone else and left me in the ashes.
“I never meant to”, he continues when she remains silent. “I want to make it up to you.”
“How?”
Finally, he turns his head to look at her. She almost expects a kiss and for a terrifying moment she has no idea if she would reciprocate. But there is no kiss, his eyes just rove across her face, perhaps seeing a stranger too.
“Whatever you ask, I’ll do it. We could go see Johanka and Matthias, like we said we would. If you want to see Prague I’ll find a way to take you there. I just…”
His gloved hand grabs hers. She can feel the warmth of him through the leather, but nothing more. There is a desperation in his wish to repent, as if he won’t survive without her forgiveness. Despite everything, it’s sweet. Like that boy in Skalitz. But he isn’t that boy. She looks at this stranger in front of her and realises that he was always abandoning her. Slowly but surely. And can she blame him? She would never have lingered in Skalitz if she thought that there was something else waiting for her. Something new was waiting for Henry; a new town, a new lord, a new father. Skalitz was just an offering. Maybe she was too.
She pulls her hand out of his grip.
“Do you still love me?”
The words come out easier, calmer, than she thought they would. She knows the answer. In a way it’s a relief to no longer wonder what she should do with his devotion. When he had spoken of marriage it had only ever felt like a childish fantasy, and one she was not so keen on herself. It was like listening to Bianca trying to decide what she would name her and Henry’s children.
She recalls trying to tell him that even if he went away, if he met someone else, that she would not survive truly losing him. That had been a childish fantasy too, because deep down she had known he was already lost. And yet she lived.
“I’m sorry”, he says again. “I… I think I’m a different person now.”
“I know”, she whispers. She wishes he had known sooner, but sometimes change doesn’t come suddenly, like your village burning. Sometimes the current carries you away from the person you used to be, and you don’t even notice until it’s too late.
His eyes well with tears and he looks away again. Bianca would be proud of her, for making a boy cry. Once again Theresa presses her thumb against the ring. Henry probably never knew where it came from. It’s a secret kept between Bianca and her, a promise made beyond the grave. In spring, she thought that the promise was for her and Henry to keep a piece of Skalitz between them. Sometimes, in the few moments when the notion of marriage didn’t feel too daunting, too permanent, she imagined them naming their daughter Bianca. Now that she recalls it, it feels dreamt up by someone else.
There will have to be a different promise, something that stretches into the future instead of the past. She shouldn’t dig through graves to find something to fill the empty space inside of her, there must be something else.
She watches the river. Sunlight dances upon the water. It’s the same water that drove the mill where she grew up, the same water she and Bianca and Johanka splashed at each other when they got bored of doing laundry, the same water that ran pink with blood when she waded through it to flee up into the hills.
Yellow leaves float past, spinning slowly as they go. They might make it all the way to Skalitz.
Or to someplace she has yet to see.