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Hearth and Kin – Part XIX

Kith and Kin

Part 1/2

—

A pointed muzzle moved through the grass along the fence, purposeful and intent.

The fox worked its nose between the stalks, into the soil — pausing, pressing on. Its russet coat all but dissolved into the dusk.

Then it stopped.

Raised its head. Turned it — across the meadow, toward the treeline — ears pricked, body still as a thrown stone.

A fresh wind crossed Foxburrow. It ran through the grass in slow, rolling swells, bent the linden and the trees ringing the meadow, and somewhere high above — above the rooftop, above the canopy — leaned its full weight into the clouds crossing the evening sky like a herd that cast no shadow.

The fox tilted its head. Held.

Then spun — one sharp movement — and was gone into the dark beneath the trees.

A streak of red. Then nothing.

As though it had never been there at all.

The rustle of leaves broke under hooves. Distant at first — steady, weighted, purposeful — drawing nearer until five riders came through the gate and hooves rang on the packed earth of the yard. Hans drew up near the linden at its centre; the others settled in behind him. For a moment he took in the property without expression.

Stables, house, forge. The lean-to beside it.

Then he looked back at his men.

"We sleep here," he said. "And ride on to Rattay at first light."

One of the Rotstein men-at-arms gave a brief nod. No words.

"Make camp in the yard."

He dismounted, swung the reins over, and stood a moment with his hands braced at the small of his back — stretching it out, tilting his head to one side, then the other. A quiet, grateful crack.

His gaze found Pavel. The young man was still climbing down from his horse a little way off, hands slow to leave the saddle.

"I'll get a fire going inside, my lord," Pavel said, without quite turning around. Matter-of-fact. The eagerness underneath it barely audible.

Hans nodded.

Pavel stepped off toward the door.

"Pavel—"

The young man stopped. Turned.

"The guest chamber is yours tonight," Hans said.

Pavel looked at him. His eyebrows lifted a little — not a question, exactly. Something quieter than that.

Hans held the look for a moment, then said nothing further.

"Go on, then," he said, and the corner of his mouth moved.

Pavel gave a nod and turned back to the door.

Hans took up his reins and led his horse toward the stable.

The yard had already settled into its military routine by the time he returned — voices, footsteps, the snap of rolled canvas thrown over a bench. The riders were making themselves at ease beneath the spread of the linden. Hans pressed both palms to the small of his back and watched them for a moment.

Then he drew a slow breath and turned left.

To the forge.

He stopped in the doorway.

Inside, the air was cooler than the evening and darker — charged with the old smell of ash and iron. Hans stood without moving. His eyes travelled slowly over the tools racked along the wall, over the coal in its box, over the anvil at the centre. Everything put away. Everything in its place. Everything precisely as Henry had last left it.

As though he had banked the fire that very morning.

Hans stepped toward the anvil and reached out. He ran his fingertips along the edge — the metal cool and unyielding, indifferent to the touch. He let his finger rest there a moment, at the midpoint of the rim.

Then he let out a slow breath and walked back out.

He crossed to the lean-to beside the forge, took hold of the edge of the canvas and raised it. What remained of the day's light fell into the interior — grey and thin, but enough. The bench. A shelf, a candle-holder. And in the middle of that small, screened space, the bathing tub of dark wood.

Hans sat down on its rim.

The wood was smooth beneath his palm. He ran his hand along it — slowly, without intent — then let it rest in his lap and looked out through the open flap of canvas, across the yard, past the linden, to the sky above.

Clouds moved from west to east, grey and swollen, but the gaps between them had begun to open. Stars appeared in one, then another — tentative, hardly committed to the hour.

Hans watched them without speaking. Henry's eyes drifted across the darkening sky.

Above the wall of the Klokotsch manor, the first stars were coming out — quietly, without announcement. He sat on the bench with his hands folded in his lap, looking upward, and did not notice the time passing.

"Henry?"

He gave a small start.

He pulled his gaze from the sky and turned toward Jitka, sitting beside him — and only then did he take it in, that she had been speaking for some while already. She smiled at him, gently, without reproach.

"Where did you wander off to?"

Henry looked across the yard. At the gate, two guards were exchanging torches — the flame tipped sideways as it passed from hand to hand, streamed briefly in the air, then steadied. Henry lowered his gaze. After a moment, he raised it again.

Jitka drew her hand along his arm.

"Never mind that I asked," she said, smiling.

Henry drew a deep breath. Let it out — quietly, with a trace of embarrassment — and looked down at his clasped hands. He ran a thumb slowly across one knuckle.

"They should be near Rattay by now," he said. "Or thereabouts."

From the stables came the soft clap of a hoof, then a snort.

"If all is going well," he added, after a moment.

Jitka gave a quiet nod.

Silence settled between them. Henry watched the guards across the yard, the torchlight shifting and catching on the stone of the wall.

"Are you afraid for him?" Jitka asked.

Henry didn't answer at once. Jitka watched him — calmly, without hurry — and waited.

After a moment he shook his head, his gaze still fixed across the yard.

"Before — I think I would have been. But—"

He looked at the flame wavering at the gate. Drew breath.

"—now?"

He turned back to her. A faint smile.

"You know as well as I do how strong a man Hans is."

His eyes drifted somewhere above her shoulder — a moment only — then came back to her, and he gave a small shrug.

Jitka nodded, thoughtful. A pause.

"And he can defend himself well enough," she said quietly.

Something settled in Henry's expression — heavier than before.

His eyes went somewhere ahead of him, and he ran one palm slowly across the other.

"I'm not afraid for him," he said after a while. "But when he isn't here—"

He stopped. Looked at her.

"—it's as though part of me is missing."

He dropped his gaze.

Jitka watched him for a moment. Then she drew her hand along his forearm.

"I miss him too," she said softly.

Henry raised his eyes. Jitka smiled at him — gently, with that particular tilt of her head that was only hers — and breathed out through her nose; almost a laugh, but soft.

"Though perhaps not quite as you do."

Henry smiled. He leaned into her and put his arm around her shoulders. Jitka rested her head against him.

"And when you are gone," she said, "I miss you no less."

Henry drew a long breath. Let it out.

"You know, last summer—" he began, slowly. "I was so afraid of what was coming. Of what lay ahead for Hans."

He drew back a little. Looked into her eyes.

"But now I can't imagine things being any other way than they are."

Jitka held his gaze.

She smiled.

Raised her hand and touched his face. The wine was dark, a little astringent, and smelled of earth.

Hans took a sip, held it on his tongue, swallowed, and set the cup down on the table with the careful, absent ease of a man whose thoughts were elsewhere.

Behind him, the fire spoke quietly to itself. The reflections of the flames moved along the walls like shadows that had lost their bodies — drifting, purposeless. Hans took in the room with the same absent quality. A bow hung on the wall. A hood on its hook. Along the shelf, a row of linen pouches of dried herbs, slightly dusty but neatly tied. A bench against the wall. In the corner, Mutt's bed — the hollow worn into it by a curled and sleeping dog.

The door gave a soft creak.

Hans turned.

Pavel came in — hair a little wind-tousled, doublet still fastened, his expression tired but settled.

"All seen to?" Hans asked.

"Ay, my lord. The men are bedding down."

Hans nodded. He held the young man's eye for a moment, taking quiet stock.

"Help yourself to wine, Pavel," he said, nodding toward the jug on the table.

Pavel hesitated — then gave a small nod.

"Thank you, my lord."

He crossed to the table, took a cup, and poured carefully. Hans watched him without a word. The fire cracked loudly — catching the wet grain of a log — and a handful of sparks wheeled upward and vanished into the dark throat of the chimney.

Pavel settled himself on the bench across the table.

Hans raised his cup. He smiled — but it was a tired smile — like a fire that no longer warmed, only gave light.

"Then let us drink to the success of our journey."

Pavel nodded. They both drank.

The lad set down his cup and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

"My lord," he said, "if you'll allow it — I'd like to ride off in the morning. Stop by Squirnow. To see my mum."

Hans looked at him for a moment. Then gave a small, easy shrug.

"Of course, Pavel."

"I'll catch you all up in Rattay."

Hans gave a quiet nod. He lifted his cup again, drew breath — and let it out, long and slow, with the grain of a man who had been carrying the day for too many hours.

"So we shall both have our reunion with family."

A wry, tired smile. He drank.

Pavel watched him. Then raised his own cup and drank.

"I'm glad of it," he said. "I haven't seen her since—"

He thought.

"Well. Since spring, when we rode north." A small smile.

Hans nodded without speaking. His gaze had slipped somewhere past Pavel's shoulder, past the wall, past the forest beyond it. He raised his cup again and drank.

"I have no memory of my parents," he said.

He set the cup down and looked into the fire, where the flames were taking their time with a log.

Pavel said nothing. Then he lowered his eyes.

"I was still small when my father took the fever," he said quietly, his gaze on the table. A small, barely perceptible shrug.

He left the rest where it was.

Hans looked at him — and for a moment he saw him as he had been: a frightened, mud-streaked boy caught poaching in these very woods.

"What was your father's name? You've never spoken of him."

Pavel looked up.

"Peter, my lord. He was a farmhand."

Hans gave a slow nod. His gaze shifted to one side.

"My family," he said, after a moment. Quietly.

A pause.

"My true family—"

His eyes stayed fixed on the opposite wall — on the bow, on the hood — as though he were reading something pressed into those objects, worn into them by years of hands.

"—is at Rotstein."

His gaze dropped to the grain of the table.

Pavel nodded.

"Lady Jitka," he offered softly.

Hans exhaled. Looked at him.

"Lady Jitka," he said, slowly.

Something shifted in his face. Moved through it — not quite a smile, not quite anything else.

"Henry," he added, quietly.

His gaze fell again.

Pavel drew his fingers slowly across the back of his other hand. He said nothing.

Hans drew a long breath and straightened. He took up his cup and lifted it slightly.

"I'm for bed. And so should you be, Pavel."

He finished what remained in the cup. Set it down on the table with a small, final sound.

"We ride early." The shirt came off in a single movement.

Hans folded it — without much care — and laid it on top of the rest of his clothes on the chest. Then, in the silence and the dark of the chamber, in nothing but his smallclothes, he padded across the bare floor to the bed.

He stopped at its right side.

Stood there for a moment.

Then sat down on the edge.

He pressed his fingers into the back of his neck — slow circles, without much purpose — and his palm moved on across his shoulder. He glanced back over it toward the window. A black square in the wall, and nothing beyond.

He laid his palms on his thighs. Drew them slowly down to his knees.

Looked toward the wall.

His shoulders rose and fell in a long, quiet breath.

Then he lay down — on the right side of the bed, on his left side — and pulled the quilt up to his chest.

From outside came the sound of the night forest. Distant, even — the breath of something very old and very still. And into that sound — from somewhere far beyond the black wall of trees — a screech owl called. Once. Then silence.

Hans reached his arm out into the dark before him.

He laid his palm on the left side of the bed.

Drew it slowly across the mattress — out, and back again. The linen was smooth and cold and empty.

He turned his face toward the other pillow and pressed his cheek against it.

Closed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his nose.

Then lay on his back and let out a long breath.

He looked up into the dark above him — at the ceiling he could not see, at whatever was or was not there — and his lips moved without sound, shaping a few words. The fire in the hearth was burning down.

Low, spent — it tended the last of the large log without haste, as though reluctant to cause it more harm than necessary. The heat was quiet, amber, the light it cast rolling along the walls in slow waves. It passed over the cupboard. Over the chest. Over the sword propped carefully against its side — and for a moment the blade caught the glow and held it, before a shadow swept across and the light moved on.

Through the window, left ajar, the cool night air came in.

With it — the soft, unwavering song of crickets. As though it had been there before anything else and would remain when everything else had gone. Always the same, and yet each night its own.

On the left side of the wide bed lay Henry.

On his right side, loosely curled, the quilt drawn up to his arm. A bare shoulder rose into the cooler air of the room — and fell — and rose again, in the slow, unthinking rhythm of deep sleep.

Beneath his closed eyelids something moved faintly, now and again — as dreams came and went on whatever errand dreams run.

Henry held the pillow from the right side of the bed pressed to his chest — arms around it, close and firm and yet without force. The hands of a man who does not know he is holding on. And the fingers of one hand — certain, with a grip that sleep had not loosened — were closed around the collar of Hans's shirt. Henry opened his eyes and sat up.

Around him — darkness. Smooth, edgeless.

And then light. Wavering, orange.

Wrong.

The door to the chamber stood ajar.

Beyond it — light. Faint, flickering, less a flame than the reflection of one from somewhere far away.

Henry lowered his feet to the floor. The touch of wood beneath his soles.

He stood.

The glow drew him without his knowing why. His feet carried him on their own.

He crossed to the door.

Opened it.

Before him — darkness.

Impenetrable, dense as ink poured into the air. But within that darkness — a row of burning candles. They blazed and trembled and guttered, each one apart from the others, like stars scattered across a sky with no memory of what connects them.

They gave light. And yet illuminated nothing.

Each flame existed for itself alone, ringed by the dark that consumed it as fast as it rose.

Henry turned.

Behind him — a stone wall. Hard, damp, with moss in the joints. No door. No room. Only rock, cold and mute.

And in the air — the smell of rot. Sweet and heavy.

He turned back.

The candles were gone.

In their place — a surface. A body of water stretching away into the dark, black and still, and on it — pale, scattered — the broken fragments of moonlight.

Henry felt cold water around his bare feet, rising over the tops of them, pulling the warmth from his skin.

His heart lurched.

He took a step.

His foot found rough stone beneath the water — solid, sure. He took another.

And went under.

The water closed above him without a sound.

He sank.

Slowly.

Around him, pale shafts of moonlight flickered and moved — bending, stretching downward in long trembling ribbons that reached nowhere. Silence.

Only silence, and cold, and the slow fall.

Then his feet touched sand. Mud.

The bottom.

And before him — a body.

It lay without motion, limp, bare. Its back toward him, hair spread wide in the water. The moonlight slid across it — lighting it at intervals, leaving it in shadow between.

Henry leaned forward.

He saw the face.

He opened his mouth to cry out — and the water poured in. Ice through his throat, into his chest, into his lungs like heated iron. His ribs locked around the pain and the darkness came from every direction at once —

— Henry's eyes snapped open.

He gasped — loud, sharp, the kind of breath that seizes itself before it can be lost. He was sitting up in the bed. His heart hammered so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in his fingers. His shoulders heaved with the rapid rhythm of it. A thin line of sweat ran down from his left temple.

He looked around the chamber.

Grey light, the colour of approaching morning. The beams above him. The empty half of the bed beside him.

In his fingers — gripped tight — the hem of a shirt.

His breathing slowed. Gradually. Henry looked at the empty side of the bed and went on looking, until his heart began to find its own pace again.

He tucked Hans's shirt carefully under the pillow.

Then got up.

He crossed to the window and leaned on the sill. Outside, the world was coming awake without hurry — the grey sky paling in the east, the first birds calling from the trees, tentative, not yet certain morning had truly arrived.

Henry watched.

After a while he straightened. Drew a long breath. Ran both palms slowly up his face and swept the last of the sweat from his temple.

Then turned. Looked around the room.

For a moment he glanced back over his shoulder at the window.

Then crossed to the washstand, cupped water from the basin and splashed his face — cold, sharp, real — and then the back of his neck. Drops ran down between his shoulder blades.

He went to the chest.

Trousers. Shirt. Boots.

And left the chamber. The yard received him in daylight — clean, early, not yet weighted by the day.

The dark had gone for good, driven back into corners and behind walls and into the thickets where the sun had not yet reached. The air smelled of wet grass, of cold earth, of morning dew on stone — and beneath all of it, like a foundation, the faint scent of wood smoke from the first fires of the village. Cockcrow carried from that direction — one, then another, then a third from somewhere farther off, passed from roof to roof and fence to fence like a question handed across a crowd.

Henry crossed the yard. The guards greeted him with quiet nods. He did not notice.

The forge received him with cold and darkness.

He stepped over the threshold, reached for the leather apron and pulled it over his head with the ease of long habit — his hands already knew it, tied the laces behind his back, his fingers checked the knot without looking. Then he reached for the coal.

He built the fire without thinking. Layered, adjusted, coaxed. Before long the dimness of the forge was lit through with glowing heat — warm, pulsing, orange. The coal hissed, crackled, and fell quiet again.

Henry took up the tongs.

He gripped a steel rod and raised it into the light of the forge. Looked at it. Turned it to one side — cold, grey, unyielding. Then to the other.

He stood there awhile, the rod in the tongs, the forge behind him — and then he brought it slowly back. Set it down. Laid the tongs aside.

Sat down on the bench against the wall.

Forearms on his thighs, hands loosely joined. His gaze somewhere on the earth floor near the entrance.

His thoughts — far away.

The forge beside him lived its own life. It crackled, breathed out warmth and light in slow waves.

Henry sat. Without movement. Without words.

From outside came the sounds of a day getting under way. Footsteps on packed earth. The muffled exchange of two voices beyond the wall. The clop of hooves. Somewhere a woman's voice called across the yard — brief, sharp — and then silence.

Henry did not hear any of it.

He sat and looked at the earth and thought about things that could not be gripped with tongs, could not be laid into the fire, could not be beaten into any shape at all. The forge was dying down.

The coal darkened, the glow ebbed — not all at once, but in a quiet withdrawal, the heat leaving without ceremony. The shadows returned. The forge grew cold.

"My lord?"

Henry raised his head.

Lukas stood in the doorway. The morning light behind him caught his outline for a moment — and then, as the eye adjusted, it was simply Lukas, broad-shouldered and tall, a little uncertain on the threshold.

"May I—"

He stopped.

His eyes moved across the forge — the dark hearth, the tools laid aside, the tongs on the edge of the bench. The leather apron Henry still wore.

He said nothing.

Henry stood.

"What is it, Lukas?"

The young man straightened.

"Lady Jitka was asking after you, my lord." A brief pause. "Breakfast is ready."

Henry looked at him for a moment without speaking.

Then he took off the apron. Hung it on its hook — one motion, quiet — and walked out of the forge. The great hall smelled of bread and tallow.

Henry paused in the doorway for a moment. Jitka sat at the table before an empty bowl — finished, her hands folded in her lap, her expression calm and present. Zdislava was leaning close, speaking to her quietly, but at Henry's entrance she straightened and stepped back with a silent bow. A little apart stood Hata — hands clasped, back straight, with the bearing of a woman whose role had left little room for uncertainty — and she too inclined her head.

Jitka looked up at him and smiled, warmly.

Henry returned a mild smile, crossed to the table, and sat. His palm moved across the wood of the tabletop without thought.

"Lukas said you were looking for me."

At that moment the door opened and a serving girl came in with a bowl of thick grain porridge and a plate of bread sliced and spread with lard, scattered with rings of fresh onion. She set it all before Henry, turned with a quiet bow, and was gone.

Henry leaned over the bowl. The smell rose to meet him — warm, full-bodied, with a faint note of marjoram. He reached for a slice of bread and looked at Jitka again.

She had already shifted her gaze toward the midwife.

"That's mostly Hata's doing," she said, and looked back at Henry.

Henry took a bite, chewed slowly, and looked at the midwife with a question in his eyes.

Hata lowered her gaze. Rubbed her hands together. Then looked at him.

"My lord, I would ask your leave to bring in the local midwife — to assist me."

She glanced at Jitka and back to Henry.

"When the time comes."

Henry finished chewing. He looked at her for a moment without speaking, then at Jitka, then back.

A small shrug.

"Of course." A slight shake of the head. "There's no need to ask."

He looked at Jitka with a brief smile. She gave a nod.

Hata drew herself up a little. Drew breath.

"It is your estate, my lord, and—"

"Good, then," Henry interrupted — kindly, but plainly. "You have my leave. I'll send Lukas to the bailiff to see to it."

The midwife settled.

"Thank you, my lord. I'll be glad of it."

A brief pause.

"And the local woman will also help us find suitable women to serve as wet nurse in good time," she added.

From across the table came a sharp intake of breath.

Henry looked at Jitka. She was frowning slightly, eyes on the table.

He tilted his head and regarded her.

Jitka drew a slow breath. Turned to Hata.

"We did not discuss a wet nurse," she said, with a cool edge.

The midwife's eyes went wide. For a moment she had the look of a woman upon whom a beam has fallen.

"But, my lady," she said, "surely — it goes without saying."

She shook her head — half helpless, half urgent.

Henry rested his chin on his laced fingers and watched.

"If the Blessed Virgin herself suckled our Lord," he said slowly, "the King of Kings—"

He gave a mild smile and glanced at Jitka.

Hata drew breath.

"But, my lord—"

Henry raised an eyebrow.

"And my own mother never told me anyone else fed me but her."

The midwife exhaled — weary, controlled. She lifted her hands a little — somewhere between concession and resistance.

"My lord, certainly — given your birth—"

She stopped.

Jitka fixed her with a dark look.

Hata faltered.

"I — I didn't mean — I would never presume—"

She dropped her eyes. Shook her head. Then lifted them again — with a fraction more steadiness.

"It would be most unusual, and most unfortunate, for a noblewoman to go without a wet nurse." Her gaze moved to Henry. "And it could put the child at risk. The heir."

A short pause.

"And Lord Hans is not here to speak to the matter."

Jitka sat straight.

"I would say you are taking rather a great deal upon yourself, Hata," she said, sharply.

The midwife seemed to shrink by a small degree.

"My lady," she said quietly, eyes lowered. "I would never presume — but—"

She raised her gaze.

"It is not unheard of for a mother to find she cannot feed the child sufficiently. Or for long enough."

Silence.

Jitka looked at her without speaking. Her expression slowly softened — barely perceptibly, but Henry saw it.

Then she looked at Henry.

He met her eyes. Tilted his head slightly to one side. And gave a quiet nod.

Jitka drew a slow breath. Let it go.

She looked at the midwife.

"Very well," she said. "We will see to a wet nurse — in case of need."

Henry turned to Hata.

"I'm certain," he said, evenly, "that Lord Hans will find no fault with this."

Hata bowed — deeply, and with visible relief.

"Thank you, my lord. My lady."

Jitka gave a nod.

"You may go." The gust came from the north — hard, without warning.

It swept the meadows above Rattay in one long stroke — bent the grass flat, flung a scatter of cold drops into the air — and vanished, as though it had thought better of itself. In its wake, silence, wet and trembling. Then a second gust, shorter, more urgent — and again nothing.

Hans straightened in the saddle and ran his gaze across the sky.

Clouds moved fast across it — ragged, grey, like cloth torn on a thorn hedge. Somewhere behind them, far to the west, a band of blue still held — but no further than there. Above the road, above the forests on the far side of the valley, above the walls and rooftops and towers of Rattay, the tatters chased each other in a ragged, endless procession. And between them — at intervals — the sun broke through. Only for a moment before the next cloud took it, but in those moments the wet grass on the slopes ignited as though someone had scattered gold across it.

Hans lowered his gaze to the road.

The hooves of the group fell into the soft mud nearly without sound. Behind him, three riders, two bearing banners — Pirkstein's and Rotstein's — swaying in the fitful wind, now billowing, now slapping flat against their poles. Faces along the road turned toward them. Travellers on foot. A carter on a joining track. A herdboy in the meadow who had stopped driving his two cows and a calf and simply stood and stared.

Hans looked straight ahead. Toward the walls. Toward the towers of the upper castle rising above the town — heavy and certain, as though they had been there before everything else and had long since made their peace with outlasting it all.

The guards at the gate came alert before the riders had reached them. When Hans drew his horse up before the archway, one of them took him in quickly — brief but thorough, his eyes moving across the banners, the face, the armour — and dipped his head in a careful bow.

"Welcome back, my lord."

Hans held him in a look without expression — neither long nor short — and then touched his heels lightly to the horse's flanks.

They rode through.

The courtyard received them in the cool of its shadow, smelling of wet stone. Hans halted in the middle and looked around. From the arcade on the right came the steward — a heavyset man in a dark coat, slightly out of breath, as though he had hurried — and stopped before Hans's horse. He bent into a respectful bow.

Hans looked down at him from the saddle.

"Announce me to my uncle."

The steward gave a slight shake of the head.

"My lord, forgive me — but Lord Hanush is not in the town."

A pause. As though he were choosing his words with some care.

"He rode out this morning. To hunt."

Hans's brow drew together. His gaze moved to one side — across the courtyard, across the stone wall, across nothing in particular — needing a moment to find somewhere to put information he had not expected.

Then his eyes came back to the steward.

"To hunt."

The man nodded.

Hans drew a long breath. He looked around the yard — at the arcade, where a serving girl was restacking wood in a basket; at the horses by the stable; at the wet stone gleaming after a recent shower. Above the tower, a cloud's shadow passed. For a moment it was almost dusk. Then the light returned.

"When your lord comes back," Hans said, evenly, "tell him I expect him at Pirkstein."

The steward's eyes widened slightly.

"Of course, my lord."

Hans glanced back over his shoulder at the riders behind him. Then he urged his horse forward and turned back through the gate, into the town — and the banners behind him straightened in the wind before the next gust caught them and drove them hard the other way.

The steward looked at the Rattay messenger who had remained in the yard with his horse. The man returned the look and shrugged. The town went about its summer life and paid little mind.

Outside a shop front, a trader and a woman were haggling over linen — she waved her hand, he waved his, both with the conviction of people for whom the matter was one of life and death. From somewhere deep in a side passage came the steady rhythm of a hammer. On a corner, two women stood with baskets on their arms, leaning close, exchanging something in low voices. Three older men on a bench nearby traded stories — in equal parts amusing and indecent. From a yard adjoining the tavern, four children burst out — barefoot, dishevelled, loud — and vanished around the next corner.

And then someone noticed the banners.

It moved from person to person quietly and quickly, the way wind moves through standing grain. Heads turned. The argument over the linen died — the woman half-turned, the trader froze mid-gesture. The two women stopped talking and looked toward the riders. The men on the bench went quiet.

Hans rode at a walk, easy, reins loose in his hand.

His gaze moved across the face of an old man in a grease-stained cap — the man bowed low, Hans answered with a slight nod. His eyes moved on — across a cluster of women pressing back toward the edge of the road, murmuring among themselves — one of them raised her hand in greeting, and Hans looked at her for a moment and smiled, faintly, almost as though it happened on its own. A child who had been standing too close to the road and staring up at the banners with his mouth open stepped back sharply when Hans turned — Hans passed a calm gaze over him and rode on.

He continued down through the gentle curve of the road between the houses — the earth still soft after the rain, the hooves pressing quietly into it. The sun pushed through a break in the clouds and for a moment poured warm light across the rooftops. In a yard behind a low fence, a horse raised its head and snorted.

The riders crossed the square and turned left.

Toward Pirkstein.

Hans drew a slow breath. How many times had he ridden through that gate? A thousand? More? He couldn't have counted, and had never tried — but he carried every one of those crossings somewhere inside him, laid down without his knowing it.

The hooves rang hollow on the wooden bridge.

The guards at the gate had seen them coming from a distance. They stood straight, watching the approaching group — and greeted them with due respect.

Hans rode into the yard.

From the stables came a stableboy, ambling with the mild boredom of someone with nowhere pressing to be. He looked at the arrivals.

Riders. Banners. A lord in plate armour.

The lad's eyes went wide. He stepped back, caught his own feet, and saved himself at the last moment by grabbing the doorframe. Then he spun back toward the stables.

"Lord Hans has returned!"

He pulled himself together, ran to the horse, took it by the bridle, and bowed deeply.

Hans dismounted. He stretched his arms wide from the shoulders — a slow, grateful movement that ended in a quiet crack — and drew a long breath.

Bernard came down the steps at a quick pace and stopped before him, inclining his head.

"Welcome home, my lord."

Hans gave a nod.

"Thank you, Bernard. It was a long road."

"Hans!"

He turned toward the cry — and saw Katherine coming toward him at a near-run. He stepped to meet her and they caught each other.

Katherine held him firmly.

"God be thanked you're back," she whispered at his ear.

Hans drew back a little, looked into her eyes — smiled broadly — and pulled her close again.

"Are you a father yet?" she asked, searching his face.

Hans smiled — a little abashed — and shook his head. Katherine returned the smile.

Then her gaze moved across the yard to the two Rotstein riders who had dismounted.

Then back to Hans.

"And where is Henry?"

Hans gave a tired sort of smile. Shook his head.

"He stayed at Rotstein, to—"

He paused.

"It didn't seem wise for us both to leave," he added, more quietly.

Katherine's expression grew serious.

"Ah."

Hans raised his eyebrows.

"But young Pavel should be along soon. He stopped at Squirnow on the way — to see his mother."

Katherine brightened at once.

"That rascal came too?" She leaned in. "How is he getting on?"

Hans snorted softly and gave a crooked smile.

"You might be surprised. But he'll tell you himself, I'm sure."

He looked around the yard.

"Where's Zizka?"

Katherine lifted one shoulder.

"He rode out," she said. "Hunting."

A pause.

"With Hanush."

Hans's face stilled. He looked at her.

"With Hanush?"

Katherine gave a quiet nod and watched his face. Then she shook her head gently and laid her hand on his shoulder.

"You needn't worry," she said softly.

Hans straightened. Drew a long breath.

"I'll go and settle in," he said. "And then you can tell me everything." The bailiff squinted against the bright sky.

"A midwife, you say?"

He looked at his son with the gaze of a man whose thoughts had already moved on. Lukas gave a quiet nod.

Vatzek let out a breath — the exhale of someone with a long list — and pressed his palms to his thighs and rose slowly from the bench outside the cottage. Then stopped, turned back, picked up his cap, and set it on his head. He looked at Lukas.

"I'll find her and bring her," he said. "Tell the lord."

And he walked off into the village without waiting for an answer.

Lukas watched him go for a moment. Then he mounted and rode slowly out of the yard.

The road took him along the edge of the village, toward the meadow before the manor. He had not yet ridden onto it when something caught at the corner of his eye — down on the lower track.

He pulled up.

Looked.

A loaded wagon stood at the roadside, two horses in the traces — and around it, movement and voices, though he could not make out the words.

Lukas clicked his tongue, touched his heels to the horse, and rode down that way.

As he drew close, he saw that the right rear wheel had slipped into the soft ditch along the road's edge — the wagon had tilted, settled, and was going nowhere. On the box sat a boy, perhaps twelve years old, brow knotted, hands locked around the reins. Behind the wagon, a young man was throwing his whole weight against it — shoulders, body, boots slipping in the churned mud — and getting nowhere at all.

Lukas rode up and stopped.

The boy on the box turned toward him without a word. The older one straightened, wiped his palms together, and from beneath dark, wavy hair measured Lukas with blue eyes — calm, but watchful.

"Can I lend a hand?" Lukas asked.

The young man looked him over.

"That would be a kindness," he said at last, with the tone of someone who has exhausted the other options. "We've been stuck here a while."

Lukas gave a quiet nod, dismounted, and went around with him to the back of the wagon. Each took a side and set their hands against the boards. Lukas felt the wood under his palms.

"Drive them on," the young man called to the boy on the box.

The boy urged the horses forward. Lukas pushed — feet into the mud, shoulders into the wood — felt the weight shift and travel through him, felt his back and thighs come alive with the effort. Beside him, the same. His shirt clung to his back. His boots sank slowly into the earth.

The wagon didn't move.

They both straightened. The stranger exhaled and shook his head.

Lukas looked at him. He was perhaps a year or two older — shorter by a fair measure, but broad across the shoulders and built the way men are built who have never known work only by reputation.

"Once more," said Lukas. Plainly.

They set themselves again. The young man called forward. Lukas closed his eyes — teeth clenched, the muscles along his jaw working — and gave it everything he had.

The groan of timber.

A scrape.

Movement.

A shout from the box. The wagon lurched back up onto the road.

Lukas braced his hands on his thighs, catching his breath. He smiled.

The stranger shook his head with a broad, disbelieving grin.

"Thank you—"

He stopped.

"Lukas."

"I'm Martin." He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it. "From Turnow."

Lukas gripped it.

For a moment they stood looking at each other without speaking. Lukas glanced over the wagon — the stacked crates, the canvas sheet — then back to Martin.

"Where are you headed?"

"Lautschky," the young man said. "To the farm there."

Lukas thought for a moment.

"Didn't old Barta used to drive that way?"

Martin smiled.

"He did. That's our father," he said, and nodded toward the boy on the box.

Lukas raised his eyebrows. Smiled. Then dropped his gaze for a moment — the way a man does when a thought passes through before he can name it — and raised it again.

"Safe travels, then, Martin."

The young man looked at him directly and gave a nod.

"I hope to return the favour."

Lukas smiled and waved it off. Martin went around the wagon, swung up onto the box, and took the reins — and the wagon rolled off, wheels properly on the road this time. Martin glanced back once, briefly, and smiled.

Lukas watched them go without speaking. He caught himself smiling.

Then he turned and swung back into the saddle. The pieces of armour fell to the floor one by one.

Muffled impacts — metal on dense old wood that dulled and drank the sound — carried through the quiet of the chamber. Hans bent forward and worked himself slowly free of the mail shirt, let it slide from his arms, and the heavy thing dropped with a hollow thud as a thousand steel rings chimed softly all at once. He straightened. Drew breath.

His fingers moved along the laces of the gambeson. His gaze was fixed on the books on the shelf — or rather past them, past the wall, past the ramparts, past the forests beyond. Further still.

After a while he stood in the room entirely bare.

He pressed his face into his hands and let out a breath — long, wordless, the kind that does not come from the mouth but from somewhere deeper in the chest. He stood there without moving.

A cold draught crossed his back.

Slowly he lowered his hands from his face. He looked down at the floor — at the pieces of armour scattered around him, at his bare feet standing among them. His palm moved absently across his chest, from the collarbone downward.

Then he turned toward the curtain on the wall.

He crossed to it, drew it aside, and passed through into the adjoining chamber. The air there was cooler, still. He made his way to the bed and sat on its edge. He rested his elbows on his knees and covered his mouth with his joined hands.

His gaze moved along the opposite wall — the cold hearth, the painting above it. Stags, hounds, hunters in a forest. The quarry in flight, the dogs at full stretch, the hunters bent over crossbows, bows drawn to strings that would never loose, arrows that would never fly.

Nothing there would ever move. Nothing there would ever become anything.

After a while he looked toward the window.

He rose. Walked slowly back into his own chamber, crossed to the chest, and began to dress — smallclothes, tunic. Then he stopped.

A thought that would not wait.

He went to the shelf and ran his fingers along the spines of the books, paused, and reached into the gap beside them. He drew out a blank sheet of paper. Brought it to the table, set it down, and settled into the chair. He reached for the quill, dipped it in the inkwell.

And bent over the page.

Through the quiet of the room came a faint scratching — steady, soft, intent. After a while Hans stopped. He sat back and read over what he had written. His gaze drifted to the window and he sat for a moment, thinking. Then he bent over the page again and went on.

After a while he set down the quill.

He brought the sealing wax slowly toward the candle flame. It softened, began to run — a few dark gleaming drops fell onto the paper with quiet taps.

Hans turned his hand. Pressed his ring carefully into the wax.

For a moment he looked at what lay before him.

A small, quiet nod. The papers under Henry's hands rustled like dry leaves.

He went through them one by one — slowly, a little mechanically — reading in the manner of a man who reads for the second time what he failed to understand the first, and is not entirely certain, on the second pass, that he wishes to understand it at all. Vatzek's hand was careful but dense, and in several places the bailiff drove a thought the full length of a line as though herding cattle onto a pasture. Henry ran his fingers along a tallied row of figures. Tilted his head. Then pressed those same fingers to his forehead, as though the weight of it might be cleared away with the sweat.

The air beyond the half-open window was full of summer — warm, smelling of hay and sun-warmed grass, drifting over the sill now and again with an easy, heated lightness. From outside came the sounds of the manor going about its business — distant footsteps on the packed earth of the yard, muffled voices, a man calling somewhere beyond the wall and then silence. The ease of a mild morning. A quiet that Henry was not presently aware of, being occupied instead with another column of figures that the bailiff had laid out with a thoroughness that assumed no one would skip ahead.

He exhaled through his nose. Pressed the back of his hand to his lips.

Turned the page.

A knock at the door — respectful, but firm.

"Come in," Henry called, without lifting his eyes from the papers.

A soft creak. A pause — very brief, as though whoever had entered was taking stock.

"Henry?"

He looked up.

Captain Thomas stood in the doorway.

"Riders coming in." A short pause. "They're carrying the King's colours."

Henry sat up straight, and his eyes widened a little.

For a moment he stayed quite still — the paper still in his hand — then set it down with a quiet, decisive movement and stood.

"My father?"

Thomas allowed himself a small smile.

"Were you expecting someone else from the King?"

Henry stepped around the chair and headed for the door. They went to the rampart quickly — Henry a pace ahead, Thomas behind — and crossed the walkway to where the wall curved above the gate. Henry stepped up to the parapet, pressed his palms to the sun-warmed stone, and looked down at the road.

Below, at the fork where the track from Turnow split and one branch curved toward the manor, a group of riders was moving. Banners drifted and billowed in the warm wind — red and white, unmistakable.

Henry watched them for a moment without speaking.

Then he turned to Thomas — and in his face was something the captain had not seen there for several days.

He smiled.

Thomas gave a nod.

Henry pushed back from the parapet and moved toward the stairs. He descended quickly, but without haste — his steps measured, precise. He crossed the yard without stopping — a glance toward the guards on either side, one look left, one right. He passed through the gate and came to a halt a few paces beyond it.

The riders approached at a slow walk along the summer-softened road. Sunlight broke over the edge of a cloud and caught the cuirasses, the pommels of swords — and at the head of the column, on a grey horse, in an embroidered coat and pale armour, Sir Radzig Kobyla.

Henry stood and waited. His hands loose at his sides.

When they were a few paces off, Radzig raised his hand.

The group halted.

Father and son looked at each other — still, wordless. Radzig sat straight and easy in the saddle, his eyes on Henry, his expression unreadable.

Henry tilted his head a little.

"Welcome back to Rotstein, Sir Radzig," he said, with a smile.

His father leaned forward slightly in the saddle.

"I cannot deny I was glad to come," he answered.

Then he dismounted.

He crossed to Henry with an unhurried step, and Henry extended his hand. Radzig took it — firmly — and then drew him in and held him for a moment. Brief, but without reservation.

When they stepped apart, Henry glanced back over his shoulder.

"See to my father's men, Thomas."

The captain, standing a few paces behind, gave a nod. He turned and signalled one of the guards.

Henry fell in beside Radzig and the two of them set off at an easy pace across the yard. Radzig looked around — at the walls, at the standards, at three men training by the far wall.

"What brings you, Dad?" Henry asked.

Radzig drew breath to answer, but Henry didn't give him the opening.

"How long will you stay?"

Radzig stopped.

He laughed — warmly, with a trace of amusement.

"Let me catch my breath, Henry."

Henry dropped his eyes and smiled, a little sheepish.

"Forgive me," he said.

Then he looked at his father again.

A small shrug.

"I'm very glad you're here."

Radzig watched him for a moment. Something in his expression eased.

"Sir Radzig!"

Jitka's voice rang from the doorway — light, a little surprised, and openly glad. Both men turned.

She stood on the threshold, one hand resting against the frame. Radzig turned toward her and inclined his head — a full bow, deliberate.

"Lady Jitka."

His gaze settled for a moment on the curve of her belly beneath her summer dress.

"I see," he said, and smiled, "that the happy occasion is not far off."

Jitka lowered her eyes. Her palm moved across her belly — quiet, unstudied — and she smiled.

Radzig turned back to Henry.

"And Hans?"

His gaze moved briefly to Jitka and back.

Henry drew breath.

"He had to ride to Rattay. Urgently."

A pause.

Radzig ran his fingers slowly along his jaw. Nodded — once, easy, without surprise.

"To Rattay," he said, as though the word had come to rest somewhere already prepared for it.

A pause.

"I'll rest a little," he said at last — and looked at Henry once more.

"And then I need to speak with you about certain matters, son."

The chapter continues in Part 2

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