early Hans and Henry on Henry not being able to read.
Hans lounges on his bed, legs crossed at the ankle, flipping through a letter with a silver seal.
‘Honestly, the man writes like a crow dipped in ink,’ he muttering as he holds it up. ‘But it’s from Prague, so it must be important.’
Henry sits on the stool near the fire, arms folded, staring into the flames.
Hans smirks without looking up. ‘Why don’t you read it and find out?’
He tosses the letter across the room. It lands in Henry’s lap.
Henry looks down at it but doesn't move.
Henry gives a small shrug, jaw tense.
Hans blinks. Thinking it’s a joke, he laughs once, short and all sharp. ‘What, are the words too big? Do you need a moment to—'
‘I can’t read, all right?’ The words come out more clipped than intended. More defensive. Henry’s eyes stay on the fire.
Hans sits up a bit. The silence stretching as he studies the man he can’t quite pick a title for.
‘You’re taking the piss.’ He murmurs faintly amused.
Hans looks at him for a long moment. The light dances on Henry’s face, that familiar grim line to his mouth, the muscle that twitches in his jaw when he is embarrassed.
‘But... Radzig’s your father.’
‘Aye. Didn’t stop me being raised in a forge.’
Hans opens his mouth and closes it. The usual sharp teasing retort doesn’t come.
Henry gives a small shake of his head. ‘I know some letters. Names. Signs. Not enough to write a sentence.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Hans leans back slowly, folding his arms.
Henry, still staring at the fire, mutters: ‘Go on. Laugh.’
‘No, I’m just... I didn’t think anyone could get to twenty without learning.’
‘You mean without being taught.’
Hans pauses; he never thought of it that way. He can’t remember a day where he wasn’t aware of his letters. Then Hans swings his legs off the bed and stands, walks over, picks up the letter, and places it on the table next to Henry.
‘Well,’ Hans says finally, tone clipped. ‘That explains... a lot, really.’
Henry says nothing. Hans turns now, brows raised in theatrical disbelief.
‘You mean to tell me you’ve been faking it? All this time? Reading letters, reports, orders?’
‘I don’t fake anything. I listen. I remember.’
‘Oh, brilliant.’ Hans throws up his hands. ‘My page, a walking ledger of half-truths and guesswork.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first noble I’ve seen survive on less.’ Henry scoffs and Hans glares, simply because it’s true.
‘You’ll leave for Úžice tomorrow,’ he says sharply. ‘Speak with the scribe there. Tell him you’ve been assigned a proper education. I’ll write a letter of instruction …in very clear penmanship.’
‘Right. We’re fixing that.’
‘You’re going to learn to read. It’s intolerable.’
‘You’ll thank me one day, Hal.’
Henry looks at him, the nobleman looks instantly offended by the softness of his own words and tries to recover with a dramatic eye roll.
‘Besides, I can’t have my page making me look like a bloody fool by squinting at signposts and thinking the Bible is just a well-bound firestarter.’
Henry shifts, eyes narrowing.
‘So it’s for your reputation, then.’
‘God no.’ Hans snaps. ‘Obviously, I won’t have you looking like a fool. Or making me look like one by association.’
Silence fills the room and Henry smirks faintly. Hans sees it and sighs, dramatically flustered.
‘You begin tomorrow. I’ll fetch the Psalter.’
‘Try not to die of culture, peasant.’
Henry sits hunched over a wooden desk in the scribe’s dusty workshop, squinting at a Latin alphabet scrawled in soot-stained ink. His back aches. His head throbs. The letters dance.
‘A is for Adam. Again, boy.’
‘Adam can piss off,’ Henry mutters, but he tries. Again. Because he said he would.
And because, somewhere in Rattay, a noble brat is pretending not to care.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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