Chapter Text
"When I watch you dancing there is a heartless immensity like a sailor in a dead-calm sea. Desires as round as peaches bloom in me all night, I no longer gather what falls.”
—Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry
Suchdol, July, 1403
The siege of Suchdol ends one month after the summer solstice, when the sun hangs high and bright in the sky for agonizing stretches of time, working to unspool men day by day.
They’ve spent the pits of midsummer working around the steady clock that warfare keeps, just long enough on the battlements before it was time for a stint in the humid swamp of your sheets, shaded by a roof that could block sunlight but not the oppressive stillness of a moist heat.
After the siege is over, the ensuing battle done, the dead buried and revelry well underway, Henry tends to Hans’ shoulder wound in a cool, damp room that sits at the base of the castle. He welcomes the chilly air that kisses his skin as he works, the gooseflesh it leaves in its wake. Even a coolness as tepid as this one is welcome after the iron-fisted rule of heat and hunger.
Godwin had nearly managed to take the arrow out of Hans’ shoulder in one pull. One stray chunk of debris sits in the angry pink crater, but it isn’t lodged into the muscle like Henry had feared. Hans should be able to draw a bow within the next week or two. Henry sends a silent prayer of thanks to God, as he knows that telling Hans that his arm (a necessary appendage for hunting and boozing and whoring) would be out of commission forever would have led to a meltdown of biblical proportions.
As it stands, Hans is taking the whole thing fairly well. Earlier, he had told Henry that the wound was only starting to hurt then and there. Henry thinks it's possible that he had told the truth, that the adrenaline of battle had clouded his nerves against it. Knowing Hans, however, it is equally possible that he was lying to pass some test that had been issued to him when he was a child, something concerning the amounts of pain that men are and are not permitted to feel.
Now, however, he is mostly quiet as Henry pours spirits over the wound, flushing it out. Henry hears him inhale sharply at the sting of it. He decides not to comment on it in order to spare his friend the embarrassment of being seen.
Once the clear liquid has cascaded its way down and out of the wound, Henry reaches to his left, grabbing a pair of forceps that he’d wheedled out of Musa not an hour earlier.
“I’m going to pull out the bit of arrow that’s left, my lord,” he warns, the first words either of them have spoken in minutes, “so now’s the time to bite down on that rag.” Henry’s hands are occupied, one with the forceps and one with holding Hans’ shoulder steady, so he jerks his head in the direction of a torn piece of cloth that lies on a table in reaching distance of his friend’s uninjured arm.
Hans shakes his head, and doesn’t reach for the cloth. “Can’t hurt any worse than it did going in, can it?” He tries for a cocksure grin, but it turns into a sour little stretch of his lips that Henry would laugh at if he didn’t feel ill at the sight of Hans in pain.
There’s no point in fighting Hans when he’s in one of these moods, so Henry shrugs as best as he’s able. “Suit yourself.” He spends a second digging around in the rank gore of Hans’ shoulder with the forceps before he feels the clink of his target, clasping it tightly between the teeth of the instrument. “On three,” he gives as much warning as he’s able, “one, two, three-“
Henry yanks, hard and fast and sure. It’s enough. The metal releases with a sickening pop that he feels in his own bones. When he’s sure that no pieces of it remain inside, he looks up. Hans has gone pale and for a second Henry worries he’s about to pass out. But all he does is grit his teeth and groan, low and animal. His eyelids flutter and then squeeze shut. The sick feeling in Henry’s stomach crawls up through him and grabs at his heart relentlessly. He prays that the man who put this arrow in Hans’ shoulder is rotting out there in the sun, else Henry will have to hunt him down himself.
He grabs a small jar of salve to distract himself, scooping out a little and smearing it over the spot where Hans was pierced. “Sorry,” he whispers when he feels him flinch at the renewed sting, “this should keep it from getting infected.” He switches the jar out for a roll of bandages, wrapping salve and wound and shoulder together in one tight package.
“There,” Henry remarks once he’s finished, standing and stretching after being hunched over for so long, “that should hold. If you start to feel feverish, tell me. Lord Hanush would have my head if an infection took you before I could get you to the altar.”
He watches something sour flash across Hans’ face as soon as he says it. The corners of his lips turn down, making his mouth into a perfect arc, taut as a bowstring right before an arrow is loosed. It sparks within Henry a pressing urge to apologize.
Then the moment passes. Capon’s face returns to normal. He stands, rolling out his injured shoulder with only a hint of trepidation. “Oh Christ, Hal, if you keep going on about that damned wedding like Hanush did, I’ll have to find a place to hole up all by myself, and leave you in the lurch!” His voice has adopted a tight sheen of false mirth.
“You’d come crying back to me in less than two days with how bored you’d get.” Henry retorts, turning around and busying himself with re-rolling unused bandages and corking the bottles of salve and spirits.
“Mm, I suppose you’re right.” Hans sighs as he stands, dramatically petulant. “That means I’ll have to keep you around, then. Spending the rest of my waning days as a bachelor with you for company won’t be too terrible.” Henry looks up at that, quick enough to catch the way Hans smirks at him. Any hint of smugness melts off his face in an instant, however, when he (very quietly) says “Thank you for fixing me up, Henry.”
Question after question linger on the roof of Henry’s mouth. ‘What are we, he thinks, after what happened? What are we in the face of your wedding?’ He can think of no tactful way to ask, even after Hans had pulled him aside after that conversation with Hanush, had addressed it in that veiled, side-stepping way of his. The most direct thing he’d said was ‘I’m not sure what to do…after what happened, you know?’ Any route Henry could take to bring it up again would have him looking like a bumbling fool, trailing desperately after his lord’s affections.
So Henry asks none of those questions. He simply replies “Anytime, Hans.” In return, Hans grants him a smile that is rare in how sweet it is, in the way it does not mask itself behind pomp and bravado. It makes tiny creases appear at the outer corners of his eyes. Henry tries to commit them to memory, but doesn’t get a chance to. Hans turns to leave the room, and the moment is punctured.
Henry allows himself to think about what had happened for the first time since he’d left Hans’ room that night. He recalls being kissed, then kissing back, then rolling around with Hans and grinding together for as long as they were able. The release, if one could call it that, was almost painful in how weak it was, muted by the hush of hunger and shame.
What is the correct way to ask for more, to voice how he wants their bodies (once they’re hale, whole and fed) to meet in a space beyond speech, to be flesh without bounds? His inclination to fully commit to their sin is taking on a life of its own.
‘How far can men like us take a relationship?' Henry wonders as he stows his medical supplies, willing his hands to remain steady.
He’s not sure Hans is even a man like him in the first place. For that matter, Henry isn’t sure what kind of man he himself is. He’s not a sodomite, he can’t be, since he likes women as much as any regular man should.
However, there is an irregular part of Henry that he can't come to terms with, the part that rouses itself for the right man.
Thinking about it for too long always makes his throat feel tight and tingly, so Henry follows Hans out to the main courtyard, to the fray of revelry that has been dampened only slightly by the Dry Devil shooting Žižka in the eye with a crossbow bolt. Žižka is seated on a stool, far away from it all, with Musa and Katherine hovering around him, inspecting his eye. It looks, from this far away, at least, as if they’d been able to pull the bolt out.
Radzig is standing alone near the stairs that lead to the inner tower of the castle, nursing a tankard of ale and surveying the scene with an unimpressed expression scrawled across his face. Henry, seeing that Hans is busy trying to out-drink Godwin, decides now is an apt a time as any to speak to his father again, a follow-up to their brief conversation by the tree.
Henry grabs a spare drink from the central table, not caring what it is so long as it’s booze. He approaches Radzig with all the grace of an unbroken colt, never quite sure the proper way to address a man who is both his liege lord and sire. He settles on an aborted bow and an incline of his head as he greets him. “Father.”
To Henry’s relief, Radzig never seems to be sure how to address him as well.“Henry.” Despite the fact that they’d last conversed not an hour ago, something stilted crops up in the space between them, as inevitable as spring rain. “I see Sir Hans is not terribly affected by that shoulder wound?” He points, and Henry follows the line of it to where Hans is now dancing with one of Suchdol's bath maids.
The setting sun is hitting his yellow pourpoint and flaxen hair, making him look like a column of flame took the shape of a man. He’s laughing as he twirls his partner, lithe as ever. If one were to give him a quick glance, perhaps they wouldn’t be able to tell that he’s spent the last month starving, and the last two days in bitter combat.
“Ah.” Henry manages a monosyllabic response, wincing to himself at how clipped it sounds. He can’t help the ice-cold trickle of envy that starts at the crown of his head and cascades down to engulf him fully. ‘Ridiculous,’ he chastises himself ‘to be mad at your friend for having a pretty girl in his arms.’ As soon as he thinks this, Henry realizes that can't see her face from where he stands.
Radzig says something, but it sounds dim and far away through the rush of noise in Henry’s ears. He can feel his father’s gaze on him, and turns from his sinful reverie to look at him. “Sorry, sir—er, father. You were saying?”
The look Radzig gives him is too piercing and discerning for comfort. “I asked if you patched up Capon’s wound when you pulled him away.” Henry hopes he’s imagining the way his father’s tone seems to suggest something illicit.
“Aye, he wanted me to take a look at it. There was a piece of the arrowhead lodged in there, but I pulled it out and bandaged him up. It should heal right quick.” Henry’s mouth feels as if it's stuffed with cloth as he rushes to provide the explanation.
There’s a beat of time where Radzig says nothing, just keeps on staring at Henry. Finally, he breaks the silence by asking “Have you and he decided where you’re going to stay before he’s called back for the wedding?”
Henry shrugs, noncommittal. “Think we’re just going to ride back to the Devil’s Den—it’s an inn near here—with everyone tomorrow morning. Hans—Sir Hans—mentioned looking for other lodging, but it seems a little silly to leave everyone and go off on our own before we have to.”
This time, blessedly, Radzig nods in response. “An astute choice. Being at an inn will make it easier for Hanush's messenger to reach you when Capon must return to Rattay."
Henry can't summon a reply fast enough, so he brings his drink to his mouth. It's some variant of moonshine, from the sharpish taste and the way it makes his nose burn, and he does his best to knock it back without pulling a face. He's not clear on all of the rules of being a bastard yet, but it stands to reason that he should be able to handle his liquor like a man in front of his lord father.
Radzig takes no notice of the way he drinks, so it must have been up to snuff. "Once the summons arrive, Hal, you must bring Sir Hans to the wedding, whatever it takes. I know Hanush impressed upon you the importance of it, but let me do so too, at the risk of redundancy. If the alliance with the Lord of Kundstat falls through, we will be completely and utterly fucked. Sigismund withdrew here, yes, but war is always a fickle thing. We need to maintain this network of Wenceslas' supporters by any means necessary. Do you understand?"
Henry nods on reflex, his head starting to spin a little. "Aye, father."
"I'm sure Lord Capon would appreciate your presence at the wedding," Radzig continues, "but after that, Hanush and I have decided that you aren't obligated to remain in his service. We know that you weren't expecting to spend this long with him when the two of you set out from Rattay."
This is not something that Henry had given any thought to for the past two months, and he takes another drink to mask the brief jolt of shock he feels. Once the liquor is burning through his guts, he says "I wasn't expecting it, that's true, but it hasn't been awful. We're friends now, I think, despite it all."
"That's all well and good, and I'm glad you two had each other, but you don't need to be beholden to him just because you're friends." Then, Radzig lowers his voice into something almost conspiratorial. "In all honesty, Hal, my retinue lacks something without you. There are still battles that need to be won, and I know that having you there will ease the fight."
Henry locks eyes with his father. Radzig so rarely offers him open praise like this. He preens under it despite himself, and tries not to let the childish, unabashed pleasure show on his face. "You honor me, father." Henry demurs. On a whim, he looks out to the courtyard and sees Hans approaching him with all the determinedness of a sailor finding a beacon in the dead of night.
"Sir Radzig," he greets the other lord, the clumsy cheer of drink Henry was expecting not fully set in yet, "While I'm sure your company is riveting, would you allow me to steal Hal away from you? His compatriots miss him sorely!" Hans sways where he stands, and places a hand on Henry's shoulder, steadying himself. Henry knows that he's not drunk enough to have alcohol be the cause of this unsteadiness, it has to be the remaining vestiges of hunger and exhaustion.
Radzig's upper lip curls with barely disguised disdain. "Lord Capon," he replies coolly, "My son and I were discussing matters of no small import, and it appears that his…compatriots are getting along fine without him." He nods his head in the direction of the festivities.
Kubyenka is making vulgar, drunken gestures with his hips. The Dry Devil is vomiting into a small patch of grass. Father Godwin is at the table giving Samuel an effusive lecture. Samuel is clearly half asleep where he sits, be it from booze or boredom. Žižka and Katherine are nowhere to be found, presumably having disappeared together. Henry winces, second-hand embarrassment consuming him at the sorry picture his friends make.
Hans shakes his head like Mutt trying to dry off after a swim. "Well, I miss him sorely, and I'm one of his compatriots. He's become my dearest friend over the past few months, you know." He gives Henry's shoulder a squeeze. Henry tries not to panic. 'Fuck, fuck don't say anymore, not in front of my father.' He thinks, wishing that he could beam the sentiment straight into Hans' thick skull.
"As true as that may be, Lord Capon, you'll need to get used to his absence. I'm sure that you won't have as much time to get into trouble with Henry once you're married. Wives demand more attention than a man of your age would think." Radzig offers Hans a sharp smile that does little to mask his contempt.
Hans relinquishes Henry's shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest. "I see. Well, thank you for the valuable wisdom, Sir Radzig. I'll take it to heart in spite of your never having been married. Regardless of how she nags, I'll always have time for Henry."
Henry wishes that the blood-soaked earth of Suchdol would swallow him whole.
"Careful, Lord Capon," Radzig says, tone deceptively light, "Henry is my son, and I may be calling him back into my service once you're married and his obligation to Hanush is fulfilled. The Rosenbergs and the rest of the League of Lords still need to be sorted out."
There's a terrible moment of silence in which Hans gapes at Radzig as if the man has just declared that he wants nothing more than to be kicked in the head by a horse. After a pregnant pause, he wrangles his face back into something resembling a lordly facsimile.
"Of course," he replies, voice much higher than normal. "Of course, of course. Hal—Henry—is a tremendous fighter…of course he would be an asset to your company." He's got a slack and dazed look, and he begins to stumble away from them abruptly
"Where're you off to?" Henry raises his voice, worry spreading in his chest like he's a lovesick wife watching her man leave for war.
"My apologies, gentlemen, I must take my leave!" Hans calls, making his way up the stairs to the inner tower.
Once he's out of earshot, Radzig fixes Henry with a pointed look. "Do you know what brought on that display?"
Henry shrugs, attempting to become the very picture of neutrality. "Drank too much, I'd wager. I apologize on his behalf, Sir." It only counts as a quarter of a lie, he reasons, given that Capon will be sloshed out of his mind at some point tonight. His father is too discerning by half, and it's unclear how much he's willing to chalk up to a fraternal bond between Hans and Henry.
Radzig does not devote any more time to Hans' unusual behavior. He pushes himself off of the wall he's been leaning on, hands his empty cup to a passing servant.
The casual way he does it raises Henry's hackles, the reminder that Radzig may have fathered him, yet still has the behavioral pitfalls that all nobles do. It seems to Henry that it is no different from when Hanush asked him to sharpen his sword after the battle like he hadn't just bled for king and country as much as the rest of them.
But he is trying his best right now to be a dutiful bastard, so he does not say anything.
"I should probably set off now, unfortunately." Radzig says, pulling his gloves from where they were tucked into his belt and pulling them on. "We'll see each other next at Capon's wedding, unless you need to track me down before then." He shoots Henry a wry smile. "Stay out of trouble, Hal."
Henry nods. "I will, Father. We will." he tacks on, unable to help himself.
"Good man." Radzig thumps him on the shoulder, a fumbling attempt at a paternal gesture. Henry sings with it, no matter how clumsy it is.
And then his father as gone, almost as quickly as he came.
Henry downs the rest of his drink, pushing past the burn with more ease now. Once he's swallowed the warmth of it, he yawns, so forceful it nearly cracks open his jaw. He hasn't slept since leaving Suchdol with Sam, running on urgency and adrenaline. It's hitting him all at once now.
He trudges up the stairs, wanting nothing more than to collapse into his bed. When he passes the closed door to Hans' room, he pauses, thinks 'What would he do if I knocked on the door? Would he let me into his bed? Would he let me kiss him?'
It doesn't do him good to think about it, he decides, and continues up the second flight of stairs, practically moaning with relief when he reaches his own room and can shut the door behind him. He sheds his remaining armor and bloodied clothes quickly, dressing for bed in the first clean tunic that he can find in the mess of his bedside chest.
Laying down feels almost too good to be true. It's still devilishly hot outside, but Henry burrows under the blankets nonetheless, relishing the way they scratch at his skin. The enjoyment lasts approximately five seconds before his treacherous thoughts wind their way back in the direction of Hans Capon.
Images of his lord in various states of undress flicker to the forefront of Henry's mind, and he groans, taking his pillow and mashing it over his head, as if he could drive the thoughts out that way. It's no use. There he is, all lean muscle covered in a light dusting of blonde hair. Henry thinks, ridiculously, of his back. He hadn't been able to get a good look at it before, as Hans had stayed under him all throughout their tryst. Henry wants to see it so badly his eyes ache. He imagines that it's all broad and toned from years of yanking the string of a heavy longbow, shoulder blades tapering down in a perfect triangle.
'Fuck.' Henry thinks eloquently as he realizes that he's become half-hard just from laying around and thinking about the bare back of another man. It's much too hot under the blankets, to the point where he's starting to sweat, and he kicks them off to puddle in an inelegant mess at the foot of the bed.
Henry rolls over on his side, unwilling to give into his more base desires. He's too tired, and the shame of getting off to these thoughts is not something that he is prepared to deal with right now. He closes his eyes, willing himself to soften enough to sleep.
In the end, exhaustion wins out, but he dreams about the way firelight had flashed against Hans Capon's naked body as they touched in the quiet dark, a veritable chiaroscuro of pleasure and sin.
They set out for the Devil's Den with everyone else in the morning, before the fog and dew have had a chance to lift off the ground. Henry makes the mistake of watching his lord mount his horse, unable to stop thinking about the way those long legs of his had felt wrapped around Henry's waist.
The ride is mostly silent. No one feels much like talking. Even Capon does not have enough chatter to fill the space where Sigismund's silver should be. Henry tries to steel himself by thinking about how badly they'd failed, but his treacherous eyes keep swiveling over to his left, where Hans is keeping pace with him on one of the horses that Hanush and Radzig had left for them.
Henry knows that he has always been attracted to men. In his sixteenth summer, his first kiss had been with his friend Matthias, in a hayloft late at night in between sips of pilfiered wine. He hadn't loved Matthias, for who can really be in love when you're sixteen and stupid as sin, but he had spent months telling himself that the jitteriness he felt around his friend didn't matter. God couldn't strike him down for an adolescent crush, after all, nor was he damned to hell by way of a few langorous kisses and some overeager petting.
He had loved Bianca, but thinking about her always brings to mind the way her limp body had looked in the rain because Henry hadn't saved her. The memory of the way her laugh had sounded fades with each passing day.
Perhaps he could have fallen in love with Theresa, but Skalitz had sprung to life, half-burnt between their lips whenever they came together. Besides, Theresa knows that he wouldn't be a good husband for her, always pursuing the next task, chasing down another foe. They had settled on being dear friends to spare each other the pain and the separation, at her suggestion. She was always much smarter than him.
So no, Henry thinks to himself as they pass the picked-over remains of Sigismund's camp, he had not loved Matthias, or any of the other men that he watched from underneath his lashes, covert in his admiration. Nor had he loved Black Bartosch, the handsome knight at Trosky who had beckoned him into the world of trysts that men have with each other underneath the shield of darkness.
'I have never been in love with a man,' he reassures himself, digging the chipped nail of his right thumb into the worn leather of the rein of his borrowed steed, 'so it stands to reason, then, that I cannot be in love with Capon.'
This is a safe thought. Henry is not afraid of going to Hell for his deviance: after all, he's killed hundreds of men at this point. The Devil has a spot picked out for him already, had done even before he brought Bartosch off with his mouth in the baths at Trosky Castle. He is slated for damnation with or without his indulgences in the sweet sin of sex with men.
'But just because I will burn one day doesn't mean that Hans has to. He doesn't want to marry Lady Jitka now, but love can come to the surface over time.' Henry reasons with himself. After all, his mother and step-father had grown to love each other only after they were bound by marriage.
Henry thinks that imagining Capon falling for a faceless woman would reassure him, but it only makes him feel a little queasy.
"Are you feeling alright, Hal? You look a little green around the gills." Hans asks, and it startles Henry. He hadn't noticed that he was being watched.
"Aye," he responds, trying to sound gruff so as to not invite further conversation, and feels a little bad when Hans looks confused at his standoffishness. "Just tired, is all," he adds to soothe the blow.
"Get some rest when we get back to the Devil's Den, then. Don't let Žižka send you off on another foolish errand." Hans lowers his voice conspiratorially at the end, as the man in question is riding three horses ahead, and could very well overhear.
Henry nods at Hans, and tries to smile in response, but his mouth feels too tight for his face. They don't speak again for the rest of the ride to the Den.
Žižka seeks Henry out as soon as they return to the Den.
Henry is brushing down the horse he rode in on when the commander approaches him. He knows as soon as he spots Žižka that there will be no rest for him, at least not immediately.
"Some of Sigismund's stragglers have holed up near Wysoka," he says without preamble, blunt as ever. "I'm sorry to do this to you, Henry, but I need to ask you to ride out and take care of it."
There's no point in arguing. Henry has one full night of sleep under his belt, and some food in his system, and besides, he isn't the type to weasel out of things like this, not anymore. He saddles Pebbles, calls Mutt to his side, and rides out.
True to what Žižka said, Henry rides for a day and finds the camp in the forest just south of Wysoka. Twilight is stretching her wine-soaked fingers across the sky when he arrives.
Henry counts seven soldiers all huddled around a fire. There's a chest towards the back of their camp. He assumes it's where they're holding the silver. He's outnumbered enough that it would be prudent to wait until nightfall, slit all of their throats while they sleep. The seed of something terrible lodged deep in his heart tells him not to. He tells Mutt to stay with Pebbles, and creeps up on them from the bushes.
He dives in headfirst, the sun glinting off of his sword (the sword, the one this was all for) as he grabs the nearest soldier by the collar, holding the point of the blade to the soft peach-skin of his neck.
"You can give up the silver," he growls, forcing his voice lower than what's comfortable. "Or I'll pull the guts from your arseholes, each and every one of you."
The soldier he's holding hostage barks out a laugh. Henry digs the point in, and the flesh gives, weeping little pearls of ruby-red. The man starts to make a terrible choking sound. None of his comrades say a word, as if they want to see if he's really capable of killing.
Henry is nothing if not able to kill, and he makes it known when the tip of his sword comes peeking out the other end of the man's throat with a gurgle.
The fight that comes is something he's learned by rote, the slashing and hacking and spitting of flesh that he's heard thousands of times before. When it's all said and done, there are six corpses littered around the camp, and one small soldier on his knees, helmet knocked off his head, hands in the air in surrender.
"Crazy fucking bastard!" The man's voice is watery. Henry realizes, with a start, that he's crying. He takes a closer look, and sees that this is not a man. His sword is leveled at a boy no older than fourteen, tears and snot running down a face that hasn't lost all of its baby fat yet.
"Go," he snarls, hoping the kid takes him seriously. "Get the fuck out of here."
The boy doesn't need to be told twice. He sprints off into the night. Henry does not follow. He goes to the chest, and takes the silver, then rides to Miskowitz to rent a room.
The moon shines above him as he rides, as silver as his quarry. Sometimes it feels as if everyone Henry has ever known has died for silver. 'Ma and Pa,' he thinks, 'Bianca, Theresa's brothers, her Pa. All of Skalitz. Adder.'
He's added six men to the list tonight, but can't remember their faces.