“Black horse, black armour, black cloak… no face.” 📷 with thanks to @playpausephoto for capturing what may have been just a shadow and whisper.
Hearth and Kin – Part XI
The Lady, the Captain and the Page
—
He felt it before he opened his eyes — a tug at his shoulder. Not rough, but insistent. The kind of gesture that came after the hundredth try.
He blinked into the dim light.
There he was. The familiar shape — arms crossed, face drawn tight, brow like a thundercloud. His father.
“Up. It’s the Lord’s day.”
Lukas groaned, rolled onto his side, and pulled the quilt over his head. “Lord Henry’s not here…”
He didn’t finish. His father grabbed his shoulder and turned him back with a brisk hand — cold fingers, no room for argument.
“The lords may be gone. But Lady Jitka stayed. And today you’ll see her to church.”
Lukas sat up, slow and heavy. He dragged a hand across his face and blinked at the morning.
Vatzek had already turned away. He crouched by the table, rifling through his scuffed leather satchel.
“Get dressed,” he muttered, not looking back. “And mind you reach the manor before even the scullery boys do — if there’s any pride left in you.”
He pulled out a bundle of papers, thin and bound with string, turned around, and held it out.
“Leave these in Lord Henry’s chambers.”
Lukas stared at him for a moment.
Then took the bundle without a word. Sullen. Unwilling.
Vatzek gave a short nod. “Move.”
The door shut behind him.
Lukas stayed where he was. Sitting in the half-light, bare-chested, tousled, staring into nothing. The bundle still in his hand, untouched. The only sounds were a rooster crowing somewhere outside and the old beams creaking softly overhead.
He slowly eased back onto the bed.
Laid the papers on his chest. They rose and fell with each breath — quiet and even. His gaze drifted to the ceiling. He followed the crooked beams, the cracks in the planks, the dark little holes where worms had chewed through the wood.
Then his eyes dropped.
He raised the bundle to the light. Studied it a moment, tilted his head — as if he could divine its contents by weight and silence alone.
A sigh escaped him.
He sat up again.
Paused. Then reached for his trousers. The door to Henry’s chamber closed with a soft creak.
Lukas paused on the threshold.
As though he owed the silence an apology for breaking it.
The room held its breath. In a shaft of light slanting through the windows, specks of dust drifted lazily — rising, falling — as if they too were breathing.
His gaze moved slowly across the space.
The broad bed, neatly made. One of Lord Henry’s doublets folded over the chest at its foot. Two goblets on the low table. A woven cloth pushed askew. A chair — and on it, a tunic Lukas had never seen on Henry before. Not on Henry.
He drew in a breath. There was something familiar in the air. The scent of wood, wax, leather — and beneath it all, a warmth he could not quite name. Subtle, but persistent.
He walked toward the table.
Scrolls lay unrolled across the surface, alongside folded papers, a stick of sealing wax, an inkwell, and a sheet with a sketched outline.
Lukas set down the bundle he had brought. Hesitated. Then reached to square the stack, straighten a corner, smooth an edge. Too carefully. Too long.
He turned and paced the room, one measured step at a time.
At the far wall, he stopped.
A tapestry hung there — large, heavy, rich in colour. At its centre rose a crag, and on it, a fortress. Clear and unmistakable.
Rotstein.
He stared at it in silence.
Then turned slowly. His eyes came to rest on the bed.
He stood still for a long moment.
Then began to walk again — back toward the door.
At the chest, he stopped once more.
Reached out, and with the back of his fingers, brushed the fabric of the doublet. Gently. Tentatively. A fleeting touch — the kind one gives to something they do not dare to claim.
He drew a slow breath. Let it out — quiet, deep.
One last glance around the room.
And he left. As he stepped into the courtyard, the light struck him hard — sudden and blinding.
He paused beneath the steps, blinking into the glare.
A figure stood there already, clad in white and crimson.
An alb. A scarlet stole. And draped across the shoulders, a heavy red chasuble.
Godwin.
Lukas stared — almost in surprise. He couldn’t look away.
The priest caught the gaze. At first, he met it directly, almost sternly — but then the corners of his mouth twitched, and his voice cut through the silence between them.
“What are you staring at, boy?”
Lukas dropped his eyes. “Forgive me, Father… I just… I’d never seen you so robed before.”
Godwin gave a low chuckle. It carried the weight of weariness, but not unkindness.
“Truth be told, I’d half thought I’d never wear these vestments again.”
He squinted up at the sun, fell quiet for a moment — then gave a small nod, as if answering some unspoken thought.
“Lord Henry asked me to celebrate the Pentecost mass.”
He shrugged, half-smiling.
“And one does not refuse Henry lightly.”
Lukas watched him a moment longer, then simply nodded.
Godwin tilted his head, studying him. Then scratched the back of his neck.
“What weighs on you, Lukas?”
The lad looked up, caught off guard. The priest smiled — gently, warmly.
“It’s not hard to see you’re wandering like a soul unmoored.”
Lukas stared down at his hands. Said nothing for a moment.
“I…” he began, quietly. “It’s just… I thought, since I’m Lord Henry’s page… I thought he’d take me with him.”
His voice faltered. His gaze fixed on the tips of his boots.
Godwin took his time before answering — as though weighing the shape of each word.
“You know, lad… Lord Henry’s been riding with Lord Hans for a long time. Since the days when he was his page.”
Lukas looked up. There was a flicker of surprise in his face.
Godwin smiled.
“You didn’t know? Before he became a lord himself, Henry served under Lord Capon. Faithfully. Rode with him into battle, even.”
Lukas shook his head. The silence settled again, soft as dust on the packed earth.
“But Lord Hans did take his page with him,” he said quietly.
Godwin exhaled, then gave a slow shake of the head — but paused.
“And tell me this — were you not here, who would bear the cross in today’s procession?”
Lukas lifted his head. “Me?” he asked, surprised.
The priest nodded.
“So stand tall, young man.” He clapped a hand on Lukas’s shoulder. “The day is holy. And you’ve your place in it.”
They turned at once.
Beyond the gate, the world was already stirring. Villagers had begun to gather along the road — women in Sunday coifs, men with bare heads, children in white shirts and fluttering ribbons. Footsteps rustled, voices murmured low, the wheels of a cart creaked, someone dropped to one knee to fix a hem. Faces peered through the open gate, curious, impatient.
“Is everything ready?” came a warm voice behind them.
They turned — and saw Jitka.
She wore a deep green gown and a light silk mantle the colour of milk. A fine net glimmered in her hair, threaded with gold; at her neck, a pale blue ribbon held a pendant carved from ash wood — Saint Anne, with the Virgin and Child, rendered in delicate detail.
“Almost,” Godwin nodded. “Lukas will bear the cross.”
Jitka looked to him. Her gaze lingered on his face for a breath, then she gave a slow nod — with the faintest smile of approval.
“Then he ought to have it in his hands by now,” she said, amusement flickering in her tone.
Godwin slapped his forehead.
“Saints preserve us…” he muttered. “It lies yet upon the bench. Lukas, go and fetch it.”
He raised a hand, but Lukas was already on his way.
The priest turned back to Jitka.
“Have you chosen who shall lead you?” he asked. “Or shall you walk alone?”
She tilted her head. The corners of her mouth curled with quiet mischief.
“One name did occur to me,” she said, near conspiratorially.
Just then, the sound of hooves struck the yard.
A rider passed through the gate — tall, upright, dressed in a dark tunic with embroidered trim, a mantle slung over one shoulder, a fine belt at his waist. Clean-shaven, freshly washed, hair neatly combed.
Godwin stared, mouth ajar.
“Well, I’ll be—” he began, before remembering the red chasuble on his shoulders. He fell silent.
Dry Devil dismounted without a word, tossed the reins over the railing, and walked toward them.
Jitka smiled. “Uncle… I’m truly glad you came.”
Sir Hynek gave her a slight bow. Then glanced sidelong at Godwin’s half-scandalised expression.
“For you alone, dear niece,” he grumbled — though a hint of a smile tugged at the edge of his mouth.
He offered his arm.
She took it without hesitation. Nodded to Godwin, and with Hynek beside her, walked step by step toward the gate — where the crowd was swelling. As Jitka and Dry Devil stepped through, the murmuring hushed.
A hundred heads turned toward them.
Jitka slowed — and dipped her head just slightly.
Near the gate, a few men followed suit. Some women curtsied, one laid a hand over her heart. Two others crossed themselves.
“God keep you, my lady,” came a soft voice from within the crowd.
Jitka let her gaze pass over them — calm in her eyes, a quiet smile on her lips, both gracious and composed.
A little further off, Captain Thomas stood speaking low with Bailiff Vatzek. Neither had joined the procession yet.
Then, from the first row, a few dropped to one knee. Others crossed themselves again. One head after another turned — toward the manor gate.
Jitka glanced back over her shoulder.
Godwin had just emerged from the yard. The red chasuble billowed gently with his stride, his steps measured and sure.
Jitka nodded in greeting. The priest returned it.
Then took his place at the front.
Behind him stood Jitka, her hand resting lightly on Sir Hynek’s forearm. A step behind followed Vatzek and Thomas. Half a pace further: Zdislava and Pavel. And beyond them — the people of the village. Women, men, and children.
All eyes turned again toward the manor yard.
In the gate stood a tall figure — and above him, the wooden processional cross.
Lukas did not falter. He bore it in both hands, steady and unhurried. With a calm, deliberate step, he moved through the gathering, carrying with him a hush that rippled outward from the gate and down the road.
He came to a halt before Godwin.
The priest reached out and gave him a quiet blessing. Lukas bowed his head, then turned — facing the village.
Godwin watched him for a moment, his gaze resting on the boy’s back. Then he turned to Jitka. And further still — to the crowd.
Silence settled once more. Deeper now. More certain. No one moved. They waited.
“In nomine Patri—” Godwin began.
He stopped.
An unexpected pause, stretched taut across the stillness.
He looked to Jitka. Then back to the gathered faces. Each held something different — expectation, belief, curiosity, a quiet kind of reverence.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” he said at last, clearly.
For a heartbeat, the stillness held. Some blinked. A few looked up — stilled by the sound of sacred words in their own tongue.
“Amen,” the people answered.
Godwin slowly raised his hands.
“Send us Thy gifts, O Holy Spirit… upon this people, and upon this land.”
A moment passed. Then he drew a long breath — and began to sing.
Veni, Creator Spiritus…
His voice was not strong, but it was steady. The words drifted through the air like a tide — and one by one, other voices rose to join him.
The procession began to move.
Slowly, calmly, down the road toward the village square.
Jitka only half-heard the singing that flowed around her.
The words dissolved into rhythm: into footsteps, breath, and quiet unity. Her mind wandered somewhere between.
Sunlight warmed her face.
The day was mild — not hot, but kind.
Her gaze found the cross, glinting above Lukas’s head. The polished wood caught the golden light. Her eyes followed its line downward — along the shaft, to the young man’s hands. Steady, sure. Across his shoulders, broad and upright — and beyond him.
Her eyes moved outward — over the village rooftops, between trees and homesteads, down narrow paths that wove through garden beds and small fields, and on to the rising meadows that stretched toward the tree-lined ridge on the far side of the valley.
A breeze touched her cheek.
She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment. The scents of blossom, straw, and wood mingled on the air, full and clear with spring.
Something inside her loosened.
The small life she carried — which, only moments ago at the gate, had made itself known with every movement — had gone still.
She smiled. To herself. Quietly. Inwardly.
She had long noticed how walking settled the world inside her.
Meanwhile, the head of the procession was nearing the church.
It stood on a gentle rise, its wooden doors flung wide. In the shadow beneath the roof, the golden flicker of candles trembled — barely visible in the bright day.
Godwin turned slightly to glance over his shoulder.
His eyes met Jitka’s — and he smiled. Just faintly. A smile not meant to be seen, but to be shared. Jitka slipped the silk mantle from her shoulders, folded it carefully, and laid it on the bed.
Her chamber was quiet. Only the faint birdsong from the trees outside reached her ears.
She sat at the table, unpinned the gold-threaded net from her hair, and set it gently aside. Then reached for her comb.
Slowly, she drew it through her hair. Stroke after stroke. Long, unhurried. Lost in thought.
After a time, her hand grew slower — until it stilled altogether. Her gaze wandered toward the window.
Beyond the glass lay a green meadow, half-veiled by the trees. In the distance, a pale rock rose from the earth, stark against the shadowed edge of the forest.
She let out a quiet breath.
After the mass, when she had bid Dry Devil farewell and stood watching him mount and ride away — tall in the saddle, swift and unburdened — she’d caught herself in a thought that left a flicker of shame.
Perhaps, in that moment, she had envied him.
Not the sword. Not the life he lived. But the simple power to rise, to ride, to vanish at a gallop between fields. To dissolve into a land without borders.
She sighed again. Quietly. Set the comb down, and laid her hand over her belly.
Her palm came to rest lightly on the fabric. And then — after a moment — she felt the faintest stir beneath it.
A smile touched her lips.
“You don’t care for sitting indoors either, do you…” she murmured.
She sat in silence a while longer. Then rose, crossed to one of the chests, and lifted the lid.
She gazed inside.
There, folded with care, lay her riding garments. Dark, sturdy, and well-worn.
Her hand brushed across the cloth.
And for a moment — perhaps only a moment — it felt as if the fabric remembered her. Not by warmth. Not by movement. But by that quiet, familiar sensation that comes when skin meets something it once called its own.
She lifted her head.
Turned slightly.
And let out a breath. The sound of wood striking wood echoed through the courtyard.
A sharp clash. A thrust. The hiss of breath. The whisper of gravel beneath boots.
Lukas stepped back, sword still raised.
“When I come from below, from the right,” he said between breaths, “you must meet me at the shoulder. Not the hand.”
Pavel nodded across from him, sweat glistening on his brow, his cheeks flushed. He rubbed at his forearm where the wooden blade had struck harder than he liked.
Lukas adjusted his stance. “Again.”
Pavel hesitated just a moment, then lunged forward.
Clash.
The wooden blades met with a clean, ringing note. Lukas caught the blow squarely, held firm, let Pavel press in — then pushed him off by half a step.
“Well done,” he said with a satisfied nod.
Pavel inhaled deeply, eyes wide — but not confused this time.
Nearby, half-shadowed, stood Captain Thomas. Arms folded across his chest, face unreadable. Only his gaze — calm, keen, falcon-like in its focus — followed their every move.
They exchanged a few more blows. Then, suddenly, the door of the main wing swung open.
The creak of hinges cut across the yard, drowning the next strike.
Lukas turned instinctively.
Jitka stepped into the light.
Riding garb. High boots. A stance like the wind — unwavering.
“My lady… I don’t believe a ride is altogether wise—” came Zdislava’s voice from behind her, laced with frustration. She followed close, hands half-raised in protest.
“That is mine to judge,” Jitka snapped over her shoulder without breaking stride.
She crossed the yard with such single-minded purpose that both Lukas and Pavel turned to watch her without thinking. Their blades dipped.
Jitka turned to them.
“Lukas, saddle Mira for me, please.”
“At once, my lady,” he answered, laid down the practice sword and headed for the stables without another word.
“My lady…” Zdislava tried again, more urgently this time.
“What?!” Jitka’s voice cracked sharp, almost too sharp — as if something had come close to breaking loose.
“Only that… Lord Hans would surely worry for your safety. And the child’s.”
Jitka inhaled — slowly, deeply — but said nothing.
“And Lord Henry, too, would be… unsettled by it,” Zdislava added more softly, though still with urgency.
Silence fell across the courtyard.
Then Thomas stepped forward from the shadow.
“It would be my honour to ride with you and see to your safety, my lady,” he said calmly.
Just then, Lukas led out Mira — the chestnut mare with smooth flanks, a flowing mane, and a white star on her brow. Strong, well-built, calm in the eyes.
Thomas gave a slight nod.
“Lukas, I daresay, would also ride at your side.”
The young man straightened. “It would be my honour, my lady.”
Jitka paused. Her gaze moved from one to the other — then, with one brow slightly raised, she turned back to her maid.
“Well then, Zdislava… it seems I shall be safer than this manor itself.”
The maid sighed and lowered her head. “Of course, my lady…”
Jitka’s expression softened.
She stepped closer and laid a hand gently on Zdislava’s forearm.
“There is no cause for worry. I seek only a gentle ride — the day is beautiful.”
Zdislava looked up at her.
“I’ll fetch something for the road,” she murmured, and slipped away toward the kitchen.
Jitka turned to the mare. She ran her palm down Mira’s neck and checked the saddle’s buckles with a quick, practiced hand.
Then she looked to Thomas — and gave him a faint, knowing smile.
He nodded once, then turned.
With a measured pace, he walked toward the stables — but after a few steps, he glanced back over his shoulder.
Jitka had just swung into the saddle in one smooth, practiced motion. She adjusted her dress with a flick of the hand, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and sat tall.
Poised. Steady.
As if she had been born to ride into the world and not look back. A lizard lay sunning itself on the stone cross by the roadside beyond Klokotsch — vivid green against the pale grey, so still it seemed part of the rock itself. Only now and then did its flank twitch with breath. Around it, the grass swayed softly in the breeze, and insects droned — lazy, tireless, eternal. Then the lizard turned its head and slipped soundlessly down the stone, vanishing into the stems below as if it had never been there at all.
A moment later, hoofbeats stirred the dust on the road.
One. Then another. Then another. And another.
Jitka rode at the head, her posture tall and at ease, her pace unhurried. The mare beneath her moved lightly, steadily, giving the occasional toss of the head — as if she, too, were alive to the gentleness of the day. A horse’s length behind followed Captain Thomas, his seat precise, his body held in watchful balance. His eyes moved across the landscape — not in wonder, but in vigilance, seeking out whatever didn’t belong. Further back rode Lukas and one of the Klokotsch guards.
Meadows stretched on either side of the road, broken here and there by orchard, wild hedgerow, or small plots of barley and wheat. All around them, May glowed fresh and full. The sun warmed without burning. The wind stirred Jitka’s hair and cooled her cheeks. She breathed in the scent of horses, dust, and blooming fields — and with each breath, something within her began to loosen. To soften. To spread.
Then they passed beneath the trees.
The world changed.
It quieted — and yet grew fuller. Birds sang on every side, high in the canopy and low in the thickets. The green light beneath the leaves shimmered like breath. A doe and fawn darted from the undergrowth and crossed the path before vanishing into the brambles.
After a while, Thomas urged his horse forward.
He drew level with her.
“To where are we bound, my lady?” he asked after a stretch of silence.
Jitka kept her gaze ahead. Her eyes drifted along the forest trail, into the curve where it disappeared.
A slow smile touched her lips.
Then she turned to Thomas.
Gave a small shrug.
“When we come to it… I shall know.”
He looked at her for a moment. There was a softness in his face.
He nodded once.
And let his horse fall in with her pace.
For a while they rode in silence. The hooves sounded dully on the soft path, wind rustled in the branches above, and now and then a shaft of sunlight fell between the trees.
“Do you know this land well, Captain?” Jitka asked, without lifting her eyes from the trail.
Thomas thought for a moment.
“I served at Trosky,” he said, “but I was born in Turnow. That’s where I grew up. So… much of this domain is already familiar to me.”
Jitka nodded. Said nothing more. Silence returned.
Their horses moved calmly down the path, as if they too sensed there was no need to hurry. The forest sang all around them — blackbirds, finches, thrushes. Everything alive, and yet at peace.
“Was it never your wish to return to Turnow, after leaving Trosky?” Jitka asked again, her voice quiet, her eyes still forward.
Thomas didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be searching for the words. Then he turned toward her and shook his head gently.
“After our parents died, there was only my sister and I in Turnow,” he said. “We had no one else. We managed as best we could.”
His gaze drifted off — somewhere into the trees.
“We went to Trosky together. We both served there.”
He shrugged — not for her, but to himself.
“She married last autumn. Left the castle.”
He looked down, to the horse’s mane beneath his hands.
“So Turnow holds nothing for me now.”
Jitka turned to him. Watched him for a moment, without a word.
Then faced the path once more.
And carried on.
Lukas rode at the rear, just ahead of the last guardsman. His eyes wandered through the shifting shadows of the forest, his thoughts drifting where they pleased.
He had always liked this road.
The last time he’d taken it was at the start of spring, when—
His gaze drifted into the distance — though more into memory than landscape.
Back then, he had been showing Lord Henry the villages of the estate. When the new lord had come to stay for good.
He remembered how unsure and awkward he’d felt. How his father had offered his service as a page. How he had hardly dared to look his lord in the eye — even though he could not have been more than a few years his elder.
A faint smile crossed his face — absent, quiet.
And how quickly he’d come to know the kind of man Lord Henry truly was.
Warm. Gentle. Keen of wit. From the very first days, there had been something calm and grounded in him — as if he had been born to this land. As if he belonged to it.
The snort of a horse pulled Lukas from his reverie.
He looked ahead — to where Jitka and Thomas were riding side by side. He watched them for a moment.
And then his thoughts returned elsewhere.
Lord Henry had never made him ride behind. He wanted him beside him. And those rides… Lukas had loved them.
When it was just the two of them, everything felt right. Exactly as it ought to be.
Sometimes they would travel the whole day, in silence or in talk, and when they paused for a meal, Lord Henry would share his food with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Like that one time, on the hillside above a little green valley—
The very valley they were now quietly approaching.
Lukas drew a breath. And let it go.
Up ahead, Jitka and Thomas drew to a halt. The forest parted before them.
They stood at the edge of a gentle slope, where trees thinned and light spilled like gold from an untied purse. The meadow below was fresh — soft and wind-stirred, dappled with restless shadows drifting across the grass. At the bottom, a path curled between low willows, winding, as if remembering the way. Scattered trees bent overhead, their branches newly unfurled, each crown a different shade of green — from deep emerald to veils of near-yellow.
Beyond the grassy hollow, the far slope rose again, clad in tall forest. A wall of dark pines stretched across the ridge, and at its foot, the sunlight broke enticingly into shade.
It was the sort of place caught between two breaths — one of those places where a rider might stop, say nothing, and realise they were hearing more than birdsong.
Jitka held her reins loose, but her gaze lingered. Not on one detail — rather on the whole of it. Beside her, Thomas remained silent. Only when Lukas and the other rider caught up did the horses shift and nicker, as if to remind them that the day was not yet done.
Jitka turned in the saddle.
“I wish to linger here a while.”
She dismounted, placed her hands on her hips, and looked down into the valley. Thomas gave a simple nod. He, too, dismounted — and for a time, walked the edge of the wood with slow, steady steps, scanning the trees and brush before returning.
Jitka remained where she was, standing tall on the slope, her palms braced against the small of her back. Her gaze moved slowly across the valley, as if to carve it into memory. Then she closed her eyes.
And listened.
The rustling of leaves. Birdsong. She felt the wind brushing her cheek — full of blossoms, soil, and the scent of new-grown green.
Lukas and the guardsman tied their horses at the edge of the trees. No one gave orders. No words were spoken.
There was no need.
The moment had asked for quiet — and they answered.
Jitka chose a place beneath the wide crown of a beech tree, its shade dappled and cool. She sank to her knees in the grass, settled back on her heels, and folded her hands in her lap. Thomas remained standing a few steps away, arms crossed, eyes drifting silently over the valley.
Lukas had stretched out in the grass, flat on his back, hands folded behind his head. He closed his eyes. The sunlight played across his face, filtered through his lids, and a breeze stirred his hair. Slowly, his body began to loosen. Through the hush of forest and meadow, he heard Jitka’s voice.
“You needn’t stand, Captain.”
Thomas shifted slightly, then offered a faint, almost apologetic smile.
“It wouldn’t seem proper, not in the presence of a lady.”
Jitka gave a quiet laugh and lifted one shoulder.
“Well, I’m only a guest here… on Lord Henry’s land.”
The captain glanced at her, but said nothing. His gaze returned to the horizon. It was some time before Jitka turned back to him.
“I believe you met Lord Henry and Lord Hans at Trosky?”
He nodded. A brief smile touched his lips.
“Close by, yes. Though only Hans Capon was a lord then.”
Jitka chuckled.
“Of course.”
The captain’s brow furrowed slightly. “Things turned quickly after that… and dangerously.”
He watched her for a moment, then drew in a long, steady breath.
“In truth, I only came to know them when Henry saved my life. And he did it to save Lord Hans.”
Jitka looked at him in silence for a while. Then her gaze dropped to the grass. She ran a hand across the fabric of her riding dress.
“The first time I met Henry, he saved me from being torn apart by wolves. In the woods near Rattay. They’d already killed my escort. And Henry — he appeared as if sent from heaven.”
Thomas turned to her, surprise softening into quiet understanding.
“I didn’t know that, my lady,” he said gently.
Lukas still lay with his eyes shut. In his mind, the images took shape — Henry, sword in hand. The wolves, fierce and frenzied, lunging one after another. Each blow of his blade meeting them, sure and deadly. His face was hard, focused — and then, all at once, it softened. A calm voice. An outstretched hand. A gaze with no fear in it — only gentleness and certainty.
A lone bird cried out from the valley below.
“Shall we ride on?” Jitka’s voice came again — quiet, but firm.
Lukas and the guard moved without a word. They brought the horses to the path, tightened the tack, and checked the saddles. The air was still warm, but the light had begun to shift. Long shadows drew delicate lines between the trees.
They set out again.
The road dipped into the valley and led them on — first through underbrush and woodland, then along gentler banks where the meadows opened like arms. The land widened around them. The path turned east, toward Lautschky.
They passed a scattering of cottages and two smoking charcoal kilns, their sweetness thick on the air. The scent of coal mingled with damp earth. When they rode into the forest again, the sun was already low, slanting gold through the canopy. The road began to rise, and the horses slowed, breath quickening.
Then the trees gave way. At the crest of the hill, the land unfurled before them — Lautschky lay scattered across the slope, its cottages like crumbs on a green cloth, stitched through with plots of barley and rye. And there — above it all — smoke.
A column, rising from one of the barns on the far edge of the village. Then — flame. It leapt from the roof, red and ravenous. Tiny figures darted around it, frantic against the stillness of the landscape — with buckets, with sticks, with cries.
The riders drew to a halt.
Eyes met.
Jitka’s gaze locked on the burning barn. Then, without a word, she pressed her heels to her mare’s flanks and steered her across the meadow, straight toward the blaze.
“My lady—!” Thomas called, rising in his stirrups. “This may not be wise—”
But he didn’t finish — only tightened his seat, pulled the reins, and sped after her. Lukas and the guard were close behind.
The smoke reached them long before they came close.
It hung thick in the air — sweet and stinging, the scent of scorched straw and resin-heavy beams. Before they reached the village, they could feel the light shift — not from the sun, but from the red shimmer cast by the fire now slowly devouring the tall thatched roof. Glowing embers spun above the barn like restless stars, rising in a whirling haze, then falling in a slow and treacherous drift.
The smoke rose pale-grey and dense, climbing like a tower. At the foot of it, shadows dashed — men with buckets dousing the eaves, water hissing and vanishing at once as the flames climbed higher, ever further.
Stock screamed in the adjoining sheds. The panicked squeals of pigs, the strangled whinnies of horses — as if terror itself had found voice.
A little off to the side, near a low wattle fence, stood a young woman. A broad shawl was tied across her chest, cradling an infant tight against her breast, while three other children clung to her skirts. She held them with both arms, as if her body alone might shield them, her eyes fixed on the roof. Tears streamed down her face, unchecked, falling past her jaw to her throat.
The farmer — a lean man in a soot-blackened cap — caught sight of the riders from the corner of his eye. He turned toward them, his face drawn taut with helpless rage — then snapped back to the blaze.
He looked to the others, struggling with buckets and smoke.
“Bring the roof down!” he shouted.
Several men scattered — filthy, barefoot — and returned with long poles and iron hooks. Thomas dismounted at once and joined them. Lukas didn’t wait for a command — he grabbed a pole and broke into a run toward the barn. The guard followed close behind.
Jitka, meanwhile, had turned toward the woman and her children. She stepped closer and touched the mother’s arm with quiet care.
“Is anyone still inside?” she asked softly.
The woman shook her head. Her cheeks were streaked with soot and tears, and she didn’t bother to wipe them.
The space before the barn grew dense with motion. Hooks tore into the thatch, tearing away whole swathes before the fire reached them — but even those clumps smouldered. And the moment the flames found the tightly bound straw at the peak of the roof, they raced across the ridge like fire along a soaked fuse.
They all froze.
Every last one.
Flames leapt along the full length of the roof — sudden, ravenous, dancing from every side. The silence broke only for the crackle of timbers, the high-pitched screams of animals, and the distant cries of despair.
“Our pigs… all of them…” the woman sobbed.
Lukas glanced over his shoulder.
His gaze shifted — from her tear-streaked face to the children clinging at her skirts. Then back to the barn. And again, to the pole in his hand.
He dropped it.
Without a word, he turned and ran — straight to the barn doors. They stood ajar, spewing smoke into the air. He threw his shoulder against them and vanished into the dark.
“Lukas!” Thomas shouted.
Too late.
Jitka stood frozen — one hand pressed to her mouth, the other clenched around the pendant at her neck. Her lips moved in silence.
The farmer came to her side, stunned. “My lady… why — it’s madness —”
But the words faltered and died before they left him.
A groan rose from the structure. The roof dipped slightly. Sparks burst into the sky in a fountain of fire.
Then — movement.
A sow burst out of the doorway, squealing, her eyes wide and wild, hooves skidding in the mud. Piglets followed close behind, tumbling out in a frantic line. People rushed to catch them, to form a circle, to calm them. But no one spoke.
Every face turned back toward the doorway.
The roof was fully aflame.
Then the doors shifted.
A black wave of smoke spilled outward — thick, choking — and through it came a shape. Lukas, hunched and staggering, emerged with a fistful of mane in either hand. Two horses came with him, pressed close to his sides — stumbling, snorting, their eyes gleaming with fear.
He let them go. Gave a quick pat to their necks.
They bolted — galloping toward the village, trailed by a few who rushed to corral them.
Thomas ran to meet Lukas. Caught him just as his knees began to give.
“Come,” he breathed, throwing an arm around him and guiding him toward the grass.
Lukas collapsed — falling to his knees in deep, heaving, painful bursts of coughing that shook his frame. Ash clung to his lashes, streaked his face. His eyes burned red, tears cutting clean lines down soot-streaked cheeks.
Jitka dropped to her knees beside him.
“Did you take harm?”
He tried to answer — but coughed again, hard, doubling over. Then, without warning, he vomited into the grass.
Jitka laid a hand on his back. Slow. Steady. Quiet.
A loud crack split the air.
They turned.
The roof had begun to fall. Not with a crash — but as if fainting. First the front beam gave way, then the ridgepole — and then the whole of it collapsed in a rush of burning thatch, sending up a tower of ash and sparks — trembling as if the sky itself had flinched.
No one spoke.
Only the wind moved, sifting through the ashes that drifted down among them.
The villagers began to stir.
They seized their buckets again, ran for more water, threw it on the glowing skeleton of the barn. The smoke lay low across the earth. Someone shouted names. Someone else prayed aloud. A few men brought forward the sweating horses that Lukas had led from the fire. They trembled, tossed their heads — but slowly, they settled.
Thomas had gone to his horse. He unfastened the water skin and brought it back, kneeling beside Lukas, who still sat hunched in the grass, head down.
Lukas drank. Greedily. Wordless. When he finished, he wiped his face with his sleeve — then his eyes. And slowly looked up.
Before him stood the farmer’s wife.
Dark hair. A face smudged with soot and tears. Her gaze — calm now. Still.
She took his hand in both of hers. Met his eyes.
“God bless you, lad,” she said softly. “God bless you.”
Lukas looked at her. Silent. Unmoving. The infant on her chest gave a quiet murmur.
He nodded. Just once.
The farmer had come to Thomas’s side, his posture uneasy, his face flushed with shame.
“Sir… thank you. And your men…”
His voice broke. He turned then to Jitka — and stopped short. His eyes searched her face. He stared for a moment. At last, he pulled off his cap and bowed low.
“My lady?… It is you.”
Jitka glanced toward the woman and children standing near him. “Your wife and children?” she asked.
The man nodded.
Thomas stood with arms folded, his gaze on the charred skeleton of the barn. A pensive look had settled in his eyes.
“How did the fire start?” he asked. “No storm passed this day.”
The farmer shrugged. “I don’t know, sir. Truly, I don’t.”
A rasping voice cut through the quiet.
“It was the black rider.”
They turned.
Not far off stood an older woman — a shawl draped over her shoulders, a flinty look in her eyes.
The farmer raised his brows, then shook his head and turned back to Thomas.
“Pay no mind to old Pfeifer’s wife, sir. She talks, that one does.”
“My man once saw him. By the woods. Just after sundown,” the woman muttered. “Black horse, black armour, black cloak… no face.”
Thomas studied her a moment, then looked again to the farmer.
“Could’ve been anything, my lord,” the man said, shaking his head once more.
Jitka looked from the wife to the children at her skirts. She paused.
“You’ll be given three bushels of rye from the Klokotsch granary,” she said at last. “That should last you till harvest.”
The farmer blinked. “My lady…”
“It shall be brought to you on the morrow,” she said calmly.
She turned to Thomas. “See it done, Captain.”
The man bowed deeper than before. “God bless you, my lady… thank you.”
Jitka let her gaze drift back to the smouldering beams.
“Your name?” she asked.
The farmer swallowed. “Marek, my lady.”
“When Lord Henry returns,” she said quietly, “ask him for a remission of dues, Marek. I’ve no doubt he’ll grant it.”
She fell silent.
Then blinked — a flash of light behind her eyes, the world dimming for just a moment. Her body swayed.
Thomas caught her instantly. His arms came around her with firm steadiness.
“Are you well, my lady?” he asked softly.
Jitka rubbed her eyes. Drew in a long breath. Set her feet more firmly.
“It’s nothing,” she murmured. “Just a turn of the head.”
Thomas watched her, concern in his gaze. Then turned to Lukas, who had just risen.
“We should return to Klokotsch,” he said. “It’s growing late.”
Jitka had seized the saddle and was about to mount when something stopped her.
A sudden grip on her left forearm — thin fingers, sharp, clinging.
She turned swiftly. Her braid slipped over her shoulder.
It was the old woman.
Wrinkled face, scarf slipped down her back, eyes wide and fixed.
“It’s the Devil, my lady…” she whispered hoarsely. “The Devil himself!”
“Step back!” the guard snapped, striding forward. He seized her by the shoulder and shoved her aside. The woman staggered, but did not fall.
Jitka looked at her for a long moment.
Her brow furrowed, her gaze narrowed — but there was no fear in it. No scorn. Only a quiet, attentive stillness.
Then she swung up into the saddle.
She turned to the others. Lukas had one foot in the stirrup, but his grip faltered. Thomas reached over without a word and steadied him, one hand at his back. The young man made it up — a bit pale, breathing hard, but upright.
Thomas glanced toward Jitka — then mounted his own horse in a single, smooth motion. The guard was stepping back toward his own mount.
Jitka gave a small nod.
“We ride home.”
And so they rode — toward the south, beneath a sky deepening to indigo, where the first stars trembled into being like breath on glass. Hans lay with his eyes closed, listening.
The linden tree above whispered gently, its old crown rustling with the hush of leaves. From beyond the edge of the woods came the soft chirring of crickets.
He was stretched out on his back along the wide bench, one leg bent, foot resting on the ground. His head lay cradled in Henry’s lap. His breath came slow and even. One arm rested along his side, slack with quiet ease.
Henry’s fingers traced lightly along his forearm — slow circles, barely felt, as though time itself moved differently between them.
Then he leaned down and kissed him.
Long and soft. Just once.
When he drew back, Hans opened his eyes.
A smile flickered across his face. He lifted a hand, ran his fingers gently over Henry’s cheek, then along the edge of his jaw. For a moment, he looked only at him.
His gaze shifted upward.
Beyond the branches, the first stars had begun to show — pale and cold, scattered across the sky deepening above Foxburrow.
His expression changed, just slightly.
“Where do your thoughts wander?” Henry asked softly.
Hans didn’t answer for a moment.
His eyes stayed on the stars.
“I wonder… how Jitka fares. And the others. Back at Rotstein.”