Chapter Text
“Erue a framea, Deus, animam meam: et de manu canis unicam meam.”
Deliver my soul from the sword; my darling from the power of the dog.
—Vulgate: 21:21 (Psalm 22:20)
*
Morning comes not with birdsong or sunlight, but with the wrath of banging on the chamber door like a war drum. Henry stirs in the linen-wrapped bed he’d collapsed into only hours before, throat dry, tongue furred, and head pounding with the dull throb of last night’s debauchery. The room, lavish by his standards, with carved walnut furniture and a narrow window of stained glass, seems to tilt and blur as he forces himself upright. A royal blue cloak is half-draped over the chair where he’d dropped his doublet, and his fine wedding attire lies crumpled beneath his boots, sour with stale wine and horse sweat.
They arrived at Kunstadt Castle the day prior, and Hans wasted no time declaring the night a farewell to freedom. Henry remembers tankards clinking in the tavern, laughter echoing off low stone ceilings, and Hans, flushed and reckless, urging him to drink like they were still boys with nothing to lose. Now, with the wedding today and a noble fortress bustling in anticipation, Henry can only pray that his stomach settles before his father kicks down the door.
He doesn’t have to wait long. Radzig practically bursts through—whether by key, lockpick, or brute force, Henry will never know. Henry bares nearly everything to his father aside from what his braies cover, including the pungent smell of booze on his breath and the splitting headache written plainly across his face.
“Henry,” Radzig says, voice low and edged like a whetstone. He closes the door with finality and throws his hands in the air. “It’s five bells past dawn. And don’t bother claiming you two fools didn’t spend last night drinking like mercenaries. Christ, I can smell it in the floorboards.”
Henry groans, rubbing his temples. “Father, I–”
“I don’t want to hear it right now, we have bigger issues.” Radzig cuts in, pacing. “Hanush is one ill-tied ribbon away from a fit that’ll send us all back to Rattay in disgrace. I went to check on our young lord—hoping, foolishly, to find him halfway presentable—and his chamber is empty. Not a trace. In an effort to spare him from the wrath of his uncle, I’m giving you the chance to do your duties as his page and find him, before you’re both kicked onto the street like beggars. Again.”
Henry winces through the headache, slowly piecing together his thoughts. “Wait. Hans is missing?” He stands. “He’s not in his room?”
“No, it’s empty,” Radzig says, folding his arms. “And none of the housemaids have seen him this morning.”
Henry drags a hand down his face. “Oh, brilliant.”
He stumbles toward the desk, rummaging through the scattered contents of his satchel until he finds a small flask. The sharp, herbal scent of a Hair o’ the Dog potion rises as he uncorks it. He swallows it in one gulp, praying for alchemy to work faster than regret.
Radzig is already at the door. “If I were you, I’d start by checking every warm bed in the castle. Or the stables.” Radzig laughs at his own joke. “I’ll keep Hanush distracted for now, but you’d better pray he didn’t make a run for it.”
“I’ll find him,” Henry says, though even to his own ears, it sounds more like a plea than a promise.
Radzig pauses in the threshold. “Just remember, you’re his bodyguard before you’re his companion.” Then he’s gone.
Henry stands there for a long breath, the potion burning a slow trail down his throat. When it fails to settle the nausea, he bends down, gathering the scattered pieces of his outfit. As Henry gets dressed, he tries to imagine where Hans could possibly be. Despite Radzig’s hilarious joke, Henry doesn’t think Hans bolted. He is far more likely to be hiding somewhere, eating spoiled meat in an attempt to make himself devastatingly ill. Henry knows this because Hans tried it just a week ago, only to throw up immediately all over Henry’s boots with no further debilitating illness to speak of.
The forest-green clothes, threaded with gold, are a gift from Hans, who insisted his bodyguard could not appear as a beggar at a wedding of this stature, despite Henry having accumulated enough groschen to purchase noble attire of his own. Henry remembers the smirk Hans wore when he watched him try on the hose, and the remark about not letting his best man look common. Regardless of Hans’ lingering gaze, Henry chooses to believe whatever he tells him.
He fastens the doublet, adjusting the collar until the scratch of the fabric dulls against his skin. Months ago, he would’ve stared in awe at such finery. Now, he’s wearing it to his second noble wedding, recognizing nearly half the names on the guest list. The fortress is already crawling with nobles from every corner of Bohemia and Moravia, each bearing congratulations with one hand and veiled negotiations in the other. They toast to peace and feast on roasted lamb, pretending that war is not waiting for them beyond the hills.
By the time Henry laces the last button of his doublet, the nausea has dissipated, leaving only a faint ache at the nape of his neck. With renewed purpose to find his lord, Henry swings open the door, only for the breath to be knocked from him by a sudden collision.
A startled yelp escapes the young woman he nearly toppled. Henry immediately steps back, already stammering out apologies before recognition strikes him like a slap to the face.
“My lady!” He drops into a clumsy bow. “Forgive me. I wasn’t looking where I was. Are you hurt?”
Lady Jitka of Kunstadt, today’s bride, smooths her skirts with small, shaking hands. Her cheeks are flushed with the color of rosewater. “Oh, it’s alright, Henry.” She offers a small laugh that clings to the back of her throat like perfume. “You merely gave me a fright.”
She is delicate and slight, her unruly curls brushed into a lion’s mane and adorned like a noble crown. The sheer effort it must have taken to tame hair of such volume is its own declaration of noble birth.
Henry finds himself briefly pulled back to yesterday’s meeting: Hans fretting for hours beforehand, worrying she might be dull, plain, or homely. She was none of these. She was young, yes, but composed in a way that unsettled Hans entirely.
Henry watched his lord stride forward and promptly unravel.
“Hello! Jitka! Er– It is I, Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein. I… I am to be your husband!” He delivered the line as though reading off a crumpled scroll.
Jitka only giggled in response, concealing her smile behind a dainty hand.
Henry might have felt a pang of jealousy, were it not for how excruciating the whole scene had been to witness.
Henry rids himself of the memory to focus on the task at hand. “I’m sorry, Lady Jitka, would you have happened to see Sir Hans recently? I am looking for him.”
“I haven’t, I’m sorry. Not since yesterday.” A maid emerges from a nearby chamber and touches Jitka’s elbow, whispering something urgent. “We’ll speak more later,” the bride says, already being whisked away down the corridor like a leaf on a stream.
With no further leads, Henry takes a gamble: If Hans isn’t upstairs, perhaps the kitchens would yield more than a clue. Or, failing that, at least a crust of bread.
The halls narrow as he descends. Laughter and clattering pans spill from the stone-framed doorway. He pushes through a bustle of aproned arms and steam, narrowly avoiding a bucket sloshing with milk. A pair of hired hands dart past, and Henry ducks aside, scanning the room.
He spots an older cook, a woman with gray-streaked hair tucked into a damp linen cap, manning a cauldron large enough to bathe in. She is chopping carrots with the swiftness of a swordmaster.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
No reply. She drops the carrots into the pot and reaches for a sprig of thyme, not sparing him so much as a glance.
Henry shifts, louder this time. “Ma’am?”
She steps around him with the practiced disdain of someone who has been cooking since before he’d grown his first hair. “I don’t have time for lads with idle stomachs. If you’re here for scraps, you’ll need to wait until the lords are fed.”
“I’m not here for food.” Henry dodges a ladle. “I’m looking for Lord Capon. Has he come through here?”
The woman stops just long enough to exhale her answer. “I’ve been buried in stew and sausages since dawn. I doubt his lordship troubled himself to help prepare his own feast.” Then, after a pause, she casts him a measuring look. “But if you’re hunting trouble, you might as well make yourself useful. There’s wine that needs fetching. Sir Botschek had it brought in special for the toast. Go to the cellar and bring it up. Perhaps your lord is hiding in there.”
Henry bites back the sigh that rises in his chest. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, knowing full well that these small requests had a way of multiplying faster than rabbits.
He pushes back into the sunlight, makes his way toward the cellar stairs, and reaches for the handle, only for a mailed hand to block his path.
“Halt,” barks the guard, standing like a granite statue.
Henry blinks at him. “The cook sent me. I need to fetch the wedding wine.”
“Did she? And do you have her writ of command?” The man smirks. “No? Then you’ll need to fetch Sir Botschek.”
Henry’s patience, already thinning, snaps like thread in his head. “He’s got feast preparations and floral arrangements to worry about, surely you don’t intend to bother him with a servant’s errand?”
“And surely you don’t intend to get past me without permission.” The guard folds his arms. “Now off with you.”
Henry turns on his heel with a muttered curse and makes for the courtyard. He knows how important this day is to Hans and Hanush, and he doesn’t want to start the marriage off on the wrong foot by threatening the guards.
Henry passes through the stone arches into the main courtyard. After the cellar, the air is warm and smells of smoke and spiced bread.
Servants dart past with garlands over their arms, flushed from the work. Barrels of apples stand stacked by the kitchens. The last roses cling to their trellises, faded but still fragrant, and somewhere a lute is being played badly enough that nobody is listening to it.
Winter is still far enough away to be forgotten.
In the distance, Henry catches sight of Botschek, who is currently being berated by Hanush near a pile of discarded tablecloths. As he approaches, he can hear Hanush’s complaints from across the courtyard.
“Now, I don’t know how you do things in Moravia, but if the lords of Bohemia see the stains on that tablecloth, they’ll assume we’re all drunkards! Botschek, for the love of God, how hard is it to find clean linen in this castle?” Hanush turns and notices Henry approaching them. “Ah, at last! The groom’s shadow arrives. Tell me, Henry, are you here to help or to loiter like the rest of them?”
“Well, actually, I came here because I need Sir Botschek.” Henry turns to meet Botschek, who looks like a man already halfway to madness. “The guard at the cellar won’t let me retrieve the wine for the cook. He insists I need your blessing.”
“Then he’ll have it.” Botschek doesn’t wait. He turns and marches toward the cellar, grateful, Henry suspects, for the excuse to escape Hanush’s tirade.
But Hanush isn’t letting Henry off so easily. He turns, eyes sharp, and places a heavy hand on Henry’s shoulder. “Please tell me Hans is dressed, polished, and sober.”
Henry’s mouth curves into the sort of lie he doesn’t need to rehearse. “He’s with the groomers now. A final shave before the altar.”
Hanush narrows his eyes, but takes the bait. “Fine, but where in God’s name is the priest? If this ceremony is delayed because of him, I’ll see to it that he holds his next sermon in the stables.”
He storms off with the fury of a man who prefers barking to praying.
Henry exhales. One crisis momentarily evaded. He returns to the cellar stairs with Botschek’s blessing hot on his heels and passes the guard without a word, tossing him a look that says, I told you so.
The cellar door creaks open with a groan. The cool damp air spills out like breath from a crypt. Rows of barrels line the stone walls, stacked two and three high, their iron hoops dark with age. The light from the stairwell barely reaches the corners, and what little it does touch flickers across cobwebs in the rafters. Water strikes stone somewhere in the dark, steady and hollow. It smells like wet stone and forgotten celebrations.
And something, half-remembered and half-dreaded, stirs in Henry’s mind.
He’s been here before. Last night. With Hans.
He tries to retrace his steps in his mind: what he drank, what he said, where the night split in half, and why this place, of all places, feels like waking a bruise.
*
Hans had insisted they spend his last night of freedom properly. A sendoff. A celebration. “Wine, women, and song,” he’d grinned, already flushed before the first tankard. Hans dragged him by the sleeve toward one of Kunstadt’s taverns, where the air reeked of smoke and hops and the warmth of too many bodies pressed too close together.
The pitchers came quickly and emptied just as fast, passed from hand to hand as everyone grew less coordinated by the hour. The two girls—one dark-haired, the other auburn with a braid swinging down her back—took to them easily, giggling at Hans’ half-coherent tales of swordplay and bandit chases. The noise, the drink, Hans—it pulled Henry back into easier days.
Curfew came, but Hans refused to surrender the night. He talked the girls into coming back to the castle, all swagger and slurred charm, and somehow convinced Henry to pick the lock on the wine cellar while one of them flirted with the courtyard guard. Henry barely remembers doing it, just the way the iron stuck, the way the hinges moaned open like something ancient.
Inside, the cool air hit him hard, made the ground feel soft and the ceiling far too high. Hans was already fumbling with a barrel, laughing as he popped the spout loose and let it gush. He didn’t bother with a goblet, just dipped his head straight beneath the flow, letting it run down his chin and collar, crimson as blood under torchlight.
“You have to try this,” he slurred, reaching for the dark-haired girl. He cupped her cheek as though about to kiss her, but instead steered her under the spout. She laughed as the wine splashed her face and chest, dripping into the fabric of her bodice.
Henry stood still, unsteady, a weight suddenly heavy in his throat.
“Come on, Henry!” Hans called, grinning crookedly, the girl hanging off his side like a pendant. “Don’t be so uptight! Get in here!”
The other girl tugged at Henry’s crossed arms, laughing as she pulled him forward. Her touch was warm, but her face blurred at the edges. Henry let her lead him toward the barrel, though he gently slipped his arm from her grip.
He knelt in front of it. Hans reached down and raked his fingers through Henry’s hair, guiding him back, holding him there as the wine began to pour. It hit his tongue sharp and sweet, bitter at the end.
Hans’ fingers lingered a moment too long.
Henry jerked away. The spout missed his mouth and splashed against the floor.
“Aww, poor boy can’t handle his alcohol,” Hans teased, the words slurred slightly but still bright with mischief.
The girls burst into giggles, sharp and sweet like overripe fruit. One of them clapped her hands together while the other leaned into Hans’ shoulder, the wine on her dress beginning to soak through the bodice. The sound of them, too loud and too close, needled under Henry’s skin.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the taste of wine still lingering, metallic and sour now. His heart knocked against his ribs, hard and uneven, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the drink or something far more humiliating.
“Oh, but I promise,” he said, glancing between the girls with a drunken grin. “He’s good at many other things.”
Henry flinched. It was a jest, of course. Hans always joked when he got too close to the truth.
He stood abruptly, his legs uncertain beneath him, and brushed the front of his tunic with jittery hands that had nothing to do. He had meant to walk away. Toward the stairs, maybe. Anywhere else.
But then he saw her.
The dark-haired girl was pressing closer to Hans. Her arm slinked around the back of his neck, fingers toying with his damp collar.
“You know,” she murmured, swaying slightly on her feet, “I think I’m still rather thirsty.”
“Oh?” Hans smirked. That familiar smirk. Easy, careless, impossible to read. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
Henry’s breath caught in his throat. The wine in his stomach churned.
She tugged him downward with one hand, and Hans didn’t resist. Their mouths met, wet, eager, unthinking. Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her laugh was swallowed into the kiss.
And Hans kissed her back.
Hans kissed her back without hesitation, with the easy carelessness of something that had happened before and would happen again.
Henry stood there, watching it all unfold as if from very far away. He prayed Hans would pull away, flinch, act like the kiss was some kind of mistake. But he didn’t. He leaned into it.
That familiar ache flared sharp behind Henry’s eyes. He swallowed it, hard, as if forcing it down might make it disappear.
Of course he isn’t yours, you fool.
Hans never promised anything. Not really. Their moments had always been fleeting things: half-clothed encounters in quiet corridors, laughter shared under stars, closeness on hunts in the woods.
Hans would always belong to the future laid out for him long before Henry entered it. And Henry… Henry was the shadow he returned to when no one was looking.
The girl pulled back, lips flushed and glistening. She giggled and leaned lower, nuzzling her way to Hans’ neck, and Hans let her, tilting his head with a quiet sigh. His eyes fluttered open, and landed squarely on Henry.
Their gazes locked.
Henry didn’t get to read what was there. Regret? Pleasure? Invitation? He didn’t know. Couldn’t. Didn’t want to.
Because then a hand touched his cheek.
The auburn-haired girl had moved close again, her steps uneven but determined, her pupils wide with drink and delight. She tilted her head, her fingers ghosting along his jaw as she leaned in, and her lips brushed his in a kiss that felt too soft to be real.
Henry stiffened.
He pulled back, gently but firmly, placing a hand between them.
“I’m sorry, I–” he said, voice hoarse. “I can’t.”
He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, more out of reflex than anything. The wine, the touch, the heat of it all, it felt cloying now. Suffocating.
And then he turned.
From her. From Hans. From the cellar and the wine and the laughter that suddenly felt so far away.
*
He doesn’t remember making it back to his room. The night ends there, tapering into blackness. But standing here now, in the same stone quiet, the ache has returned. Not sharp, just dull, weighty.
For a moment, another piece of the night flickers up through the haze.
Hans’ hand on his sleeve. His smile made strange and unsteady, stripped of its usual cleverness. The girls gone. The cellar quieter than it should have been.
Henry remembers Hans saying his name—not laughing or teasing—saying it like it mattered.
Then the memory slips, or perhaps Henry shoves it away before it can settle.
He had been drunk. They both had. Hans was always earnest when wine made him lonely, always soft when guilt had nowhere else to go. It did not mean anything beyond the hour it was spoken in.
Whatever had happened after that, it had not been enough to change the morning. And Henry has a task now. Something solid to put his hands on. Some trail to follow if Hans is truly lost or hiding.
He shoulders one of the untouched wine barrels and begins hauling it up the steps, eager to leave the cellar behind before it breathes anything else back into him.
The moment he steps back into the kitchen, he sets the barrel down with a grunt. The heat hits him instantly as the smells of roasting meat, baked fruit, and boiled wine fill the air. The head cook barely spares him a glance as she waves a ladle toward the storeroom.
“Leave it near the press, and mind the linens,” she snaps. “I won’t have grape stains on the banners.”
Henry obliges without comment, more than eager to get back into the open air.
The courtyard hums with life, warm, amber, and busy. The flags now flutter fully overhead, and servants weave between the tables like dancers in a slow reel. For a brief moment, Henry considers heading straight toward the outer wings, where the stables and barns lie, but something catches his attention off to the side. A rough square of fencing has been hastily erected near the edge of the yard, and a small crowd is beginning to gather.
He turns toward it out of reflex more than intention. It is a practice ring, with wooden swords stacked on a bench and several of the wedding’s hired hands cheering as one of them stumbles theatrically through a losing bout. Clearly, someone thought a little combat sport might liven up the celebration.
“Oi! You there!” a voice slurs out above the crowd.
Henry turns. One of the hands, a broad, ruddy-faced man with uneven stubble and a wobble in his step, points directly at him, a grin already smeared across his mouth like jam.
“You’re one of the groom’s men, aye? You look like you need a bit of fun. Come have a go, eh?”
“I’m busy,” Henry says, already turning. “Maybe later.”
“What’s the matter?” the man calls after him, swaying a little as he steps toward the ring’s fence. “You think you’re better than me? Think you can’t be bothered with the likes of us?”
Henry stops and slowly looks over his shoulder. The man’s eyes are glassy. His breath, even from a distance, reeks of plum brandy and vinegar.
“Are you drunk?” Henry asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”
The man lets out a rasping laugh. “Aye, I worked. Built the damn fence, didn’t I? Now I deserve a bit of sport.”
“You’re going to break your neck if you swing a blade like that,” Henry says, already stepping back.
The hand scoffs and stumbles toward the stack of wooden practice swords, grabbing a shortsword and tossing another toward Henry. It clatters at his feet. “You must be a piss-poor fighter if you’re afraid of a drunk.”
Henry exhales through his nose, looking down at the blade.
He really doesn’t have time for this.
But the crowd is watching now, half amused, half expectant. And if this fool needs to be knocked flat before he lets Henry pass, so be it.
“Fine,” Henry says, picking up the sword. “But don’t blame me when you are too battered to work.”
The man laughs like it’s a joke. “Oh, I’ll be gentle.”
They enter the ring. The hand lifts his sword in a crooked high guard, his stance uneven, his weight leaning forward too much. Henry, by contrast, rolls his shoulders back, loosens his knees, and sets his grip with a quiet precision. He doesn’t need to look impressive. He just needs to finish this quickly.
The bell rings—or rather, someone clinks a tankard against the post—and the hand lunges.
Henry steps aside smoothly, letting the man’s weight carry him forward into nothing. He turns and counters with a quick feint toward the hand’s thigh, followed by a snap cut to the shoulder. The flat of the wooden blade lands with a thump.
The hand grunts, stumbling back.
Another swing, sloppy. Henry parries effortlessly, sliding his blade down the man’s in a winding bind, then turning his hips to drive a thrust straight toward his gut. He stops short of contact, just enough for the man to flinch.
“Getting tired?” Henry says, voice flat.
The hand growls and comes in heavier, slashing wide. Henry ducks under the arc, rolls behind him, and delivers a strike to the back of the leg.
The man crumples slightly. The crowd laughs.
“You bastard,” the hand mutters, red-faced.
“You’re drunk, and your guard’s too high,” Henry says, circling. “Your footwork’s half a second behind your blade.”
“What are you, a bloody tutor?”
“No. Just observing.”
They trade two more blows, and Henry lets the man push forward, allowing him to believe he is gaining ground before locking their blades and twisting. The man’s sword flies from his grip and hits the dirt.
Henry rests the tip of his own wooden blade lightly on the man’s chest. “Yield.”
The hand pants for breath, eyes wide. Then he raises both palms. “Alright, alright. I yield.”
Henry steps back and lowers his sword.
The crowd claps half-heartedly, most of them more entertained by the embarrassment than the technique. The hand rubs at his wrist, scowling.
Henry leans in slightly. “Look, have you seen a nobleman this morning? Blonde, dressed in yellow, bit of a swagger. Talks like he owns everything.”
The hand squints. “Sounds like a prick.”
Henry sighs. “Lord Capon.”
“Ain’t seen him,” the man mutters, shaking his head. “Don’t know the nobles apart. All look the same from where I’m standing.”
Henry frowns. “You sure?”
The hand scratches his chin. “Might’ve seen someone sneakin’ around the barns ’round dawn, though. Thought it was a stableboy takin’ a piss. He was wearing yellow.”
That gets Henry’s attention. “Which barn?”
“South side. Past the hay carts.”
Henry nods, already turning to leave.
“Hey!” the hand calls after him. “Good swing. You fight like someone who’s had to.”
Henry doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have time for compliments, or for reflection. The barn awaits.
He moves quickly, cutting across the courtyard toward the barns. His heart beats faster with each step.
Then he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Henry,” Radzig says, stepping into his path like a wall. “Come with me. Jobst has just arrived. You’re to stand with me while we greet him.”
Henry opens his mouth to protest, but thinks better of it. He falls into step beside Radzig, jaw tight, eyes still flicking toward the distant silhouette of the south barn.
“Did you find him yet?” Radzig asks, low and quick.
“Not exactly.”
Radzig’s pace doesn’t break. “If you don’t find him by the time this wedding starts,” he mutters, “we’d best start praying.”
They cross through the orchard gate, leaves crunching beneath their boots. The sun is warmer now, gilding the apple barrels and iron lanterns in soft amber. At the main gate, three horses stand waiting, their reins held by guards in Kunstadt colors. The man dismounting in the center is cloaked in slate blue trimmed with silver, tall, and carrying himself with the kind of careful dignity that can only be practiced.
Margrave Jobst of Moravia.
“Margrave,” Radzig greets, stepping forward and offering his hand. “You’re early.”
“Only fashionably,” Jobst replies, shaking it firmly. His gaze turns to Henry, eyes narrowing with brief recognition. “Henry, it has been some time.”
Henry bows slightly. “A few months, my lord. Since Suchdol.”
“I see the countryside hasn’t softened you,” Jobst says, smiling faintly. “Good. We’ll need fewer soft men in the months ahead.”
“Come,” Radzig says, gesturing toward the shade of a nearby alcove, away from the horses and ears of the passing servants. “We can speak privately before the others come to demand your attention.”
As they move into the quiet, Hanush is already waiting, flanked by Botschek, fuming about floral arrangements with several lesser nobles fussing over the seating chart. Hanush looks up from his parchments and greets Jobst with a curt nod.
“Margrave. I trust the road was clear?”
“Clear enough,” Jobst says. “Though there are fewer friendly banners on the route through Austria than there used to be.”
Radzig snorts. “You’re still taking that road? With all the talk of ambushes, I thought you would be too clever to tempt fate.”
“I’m not afraid of shadows,” Jobst replies. “At least not the ones that wear armour.”
Henry stands just behind them, close enough to hear but not quite part of the conversation. He crosses his arms, listening quietly as the air grows heavy with politics.
“Did you hear anything new from Vienna?” Hanush asks. “Wenceslas is still being held there?”
Jobst’s expression darkens. “He’s still technically ‘in residence’ under Duke William’s care, but I’m told he’s been allowed more freedom of movement. Whether that means they’re growing lenient, or they no longer care what he does, I can’t say.”
“Sigismund put him there to keep him from being crowned,” Radzig mutters. “But the irony is that it only lets Rupert make his move.”
Henry frowns. “Rupert? Who is Rupert?”
Radzig glances toward him. “Rupert of the Palatinate. A prince-elector. He’s been trying to position himself as the next King of the Romans. Some say he made a deal with the Pope to recognize his claim.”
Henry blinks. “So, he’s trying to take it even though Wenceslas hasn’t even been crowned emperor.”
“Exactly,” Jobst says. “Sigismund wanted to take Wenceslas to Rome to be crowned, make his rule legitimate. Rupert caught wind of it and blocked the road. So Sigismund threw him in prison instead. First Schaumberg, then Vienna. That was last year.”
“And now Rupert’s trying to take the crown for himself,” Radzig adds. “He’s got backing from the German princes. The Pope hasn’t declared anything yet, but the pressure is building.”
Henry runs a hand along the back of his neck. “And Sigismund? Now that he has retreated, is he giving up on becoming King of the Romans?”
Jobst gives a short, humorless laugh. “Sigismund? Give up? No, he’s licking his wounds, not surrendering.”
“He’s too proud to quit,” Radzig adds. “And too stubborn to die quietly.”
Jobst nods. “He retreated to Hungary, yes. But that only means he’s consolidating, gathering funds, favor, and whatever allies he hasn’t already burned through. He still has allies holding claims for him in Bohemia, Von Bergow being the most familiar. When Sigismund returns, he’ll come sharper. Hungrier. And more desperate men are always more dangerous.”
Hanush folds his arms. “And if Rupert’s crowned before that happens?”
“Then Sigismund will have to decide whether he wants to be King of the Romans or King of ashes,” Jobst says. “Because if he marches again, he won’t just be challenging Wenceslas anymore, he’ll be challenging the Holy Roman Empire itself.”
Henry glances between them all. “So no matter who wins…”
“Bohemia burns.” Radzig exhales, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Everything feels like it’s shifting beneath us. We’ve barely recovered after Sigismund’s retreat, and now this.”
“We need Wenceslas free and visible,” Jobst says. “The people need to see he’s still king. If he fades into rumor, Rupert becomes truth.”
“And if Wenceslas won’t act?” Hanush asks pointedly. “He’s been slow to move. Even when not in chains.”
“We move for him,” Jobst replies. “Quietly. Deliberately. He doesn’t need to fight, he just needs to be seen. Alive. Standing. Crown or no crown.”
There’s a silence that follows. A heavy one.
Henry doesn’t speak. But his mind is already turning.
Wenceslas is caged. Bohemia has no king. And the world, again, is threatening to burn around the edges.
And somehow, he’s always at the center of it.
Jobst folds his hands behind his back. “For now, I’ve had Liechtenstein sniffing around the courts. He’s good at listening without speaking. If anything shifts, I’ll know.”
Hanush mutters something under his breath, then lifts his head with a sudden sharpness in his gaze. “Enough talk of kings and crowns. If our young lord doesn’t show himself soon, it won’t be Rupert or Sigismund that disgrace us, it’ll be Capon.” He turns on Henry. “Bring him out. Now. Before I have to explain to half the nobility of Moravia why the groom’s hiding in the privy.”
Radzig, standing beside Henry, doesn’t speak. But he casts a slow, sidelong glance.
Henry gets the message. He bolts from the nobles.
Minutes later, Henry circles the southern barn, boots crunching over dry straw and gravel. The sun is higher now, casting down into Henry’s eyes, forcing him to squint during his search. The world is quieter out here, hushed beneath the drone of late bees and the rustle of orchard trees. No guards. No nobles. Just the creaking breath of the old barn and dry hay, old timber, and the musk of horses.
He moves carefully along the inside, hand brushing the rough timber, until something catches his ear.
A creak. Floorboards above.
He freezes, then shifts toward the side stairwell. Halfway up, he sees it, a soft orange glow, flickering through the slats of the loft door. Candlelight.
Henry ascends slowly, his heart thudding, not from fear, exactly, but from something more uncertain. The kind of nervousness that only comes when you know you’re trespassing somewhere not quite meant for you.
At the top of the stairs, the loft opens like a chapel.
Candles. Dozens of them, maybe more, arranged in a scattered ring along the edges of the hayloft. Their flames sway gently in the draft, casting long shadows on the wooden beams. The hay has been piled and shaped into something almost nest-like, soft, inviting, absurdly comfortable-looking. Tufts of wildflowers and clipped wedding arrangements are tucked into the edges. A crown of stolen summer.
And in the middle of it all, his back turned, still crouched over, is Hans.
He’s in his shirtsleeves, his fine yellow doublet thrown over a bale nearby. He’s fussing with the last candle, muttering something under his breath, when he hears the creak of the loft step behind him. He startles, spinning around, before his eyes meet Henry’s.
“Oh,” Hans exhales, relief washing over him. “It’s just you.” He stands slowly, smoothing down his shirt. “You found me too soon.”
Henry’s lips part slightly, trying to make sense of the sight before him.
Hans looks around at the space, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. “I was going to come get you. Just before the ceremony. Maybe after I grabbed something for us to eat.” His smile curls faintly. “Guess now’s as good a time as any.”
Henry steps farther into the light and simply looks: at the candles, the flower petals arranged with clumsy care, and the ring of hay that feels more like a nest than a hiding place. “Hans… this is…” Beautiful. “Did you do all this?”
Hans gestures toward the spot he’d made, hay carefully arranged into a backrest with a cushion beneath them. “Come on. Sit.”
They settle into the hay. Henry feels its dry warmth under his palms. Hans presses himself close, their shoulders touching, his head soon resting on Henry’s shoulder. The candlelight dances on the rafters above, soft and golden.
“I just…” Hans begins, voice quieter than usual. “I just need you to know that… I really care about you, Henry. I’m sorry if it ever feels like I don’t appreciate you.”
Henry doesn’t look at him. He just stares at the candles. They flicker like stars caught in a jar. The words are sweet. They always are. But Henry can’t quite find anything solid beneath them.
Henry turns. He cups Hans’ face with one hand and kisses him. Slow. Deep. Almost mournful.
Hans smiles softly. He pulls back only to dig in his pocket and retrieve something, two plain silver rings—matching, but still indistinguishable from normal noble jewelry.
“Think we came across these last night.” Hans attempts a laugh but cannot meet Henry’s eyes.
Henry blinks, and Hans presses one into his hand.
Henry looks down at the ring in his palm, then back at Hans. Hans is watching him too closely now, all the careless humor gone thin around the edges, as if he is waiting for Henry to understand something neither of them has dared to say aloud.
For one dangerous heartbeat, Henry almost does.
Then Hans gives another small, awkward laugh, and Henry lets that be the truth instead.
A pretty thing. A private joke. Something sweet to smooth over the morning.
Something safe.
They slip the rings on. No ceremony. No words. Just a glance. A quiet moment. Henry’s smile comes slowly. It looks like peace, but his heart doesn’t quite settle.
Hans leans in, kissing him again. But this time, he fills the space even more, putting more effort and emotion into his movements. His hands come up to Henry’s jaw, cupping his face and pushing him impossibly closer. When he’s no longer satisfied there, his hands slide down his chest. Henry doesn’t stop him. It feels good. Familiar. They haven’t had a truly private moment in what feels like ages, and the weight of Hans’ hands soothes the ache in his chest.
Hans shifts, moving slowly into his lap, one knee on either side of his hips. The warmth between them builds. Not heat, exactly, but longing. The kind that’s lived just under the surface for too long. Hans’ lips trace down his throat. Henry savors the taste of Hans on his tongue, like wine and breathless hope.
Henry’s hands hover at Hans’ waist. Then stop.
He closes his eyes, then gently pushes Hans back.
“Hans…” he murmurs.
Hans pauses. Looking at him, blinking, lips still parted.
“Hanush is looking for you,” Henry says softly. “And he’s not exactly in a forgiving mood.”
Hans sighs through his nose, forehead falling to Henry’s collarbone. “Of course he is.”
But Henry doesn’t let go.
“And… maybe it’s better we don’t,” Henry adds. “Not here.”
There’s more he doesn’t say. That he’s afraid of how badly he wants this. Not when he knows Hans can’t give it back in the same way.
Hans hesitates. “I thought that–” he starts, eyes searching Henry’s face.
Henry waits, heart beating too hard, but Hans only looks at him, as if the rest should be obvious.
Then Hans swallows it.
“Right,” he says quickly. “You’re right. Let’s go.”
They say nothing more. Hans puts his doublet back on, and together, they snuff out the candles, one by one, until the loft is returned to shadow. Then, they descend the stairs, rings still on their fingers, and disappear back into the day.
Henry follows Hans, their boots muffled against the old wood. Neither of them speaks. The hush between them isn’t awkward, but it isn’t quite peace either. It’s the kind of quiet that comes after something almost happened.
They slip through the lower door, blinking as sunlight filters in. The courtyard is louder now, laughter, music, the distant clatter of plates. Henry keeps a step behind Hans, his hand brushing the arm where Hans had rested his head. The ring feels heavy on his finger.
As they round the corner of the barn, the full scope of the gathering unfolds before them. The main courtyard is blooming with motion. Horses emblazoned with foreign crests line the stone path like gilded beetles, dressed in silks and the finest headgear. Nobles step down in layers of velvet and brocade, gold and silver chains catching the sun, their laughter light and rehearsed. Women float past in gowns of deep jewel tones, trailing perfumes from Paris and Vienna. Merchant lords from Sasau and Brno arrive in embroidered coats and polished boots, whispering behind gloved hands. It’s a parade of wealth and power, gems glinting, swords ceremonial but sharp, too many rings on too many fingers.
And among it all, right in front of him, walks Hans, yellow doublet catching the light like a banner. And Henry, dressed nearly as fine but feeling twice as plain, follows behind. The candlelight warmth of the loft already feels a lifetime away.
Before they enter the courtyard, a voice calls out:
“Ah, there he is!”
Hanush.
He stands just past the fence line, arms folded, flanked by two stewards and a noblewoman deep in discussion. His tone is sharp, but not cutting.
“I was beginning to think you’d gotten cold feet,” Hanush says, eyeing Hans from head to toe.
Hans quickly throws on his signature smile. He looks like he has pushed aside everything from his mind in that one instant.
“Apologies, Uncle, I was merely making sure I looked my very best for my darling Jitka.” Hans doesn’t bother to hide the sarcasm in his voice. Hanush knows very well what Hans feels about the wedding, but he also knows that Hans won’t ruin the wedding completely, lest he give up any chance at inheriting his rightful title.
Hanush furrows his brows. “Whatever you say, lad, just don’t keep the guests waiting any longer, they are here for you.”
With a dismissive wave, he turns back toward the gathering crowd, barking orders at one of the stewards without looking back. The moment passes like breath on glass.
Hans adjusts his belt, squares his shoulders, and walks on. And Henry, ever the loyal hound, trails behind, silent and invisible.
Henry keeps behind Hans as they move deeper into the courtyard, where the chatter and diplomacy have begun to blossom. Music curls from a trio of lutenists tucked under the arbor, and the scent of roasted meats drifts on the breeze. Wine flows like spring water, and the air is thick with floral garlands and rehearsed compliments.
It doesn’t take long.
The first wave comes, two young noblewomen with powdered cheeks and flowers in their hair. They offer bright smiles and dulcet congratulations, one fanning herself as she talks of alliances and silk merchants, the other already eyeing Hans as if she’s hunting for a second wedding.
Hans bears it well. His posture straightens, his smile tilts, and his voice adopts that feathered edge that makes everything sound both gallant and harmless. Henry watches him work, charming enough to pass, stiff enough to show the cracks. When the ladies finally curtsy and drift off toward the refreshments, Hans exhales sharply through his nose.
“She offered me her mare,” he mutters to Henry. “And I think herself too, if I’d taken the bait.”
Henry smirks. “You should’ve asked if they come with the same tack.”
Hans chokes on his own spit in shock, but hides a smile behind his fist. “Christ, Henry, are you yanking my pizzle? In front of the whole bloody courtyard?”
They don’t have time to laugh before a minor lord from Moravia steps in, flanked by his son, both bearded and broad. Hans bows respectfully, accepts the father’s heavy congratulations, and listens politely as the son launches into some long-winded tale of how he once broke three ribs in a hunting accident but still made it to his own betrothal on time.
Henry zones out, scanning the crowd, until he catches Hans casting him a sidelong glance, the kind of glance that says dear God, save me. When the nobles finally move on, Hans mutters, “If I ever start a story with ‘One time, during a hunt,’ just kill me on the spot.”
“I’ll make it clean,” Henry replies.
Group after group approaches. A bishop. A steward from Rattay. A merchant draped in rings and smelling of clove and ambition. Hans weathers them all, answering questions about his bride, his lands, and his prospects with grace practiced just well enough to hide that it’s mostly guesswork. Every so often, Henry murmurs a helpful name, a title, a detail Hans forgets, always quietly, always smoothly. No one seems to notice how seamlessly the support slips into place.
Every now and then, Hans leans slightly toward Henry. Says something dry, under his breath, an observation about a too-ambitious cousin, a flamboyant cloak, a merchant’s unfortunate mustache. Henry answers in kind, deadpan. They don’t laugh aloud, but the corners of Hans’ mouth betray him every time. It is smaller than what they shared in the loft, but it belongs to them.
In the midst of crowded bodies and polished manners, it’s theirs. A glance. A smirk. A shared silence loud enough to be a language. And still, Henry stands like a sentinel beside him. But for a moment, perhaps a few flickering moments, Hans leans into it. Into him. And it eases something in him.
After talking to strangers for what feels like ages, Hanush appears, striding toward them with that usual mix of ceremony and scowl.
“There you are,” he mutters, then fixes Hans with a look that teeters between impatience and paternal concern. “The hands are ushering guests to their seats. You need to stand at the altar.”
Hans opens his mouth, perhaps to stall with a quip, but Hanush doesn’t give him the chance. He reaches into the folds of his cloak and pulls out a delicate wreath, woven periwinkle, trailing green, the buds slightly dulled by time and travel but still lovely.
“You need to wear this,” Hanush says, holding it out. “Jitka will be wearing hers.”
Hans hesitates only for a breath before taking it, thumbing the frayed leaves. He glances once at Henry, then nods and moves toward the altar.
Only the most important guests are being seated, the landowners, the barons, the merchants with enough coin to buy a title if they haven’t already. The rest of the gathering forms a soft ring around the aisle, standing along the stone edge of the courtyard.
Henry finds a place near the end of the aisle, close enough to see Hans’ face without appearing to stand beside him.
The courtyard has been transformed. The wooden arch at its heart is wrapped in climbing vines, tender green coiled with small white blossoms. Garlands hang between the posts, drifting like silk in the breeze. The ground is scattered with flower petals, sun-yellow marigold, cornflower blue, dusky lavender. They line either side of the aisle like a path drawn through the season itself.
Hans stands at the altar, crown of green now resting unevenly on his head. He adjusts it once, then lets it be. The priest stands beside him, solemn in white and black, his hands already clasped. For all his bravado, Hans stands strangely rigid beneath the wreath.
Then the lute begins to play. Heads turn. Henry lifts his gaze.
At the far end of the courtyard, Lady Jitka appears, arm in arm with her father, Erhart of Kunstadt. She walks slowly, but not timidly. Her dress is a soft cream, simple, flowing, the kind that moves like breath. Embroidered vines spiral up the sleeves, catching the sunlight with subtle threadwork. Her hair, once wild and voluminous, is now braided intricately around her head, coiled like a crown, adorned with a matching wreath of woven periwinkle. The effect is elegant and young and entirely bridal.
Hans shifts slightly when he sees her, straightening. Jitka and her father reach the altar. Erhart presses a kiss to his daughter’s cheek, then steps back behind her.
The priest raises his hands and begins his address. It’s long-winded and slow, laden with scripture, tradition, and old Bohemian proverbs. The crowd watches with the quiet patience of people used to waiting for wine.
Hans’ gaze drifts. And for a moment, he finds Henry. Their eyes meet across the garden of nobility. Hans’ expression flickers. Uncertainty. A question, maybe.
Henry doesn’t smile. He just gives him a slight nod, steady.
Hans breathes in and looks back to Jitka. When the priest lifts his stole and wraps their joined hands, the silk catches the light like water.
“Do you, Jitka of Kunstadt,” the priest says, “accept this man as your husband, to be bound before God, family, and kingdom?”
“I do,” she says clearly, voice ringing through the silence.
The priest turns. “And do you, Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein, accept this woman as your wife, to stand beside you in unity before God, family, and kingdom?”
There’s the faintest pause. A breath.
“I do,” Hans echoes. His voice is calm, but something inside it tugs, like a seam not quite finished.
The priest lifts his arms above the altar. His voice echoes through the courtyard, clear and ceremonial. “Then let it be known: by the grace of the Church, and the eyes of all here present, you are wed.”
A pause.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
Jitka leans forward. Hans does too. Their lips meet in a brief, careful kiss, just enough to satisfy custom, nothing more. It is polite. Swift. Neither of them lingers.
The crowd erupts: applause, cheers, laughter. Someone shouts Hans’ name like they’re announcing a joust victory. Silver goblets clink together. The noblemen beam; the noblewomen gossip already.
But Henry does not cheer.
He stands near the back, quiet, still. His hands are folded in front of him, posture proper but tense, eyes locked on Hans through the swell of silks and smiles.
Henry’s mouth lifts before he can stop it, then settles again.
On the altar, Hans pulls away from Jitka and turns toward the crowd, scanning the sea of faces. When he finds Henry, he stills. Their eyes meet. And it’s then, only then, that Hans smiles.
The smile Hans gives him is softer than the groom’s practiced grin or the polite smirk he offers the nobility; it is warm, real, and bright with recognition.
Henry holds his gaze for a beat longer than he should.
Then the musicians strike their strings. The crowd surges forward. Guests begin to form lines to offer their congratulations. Jitka’s father is already pulling her aside.
Hans is swept into the current of titles and pleasantries, and Henry remains where he is.
Around him, the courtyard blooms with noise and music and fall color, but his attention catches only on the silver ring at his hand, dull beneath the afternoon light.