Chapter Text
Ja n’ert en si sauvage terre qu’il ne le truist.
There is no land so wild that he will not find her.
Chapter 1: The second asking
Rybníky, November 1403
Haunted by a saint. Hans never imagined he’d come close to developing a personal grudge against an Archangel. But as the priest’s monotonous voice drones on, his eyes keep wandering over to the painted panel on the altar of Rybníky’s brand new chapel.
St. Michael and his scales. Yet again. Perhaps the Lord’s judge followed him here, all the way from that fateful dawn in the church of St. Michael’s in Rattay to this tiny nave in the borderlands of Moravia. If so—if Heaven’s truly thrown the gauntlet at him—Hans means to accept the challenge. His hand slips to the hilt of the longsword at his hip as he returns the painted saint’s stare.
An elbow nudges him in his side. Hans turns to see Jitka scowl at him, then jerk her head downward. All around them, the good people of Rybníky lower their heads for the sermon. Sighing, Hans follows suit.
“...what you swear before God is not yours to spend lightly,” the old priest says in Latin. He’s decked out in his finest—as is the new chapel. The father in vestments for the season after Pentecost, the house of God in fresh limewash and more beeswax candles than you’d expect a small village could afford. Probably brought out in honour of their noble guests.
While the priest goes on—something about All Saints and the cost of lies—Hans feels the stares of half of Rybníky prickle on his neck. The small chapel is filled to the brim with village folk—they even lined the walls with benches for the elderly. The air is heavy with the smells of wool, wet straw and too many bodies. It seems everyone and their mother came to gawk at the bride’s expensive cloak and the groom’s gleaming armour and fine sword. He can’t wait to leave this hovel for Skalná Hora. Get it over with already.
“If there is a truth that must be spoken, speak it now,” the priest continues, heavy jowls wobbling. “Before the sin grows teeth. Better a hard word today than a broken house tomorrow.”
Hard truths, eh? Hans sighs, breath clouding in the wintry air.
How about the hardest one of all?
He’s trapped. Well and truly trapped. And completely clueless.
More than two weeks since he watched from the shadows as Hal rode off. Two weeks without a word. Without news. Without a sign.
For all he knows, Hal could be—
Stop that.
His fingers flex around the hilt of Hal’s sword. Its weight has become so familiar, it almost feels like a part of him now. And yet, he’d give his right arm to see it returned to where it belongs.
The village folk join the priest in a hymn and next to him, Jitka’s clear voice rises. More than one peasant seems close to swooning as he gawks at her. It is rather irritating how easily his bride put all of Rybníky under her spell. A few alms, smiles and a fine cloth for the new altar bought her so much goodwill, the priest looked tempted to bestow sainthood on her on the spot.
Well. There are upsides. As long as Jitka does all the charming, he doesn’t have to spread good cheer. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep smiling.
The song fades and the holy father addresses his flock. Now for the dreaded part, Hans thinks, wincing. He should be used to this by now. And yet, the words feel like a chain around his neck, winding tighter and tighter with each passing day. Until he can’t breathe.
“Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein and Rattay has declared with Lady Jitka of Kunštát to be wed,” the priest intones—mangling Kunštát like the reeve did at the feast during their last stop. “This is the second asking. If any know lawful cause why they may not, let it be made known.”
Silence in the nave, but for a hushed cough.
Hans waits, half-hoping—like he did during the first asking in Rattay—some hero might spring forward and reveal a hidden relation or a previous spouse. I object, they’d call and he’d offer them an estate, nay—half of Rattay—in thanks. But sadly, his bride is apparently neither secretly his aunt nor married already.
When no one steps forward to save Hans from his sorry fate, the priest simply blesses his flock and ends mass.
“A lovely service, Father Bonifác,” Jitka says as the man leads them out of the nave, right past the peasants craning their necks to get a good look at them.
“You honour me, my lady,” he replies with a self-satisfied grin.
Hans pins a smile to his face and increases his pace to get away as quickly as possible. But as soon as he steps out of the limewashed chapel, a shadow falls over him as his new bodyguard springs into action. The hulking figure of Ox appears at his right shoulder.
“My lord,” he says with a short nod as they walk towards the hamlet’s small market place. “The clerk’s dropped by, something about a letter to Skalná Hora. And the quartermaster sent his assistant, they’re running out of barley but the reeve swears they’ve got nothing to spare…”
Hans raises a hand to stem the flow and rubs the spot between his brows. “Very well, thank you, Ox.”
Sighing, he lets his gaze wander to the tents just beyond Rybníky’s common green, now rimmed with frost and the first hints of snow. He’s not sure what he expected, but travelling with the progress rather feels like Hanush forced half of Rattay onto pack horses and wagons. Hans didn’t actually leave home—he just took it with him. The progress even rivals Lesky’s siege camp in size.
At the center of their camping spot, his and Jitka’s pavilions stand close together, with a narrow path between them. Guards walk the perimeter, their yellow-and-black Leipa tabards looking pristine. Nearby, there’s a smaller structure for the chaplain and beyond a low canvas-wall, the lines of tents housing the retinue start. Cooking fires billowing smoke in the air, the constant chatter of knights, footmen and guards going about their business, horses whickering in the stables, servants dashing between tents, digging drainage channels, scattering fresh straw, drying laundry by the fires. Work never ceases, busy like a beehive in the height of summer.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Hans turns away.
At the door to the chapel, Jitka stands surrounded by admirers, chatting happily with everyone while her knight hovers close by.
“I need a moment,” Hans says and heads for the small frozen fish pond at the center of the hamlet.
“Aye, my lord,” Ox replies, following suit.
Hans wheels around. “I meant, I need a moment alone, Ox.”
His new bodyguard looks conflicted. “But Lord Hanush said…”
“He’s not here to give you orders though, is he?” Hans snaps—and then instantly regrets it when that hulking bear of a man looks like Hans just ordered him whipped. “Look,” he continues, trying for a patient tone. “I’ll be back in half an hour and I hardly think I’ll run into assassins in Rybníky. Please.”
“A-aye, my lord,” Ox replies, then awkwardly shifts on his feet.
Christ, how Hal would scold him if he could see…
“Meet you at my pavilion,” Hans says, turning away to follow the trampled path leading from the fish pond toward the earth-covered wine cellars half-buried in the hillside of the hamlet.
Beyond, there’s a small patch of woods and the thought of disappearing between the trees and leafless shrubs for even half an hour feels like balm for his soul. Hans walks a path paved with flat rocks, set into the ground by human hands to build a kind of natural staircase. It runs along a small brook that leads him to a clearing where a spring murmurs under a thin layer of ice. It lies surrounded by moss-covered boulders and a drooping willow. This is likely the place where Rybníky’s women gather to wash their laundry and exchange gossip in summer.
But now it lies blessedly still. Hans takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of wet loam, the mineral taste of the spring and a sharp sting of icy air. Then he sinks down onto one of the boulders by the water and draws Hal’s sword from its scabbard.
He’s done as Hal asked. Kept the weapon in pristine condition. It’s become his nightly ritual and he keeps at it more diligently than he upholds his evening prayers. Sharpening the sword with the whetstone, then polishing it with a piece of cloth. All the while trying not to think about what kind of danger the blade’s true master might be in right now.
Hans stares at the gleaming metal, swallowing the lump at the back of his throat.
“This is my spot.”
“Sakra!” Nearly jumping out of his skin, Hans scrambles to his feet.
“I was here first.” From one of the sturdy branches of the willow tree, half-covered by leafless fronds, a small, impish face scowls at him.
“Christ on a stick,” Hans hisses as Ketka, his bride’s little sister, slips off her branch—pale blue winter cloak catching on the bark. “What are you doing here? Where’s your aunt?” he asks.
The girl turns up her nose and scoffs. “Aunt Blažena dozed off reading scripture.”
She says the last bit with a tone that wouldn’t sound amiss if she had caught the old lady munching on frog spawn, then she climbs one of the bigger boulders, stretching out her arms for balance as she reaches the top.
“Did you come here too to lango–langu—whatever, cousin Hans?” Ketka asks.
“I beg your pardon?”
She teeters on the edge of the boulder for a moment, looking down at him with an expression eerily reminiscent of her older sister. “Languish! I’ll languish so hard I’ll shrivel up and turn into a raisin. And then my sister might listen.”
Hans sheathes Hal’s sword, half-afraid to ask. But curiosity wins out. “And what are you languishing about?”
“You can’t tell anyone.” Her little face turns solemn as she plops down on her backside, legs dangling in the air. “It’s a secret.”
“I’m good at keeping those.” Well. Maybe not as of late.
“They took away my beloved and won’t give him back,” she shoots back instantly. “And it’s not fair. I even told father I’ll marry him when I’m grown but he only laughed and said we’ll see. And now he’s gone and Jitka won’t tell me where he is.”
Behind Hans, frost-covered leaves crunch underfoot. He turns to see his bride approach, wrapped in her azure, fur-lined coat, chestnut hair done up in braids, all prim and proper.
“I told you I don’t know where they sent Henry off to,” Jitka says with an exasperated little smile at her sister.
Hans blinks as the words sink in. “Marry Hal?”
Ketka jumps off her boulder, landing hard on the ice-covered forest floor, barely managing to stay on her feet. “Someone must know,” she chides. “He promised to teach me how to swing a mace and then he just disappeared!” Her nose wrinkles. “I miss him.”
“My poor little wren,” Jitka replies. “I’m sure Lord Kobyla gave him a very important, very secret task if even Sir Hans doesn’t know where he went off to.”
She throws him a glance—half-apologetic, half-doubtful—and smiles at her sister. “He’ll be back, don’t fret.”
The girl looks very intent on fretting, though. Her impish face scrunches up in outrage. Hans feels almost envious—it’s the expression he’d like to pin on his face if he could. But even if he feels a spark of solidarity, there’s a misconception he has to set straight.
“Hal’s already spoken for, in any case,” he says, aiming to keep his tone playful. “So your father will need to find you another groom. Maybe one a bit closer in age.”
Jitka, coming to stand next to him, pierces him with a stare. Then her elbow jabs between Hans’s ribs while her little sister sputters with indignation.
The girl seems on the verge of protesting, but Jitka cuts her off: “I’m afraid it’s true, my little wren. Hal told me himself. He’s pining after the Fair Maiden of Maleshov. You shouldn’t chase after a man whose heart already belongs to another.”
Ketka hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip as she considers this new piece of information. “But she’s only a maiden and I’m a lady,” she pouts.
“Why does that matter? Hal loves her,” Hans shoots back before he can stop himself.
“Did he slay a dragon for her?” Ketka asks, small hands on her hips.
Scoffing, Hans crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Obviously not, there are no dragons in Bohemia. But he slayed scores of Cumans and other villains for her. And snuck into a fortress when she was held captive.”
Beside them, Jitka starts massaging her temple. “My lord,” she cuts in. “I’m sure the matter of Hal’s marriage prospects is quite pressing. But I came to ask if you’d join me in my pavilion after supper. There’s another important matter to discuss.”
Wincing inwardly, Hans feels a blush creeping up his neck. Goaded into an argument by an eight-year-old. He needs to keep it together. Hal said he’ll do fine on his own, yet here he is—apparently trying his best to prove him wrong.
“Of course, my lady,” he replies, clearing his throat.
Jitka places a hand on her sister’s shoulder, steering her back toward the path to the hamlet. On the turn, her palm briefly brushes his upper arm. “I’m sure he’s fine,” she whispers. “He beat Míra in a duel, he can handle himself.”
Hans lingers behind, watching them climb the stone steps up the hill. When they’re gone, he tips back his head to stare at the grey clouds chasing each other westward. Wondering, as he did countless times since the progress left Rattay, where Radzig may have taken Hal. If he might be looking up at the same sky at this very moment. When they’ll see each other again. Hal’s sword hangs heavy on his hip, anchoring him to the ground. Sometimes it feels like without it, he might simply float away.
✠─❦─✠
Hans takes his supper alone inside his pavilion, avoiding the cooking fires the knights gather around in the evenings to chat, boast and jest. The laughter drifts through the canvas walls anyway, spoiling his appetite. He leaves the pottage untouched, chews on a slice of roast game, then gives up and sets the tray aside for a servant to pick up.
Might as well get this over with.
Stepping outside, through the small space under the awning used as a sort of reception area, he hurries across the short path to Jitka’s pavilion. Fresh straw crunches under his feet and the torch light throws flickering shadows across the canvas. The guards by the entrance nod at him and pull back the tent flap to let him inside.
It’s cozy, warm. Smells of beeswax, parchment and ink. Jitka’s makeshift chamber is centered around a painted pole. A couple of pallets close to the entrance for her maids, a dressing area behind a discreet screen, wooden trunks and folding beds for her aunt and little sister. The walls behind Jitka’s private part of the pavilion are covered in tapestries and furs to keep out the cold.
Hans finds his bride at a small, round table at the back of the tent, bent over a stack of correspondence. Behind Jitka, her aunt dozes on top of her bed, a leather tome lying open on her chest.
“There you are,” Jitka says, looking up from her quill with a smile. “Take a seat, there’s much to discuss.”
Hans pulls back a chair and glances at the letters strewn across the table. Part of a map peeks out underneath. “Did you get news from Podiebrad?” he asks politely.
“Oh, these?” Jitka replies and picks up one of the letters. “No, they’re all about Skalná Hora. I thought it’s high time we compare notes and discuss our strategy.”
For a moment, he just blinks at her, feeling rather like he did when he arrived for his Latin lessons unprepared. The lady looks at him expectantly, though he can’t quite tell what exactly she wants him to say.
“Um, alright?”
“I just wondered if you found out anything I might have missed,” she says, still smiling. She waits a moment, then barrels on when he doesn’t reply: “I mean, it is rather obvious those brigand attacks tie back to von Bergow—it was his henchmen’s preferred method in Sasau, after all—but I haven’t found definitive proof of a connection. What worries me is the talk about some man they call the ‘Butcher of Moravia’ who’s apparently involved somehow. But I also wonder if we could use it to our advantage with Žerotín. If we offer Lord Jaroslav assistance, we might tempt him into an alliance.”
Hans nods, taps his chin and tries very hard to look like this isn’t all news to him.
“Though, I fear it would be a rather tenuous kind of alliance,” she continues. “I think Lord Kobyla and Lord Hanush expect something more… permanent. Something Žerotín can’t wiggle out of, even if von Bergow puts pressure on him. So, what do you think?”
Hans snatches up a nearby pitcher of watered wine to pour himself a goblet and win a bit of time. He takes a sip while Jitka waits, chewing on her bottom lip and drumming her fingers against the table.
“Err, yes,” he says. “My thoughts exactly.”
“Good to know we’re aligned,” she says, her smile turning a bit strained. “But have you found out anything more about the brigand attacks?”
Hans opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again. Takes another sip of wine. Then, very quietly: “Um, which attacks are we talking about exactly? There are just so many…”
His words die on his tongue as Jitka’s smile slowly falters, replaced by a rather disappointed look that jabs at his conscience like a hot poker.
Jitka groans and slumps forward in her seat, face buried in her hands. “You… haven’t prepared anything, have you?”
Feeling the tips of his ears grow hot, Hans empties the goblet. “Well. I didn’t know—you haven’t told me to prepare anything. How should I have guessed—”
“Christ’s mercy,” Jitka cuts him off, looking as if she wanted to clobber him over the head with the goblet. “I didn’t think I’d have to instruct you…” She clears her throat, closes her eyes. The angry expression slowly fades from her face. A deep breath—then she pulls out the map from under the letters, pointing at a network of roads surrounding Skalná Hora.
“Just like in Sasau,” she says, piercing him with a glance. “Brigands attack all over the region, but they’re focused on Lord Žerotín’s lands. Merchants robbed, traders strung up by the side of the road. It looks like someone wants to choke him out.”
“Could it be Vok?” Hans asks, glowering.
“Unlikely,” she replies. “Those attacks started over a month ago, while that horse-thief was still in Sasau…” She goes quiet all of a sudden, her brow creases and her eyes take on a far away look. “But I do wonder… Do you remember that knight? The one we saw in the woods outside of Rattay with Vok? He was wearing a white brigandine…”
Hans’s hand itches to slip to the hilt of his sword. “Erik,” he says. “Von Bergow’s minion.”
“He said something about allies in Moravia. I wonder if there is a connection.” Jitka pauses, then turns to him, arms crossed in front of her chest. “Could I ask you to look into that?”
Nodding, Hans feels the heat crawl up his neck and mutters: “Certainly.”
I told you, Hal. I’m useless on my own.
A chilly draft hits Hans’s back as the tent flap opens and Jitka’s handmaiden steps in. “My lady, my lord,” the girl says curtseying. She hovers by the entrance for a moment, looking from Jitka to Hans.
“Helena,” Jitka says, beckoning her forward. “Impeccable timing! I thought you wouldn’t be back before tomorrow at the earliest. Come, take a seat—what have you found out?”
The girl, a very pretty blonde with a shy expression on her face, does as she is bidden and pulls a stool toward the table, next to Jitka.
“You see, I sent her ahead to Skalná Hora before we left Rattay,” Jitka says to Hans. “To gather information.”
Shuffling back a bit in his seat, Hans glances at his bride. A shiver runs down his spine. That woman really is Radzig in a skirt.
Helena folds her hands in her lap, then looks up at her lady. “I… I was able to pick up a few things, my lady. But I don’t know how useful they might be to you.”
Smiling, Jitka rushes over to her trunk and pulls a small wooden box from it. She opens it, revealing a stash of candied nuts, and places it in front of her handmaiden as she retakes her seat. “Go on,” she says. “We’ll see. You never know, maybe you overheard more than you think you did.”
A little frown appears on the handmaiden’s brow. “I did as you asked,” she says quietly. “It was easier than I thought to find work as a seamstress—they’re preparing for a feast on St. Catherine’s Day and the lady of the fortress ordered a lot of dresses for herself and her eldest daughter.”
Jitka claps excitedly. “You actually got into the fortress itself? Very well done!” She turns to Hans, beaming: “Isn’t she clever?”
Blushing, Helena continues: “The servants say the lord of the fortress is a good master. And apparently very fond of his wife and children. They say he dotes on them and can’t deny them anything. I haven’t heard anyone utter a bad word about him.”
“And the wife and daughter?” Jitka asks.
“The lady seems… stern but kind. I worked on her dress; she ordered something fine but simple for herself. But the dress for her daughter looked very lavish, made up with very expensive furs.”
Hans can’t quite see what dressmaking and the lady’s style have to do with their task of securing an alliance. But after his blunder, he’d be a fool to voice his doubts. So he simply nods and refills his cup.
“What about the young lady?” Jitka asks, eyes briefly flicking to Hans’s hand before snapping back to her maid. “What is she like?”
Helena hesitates. “I wouldn’t know. I was not allowed to work on her dress—or even help the old seamstress with taking the lady’s measurements. She shooed me away when I tried. The young lady herself… she seemed plain and a bit shy, my lady.”
Jitka taps her chin, as if pondering a great conundrum. “Interesting,” she mutters. Then: “Anything else? Did you see the lord and lady interact?”
The handmaiden nods. “Aye, the lord came by a couple of times. He was very respectful to his wife, called her his lady love. Only one time did they seem to disagree… but they stepped out of the chamber before I could hear. It was something to do with the young lady’s dress, about its colours. The lord even raised his voice, my lady.”
Jitka’s eyes gleam. “Well done, Helena,” she says, beaming. “I’m sure I can make use of this.” She gets up and places a hand on her handmaiden’s shoulder. “How about you go and warm yourself up with some proper food?”
Hans watches her lead the girl to the tent entrance, then turn on her heel and hurry back to him excitedly. “I wonder what they fought about! Maybe all’s not as blissful at Skalná Hora as it seems?”
Studying her expression, Hans shudders. “Is that what you did at Rattay, too?” he asks quietly. “Send in spies before you arrived?”
She has the decency to blush a little. “Well, I did most of the spying myself. And can you blame me?” Jitka asks. “I don’t like to come unprepared and frankly… I heard so many odd rumors about you—of course I needed to find out. Though, I have to admit. Most of them turned out to be false.”
Hans quirks an eyebrow. “Rumors?”
Throwing a look over her shoulder to make sure her aunt is still snoring, Jitka lets out a small chuckle. “They said you philandered your way through all of Sasau’s bathhouses, so I was prepared for the worst.” She hesitates, biting her lower lip. Then blurts: “But, turns out you must be a rather loyal—”
Jitka blinks, then snatches up his left hand.
“What—?” Hans gasps.
“Where’s your ring?” Jitka asks, brows knitting together. “Did you cut ties with the lady? Is that why you’re languishing like some lovesick poet, refusing half your meals and sneaking off to sulk?”
Hans pulls back his hand as if she burned him. His ringless finger suddenly feels even more naked than before.
“What—” he sputters, “—how did you? That—that is none of your business!”
Jitka leans back in her seat, one eyebrow rising high on her brow. “Is that so, my dear groom?” A heavy sigh. The annoyance fades from her face. “Look,” she says quietly. “I know it can’t be easy. Your friend rode off and you had to leave your… sweetheart behind. But still, I’d like to accomplish the task we were given. Can’t we just work together on this, Hans? If Hal were here…”
Pushing back his chair, Hans gets up to his feet. Something very like resentment settles in his stomach. “Very well,” he says coldly. “I’ll do my part, my lady.”
A quick bow, then he turns his back to his bride and marches off. Messed it up already, the little voice at the back of his mind whispers. Hans winces. He can feel his Jitka’s disappointment follow him out of the tent.
As he walks, the scabbard of Hal’s sword slaps against his thigh with every step, as if it wanted to remind him of his words.
You’ll do just fine.
You are much stronger and cleverer than you give yourself credit for.
He can’t quite make himself believe in them, though. Perhaps Hal simply placed too much trust in him. And this time, his blacksmith’s boy won’t be there to fix his mess.
✠─❦─✠
By mid-morning, Rybníky shrinks to a smudge on the horizon behind them, the peal of the chapel’s bells drowned out by the ever-present ruckus of the progress. A dozen wagons, the litter carrying Jitka’s aunt and sister, a herd of pack horses, mounted riders and servants following on foot. They’re clogging up the narrow road, covered in half-frozen mud as they make their way toward Skalná Hora. Creaking wheels, drumming hooves, clinking armour, the chatter of dozens of voices mingling in a dissonant choir.
Hans glances over his shoulder and shudders. It’s like a snake of expectations and responsibilities trailing after him. All those servants, guards and knights waiting for his command. Not so long ago he hoped for an opportunity just like this—a chance to prove himself. But now his wish seems more like a chain around his ankle. Perhaps it would feel different—like a proper adventure—if Hal was here to share it with.
Sighing, Hans turns back around, eyes on the road ahead. He’s riding up front, next to Jitka and just behind the banner bearers displaying the Leipa and Kunštát colours and the vanguard. Aethon’s breath plumes in the cold air, his hoofs drum on the trampled earth. They’re flanked by their bodyguards, Ox on Hans’s side, Míra riding next to his lady.
Hans sneaks a look at the reluctant Tristan, tempted to curl his lip. The knave has done nothing to win his Isolde’s heart, apparently. Despite the blatant nudge Hans gave him. The gall of that man—listening to the reading of the banns twice, but riding next to his beloved with a straight face as if time wasn’t running out.
A cough. Jitka wraps her azure cloak a little tighter around herself and veers her dapple grey horse closer towards the middle of the road. She rummages in the little satchel at her hip, then offers him a corked clay bottle.
Frowning, Hans leans sideways in the saddle to receive it, then turns it in his palm.
“It tastes vile,” Jitka says. “Very bitter. But it should improve your appetite. Severýn helped me refine the recipe the other day.”
“Your lessons are going well?” Hans asks in an effort to smooth over last night’s argument. They might not be friends—well, not exactly—but he has precious few people to talk to on their journey. Before he met Hal, he would have just attached himself to the knights or shared in the grooms’ and guards’ entertainment. But now the thought feels hollow.
Jitka smiles. “Indeed! I’ve learned quite a bit. I can set a bone now, can you imagine? My father would faint if he knew. Thank you for taking my teacher with us.”
“I’m glad you’ve got someone to talk to,” he replies.
The look she throws him seems much too pitiful. Hans swallows the lump in his throat, annoyed at himself.
“I’ve known him just a short while, of course,” Jitka mutters under her breath, leaning closer. “But I assure you, I miss Hal’s company, too. Maybe… maybe we’ll find a way to learn where Lord Kobyla went? It seems like a well-kept secret. But between you and me—I’m quite good at getting to the bottom of those. I even found that scandalous French poem hidden between Jan’s Latin tomes. Le Roman de la Rose—you should have seen his blush when I placed it on his seat before supper.”
Hans snorts against his will, can’t help himself. Her antics can be quite amusing. But he might enjoy them more if he hadn’t secrets of his own to hide from Jitka—much more damning ones than raunchy love poems.
“Very well,” he replies, pocketing the little bottle she handed him. Then he takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with wintry air to clear his head. Throwing another glance over his shoulder, Hans mutters: “Don’t you ever feel trapped by all of this? It’s like we’re pulling a ball and chain behind us, isn’t it?”
Jitka pats the dapple grey’s mane, chewing on her bottom lip. “To tell the truth…” she says, seemingly weighing her words. “No, not at all. This might be the most freedom I’ve ever had. Apart from my… journey from Podiebrad. I’ve never been allowed to travel anywhere without my father or brother. And they are much stricter than you. I’m sad we couldn’t take Hal with us. But I still want to succeed. And see a bit of the world, perhaps.”
Annoyingly, he can almost see why Hal likes her, despite everything. Perhaps it’s the toll two weeks of sulking took on him. Or perhaps her efforts to show him a bit of kindness are slowly wearing him down. But he suddenly feels the urge to give something back.
A taste of adventure might do, perhaps.
Hans looks ahead, spotting a tall tree on the crest of a nearby hill. The road they travel on leads there after dipping into a slope flanked by evergreen woods, tipped with frost and snow. He raises his arm, pointing at the tree.
“Fifty groschen say I can get there first,” Hans drawls, grinning.
Perhaps she’ll need a bit of persuading, he thinks as Jitka’s eyes go wide—
and then the dapple grey surges forward—nudged into a gallop—and Hans watches his bride barrel past the vanguard and banner bearers.
Hans digs in his heels, Aethon lunges forward—eagerly following Jitka’s horse.
A curse—or a prayer—from Ox behind him, as Hans catches a glimpse of both bodyguards chasing after them.
Barren fields and leafless trees blur past as Aethon eats up the grey mare’s headstart. Hans leans low in the saddle, relishing the biting wind on his face. The sharp sting has him tear up, his fingers feel frozen to the reins.
Just in front, his bride glances over her shoulder and shouts: “Don’t worry, if you fall I can set your bones now, my lord!”
He can’t let the taunt stand, of course, so Hans presses his thighs to Aethon’s flank. Sparks fly as his palfrey’s hoofs strike frozen stone.
They barrel into the slope together, shoulder to shoulder, suddenly plunged into the dim of the woods. Hans is still grinning, Jitka’s mouth set in a firm line as her azure cloak whips behind her.
“Can’t beat Aethon,” Hans calls, laughing despite himself as he inches ahead of her.
The road climbs, cutting through the woods like an ice-covered scar. Low branches reach for Hans’s cloak and his horse’s mane.
Then: shouts up ahead. Movement in the trees.
Just as they round a bend in the road, a turned-over cart comes into view.
“Shit,” Hans curses—as Aethon jumps at the last moment to avoid the obstacle.
A sharp cry behind him—Jitka.
Then Hans’s teeth clank together when his horse hits the ground again and half-rears. Hans looks up, clinging to the reins—and stares directly into the barrel of a hand-gonne.
Another wagon, turned over. Barrels and cracked-open crates spilling onto the road. A gaggle of terrified looking merchants and poorly armed guards, drawing their weapons.
And all around Hans, brigands in battered plate and dirt-crusted gambesons converge onto the forest road, screaming bloody murder.