Chapter Text
Hans only trudges over to the training yard to avoid another lecture from his uncle. Hanush is always going on about the importance of learning to be a real warrior, as if Hans will ever find himself in a real battle without dozens of retainers surrounding him. Hans can already swing a sword well enough, in his own estimation.
It's not even nine o'clock in the morning, but he's been beaten to the yard by an earlier riser. Since Captain Bernard is focused on yelling at Henry as he waves a wooden sword about, Hans decamps to the archery butts. It's far more pleasant to draw back a bowstring and watch each arrow thunk into the center of the target.
After a while, the captain does notice that his future lord has bothered to turn up. Hans is obligated to don some practice armor and spar for a few rounds while Henry practices some basic footwork exercises in a corner of the yard. Then he's free to return to archery.
The sun climbs higher in the sky. Captain Bernard receives a report from a guardsman and leaves on some official duty. Hans lets another arrow fly, listening for the satisfying thunk of the shaft punching deep into the straw target.
The sound is doubled, off-rhythm. Hans pauses in his next draw. He looks back over his shoulder to see a figure sprawled out on the hard-packed dirt in the ring. That blacksmith's boy must have tripped over his own feet and taken a tumble.
It must have been an hour since the captain left. How long has he been practicing drills alone? And how much longer before that was he training with the captain?
Hans passes his bow off to the nearest of his fellow archers and saunters over to the ring. Henry is struggling to rise. He is not yet used to his practice armor. When he pushes himself off the ground, his shaking arms betray his exhaustion.
"Don't lean on your sword," Hans tells him, as Henry angles the practice sword tip-down in the dirt like an ordinary stick. "Not even with a practice weapon. It builds bad habits."
Henry looks up at him. Beneath the dented kettle helmet that has borne the blows of half a hundred recruits, his face is flushed. "I know how to care for a sword," he says. Only after a pause does he mutter the obligatory, "Sir."
But he stops leaning on the practice sword and puts it down at his side. Hans hops over the fence rail and holds out his hand.
Henry stares at it as if he believes there's some trick he hasn't yet spotted. He has managed to rise to his knees, but his shoulders are bowed with exhaustion, and his face is shining with sweat. Hans can't remember the last time he trained half as hard. He has never had a reason to push himself so far.
"Up you get," Hans says, and at last Henry takes his hand. He may be an inexperienced swordsman, but he has a devil of a grip. Hans takes his weight until he can get his feet under him again.
"Thank you, sir," Henry says, and he sounds as if he actually means it.
"That's enough training for today," Hans declares. "Take that armor off and get yourself cleaned up. I need you to go to the tailor in Rattay."
He has no pressing need to place an order, but sending Henry off on an errand seems wiser than letting himself continue training until he can't stand at all. Henry may not be good at much, but—when he bothers to get around to it—he can be trusted to run an errand.