With deepest thanks to @playpausephoto for capturing Hans in the quiet hour when the world holds its breath.
From Fire – Part IX
For Whom the Bell Tolls
—
The sun was rising — slow but unrelenting.
Its rays first gilded the crowns of distant trees: some crimson, some burnished gold, some already stripped bare. Then they caught the rooftops of the town and spilled across the walls, as if stroking the stone with an open hand. Rattay had long since stirred.
Above the rooftops, banners swayed in the wind. Long ribbons of yellow, black, and white shimmered in the morning light, flying high above a land rousing to a day unlike any it had known in years. The world itself seemed to draw breath, poised for celebration.
The light pierced the chamber window and fell across Hans’s face.
He knelt on the cold floor — barefoot, clad in a simple linen tunic. His hands joined, his head bowed.
Beside him, Godwin sat in a chair, leaning forward slightly, his hands resting between his knees. His gaze was fixed on the embers glowing in the hearth.
The chamber held its silence like a held breath.
After a while, Hans spoke — his voice low but unwavering.
“Father, I have sinned.”
Godwin said nothing for a moment. “I hear you,” he murmured.
Hans drew breath, but let it settle in his chest. When he spoke again, his tone was composed — too composed.
“I have given way to anger. There are times I can no longer tell what is justice… and what is merely vengeance. And the worst part is — it steadies me. It makes me feel strong.”
He broke off. Then shook his head, slowly.
“But strength is not truth.”
Godwin gave a slow nod, still watching the fire, as if searching its depths for something older than words. “If you mean to fight for truth… don’t feed the things within you that might one day betray it.”
Hans fell silent once more. When he spoke again, his voice had taken on a roughness — not from doubt but from the weight of what followed.
“Father… I have spent my life defiling the Lord’s gift of love — without ever knowing what love truly is.”
Silence followed — so deep they could hear their breath. His and the other’s. As if even that faint sound echoed against the chamber walls.
Hans bowed his head lower still.
“And yet the Lord has granted me this gift. The gift of love.”
He swallowed, but did not falter.
“It came. Whole. Honest. And I never knew a thing could be so pure in its simplicity.”
He lifted his gaze — not toward Godwin, only toward the light.
“But if this be sin… then I pray the Lord remembers why He gave it.”
Godwin’s gaze did not leave the fire. “I once said… to the one you love… that if God is love, then He cannot be absent where love is given whole. Without deceit. Without demand.”
Hans bowed his head, silent.
When he spoke, his voice was muffled — not by doubt but by weight.
“Father… I know the vow I take today will not be whole. It will hold truth — and still, an emptiness. For what should stand at the heart of it… I have already given. And I will not take it back.”
He breathed in, steady and resolute.
“All else I can offer her — and shall. Honour, protection, grace. But not this. Love was vowed once. And that vow endures.”
At last, Godwin turned to him. His voice was little more than breath.
“And do you know what that will cost you?”
Hans met his eyes.
“Everything. Except him.”
Hans lowered his gaze and looked for a long moment at his clasped hands. Then he raised his head.
“These are the sins I carry. Not all of them do I understand. But I know this — I no longer wish to carry them alone.”
Godwin drew breath and straightened a little.
“I don’t know what all counts as sin, Hans. Only the Lord knows that. But if the things you fear truly are sinful… then I believe you have already made your peace with God. By what in you remained alive. By what you bore. And by what you have now spoken.”
He paused for a breath.
“Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
As he spoke the final words, he raised his hand and traced the sign of the cross above Hans.
“Go in peace, son. And hold fast to what is true in you.”
Hans crossed himself.
Godwin rose, straightened his back, and gave a small nod. “We’ll see each other in a few hours,” he said gently. A faint, encouraging smile touched his face. Then he left.
Hans stayed kneeling for a while. Then he slowly sat down at the edge of the bed and looked at the wedding garments laid out before him. He simply gazed — silent, unmoving.
After a moment, he rose. He stepped through the arch into the adjoining chamber.
It was quiet. Henry’s. Everything stood where it had been left. Hans crossed the room, his eyes passing over the familiar things — breeches thrown over a chest, a dagger hanging from a belt, gloves rolled and set aside.
Then he halted. Something stirred in him — a thought, sudden and clear.
He turned on his heel and strode back into his chamber. With quick, practised movements, he pulled on his doublet and breeches, laced his boots, and left.
Moments later, he was descending the stair to the courtyard.
“Ready my horse,” he said.
Several heads turned — surprised, hands still full of morning tasks. One held a pail of flowers. Another was stringing garlands. Someone was sweeping the steps.
Hans turned slightly, just enough for them all to hear.
“I’ll be back shortly.”
He mounted and rode out from Rattay. The path slipped quietly beneath his horse’s hoofbeats. He rode to the place where, weeks before, he had parted from Henry — to the edge of the forest, where the road ends and the shadow begins.
There, he stopped. His eyes searched the trees.
Then he dismounted and sat in the grass. He looked back toward Rattay, where banners flew and the sun bathed the rooftops. The wind stirred his hair. He felt no cold.
Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he’d come for. Perhaps… perhaps he’d hoped to hear hoofbeats. To see a figure appear between the trees. That figure. To know the shape of the shoulders, the way he held himself.
In his mind, he saw it — the moment. He felt the corners of his mouth begin to lift. Felt how his eyes would brighten. How his heart would leap.
But all around him, in grass and fallen leaves, only the wind whispered.
Hans rose, brushed the dust from his breeches, climbed back into the saddle, and rode toward Rattay once more.
On his way back, Hans — just as he had done on the way out — steered clear of the upper castle.
He knew Jitka’s procession was likely beginning to gather there by now. Noble guests, family, handmaidens… The groom riding through that assembly would cause a stir no one needed. There was no need to be seen.
Hans’s own procession was to depart from Pirkstein. The church of Saint Matthew was only a few steps away, of course — but Hans would ride there on horseback. And he would not be alone.
His friends would walk with him. And for that, he was more grateful than words could ever reach. Even just by their presence — by silence, by their footfall beside his — they had given him more than if they’d shouted to the hills that they stood with him.
At the head of it all would walk Hanush.
Hans had known that for some time. It had been clear from the start that Hanush would stand as his witness. No one else had ever been considered. And yet, he could not shake the feeling that Hanush would not be there to witness the joining of two lives — but rather as the one who had come to ensure the agreement he had made would be fulfilled. And that no one changed their mind along the way.
Perhaps that was the one thing Hans envied Jitka. Her witness would be her father. He didn’t know what bond they shared — but he doubted it could be so cold, so taut and bitter as what had grown between himself and Hanush over the past few weeks. When Hans returned to Pirkstein, he gave a brief nod to Pavel, bidding him follow into the chamber.
There, Pavel helped him dress for the wedding. His hands were sure, his focus sharp. One motion after another.
As he fastened the doublet, Hans grew thoughtful.
“Pavel…”
He hesitated. Then offered a faint smile.
“Not long ago, you asked if you might watch the wedding. If you could be there.”
Pavel nodded.
“I’d be glad if you walked in my procession.”
Pavel froze. The surprise on his face was unmistakable.
“May I ask… what moves my lord to such kindness?”
Hans’s smile deepened, soft and brief.
“It feels right.”
When the dressing was done, Hans straightened and glanced down at his garments.
“Go and dress yourself,” he said warmly. “Wear the cleanest thing you own.”
Pavel hurried off.
Hans stood a moment longer, squaring his shoulders, his eyes tracing each part of the attire to be sure all was as it should be. The doublet, the houppelande, the fastenings all neat and secure. The belt. The breeches. Everything in its place. The ring. The chain.
He passed his fingers lightly over his chest.
Beneath the layers of cloth, his hand found the pendant. That pendant. It hung against his skin — and it would remain there.
Hans drew a breath and stepped out of the chamber.
In the great hall, he paused for a moment. His eyes settled on the head of the table — on his own chair, and then the one to its right. He walked to it, laid his hand on the backrest. Then he lifted the chair, carried it into his chamber — and turned toward the door. The courtyard was already alive with motion.
At the front stood two servants holding Hans’s horse — a dapple-grey with a gleaming coat, well-saddled, its mane brushed and loosely braided. A silver rosette adorned its brow, and a dark blue cloth draped the saddle, embroidered with the family crest. The servants kept the horse calm, steadying it gently against the rising noise around them.
A little off to the side, the friends stood in quiet conversation. Dry Devil was saying something to Janosh, who chuckled and shook his head, while Kubyenka circled the horse, looking at it as if it made more sense to him than people ever did. He seemed unusually sober — and colour had begun to return to his cheeks.
Godwin stood apart, speaking in low tones with Radzig. Not far from them, Hanush and Zizka were conferring as well, both dressed in full regalia, both deeply present — and yet neither drew attention. Katherine was gesturing cheerfully, and a short distance away, Pavel stood, a little out of place — freshly scrubbed, wearing a borrowed doublet slightly too large for him.
Hans stepped in among them. His stride was sure, his eyes calm. He gave a small smile toward Dry Devil, who stepped up at once.
“Ever cross your mind,” Hans said with a faint grin, “that as a Kunstadt, you ought to be marching in the bride’s procession instead?”
Dry Devil burst into laughter — harsh and full-throated.
“Not unless someone in her family’s got the balls to invite old Hynek!” He clapped Hans on the back, firm and loud. “Nay, lad. I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.”
At that moment, the first bell tolled from the upper castle.
The sound cracked across the courtyard like a faultline. All ears turned. Conversation stilled. Some looked upward. Others turned toward Hans.
Godwin, standing nearby, gave him a slow nod.
“The bride’s procession has begun,” he said. “It is time.”
Hans swung into the saddle.
Beneath him, the dapple-grey tossed its head gently but remained calm. Hans looked around — then over his shoulder, at those who had come with him. He smiled.
Then he gave a nod to the standard-bearer standing at the head of the procession.
And the column began to move.
A hush fell over the courtyard, broken only by the first soft footfalls of hooves, the whisper of fabric, the muted clatter of iron on stone. Locals stood along the sides — curious, expectant, some waving, others merely watching. Their faces held all manner of things: respect, anticipation, wonder.
The procession descended from Pirkstein and made its way toward the church.
It did not take long to reach its gate.
Some of the guests were already entering. Others waited outside in small clusters or on their own. Hans remained in the saddle, his eyes fixed on the road from which the bride would come.
And then he saw her.
Jitka approached at a measured pace atop a tall white mare, adorned with ribbons in white and gold. Across the horse’s back draped an embroidered cloth, bearing lilies and vines. The bride herself wore robes of pale, near-pearl silk — light, flowing, embroidered with delicate patterns. Her hair was braided into a wreath mingling pearls with wildflowers.
She looked resplendent — and calm.
Before the church, they both came to a halt.
Hans dismounted. Jitka did the same, with the help of her maid. Then she turned toward Hans, and they greeted each other with a slight, formal bow.
At Jitka’s side now stood her father, Erhard of Kunstadt, who took her hand and raised it gently in his own. At Hans’s side stepped Hanush.
In that moment, the space before the church fell into silence.
From within, the first notes of the chant began to rise. Veni Creator Spiritus.
At that moment, a bell rang out — steady and deep — from the tower above. Its sound echoed across the rooftops of Rattay, as if to call the heavens to witness.
The high voices of the boys, brought from the Sasau monastery, drifted into the air like silk. Pure. Unadorned. Quiet yet strong.
Hans and Jitka moved forward, side by side. Slowly. They entered the church.
Golden light poured in through the windows. The glow of the candles mingled with daylight. Stillness filled the space.
Hans kept his gaze fixed ahead — toward the altar, where the abbot from Sasau stood waiting, clothed in full vestments. Out of the corner of his eye, Hans sensed his friends standing in quiet witness, and the other gathered guests.
In that chant — that sound that seemed to come from somewhere beyond — they reached the altar.
There, they stopped.
Hans to the right. Jitka to the left. Just behind them, a single step away, stood their witnesses — Hanush and Erhard.
The chant faded into silence.
For a moment, the stillness was such that a pin dropping might have been heard.
The abbot stepped to the altar, raised his hands, and spoke.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Brothers and sisters, we are gathered here in this holy church to witness the union between Hans of the house of Pirkstein and Jitka of Kunstadt.
May this marriage, blessed by God, be steadfast, faithful, and truly sacred.”
He paused briefly, then motioned to the bride and groom.
“Step forward.”
Hans took a step. Jitka did the same. They stood side by side, facing the altar.
The abbot turned to Hans.
“Lord of Pirkstein — do you take this woman to be your wife, according to the rites of Holy Church?”
Hans turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder. His gaze swept over the gathered guests. He saw the faces of his friends — warm smiles, quiet encouragement, calm solemnity.
And yet… the one face that mattered most was missing.
Hans slowly turned his eyes back to the abbot. But they didn’t rest on him. They lingered just past his shoulder — on the stained-glass window behind, where golden light played upon coloured glass.
His lips began to move. “I, Hans, take you, Jitka, to be my wife…”
The words came smooth and clear — carefully learned, perfectly spoken. But to his own ears, they were distant. Hollow.
Before his eyes: Henry’s face.
That soft, knowing smile. And the way he’d roll his eyes, just a little — every time Hans was being impossible in a way he loved.
He raised a hand to his chest. Beneath the layers, he felt the pendant — the small, steady weight of it, the touch that had become part of him. For a moment, he closed his fingers around it.
And inwardly, he whispered: Jindro… I don’t know, and never will know, what I did to deserve you…
His voice continued without pause, obediently reciting each line. “…and I promise to be faithful to you, in joy and in hardship… in sickness and in health…”
But within him, another vow was being spoken. In silence. In memory.
Spoken into Henry’s eyes, when they lay tangled together, warm and breathless in the hush of night: I love you. I will love you still — until the last breath leaves my body…
The church echoed with the final words of the vow: “…to love you and to honour you all the days of my life.”
But Hans was no longer wholly there.
In his thoughts, he had returned to that quiet road — the one where they leaned toward each other in the saddle, and kissed, as if the world itself had fallen away.
And no cunning, no burden, no scheme — not even this — will take that from me, he whispered within, and let his eyes drift closed for a heartbeat.
Then he swallowed, and looked to the abbot.
The priest gave a small nod and turned to Jitka.
“Lady of Kunstadt — do you take Lord Hans to be your husband, before God and this assembly, according to the rites of Holy Church?”
Jitka looked up at him. Her voice was quiet but sure.
“I, Jitka, take you, Hans, to be my husband. I promise to be faithful to you in good times and in hardship, in sickness and in health, to honour you and follow you all the days of my life.”
The abbot joined their gaze with his own, and drew a slow breath.
“Before the face of God, and in the presence of this sacred assembly, you have pledged yourselves to one another. What God has joined, let no man divide.”
He brought their hands together. Placed his own over them and bowed his head in prayer.
“Lord our God, Almighty, bless these hands joined now before Your face. Grant them faithfulness in trial, patience in troubled days, and grace in days of joy. Let their hearts remain as one, as one is the bond You have created. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
He raised his hands and traced the sign of the cross above their heads.
“Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, descendat super vos et maneat semper vobiscum. Amen.”
He straightened.
“This marriage has been made before God. May God be with you.”
Hans released her hand — only to reach into the pouch at his belt, and draw out a plain gold ring. He took her hand again without meeting her eyes, and slid it onto her finger with slow precision.
“This ring I give you,” he said, the words dry and even, “as a token of our bond.”
Then he let go.
The first note of the Te Deum rang out.
Sound swept through the church, rising beneath the vault like a wave. Outside, a bell began to toll. Then another. And another. One by one, every bell in Rattay joined in.
Hans turned to Jitka. He offered her his arm.
And led her down the nave, back toward the doors.
From beyond the walls came cheering. Applause. Voices calling out.
But Hans’s steps were unhurried. He walked slowly, with a faint smile. Like a man who knows exactly what this day is meant to be, and feels none of it.
He was numb. Empty.
And within that dead, soundless hollow inside him, a single thing remained. True. Alive.
His feet moved of their own accord. His lips held the quiet, polite smile without asking.
Outside the church, they were met with jubilation.
The townsfolk had gathered round — calling out, waving, some tossing flower petals into the air. Music played — bagpipes, flutes, dulcimer, drum — and the bells of Rattay still rang out in full force. They were now joined by bells from the surrounding villages, distant and muffled, as if the whole countryside were lending its quiet assent.
Hans and Jitka paused for a moment.
Guests filed out of the church behind them, greeting them with small nods, smiles, the touch of a hand to the arm, or a pat to the shoulder. Godwin offered a quiet smile and a nod. Janosh gave a bow. Kubyenka did his best not to cry. Katherine smiled at Hans and kissed him softly on the cheek. Zizka stopped beside Jitka and spoke a few solemn words of blessing.
Then Dry Devil stepped forward to meet the bride.
He bent so low it might’ve snapped another man’s spine.
“My lady,” he intoned, with absolute theatrical flourish.
Jitka didn’t flinch — only smiled faintly. “Hynek… I’m glad we finally meet in person.”
Dry Devil grinned. “Thank your husband for that.”
Jitka laughed. Hans only shook his head — but the corners of his mouth lifted, just barely.
Then his gaze drifted to the crowd. From time to time, he returned a call or a wave with a small nod. His face was calm. Steady. The public mask he now wore with ease.
Suddenly, he felt a small hand clutch his thigh.
He looked down.
A little boy. Two years old, perhaps less. His hair tousled, cheeks ruddy and a bit smudged, eyes glowing like lanterns. He clung to Hans as if he’d known him all his life.
Hans smiled, then bent down and lifted the boy into his arms.
The child pressed close — utterly at ease.
Hans glanced around — and spotted a woman, her face apologetic, trying to push her way through the crowd. She reached them, dipped a small curtsy.
“Forgive us, my lord. He…”
Hans looked at the boy. “And what do they call you, lad?”
“Hal!” the toddler chirped.
The mother laughed, a little flushed, a little embarrassed. “His name is Henry. Forgive us, my lord.”
Hans smiled.
“It’s quite all right.”
He handed the boy gently back into her arms. Brushed a hand over the child’s hair.
“You’ll make a fine man one day, Henry. And your mother will be proud of you.”
The woman lowered her eyes, visibly moved.
“Thank you, my lord.”
Hans turned.
Jitka had mounted in the meantime.
The music played on, the people still cheering. The procession began its slow return from the church to Pirkstein — step by step, solemn and celebratory at once.
Hans cast one last glance around — then walked to his horse. He mounted.
And rode to the head of the procession. The courtyard at Pirkstein was already alive with festivity.
The tables were full — townsfolk and villagers seated together, mugs of beer and wine lifted, laughter spilling freely. Wooden boards groaned under pies, loaves, and fruit. A little farther off, two rams turned slowly over glowing embers in a stone firepit — their scent heavy in the air, mingling with the smoke, the straw, and the shrieks of children dashing between benches, playing bride and groom.
As the procession arrived, all attention turned to the new arrivals. Most eyes sought the woman riding beside Hans.
Jitka sat tall in the saddle, composed — yet her eyes were keen, watchful. She greeted those nearby with a nod and a smile — courteous, but unforced.
Hans dismounted and walked to her side.
“My lady,” he said, and offered her his arm.
Jitka took it without a word. Together, they stepped toward the keep.
They climbed the stairs into the main wing of the castle. The door of the great hall was opened before them.
Behind them followed the nobles — the honoured guests, the witnesses, the heads of families. The music from the courtyard faded. It was replaced by the measured sound of footsteps striking stone.
The great hall was richly adorned in the colours of both houses. Fabrics of black, silver, and gold hung in gentle waves from the beams; flowers rested on the window ledges; tall candles burned in the corners. The tables were laden with roasted meats, cheeses, cakes, fruit, mead, wine, and fresh bread. In one corner, musicians played — a soft, ceremonial melody that drifted through the space like smoke.
A few servants stood silently along the walls, ready to serve.
Guests gradually took their seats. At the head of the hall, Hans and Jitka sat side by side, Hanush and Erhard seated beside them. The remaining places filled quickly — silken garments rustling, voices murmuring, goblets clinking, music drifting gently in the background.
Hanush rose. His face bore an expression meant to seem warm, though the chill never quite left his eyes.
He raised a cup of wine.
The hall fell quiet.
“Friends,” he began, “I must beg your pardon — pressing matters will soon take me away, and I will not be able to remain with you for the rest of this blessed day. But before I go, allow me a brief toast.”
He glanced around the room and allowed himself a modest smile.
“I drink to the health of the newlyweds — to joy in their union, to its fruitfulness, and to the future it shall bring. I drink to the fair maiden bride…” — he nodded toward Jitka — “…and to my protégé, the Lord of Pirkstein.”
Hans did not move.
“And I trust,” Hanush went on, “that one day — when the hour is right — he shall prove himself a wise lord of Rattay, and a worthy head of his house.”
Hans’s jaw tightened. The fingers of his right hand gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. His face did not so much as flinch, his gaze fixed ahead — but the heat rising from him was forged iron.
Hanush raised his goblet higher.
“To the house of Kunstadt. To the house of Pirkstein.”
He drank.
Scattered applause followed — brief, lukewarm. Most of those present exchanged glances. A few shifted in their seats.
The music resumed, but for a moment, it seemed to have lost its tone.
Hanush leaned toward Jitka, spoke a quiet word, and then left the hall in haste. The door closed behind him.
Hans remained seated, unmoving — his gaze locked, brow darkened beneath a fixed shadow.
Jitka leaned toward him, just slightly.
“Is everything all right?”
Hans blinked. Some of the tension softened in his face, his shoulders eased back.
He shook his head.
“It will be. I promise.”
Radzig rose.
His face was calm, a goblet of wine in his hand. He didn’t wait for the hall to fall silent — it was enough that those at the table noticed him. The voices quieted on their own.
“I once told Hans I’d known him since he was this tall.” He lifted his hand to indicate the height of a child. “Which wasn’t true, of course — but I saw him often, even from his early youth. And later, as a lad and a young man… well. Let’s just say he rarely went unnoticed.”
A gentle ripple of laughter passed through the hall.
“But the man you see today is not the one I first met — not in stature, and not in any other way. And I’m grateful to witness the man he’s become.”
He turned briefly toward Jitka.
“And I hope — no, I know — that you will be a good and faithful wife to him. In his role, it won’t be easy. But you have by your side a man who means what he says. And who will care for you — deeply.”
He glanced at Hans — and Hans gave a small nod. Calm. Almost moved. He couldn’t have said why, exactly… but hearing those words from Henry’s father struck something in him — quiet and deep.
Radzig raised his goblet.
“To love, to trust, to the future. Long live Hans. Long live Jitka.”
This time, the sound of goblets rang clear — and the applause that followed was warm. Genuine. Even the music seemed to draw a fuller breath — and flowed on, renewed.
At that moment, Dry Devil began to rise.
Katherine, seated beside him, leaned in and murmured something — her hand resting lightly on his arm, perhaps to hold him back. He only smiled, gave her a small nod, and stood anyway.
He lifted his goblet.
“When I first met Capon,” he began, voice as hoarse as ever, “he was locked up, and in deep shit. And this lad Henry—”
He gestured toward the empty seat where Henry should have been — and fell silent for a beat. The absence struck him.
“Well… Henry would’ve torn himself in half to get him out of that mess.”
A few soft laughs stirred around the room.
“And later, when I got to know him a bit better, I figured — oh aye, just another puffed-up noble brat. Arrogant as sin, smug as a cat — and about as useful as a wooden sword.”
He paused. Looked at Hans.
And then — with a smile that changed — he added:
“How bloody wrong I was, Hans.”
He raised his goblet higher.
“To you, Lord of Pirkstein. And to your beautiful lady — my dear niece Jitka.”
Laughter broke out, fuller this time. Goblets were lifted. Then applause followed — not just polite, but real. Warm.
Hans allowed himself a smile.
Dry Devil’s toast seemed to loosen the last knots of tension — and with laughter and the clinking of goblets, the celebration truly began. The air grew thick with scent — wine, spice, roasted meat — and the hall filled with voices, laughter, the lightness of early cheer.
The order of toasts dissolved. It was no longer just the speakers who stood — now everyone drank to everyone. Old stories were told for the twentieth time, and laughed at just as loudly. Goblets refilled themselves on instinct.
Hans felt hands on his shoulder, heard his name and managed to return each greeting with a smile or a nod. A few words with Zizka. With Godwin. With Radzig. With Katherine — who, at some point, had adjusted her neckline into something approaching public provocation.
At his side, Jitka held her own. Composed, but not cold. She traded polite smiles, returned greetings, offered a word or two when needed. He noticed that — unlike him — she hardly drank. She held her goblet like an ornament rather than a vessel. Her posture was calm. Graceful. She even laughed when Dry Devil presented her with another pastry in a bow so extravagant he nearly lost his balance.
And yet—
In a single instant — no longer than a breath, no louder than silence — her face shifted.
It was barely a change. No frown, no start. More like a shadow passing over the surface. A flicker of… unease? Or nerves?
He couldn’t say for sure.
But he saw it. He saw it only because he was looking — because he saw her not as a bride, not as a daughter of Kunstadt, but as the person beside him.
He said nothing.
He simply placed his hand on hers — the one resting on the table. Gently. Briefly. No more than that.
A fleeting touch. Without words. Not as a lover. But as a friend.
And as a man who knew what he had promised her.
Jitka looked down at their joined hands. Then at him.
She did not smile. She only nodded — small, quiet. And across her face passed a shadow that held more than one kind of pain… but also something that looked, for a moment, like thanks.
Hans was just refilling her wine when he caught movement at the edge of his vision.
A man had entered the hall — dressed for travel, doublet dusted with road, boots worn thin, his expression tight. His eyes went straight to Radzig. Hans didn’t know him, but he knew the step. This was a rider — one who had come far, and carried something that could not wait.
The man reached the table, leaned in toward Radzig, and whispered into his ear — tense, urgent.
Radzig froze.
First, surprise crossed his face. Then thought. And then surprise again — but deeper now, quicker. Something shifted in him. Hans could feel it, even if he couldn’t hear a single word.
The laughter around him faded into background noise. He watched Radzig rise — slowly, but with enough weight that the hall began to quiet on its own. People turned. Conversations trailed off. The music faltered, then fell away.
Radzig raised a hand.
“Friends… if I may ask for a moment of your attention.”
All eyes turned to him.
He drew a deep breath.
“It is my honour — and my joy — to bring you word that has just arrived…”
He paused — as if he needed to hear himself say it aloud.
“The King of Bohemia… Wenceslas… is free. He is back in the realm — and riding for Prague.”
Silence.
Then — an eruption.
Shouts, gasps, cheers. Chairs scraped back. Fists struck tabletops. Goblets rang together, laughter and tears spilling over in a roar of astonishment and joy.
But Hans did nothing. He remained seated, eyes fixed on Radzig. In his chest, something unmoving — a kind of wordless waiting.
Radzig lifted his hands, and the noise slowly subsided.
“For obvious reasons, I must leave at once — ride for Prague and the court. Forgive me for not remaining longer — but this journey cannot be delayed.”
He bowed his head in brief apology, rested a hand on Hans’s shoulder — and then, without another word, left the hall.
Hans rose so quickly he knocked over two goblets — wine spilled across the table, but he didn’t spare it a glance. He moved around the table in long strides and made straight for the door.
By the time he reached the corridor, he was nearly at a run.
He caught up with Radzig on the stairs.
“Radzig…”
Henry’s father stopped and turned. Hans reached him in a few swift steps — tension in his face, a question in his eyes he barely needed to voice.
“Have you heard anything?” he asked quietly. “About the ones… who helped the king?”
Radzig shook his head. Exhaled.
“No. The messenger said nothing more.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Radzig drew breath.
“And that’s exactly why I must ride to Prague. To find out.”
Hans lowered his gaze. Silent. Still.
Radzig watched him a moment.
“Hans… believe me. The fate of my son is not something I take lightly.”
Hans gave a single nod. Firm. Wordless.
Radzig turned, and descended the stairs without another word.
Hans stood where he was. Watching him go — the shape of him slipping into the dark — then turned slowly back. Back toward the hall, alive with the crackle of celebration, stirred by the weight of unexpected news.
When Hans returned, Jitka turned to him at once.
“Why did you rush off like that?” she asked softly.
“I needed to speak with Radzig. One last thing.”
He said no more. And Jitka did not ask again. The celebration continued — but something in the air had shifted. The cheers that followed the king’s release had stirred a different kind of tension — sharper, more immediate, almost tangible. Voices no longer rang with carefree ease. People leaned in closer — whispering, conferring. Wenceslas is free. Wenceslas is back. What will it mean? And for whom?
Hans felt it only from a distance. His mind was empty. His goblet had long run dry. From time to time, he exchanged a few words with those who came to him — but more and more, he only nodded. And more and more, his eyes kept returning to Jitka.
She remained at his side — but she, too, was growing quieter. Sometimes she smiled. Sometimes she replied. But the longer she sat, the more tightly she held her goblet — and the less she drank from it. There was something in her eyes — a flicker of unrest that had no clear name.
As evening approached, and the sun cast its last gold across the windows of the hall, Jitka leaned in toward him.
“Forgive me… I should go prepare. For tonight.”
She said it calmly. But there was something in her voice — something that can only be heard once, and never forgotten.
Hans gave a small nod.
And did not watch her go, when she rose.
But he became quietly aware that he would likely need a few more goblets of wine before the thing that must come, finally came.
After some time, Hans rose.
The movement was quiet, unannounced — but not unnoticed by those who had sworn to stand beside him. Erhard joined him without a word. From across the hall, Godwin stood as well — gaze steady, mouth drawn into something unreadable. Together, in silence, they descended to the floor below.
A maid was waiting at the door of Jitka’s chamber.
The moment she saw them, she lowered her eyes and stepped aside. She gave a short curtsy and slipped into the dimness of the corridor.
Hans came to a halt.
He looked to Erhard. To Godwin. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. They were here, as each had promised. One as a witness. One as a friend.
Hans turned back to the door. He placed his hand on the latch. Not yet.
For one breath, he closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
And stepped inside. When, some time later, Hans emerged from the chamber, he simply gave a nod.
What had to be done, had been done.
Erhard and Godwin both gave silent nods. They accompanied him back upstairs. Said nothing — there was no need. The celebration in the great hall was winding down. Laughter had grown faint. Some guests dozed in their chairs. Others whispered in corners. But Hans did not return to them.
He turned elsewhere.
Passed through Henry’s chamber — steps automatic, gaze steady — and entered his own. He closed the door behind him. Stood still in the middle of the room, wrapped in quiet. Only the breath of the fire in the hearth. And his own thoughts.
He had done what had to be done. And if God willed it, perhaps even conceived an heir.
But his mind was elsewhere.
He walked slowly to the table where the documents lay. For a moment, he sifted through the bundles — folios, sealed pages, folded sheaves. At last, he drew one out, placed it before him, and pulled the candle closer.
The marriage contract.
Jitka of Kunstadt, daughter of Erhard, wed to Hans of Pirkstein, nephew of Hanush. Seals. Witnesses. Binding words.
And then he found it.
“…with the understanding that the virginity of the said maiden, Jitka, daughter of the noble lord Erhard of Kunstadt, remains intact as attested by the honour of her father and the word of witnesses, and that she is thus fit for matrimony.”
Hans read the line once. Then again. And again.
Then he folded the page carefully. And placed it back where it belonged.
He sat down on the bed. Slowly. As if the act itself might seal something.
He knew. He had known.
He had not been her first. Not by suspicion. Not by rumour. He had known.
And that gave him a choice.
If tomorrow morning — before witnesses, in public — he spoke the truth, the marriage would be undone. The union annulled. Jitka would lose her honour. And with it, her house. Perhaps the convent would take her. Perhaps she would never marry again.
But he…
He would be free. Free without breaking his vow. Without guilt. Without sin.
He poured himself a cup of wine. Dark. Heavy.
He sat for a long time. And did not drink. Only held the goblet in his hand, and looked into the dark — which seemed deeper now than before.
And then — without decision, without a word — he lay down.
And let the night fall, as it would. In the morning, Jitka sat alone in her chamber. She knew she would soon be expected at the formal breakfast — though — how formal would it truly be? Or would it be her last morning here?
She knew well that Hans had seen the truth the night before. And yet he had said nothing. Spoken no word. Made no gesture. Only taken his leave — gallant, composed — and gone.
And through it all, Hans had been kind. Attentive. But somehow not fully there. As if he were following a set of instructions — careful, correct, but distant.
Tightness gripped her chest. She let out a breath.
When the knock came, she felt the blood drain from her face. Zdislava peeked in.
“Lord Hans,” she said softly.
Jitka stood.
Out in the corridor, her husband was waiting. He gave a small smile — and with the words “My lady,” offered her his arm.
Jitka took it. And for the first time, perhaps, she felt something in him that caught her by surprise: protection. And support.
Together they entered the hall, where the guests were already gathering for the morning feast. The newlyweds took their seats at the head of the table, and the company eased into quiet talk and the simple pleasure of breakfast.
At one point, Hans turned to Jitka.
His gaze was gentle — the gaze of a friend.
Jitka smiled.
After breakfast, she excused herself — saying she needed some time to settle in, and rest.
Hans nodded. He offered her his arm, walked her to the door — and then returned to the table. His friends had remained.
Some reached again for wine, others poured mead. There were words of praise — about how lovely the wedding had been, how well the food was served, how smoothly everything had gone. And a few, unaware of where Hans’s heart truly lay, added hearty claps on the back and good-natured jests about the wedding night.
Hans merely smiled. He didn’t correct them.
Talk slowly shifted toward the coming days — who would go where, what roads they’d take, how soon they might leave. Some spoke of preparations, others of the weather, or the autumn mist down in the valley.
Hans listened for a while.
Then he spoke.
“If none of you are called away just yet… stay. Pirkstein is still yours to enjoy. I’d be glad to have you here — for as long as you wish.”
Dry Devil was the first to answer. He took a generous sip, smacked his lips, and shook his head.
“Devil’s Den may be home — but I’ll tell you, Hans… I can bear a few days here just fine. Might even keep your lady company, now that I’ve finally met her.”
Hans gave a soft chuckle. The others nodded. No one was in a rush. No one wished to saddle up, ride into the cold wind, cross forests and fords.
And so, a quiet peace settled over the hall — a soft, unnoticed relief that they could stay. That there was no need, just yet, to say goodbye.
Hans looked around at his friends. Then let his gaze rest on his cup awhile.
Perhaps this — this was what it felt like not to be alone.
To have a family.
The door of the hall opened. One of the guards appeared on the threshold. He looked around — then walked straight toward the head of the table.
“Sir,” he addressed Hans.
Hans lifted his gaze to him.
“There’s a stranger at the gate. He says he needs to speak with you.”
Hans frowned. “Who is he?”
The guard hesitated. “Says… he’s Master Henry’s brother.”
Hans stared at him for a moment. “Samuel,” he breathed.
“Bring him. At once.” His voice was steady.
The guard nodded and turned on his heel. Those at the table had fallen silent. They’d all heard it.
Moments later, the door opened again. Samuel entered.
He paused, glanced around the hall, and gave a brief nod in greeting. Then his eyes found Hans. They were tired from the road — and clouded with concern.
“I need to speak with you, Hans. Now. In private.”
Something twisted in Hans’s chest. But he nodded. He rose without a word. Everyone stepped aside.
No one asked a thing.
They stepped into the chamber. The door closed behind them. Hans stopped in the middle of the room and turned to face him.
“Say it.”
Samuel swallowed. His voice was rough.
“Hans… Henry is wounded. And it’s bad.”
Hans closed his eyes. Just for a moment. His breath shook as it left him.
“Where is he?”
“In Nikolsburg. We brought him there unconscious. I left the next day to find you. Unless his condition has improved since then… I don’t know how much time we have.”
The world spun around Hans. He staggered — not from shock alone, but from something deeper. A weakness that came from terror too vast for words. Samuel stepped forward and steadied him, gently, just for a moment.
Hans recovered. Straightened. Met his eyes.
“I’m going. Now. At once.”
Samuel nodded. “I knew you’d say that. I’m ready. We’ll ride together.”
They returned to the hall.
Hans stepped to the table, letting his gaze pass over his friends — then he spoke.
“Henry is wounded. Badly. I have to go to him.”
No one said a word. But the silence changed. The air thickened. Only the fire cracked in the hearth. And the wind howled outside the walls.
Hans turned and strode out into the corridor.
He found his wife by one of the windows. “Jitka…” His voice was urgent. “I must leave. It’s Henry. It might be his life.”
She looked at him. Placed a hand on his cheek — soft, steady.
“Go,” she said. “And bring him back.”
Hans gave a nod. He looked at her, and something in his eyes said thank you. Then he turned, and was gone. Samuel was already waiting in the courtyard. The horses saddled. Packs secured. Hans stepped out from the stables, rearmed — light armour, a sword at his side.
Jitka stood nearby. Godwin was there too. Dry Devil. Zizka. And the others.
Hans paused — just for a moment.
Godwin approached, speaking quietly. “God be with you, lad… with both of you.”
Hans gave a nod. Then mounted. Samuel did the same.
And just as they were about to set off, a rider burst into the yard through the gate.
Hanush.
He yanked the reins. Stared Hans down. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going, Capon?” he growled.
Hans shot him a look. “None of your damn business.”
Hanush straightened in the saddle, visibly reining himself in. Too many eyes were watching.
“Not very wise, leaving the lady of the house unguarded…” His voice rang louder now — for the crowd. “…and unattended. The day after your wedding.” He turned to Jitka.
The cold silence that followed was broken by Dry Devil’s rasping voice.
“The lady is not alone.”
He stepped forward, stood at her side. Zizka and Godwin moved next to him. Then the rest.
Jitka folded her arms. Gave Hans a single nod — firm and clear.
Hans looked at them all. Heavy-eyed. But with a weight of gratitude he couldn’t voice.
Then he turned back to Hanush, whose gaze had narrowed to slits.
“Stand aside.”
He didn’t wait for a reply.
He kicked his horse into motion. Rode through the gate. Samuel close behind.
Rattay fell behind them. Nikolsburg lay ahead. And between — everything.