Chapter Text
Rattay, 1416
The first time Henry of Skalitz came to Rattay, it had been on the back of a wagon.
Near-death and beyond any solid thought, he'd still felt every hitch of the wheels over the rocks. They rang like church bells for his own wake, the raised sides of the wagon bed looked like the edges of a coffin in his death-riddled mind. Any second, the faces of his family and friends would peer over the sides, and stare down at him in solemn visitation.
Only by then he'd no family to speak of, least as far as he knew. Sigismund had seen to that.
The roads now are little better than they were then— his arse takes the blows for him instead of his back, tailbone aching something fierce— but not everything is the same as it was.
As they draw from the forest's edge and out onto the open valley road, two castles stand in greeting: Castle Rattay and Castle Pirkstein. Rattay peeks just barely over the hill, but Pirkstein stands tall, its tower hoarding the horizon. They'd been strangers to him, once, but seeing them now, the word 'home' begins burning in Henry's heart; a feeling so warm it'd melt the snow off the rooftops. Henry gazes at the windows, dark from this distance, knowing which ones lead to which rooms, and whose faces he might find in them. He leans in his seat, wondering if he can catch a glimpse before their wagon travels too far up the road.
He pays for the indulgence: the cart flirts with a ditch, and the whole wagon bed jumps along with their luggage. Henry braces, not for the disturbance now yards behind them, but for the remark that follows:
"I knew I should have driven," Theresa teases. She leans over the driver's box, her nose just visible in the corners of Henry's vision. The winter air turns her breath into clouds, misting into the wind. "You steer like you're aiming for the stones in the road."
Henry scoffs. "I do not. The stones… put themselves in the way."
"Ha! Of course they do. And I'm sure that cart rut we stalled in did, too."
"Well, you said it, not me." He grins at her over his shoulder, snorting when she feigns a put-upon sigh.
Theresa retreats to her seat, and from behind he can hear a snuffling that could only be Maja stirring. "You even woke up Maja," she scolds lightly. Unable to keep even the pretence of anger, it melts into cooing as she begins to dote on the dog.
Henry turns his head a degree. From this angle he can barely see the dog: a small white beast with better grooming than some noble lords, though no amount of warm, wet rags can wipe the stubborn yellow from around its eyes.
"I'd say she gets plenty sleep. A little less certainly won't hurt."
"Don't mind him, Maja," Theresa continues. "Tonight we'll sleep on feather pillows, with none of Henry's snores to keep us up."
Perhaps he has no right to feel wounded, considering whose bed he plans to share that evening, but he can't help his mild offence. "I thought you said I was doing better."
"Better's still a long way from quiet." From his peripherals he catches the top of her head, leaning back out the wagon to see where he's leading them. "Watch the ditch up to the right, here, Hal."
"I know. Christ, maybe I'll let you drive on the way back and you can suffer my commentary— oi!" Theresa smacks him across the back of the head with all the strength of a rabbit and he laughs, flinching away. The horses spur faster, wheels hopping along the road against the river that runs beside it. Maja's high-pitched barking keeps pace with their hoof falls.
Along the path he can hear the miller's wheel grinding away on one side, and on the other the sound of the bathmaids preparing for an evening of service. Once wooden buildings have been remade with stone, and some new ones have cropped up as the Skalitz beggars moved out from the foot of Pirkstein, but by and large it's still the same city outskirts he remembers. A few faces appear at the gates of their homesteads: Zlata, now more matron than maid, hails him, and Antonia sets down her pail to cup her hands around her mouth to cry Theresa's name.
"Good morning, Antonia! God be with you!" she calls back, leaning out the side of the wagon to shout.
"You'd think we'd been gone months," he remarks. "I was only here New Year's."
"That's mayfly's years, Hal."
With a smooth stretch of road before them, a rustling sound signals his wife's intent as she gathers her skirt in one hand. "Hang on," she tells him, "I'm coming up."
She clambers over the bed, one leg at a time, ignoring Henry's concerned "Careful!" as he imagines her rolling under the wheels of his own cart. Flaunting fate, she drops into the seat beside him with a sigh. Not quite done, she turns once more, lifting Maja out to join them. The dog goes stiff-legged as she's carted through the air and into Theresa's lap, where upon she immediately melts into a puddle.
Henry snorts, but knows better now than to say anything. He'd lost the argument as to the dog's worth years ago. When Lady Jitka gave Theresa the runt of the litter it was love at first sight, and there was no hope of persuading her away from it. He had asked what use the dog was, and she'd been quick to educate him:
"She makes me happy, she doesn't need to do anything else."
As Maja makes herself at home in the throne of his wife's lap, Henry casts his eyes forward. The road leading up to Rattay gates is clearer than the road behind them, the ice moved from the path to accommodate the greater levels of traffic flowing in and out. Nonetheless, they are probably here for the winter, now. Unless Hans has a mind to hunt, he sees no reason to quit the castle.
And even less reason to cart the wagon through the woods twice in one season.
Even on a grey morning like this one, the roads aren't theirs alone. The sound of hoof beats behind him is cause to keep a tighter grip on the reins, but hardly one to turn his head. Theresa, however, shifts and looks around her. Her elbow nudges him through her cloak, blunted by the thick wool. The sly smile on her lips is apparent in her voice:
"Don't look now, Hal," she says, "but our welcome party has arrived."
Before he can twist to see what she means, four horses burst past them on both sides. Mathilde and Cabbage whinny in protest, but keep their temperament even. Neither of them are tested in battle, but they are adept at navigating the bustle of urban streets and all associated hazards.
The riding party halts several yards ahead, leaving room enough for his cart to roll to a stop. They're a lightly armoured group, albeit warmly dressed, electing for hoods instead of coifs and hats instead of helmets. At the head of their command is an unlikely soldier: a boy whose legs seem to have only just grown into his stirrups. His cheeks are rosy and round, not yet rid of the baby fat from when he fed on his mother's teats.
And were it not for the fur-earred cap lovingly pulled over his head, his golden crown of hair would make his parentage patently obvious.
Henry squints, sun bright against the snow, calling out to him, "Does there seem to be a problem, my lord?"
"I have yet to decide," the boy responds. "I'm patrolling the roads for any sign of trouble. My father's dear friend is arriving today, you see, and I want him to arrive safely. Do you have any weapons?"
"Aye," Henry says, reaching back with one arm to blindly pat the swords he'd forged in his absence, "but I'm a blacksmith, Sir. Swords are my trade."
The boy's cheeks puff as he considers the answer. "I suppose that is a respectable reason. Anything else that we ought to know?"
"Nothing of note, the usual trappings for a man of my means." Henry twists his face, pretending to remember something he hadn't forgotten. "I also come bearing gifts for the Lord of Pirkstein's children."
"Gifts?" All pretence of noble airs are blown away in a brisk wind, and suddenly a young boy of twelve years is staring at Henry with shining eyes. "Can I see them?"
Henry's voice strains from the force of holding in his laugh, gut pressed against his spine. "When we get within the city walls, aye. Wouldn't want any robbers watching from the woods getting ideas, would we?"
"No- I mean, of course not! My retinue and I will escort you, just in case."
His head bobs in respect. "You are most gracious, my lord. At your leisure, lead on."
The guard are not a grim-faced group, lips brimming with tempered smiles as the little lord urges his horse up the hill, with Henry following close behind.
"Goodness, has he grown," Theresa mutters.
"Aye," Henry says, "a little too big for his britches, if you ask me."
"But aren't all noble sons? There was a time not so long ago you would have said the same of his father."
Theresa had been the unwilling ear to it all: the fistfight in the tavern, the hunt in the woods, everything until the hour when what he and Capon got up to in the dark went beyond the veil of idle gossip. Though as his wife, she knows more than most.
Still, he shrugs. "I wouldn't've been wrong then, either."
From several yards ahead, Hynce twists in his saddle. First one way, then the next, as if checking to see which ear works better. "I can't hear you! What are you saying?"
Theresa cups Maja's ears before shouting forward: "I was remarking upon how clear the roads are, my lord! Not a wink of mischief, you've done a fine job!"
"Thank you, Goodwife! You humble me!"
She trades smiles with Henry, palm turning absent-mindedly into Maja's ferocious kisses now that her ears have been uncovered.
The yawning gates of Rattay are open for their arrival. Long clear of refugees, the foot of Pirkstein still looks empty as Henry navigates the wagon from the main path to begin off-loading their belongings. Hired hands rush to help him, as do beggars hoping for a quick groschen. "Leave the swords, they're for the barracks," Henry says to one, waving him away with one hand.
Hynce does not wait for someone to come with a ladder to climb off his horse. Braving the drop from the stirrups to the ice, Henry hears a crunch from behind, but before he can turn a pair of arms catch him around his middle.
"You were missed, Henry," he says, face so cold Henry can feel it through his coat. "Hetty will tell you she missed you most, but she didn't ride out to find you."
The snort that issues from Henry's nose disturbs the fur around Hynce's cap. "I'm certain her being shy of eight has nothing to do with that."
The sarcasm of the remark sails over the boy's head. He pulls back, patting around Henry's cloak and the front of his coat as if searching him for a weapon. "You said you had a gift for me?"
Minding his laughter in mixed company, Henry says, "Patience is a virtue, my lord. I've barely got my bearings. Perhaps if you go fetch your father, I'll have it out by the time you're back."
Quick as songbird, Hynce nods and flits away. As Henry turns back to the wagon he can hear his boots hammering over the wooden drawbridge, and a castle guard warning him he'll slip.
Theresa remains seated, waiting until Henry offers his hand before she hops off, leaving Maja stranded in the driver's seat. She stares at them with eyes as black as mine shafts, silently protesting this turn of events that has left her alone and without comfort. He pays her no mind, rummaging through what hadn't yet been taken by the help.
Growing up, Henry never thought it possible to have too many belongings, yet finds himself a little lost in his own things. Thank the Lord most of this was work, he thinks, patting the tops of bags to feel for what he seeks. At least that means he'll leave lighter than he came.
Craning his neck towards Theresa, he relents and asks, "Do you remember where I packed their presents?"
Theresa beats the creases from her skirt, and does not need to stop and think like he does. "In with your wardrobe, so they didn't get battered about."
"Right, 'course."
Something about the comings and goings of travel shifts something in his mind. Things that had seemed perfectly logical before he set off now don't occur to him, and thoughts he'd never had before are natural as breathing. Thankfully, the natural boundaries of the world seem to have no hold on Theresa. He gives her a quick press on the cheek before he stretches over to unveil the bag in question. Wrapped in wool to keep out the winter wet, it turns once in the air before falling back atop the pile.
Peeling back the mouth, a great yellow tongue lolls out. Fine furs and wool knits to last the winter fill the sack, many fashioned in the colours of the lords of Leipa. He'd stepped away from his duties as Castellan in the last year upon the request of his liege lord, who had hoped to make something of the woods at his doorstep, but he knows so long as he's in Rattay he will have to look the part.
And the promise he'd made to Hans the day he was named Castellan has no expiration. When kingdom come and judgement day is nigh, he will rise again in Capon's service.
Like divine providence (or the instruction of his wife) guides his hand, it lands upon the pouch carrying his intended gifts. Three, one for each of the little arrows in Hans's quiver; small enough altogether to gather in one hand.
"Right! Got them."
"Just as well." Theresa nods down the path to Pirkstein. "He's brought the cavalry."
Henry is beaming before he turns. In the bleak of midwinter, the lord of Leipa arrive like a flash of sunlight through a cloud: loud and bright, vivid as a bird's wing against the grey stone and muddy snow.
"Henry!" Hans's song rings clearer in the crisp air, long legs carrying him quickly across the drawbridge as his son struggles to keep pace.
Henry shortens his journey, and they meet in the middle, as it's always been. Each clap one arm to brace the other man's elbow, but it's Hans who pulls him in. He offers no resistance, falling against his chest in an embrace that tests the boundaries of knightly brotherhood. Nose buried in his scarf, Henry smells the fire they will enjoy together, later.
Later, he reminds himself, so he does not linger. He pulls back, satisfying himself with the warmth of Hans's smile.
"I was beginning to think you'd be holed up all winter. I ought to have invited Sir Radzig sooner."
Henry merely smiles in response.
It's a sweet lie. His lord's relationship with his father had never been forged with steel. Henry remembers standing with him over Talmberg, and how he'd scoffed Hans's name. The thirteen years since have not warmed one to the other. He knows why Radzig mislikes his lord: a dandy, he'd called him, born with a silver spoon. And any hope of common ground was dashed the day Hans sued for his inheritance, reducing Hanush to a distant neighbour in Senorady.
Hans had similarly made no secret for the root of his resentment. Long oblivious to Radzig's disdain, his tipping point had been the birth of Jakub, the first Kobyla in a generation with a right to claim the name.
Though far from banished from Radzig's holdings, outside his father's company, Henry's presence is as welcome as a flooded latrine.
"I ought not to be angry," Hans had told him at the time. "His limp spine can only mean more of your company."
It had stung to hear it then, although Hans meant nothing but kind things by it. He could not ever truly despair so long as he shared Capon's bed, but he wished it had not come at the cost of one in his own father's castle.
Henry's cheer is more stubborn than bad memories. Through his sleeve he can feel the warmth of Pirkstein's walls upon Capon's skin, and reminds himself of the fire and company in his future. "Someone has to ready the cabin for spring. Lord Jesus knows these walls won't keep you contained much longer."
"Just seeing your face makes me realise it's been too long since I've hunted." Years of secrecy have made Henry fluent in the language of dreamt gestures. Hans's eyes follow the line of Henry's cheek, denoting the path his hands will take later, God willing. "I suppose after your father's on his way we might…?"
He can't agree fast enough. "Ah, I'd be glad to. Your company's sorely missed, the hired hands don't live up to the entertainment you provide, my lord."
"Then we'll have to find ones with more cheer next year. Can't have my favourite blacksmith growing bored off in the woods."
"Excuse me, Lord Capon?" Theresa curtsies as she speaks, and though she addresses the ground between herself and Hans's boots, the fact that she raised her voice at all demonstrates her ease. "Might I inquire as to the whereabouts of your lady wife? I've brought the hoops she asked me for."
"Hm? Oh, Lady Jitka's in the upper castle— she says the baby hasn't taken to Pirkstein." Not that Jitka herself has ever taken to it. Henry presumes that separate living situations is in the best interest for both parties, for although Rattay Castle lay for Hans to claim, he still favoured Pirkstein. Because of the latching windows, Henry presumes, but never asked. He'd spent too many mornings smelling spring through them to not know how Hans prefers to sleep.
His wife's gaze slides up from the frosted earth and to him. "Then shall I take the wagon up, Henry? The armoury will want their blades."
Casting a glance over Hans's shoulder, he sees their belongings carted up to the castle, overseen by the watchful eye of Lord Hynce of Pirkstein. "Aye, I think the lads have it unpacked. I'll see you for supper."
He says his farewells with a chaste kiss to his wife's lips and a handful of groschen for the men who will volunteer to unload the wagon once it's up the hill. She scoops up the dog back into her lap, urging the horses forward with a shake of the reins.
As she crawls up the hill and the crowd, plied with the groschen, begins to thin, Henry turns to Hans. "Otta still giving her ladyship trouble?"
The last time he had been in town, the youngest Capon had been the cause of many a headache. Which is, at least, preferable to heartache. Otta wouldn't have been the first child the couple lost, an anxiety that shows plainly upon Hans's face as he answers:
"You wouldn't know it from looking at her. She sleeps like the dead, but when she wakes she's so preoccupied with screaming she won't feed."
"Perhaps she's having nightmares," Henry offers.
Hans passes his hand over his chin, pulling at the bristles he'd started growing out before the season's first frost. It's darker than his hair, more straw-coloured than pure blond, and not so soft between the legs. "I'm not certain what a babe her age could even have nightmares about."
"Childbirth, perhaps." Henry shrugs. "It's a grim thing, near as much blood bringing life into the world as there is taking it."
"When have you seen a woman give birth?" Hans asks incredulously.
"The executioner's wife, remember?" A simple visit to a friend, turned into a chaotic birth. Hermann had torn men's tongues out with tongs, and yet seeing his own son brought into the world had brought him to a faint. Lucky Elishka had a stronger stomach.
"Oh, I had almost forgotten. Deliver a child in the morning, lop a man's head off in the evening… yes, I suppose you would know."
"There was always the lambs in spring, besides that."
Waving his hand to silence him, Hans ushers him across the drawbridge like a mother hen herding her brood. Ice crunches between his boots and the wooden planks like spears breaking against castle's defences. "Yes, yes, you've made your point! You're as talented a midwife as a knight. Perhaps you'd like to try getting the child to latch. Not that she won't still go hungry on your teat."
Hans's gaze drops to the teat in question, then quickly adds, "Anyway, we ought to get you settled. We'll have supper up the hill tonight and-"
"May I see my present now?" The little lord awaits them at the mouth of Pirkstein, more patient than Henry had expected. He pushes back the blond wisps that had fallen from the front of his cap, tucking them back under so his blue eyes may work their magic.
"Please don't interrupt, Hynce."
Not to be driven off-course, Hynce insists, "Uncle Henry promised he would if I fetched you."
"Is that so?" Hans glances Henry's way. "Impertinent of him to order you about."
"I didn't order anyone," Henry protests.
"No? But I'd wager you said what you needed to get him to want to." The accusation has no heat, a knowing smile spreads across the lord's expression. "Go on, then. Show him what you've brought."
Pink creeps up Henry's neck, flushing the winter from his skin. He'd anticipated bearing the eyes (and judgement) of the father as well as the son, but anticipating something and enduring it are two separate matters. Hetty and Otta are to receive gifts befitting their age, but Hynce iss not so far from becoming a man himself— hard as that is to believe. Sometimes it seems only yesterday his fist could barely hold one of Henry's fingers.
But a man he is becoming, regardless of if Henry can believe it or not. Thus, he is owed a man's gift.
"I'd intended to give your sisters theirs at the same time, but I suppose you are the eldest. Very well…"
He fishes in the pouch, tugging when he feels a chain. Inside, the music of metal on metal plays as he yanks it free. It whips into the air, then dances from side to side as it slowly loses its inertia. When it's still enough, he drops it into Hynce's hand.
A ring winks up at them. Baked into the polished silver band is an inscription too small to read from this distance, though he had carved the words himself.
Henry watches as Hynce's wide eyes go small, and his heart drops, fearing rejection; only to recognise the expression as one his father often makes when he's trying to make sense of something. His nose, still a child's and not yet resembling either parent, creases.
The thought hits its mark, and he uses his teeth to tear off his fur-lined gloves (ignoring his father dismayed reminder of their worth), fumbling as his hands seem suddenly half their size. He slips the ring on, chain and all, expression falling as it slides easily past his knuckles.
"Ith dboesn'tb thfit," he says around a mouthful of fur.
Henry leans over, tapping the dangling chain to make it dance again. "Aye, that's what the chain is for. You'll grow into it, but wear it 'round your neck 'til then."
"May I see, son?" Hans crouches in a decidedly unlordly way, head lowering to level himself with Hynce's hands. In his hurry to quit the castle he'd left his gloves; fingers already beginning to redden at the tips, his naked palm flattens to accept the ring.
Hynce presses it carefully into his father's hand. The care with which the two handle it is night and day: Hynce, treating it like porcelain, and Hans, who snatches it up to roll between two fingers. Admiring it, he holds it to one eye to gaze through into Hynce's.
"Does it look familiar?"
"It… looks like your ring, and Henry's." The little lord speaks like he doesn't wish to be wrong, his gaze passing over the band Hans wears. Henry feels his own beneath his glove, thumb pressing the outline into his third finger.
There's patience in Hans's smile, a rare gentleness, as his finger traces around the ring. "Almost, but not quite the same. Here, there's an inscription— you missed your Latin lesson this morning, so this will have to serve as one. Can you read it?"
"Cum domu contra omnia," Hynce sounds out the words slowly, glancing sidelong for any cues. "With family… against everything?"
"Good, perhaps you needn't have gone after all," Hans jests. "But if memory serves you have another before Sext. One missed lesson denotes a rebel— two, an ignoramus, so you ought to get a move on."
Hans nudges his son towards his lesson, meeting resistance when Hynce plants his feet. "But Henry just got here."
"And he will be here for some time yet. You'll be sick of him by the time spring comes." Hans smile favours one side of his face, head rolling back to cast it towards the man in question.
"But it isn't spring yet. Can he come with me?"
"What, to your lesson?"
"I don't see the harm," Henry says. "After all, evidently I only have 'til spring before he's tired of me."
Caught in his own teasing, Hans's smile dampens considerably. Any careful plans he had for their reunion are spoiled by his only son's whims. Henry grins back with a mouthful of teeth, winter nipping at his gums.
"Very well," Hans sighs, rising to his feet, and thus, above the two of them. "But find me when you're through, Henry. I do have some actual business to discuss before I am at leave to enjoy the pleasure of your company."
A simple 'yes' seems beyond the scope of Hans's capabilities, but both parties have known him too long to mistake it for anything else.
Henry feels a tug at his elbow, stronger than he might've expected, and allows it to guide him towards Pirkstein.
A thought strikes him, small and plain: for as little as Rattay may have changed since he had been carted to its gates on death's door, he cannot say the same for its people.