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The march to Moravia is a long one, made even longer by the rainy season come early. They spend their days trudging ankle deep in muddied roads and their evenings with nothing but wet firewood to smolder. It's a slow, cold walk through the countryside.
Thomas has barely known Sir Capon a year - set eyes on him for the first time when he and a few dozen men escorted their Lady Jitka to her wedding. A combining of families and a select number of forces in the vows as they followed their Lord and Lady to Rattay immediately after. In the months since, the Sassau region has been blessed with relative peace, and Thomas has had little interaction with Sir Hans Capon besides a passed down order from the captain.
He knows, like the rest of their company, that Sir Capon fought at the Assault of Talmberg. That he was held captive by Von Bergow. That he defended during the Siege of Suchdol until everything but the last tower was taken. He also knows that if you ask the longstanding members of the guard that Sir Capon was more likely to be found drunk and neck deep at the local bathhouse than a council chamber.
Thomas has yet to form much of his own opinion and given orders to join the party on their march hasn’t done much to change that. Sir Capon rides at the front of their group, meets with the captain when they make camp, and retires long before any of the men have so much as finished their dinner. Most days, all Thomas sees of Capon is his straw colored hair glinting ahead on horseback.
“I swear on my Ma’s life, I saw it with my own eyes.”
Unfortunately for Capon, the cold does nothing but breed rumors in a bored army.
“Not you too,” William laughs, loud and deep as he scrapes the last of his stew from his bowl. The rain has softened to a light spit that gleams on their little group as they sit huddled around their small fire. Their company isn’t large but the camp they make is decently sized with a good scattering of tents, soldiers grouping themselves by whose company they could stand the best. “I don’t have enough fingers to count how many stories I’ve heard about this beastie-“
He’s interrupted by Jacob, still wearing his armor and looking like he’d marched an extra fifteen miles from the way he sinks down onto their dirt next to Thomas. He immediately starts to jerk at the ties of his chestplate, irritated. “Someone pour me a bowl.”
William grins and it looks dangerous in the firelight. He glances around them at the other circles of soldiers eating and getting ready to bed down to make sure no one is within earshot, “Still haven’t managed to please our Lord? I’m afraid you’re going to have to borrow a dress next.”
“Fuck off,” Jacob sneers back, yanking off his gauntlets. It’s a tender subject, Jacob a distant relative of Jitka’s, has been given the honor to squire for Sir Capon on their journey. An honor Jacob is desperately trying to excel at much to the resistance of his Lord. “He won’t even let me take off his gauntlets! Tells me to leave him be like I’m a common bath wench that’s displeased him.”
“And?” William asks dryly. “Have you tried getting on your knees to apologize?”
Thomas shoots William a warning look as the soldiers on first watch make their way past their fire, and hands Jacob the last of the stew. “Kit was explaining the demon he saw,” He says, changing the subject to something that would hopefully keep them out of trouble.
All three of their gazes turn to Kit, barely seventeen with a face still round with baby fat and seemed to have no business carrying a sword at his hip. A dead father and sisters to feed quickly make a soldier out of all kinds.
“Not just any demon, Kit thinks he saw the Black Knight,” William chuckles.
Jacob rolls his eyes and relaxes a bit, leaning against his bedroll, “This a nightmare you had, lad?”
“I know what I saw,” Kit huffs, his cheeks going flush. “I was on watch back home right at midnight - the witching hour! One moment I was alone in the courtyard of the upper castle and the next he was right there in front of me!”
Thomas watches him with a raised eyebrow, “In front of you?”
“Aye, barely a few feet away! He was nearly twice my height and three times the size of my shoulders - and then he just-“ Kit waves his hand, his eyes so wide Thomas can see the whites. “Gone, into the shadows. I couldn’t even get a word out.”
“You’re a real hero, Kit,” William cackles. “Saved Lord Capon’s life, you should be knighted for it.” He smacks a large hand on the younger man’s back, making him yelp.
“What is he talking about?” Jacob asks. Thomas shakes his head, “It’s a story some of the soldiers tell-“
“Lord Capon is cursed,” William interrupts. “The Black Knight will have his revenge.”
“-there have been a few sightings around Sassau of a mysterious man that seems to disappear before anyone can question him,” Thomas explains.
“Only where Lord Capon is,” William grins. “He follows him like a man wronged. They say he won’t rest until Sir Hans Capon is slaughtered by his black sword but our Lord evidently doesn’t go down easily. He’ll bear this curse for eternity - if you believe such things.”
“And you don’t?” Jacob asks.
“Of course not. Men see strange things in the dark,” William says wisely.
“And you?” Jacob asks, turning to face Thomas.
Thomas wants to deny the tale. He’s a good Christian; he doesn’t believe the devil could have such power in their streets, slinking in and out of homes and towns across the region. But a memory pricks at his skin, the ghost of something dreadful filling the hall outside of Lady Jitka’s room when he’d been tasked with bringing a message from her father.
It had been late, well past midnight when he’d turned the corner and seen a figure cloaked in shadow without so much as a light in the blackness, it’s hand resting on the door to Sir Capon’s private quarters. Thomas’s breath had caught, his heart freezing in his chest as he stared at the creature - and by the time he’d gathered enough strength to raise his torch down the hall, the thing had vanished.
“I don’t pretend to know the mysteries of the night,” Thomas says and crosses himself.
“Jesus,” William groans, “Not you too.”
“Maybe that’s why Sir Capon doesn’t want your help,” Kit offers Jacob. “Maybe he never takes his armor off in case the Black Knight makes an appearance.”
“Better a demon than the alternative,” Jacob grumbles. “Captain says not too take it personally, his first squire was just untouchable. How can anyone be that good at taking off some stupid armor?”
…
They’re heading to Moravia as an act of political alliance and shouldn’t expect combat, at least as far as Thomas understands it. He’s only twenty but has long since learned not to question orders. What he knows for certain is the closer they get to the border the more unrest there is. Eyes lingering on them with apprehension when they pass through villages, empty wagons with blood soaked boards left roadside, news of bandit camps passing unflinchingly close - none of it bodes well.
They walk. The rain continues.
“What I wouldn’t give for fresh meat,” William mutters, biting at his jerky and pulling it until it splits on his teeth.
“We’re behind schedule with this weather, no time for a hunt,” Thomas says, looking upward at the sky they can see through the tree cover. A rare moon is out tonight, illuminating the rain as it dribbles over them.
“At this rate we’ll be pruned by the time we reach Moravia,” Kit says, putting his shoes near the fire in an attempt to dry them before tomorrow's march.
“I’m afraid it might be too late for you, lad,” A voice says and it takes them each half a second to realize it didn’t come from their circle and barely the other half to stumble to their feet and incline their heads respectfully. Lord Hans Capon stands in front of them, light haired and grinning even in the shadow of nightfall.
“Sir Capon,” Thomas echoes along with the rest.
“Yes, yes,” Capon waves a hand, his eyes somewhere on the other side of camp in the direction of the captain’s tent. “I heard your complaints of meat loud and clear - and a Lord’s duty is to his men.”
“You’re forming a hunting party, Sir?” William asks.
Jacob immediately stands tall, his chest puffing out with importance. He’s told them enough times how he won the archery tourney back in his hometown. Evidently, if he can’t impress Capon with his speed handling his armor, he’s going to win him over as a sharp shooter.
“Not a party, we don’t have the time. A small select team,” Capon says and his eyes finally look upon their group. They dance over each of them, flickering quickly over Jacob like he was repulsed by his eagerness before finally landing on Thomas. “You,” he raises a finger. “Come with me.”
“Sir,” Jacob says quickly. “I am an extremely experienced hunter and would make quick work-“
“Next time, Jacob,” Capon says, and doesn’t wait for Thomas to follow as he makes his way through the camp and heads for the deeper trees.
Thomas has no time, jerking back into his gambeson and barely remembering to grab his sword as he stumbles after him.
The moon is a blessing, lighting their way enough despite the rain but that does not make what they’re doing any less stupid. It’s dark and wet and it’s just the two of them in an unfamiliar forest.
“Are we low on rations, Sir?” Thomas asks carefully after several moments of just their feet dragging through mud.
“Hm?” Capon walks with purpose, despite it not seeming like they were heading in a particular direction. “No, we’re alright on food. No one is going hungry.”
“Is there another reason for the hunt, Sir?”
“Meat is good for morale,” Capon says, glancing back the way they came like he wasn’t certain they weren’t being followed. “And I needed a bit of air.”
Thomas is a little shocked at the honesty but understands the motivation behind it. Soldiers' camps can be suffocating, even for a Lord with his own personal tent. “Of course, my Lord.”
“Can you shoot?”
“Aye. Not as well as Jacob.”
Capon snorts, his stride slowing a bit as they crossed over a small stream and into deeper foliage, the flickering of the campfire light disappeared behind them, “So I’ve heard.”
“I don’t know how I’ll fare in the dark if I’m being honest.”
Capon waves his hand again, the crossbow on his shoulder gleaming in the moonlight, “Game might be scarce anyway. We’ll head downstream then circle back, most of the camp will have gone to bed by then anyway.”
“Is there… something I can assist you with, Sir?” Thomas asks, not quite sure why he of all people was chosen on this outing.
“You’re already assisting,” Capon says. “Great work, really excellent job you’ve done accompanying me.”
Thomas frowns but dutifully follows. They walk another ten minutes in silence, only the trickle of rain and the shift of the forest around them.
“Are you looking forward to seeing home?”
Thomas blinks, not sure if he was more shocked at his Lord making small talk with him or Capon’s recognition that he’d come from Kunstadt.
“I - yes,” He stumbles on his words and quickly adds a “-Sir.”
“Jitka says it’s lovely after the rainy season. I’m going to have to take her word on that,” Capon looks up at the sky with a sigh, the rain darkening his hair where it lays slicked against his forehead. “Come on, the hunt continues.”
He truly means it because soon they’re crouching in the brush, Capon examining fresh deer tracks in the mud when the first sign of trouble comes.
“OooOOOo, for our blessed Lady’s sake - bring us in good ale!” A voice sings, carrying over in the quiet of the forest.
“Shut it,” Another voice swears and the sharp sound of skin on metal as it sounds like the singer is smacked round for his performance. “I’ll not have another night of this.”
The voices get closer, torches breaking through the darkness, and all at once, Thomas and his Lord are trapped in the shallow cover of a berry bush.
“Shit,” Capon breathes. He reaches out and puts a firm hand on Thomas’s shoulder without taking his eyes off the bandits. “Easy.”
Thomas realizes he’s so tense he’s trembling, muscles straining against the urge to flee as he watches one, two, three, four men lazily cut through the forest. They walk without urgency, trodding a well worn path like they know the forest well. They’re rough men, Thomas doesn’t need to get close to recognize the dark splatters on their skin is blood or that the mismatched armor they wear is looted. They’re bandits, and he is all that stands between them and his Lord. He wills his fingers not to tremble as he slowly reaches down for his sword.
“None of that now,” Capon whispers, voice quiet as rain. “Steady on. Let them pass.”
Thomas wants to be obedient, but they’re barely a few twigs of coverage away from a massacre. All it will take is one of the men to glance in their direction and they’ll be lambs welcoming the slaughter. Their one and only advantage is surprise and this is his duty -
Capon’s hand tightens on his shoulder but Thomas can only see blood and blades. His duty is to his Lord and Lady and he must not falter, he must bring Sir Capon home, he-
He shifts his weight in preparation, his foot crunching on a fallen branch. It may as well have been a battle cry the way the bandits freeze in their tracks. “What do we have here?” One calls, raising his torch higher as the rest draw their weapons.
Before Thomas can draw his own sword or so much as push his Lord behind him, the bandit closest to him drops to the ground. He lies like a puppet severed from its string, an arrow sticking straight from the bloody hollow of his eye socket.
It’s chaos then. Thomas makes a grab for Capon but his hand falls into the mud, his Lord melting into the night. It’s meaningless, though, because he’s quickly pulled from the bush like a newborn babe and his sword is kicked from his person. “No bow,” one of the men shouts, fisting his hand in Thomas’s hood.
“Where’d you run, archer!” The man with the torch yells into the dark. He must be their leader by the way the others circle him, his scarred skin making his face pull devilishly in the night.
Another thunk, a second man falling to his knees in the mud. This one doesn’t go as fast, the arrow ripping clean through his throat and leaving him to claw at his skin as he chokes on his own blood for several gruesome moments.
The sight seems to wisen up the leader. He crosses over to Thomas and shoves his sword against his throat, holding him up by his hair and presenting him to the dark trees. “Come out now or I’ll skewer your friend!”
Friend - Thomas might laugh if he weren’t frozen in terror. The blade cuts into his skin as the bandit drags the edge into his windpipe. The man is insane and obviously has no idea who he’s stumbled upon - Lords don’t surrender for foot soldiers. He’s going to die, Thomas thinks hysterically. He’s going to die as is his duty before God.
“Alright, we can all still be friends here,” Capon emerges from the trees with his hands raised and drops the crossbow to the ground. “I’ll forgive you for ruining a Lord’s stroll through the forest if you two kindly fuck off.”
“A Lord?” The leader repeats and instead of immediately gutting Thomas and Capon like he obviously intended to, he hesitates. “Strip him.”
The second bandit grins despite his two friends now lying dead in the mud and their group completely halved. In his hysteria, Thomas considers his features are oddly delicate for a roaming murderer, his hair a light blonde that falls into his face. “Kick that to me,” He points at Capon’s crossbow and his Lord doesn’t hesitate to nudge it over.
No, no, no, - this is all Thomas’s fault. Forget death - being the cause of Sir Capon’s humiliation at the hands of bandits might be a fate worse than purgatory. He watches, humiliated at the sight, as his Lord is forced to his knees and stripped of his armor and honor.
“Christ, he’s got to be one of the rich ones - look at this,” The blonde bandit whistles, pulling Capon’s gleaming longsword from it’s sheath. “Ain't seen nothing like this.”
“Will we get a fat ransom for you, Lordling?” The leader still has his sword against Thomas’s neck but he holds it loosely, more of a second thought now that the archer was without his bow.
“Just take the sword and leave us be,” Capon rolls his eyes, seeming unconcerned about being on his knees for such filth. “You peasants and your obsessions with metal.”
The blonde bandit swings the sword over Capon’s head and Thomas’s stomach lurches in terror, but the metal only sings sharp into the air. Capon doesn’t flinch.
The leader looks him over, the pieces of Sir Hans Capon adding up to something that seems to make him uneasy. For a maddening moment Thomas thinks he might actually let them go.
“I said strip him,” The man commands instead, nodding for his lackey to keep going.
Off comes his chest plate, his gauntlets, and leg plates. It isn’t until the bandit pulls off the chainmail shirt that Capon has much of a reaction at all. “Leave it,” He commands coldly.
Thomas can’t immediately see what he’s talking about until the bandit kneels down, a shining brooch pinned to Capon’s pourpoint and sparkling in the torchlight.
“Silver?” The man holding Thomas asks, excitement bleeding into his gruff voice.
The blonde looks confused, tilting the brooch in the light. “Not any kind of silver I’ve seen before. I… it looks like fucking steel.”
“You dumbass,” The leader spits, walking over to take a look, and Thomas scrambles to keep up without the sword dragging any deeper into his skin. “That sword of his is inlaid with gold, he’s not going to be hiding a steel brooch-“
Thomas is not an expert on metalwork and has never seen real silver a day in his life - but he is very familiar with horseshoes and sword steel. The three of them stare at a piece of twisted steel held by the pin that seems to be vaguely… knot shaped. If the knot was perhaps drawn by a child and recreated by a blacksmith instead of a jeweler.
“Yes, yes, extremely worthless - now leave it,” Capon sneers, eyes fierce despite being forced to his knees and staring up at them.
“Obviously… the value is hidden,” The bandit leader says finally. “For exactly this purpose. Fine jewels or silver could be underneath the steel.”
“We’ll have to crack it open,” The blonde grins, ripping the pin off Capon, whose eyes harden like this is the first real disrespect paid to him this evening. It certainly isn’t the last, as he’s quickly stripped down to only his braies and left sitting in the mud with his hands bound.
The blonde bandit grins at their displeasure, turning the insult into a humiliation ritual as he picks up Capon’s pourpoint and buttons it over his shirt. “Perfect fit.”
“Looks a bit snug.”
“No, I don’t think so. It’s just missing -“ he grabs the brooch and sticks it right over his heart. He fumbles with the pin, unskilled hands not used to such delicate work but finally manages to get it to stay and puffs out his chest.
“I’m going to kill you first,” Capon tells him.
The bandit laughs, “I'd better prepare myself then,” He says and grabs Capon’s chest plate.
The bandit leader doesn’t bother with Thomas’s own armor, simply dropping him to the ground at his feet as he paces the small trail. Perhaps if he had any pride left he’d be offended they don’t bother to strip him beside his sword.
It takes a while for the blonde bandit to be outfitted, not used to full plate armor it seems, but while his leader frets over the details of the ransom he manages to slip into the costume of Sir Hans Capon.
“What do you think?” He asks Capon, tightening the sword belt on his waist. “We could be brothers - perhaps I’m a long lost bastard.”
“I’d hate to see the ugly thing that was your mother,” Capon says dryly.
The man scowls and steps forward, hand on his stolen sword, “You’re awfully cocky for a tied up Lordling. We’ll get enough money just from your shit alone, the ransom is us doing you a favor.”
Capon smiles sweetly, “Yes, I really feel the great act of Christian love you’re bestowing upon me.”
“Enough,” The leader growls, stepping away from where Thomas is lying uselessly at his feet to smack the blonde bandit on the back of the head. “We need to meet back up with-“
He doesn’t finish his sentence, blood splattering across his face as the blonde stares blankly back at him, an arrow tip jutting straight from the gullet of his mouth. He blinks owlishly and then falls as the arrow is yanked back out of his corpse.
Sir Hans Capon stands with one bloody arrow clasped between bound hands, held like a spear. “I promised him,” He tells the bandit leader before lunging for the sword at his side.
It’s a grapple, Capon has shock on his side but it doesn’t last long. He’s lighter and softer without his armor and the bandit quickly pulls him to the ground where he gains the upper hand. It’s only when the man unsheathes his sword to plunge into Capon’s chest that Thomas remembers he’s not a corpse just yet.
He launches across the trail, hitting the bandit hard and rolling them into the mud. There’s dirt in his face, and a sword is somewhere in the mix but none of that matters as long as Capon is free-
A rush of wind, the crunch, a splash of warmth across his face.
Thomas opens his eyes to a headless corpse on top of him, fingers still twitching where they dig into his shoulders.
He screams.
“Fuck!” Capon swears, dropping the bandit’s sword to push the body off of him and haul Thomas to his feet. “Come on, stay with me. You need to get these ropes before those friends of his show up.”
A task. Thomas is good with instructions. He can do this. He focuses on the sword Capon dropped and shakily raises it up to cut through the rope binding his tied hands.
“Great. We might just both live another day,” Capon pats his shoulder with his newly freed hand and Thomas wants to laugh at the absurdity. They’re still standing in the mud, in the middle of the forest, and Capon is in nothing but his braies.
“Breathe,” Capon advises him. He lets go of Thomas to walk back over to the blonde bandit and has barely knelt down to untie the first knot on the chest plate when Thomas hears it - more voices.
“We have to go!” He hisses, not wasting time as he grabs Capon’s arm and drags him back toward the brush.
“No - I need my -“ Capon’s grip is icy as it twists at Thomas’s hand to let him go. “I’ll be quick.”
“There’s no time, Sir!” Thomas’s voice cracks with the desperation of a man who wants to live.
Capon stares with a single minded intensity at the dead bandit, blonde and bleeding in the mud and Thomas thinks this is it, they’re dying tonight. But then the voices get louder, the trickle of torchlight begins breaking through the trees, and Capon abruptly turns toward the dense forest. “Let's go.”
…
They stumble into the camp and the rest of the night passes in a blur. Thomas repeats his story too many times to count, at least half of those to Captain Bernard who bristles with each retelling. By the time his head hits his bedroll he’s exhausted beyond words, but the only thing he can do is stare at the slowly lightening sky and listen to his heart beat against his chest.
In the morning, they go back to the spot of the attack despite the Captain’s firmest advising against it. Capon will not be swayed, talking loudly about his most prized sword and very best armor being lost to the woods. He says nothing of the brooch.
It doesn’t matter regardless, because there is nothing left on the trail but blood and muddied footprints. The blonde bandit dressed up as their Lord has been dragged off along with the rest of the corpses.
“You said he was wearing your armor?” Bernard asks.
“Yes,” Capon says, a tense line to his shoulders. “And in the right light you might say he was blonde.”
…
Word of their Lord’s death greets them in the next town. They come to a stop outside the village, all the soldiers crowding together on the road as a rider approaches.
“Have you not heard?” The bailiff announces grandly as he rides out to meet them. He points at the colors of Leipa, “You are too late with your reinforcements, Lord Capon is deceased.”
A few men laugh. Captain Bernard shoots them a look that withers them into silence.
“Is he?” Capon asks from his horse. He’s wearing a green gambeson instead of his lost gold, the hood on his neck black as night. “What a tragedy. How has he fallen?”
“A vicious battle against warrior mercenaries, so I’ve heard,” The bailiff nods grimly. “Terrible times we’re living in. I’m sure you’ll receive word on payment.”
“Payment?” Bernard repeats.
“Aye,” The bailiff pulls at his horse to keep her steady. “Some good Samaritans retrieved the body and are making their way to Rattay as we speak. They seek coin in return for the safe deliverance of the young Lord.”
“Surely that doesn’t strike you as strange,” Capon asks, eyeing the bailiff in disbelief. “You don’t think some scoundrels could have found a body in the woods? That they’ve heard of the Lord of Pirkstein passing through the region and saw an opportunity?”
“I thought it,” The bailiff nods. “But they open the casket for any to pay their respect. He wears the colors of your house as bright as the sun,” He points again at the yellow draped over Capon’s horse. “His hair is the color of spun gold. He bears the rings of Ronov!”
“Thank you for informing us,” Bernard tells the Bailiff. He nods once, eyes lingering on Capon before riding back the way he came.
“Fuck,” Capon swears at the heavens.
…
A rider is sent back to Rattay within the hour. Thomas can guess they carry word for their Lady that she is not yet a widow and to pay no such reward. It’s a bit of good humor amongst the men, especially with Thomas’s story growing legs that tell only of Capon’s daring escape and little of his time spent kneeling for bandits. He prefers it this way, keeping his own failings close to his heart.
Thomas would relax except for every town they pass where word of Sir Capon’s death has already spread, the young Lord grows more tense. He’d never have recognized it if he hadn’t seen the ease with which he held his head against the threat of death. For some reason now, long after the danger has past, something is worrying him. That terrifies Thomas.
“I don’t understand it,” Jacob downs a mouthful of beer. “I’d love to be dead for a while.”
“What are you on about?” William groans, lying back in the wet prairie grass where they were camped. “None of that talk here.”
“I mean, thought to be dead. Like Lord Capon - he doesn’t even seem to be enjoying it. He paces like a madman in his tent.”
“How is one supposed to enjoy their death?” Thomas asks, touching his hand over the bandage still wrapped around his throat.
“You know, the love confessions, the regrets - getting to hear what everyone thinks of you.”
“Not much of that to be found out here. He still won’t let you handle his armor - and he let that bandit in the woods do it,” William laughs loudly.
Jacob scowls, “There’s uses for people thinking you’re dead. Politically - I don’t expect a grunt like you to understand that.”
“And the Black Knight would be satisfied.”
They all turn to Kit who is sipping at his beer like milk. “You know… if he thinks Lord Capon is dead then the curse is satisfied,” Kit says tentatively, looking between them.
“Would it be though?” William rubs at his chin. “I’ve always heard he’d only be satisfied when it was his blade run through Sir Capon.”
“What can he do about it, though?” Jacob shrugs. “…not that he’s real.”
“Well,” Thomas says slowly, seeing that long hallway in front of him, the shadowed thing at the end. “Maybe he’d come to see for himself.”
…
As Lord Capon’s unease grows, it spreads to the men. The Black Knight’s curse is a continuous whisper along campfires, a reason for the inexplicable way their Lord, who slaughtered four bandits with nothing but a lone arrow, now seems to spook at shadows. Jacob comes back in the evenings with stories of Capon’s restless agitation, staring out at the forest like he’s waiting for the Black Knight to ride out at any moment and finish the job.
Still, they march. Moravia looms close and in response the rain pours harder.
They sleep in puddles and huddle together under tents. It’s only natural their last days should bring the most miserable weather. Their clothes never dry and sickness starts to linger on a few of the men. They continue, the end in sight.
They’re a day out from meeting with Lady Jitka’s father when a banner bearing a coat of arms Thomas has never seen, and men wearing colors he does not recognize appear on the horizon. This is a peace mission and yet, here is the reason soldiers were marched for two weeks across the region.
Sir Capon and Captain Bernard ride out to meet them halfway in the field. The soldiers sit in tense silence, waiting.
But nothing happens, they ride back and the camp settles into a tense evening of watching the hills for any movement. They’re trapped, barely a half days walk from the finish line.
They quickly learn the caliber of the enemy they face when a volley of arrows strikes the camp just after nightfall.
William is shouting at them to wake up. No one had been stupid enough to sleep without their armor but Thomas wastes precious time groping around for his sword. Jacob already has his bow out but it’s chaos. There is no plan, no command to issue - men are running in every direction and the clash of metal rings out into the sky.
“Form a line!” Capon’s voice, loud as a lightning strike, pulls them together. He feels Kit at his back, sword drawn and watches as William swings his mace down in a mad arch that takes out the first enemy soldier to run their way. He doesn’t want to die today.
Men fall, as they are wont. Thomas steps over bodies and cannot spare a glance if they are friend or foe. All he knows is the slice of the sword in his hand and the shouts of Capon and Bernard through the haze. He distantly recognizes that they are outnumbered.
One moment Kit, William, and Jacob were there and now Thomas fights alone. He doesn’t know if they are dead or dying. He blocks a sword aimed for his thigh but another cuts through his side. He falls.
He stares at the men around him. There are too many he doesn’t recognize and he knows how this battle will end. He reaches out and digs his fingers into the soil around him, a small glimmer of peace that at least he will die at home.
Screams suddenly break through the ringing in his ears. A vicious cut of metal through meat is heard and Thomas realizes he’s closed his eyes. He forces them open to find a black shadow standing over him.
The soldiers are all dead, the enemies that had been so impenetrable around him all felled within moments and now lie as fallen corpses. Instead, only Death, dressed in black armor and wielding a sword made of moonlight remains.
“The Black Knight,” Thomas whispers.
But Death pays him no mind. He carelessly scrapes the remains of a torso off his sword before he turns, eyes wild and burning with hellfire through the slit in his helmet. He takes a step forward and seethes with fury, set on finding more blood for his blade, and Thomas’s body trembles in an uncontrollable wave of fear.
“Henry!”
The Black Knight freezes.
Thomas blinks as Sir Capon appears between the tents. He can still hear swords but it’s distant now, the fight turning. He doesn’t understand why Capon would run toward death when he’s been so fearful of it these past few days. Doesn’t he know the Black Knight wants his soul? He tries to lift his arm, to call out to him to run, but his body doesn’t so much as twitch, refusing him.
The Black Knight falls to his knees.
Thomas isn’t quite sure what he’s seeing. One moment, Capon is standing on the edge of the private clearing of tents, and the next, he is standing in front of The Knight, grabbing at the metal of its shoulders as the demon buries its face against his stomach. It trembles, violent and inhuman as its clawed gauntlets hold Capon so tightly Thomas is sure he’s about to watch him be split in half.
“-Thank, Christ,” Capon is saying and rips off his own helmet.
The demon makes an unholy sound, its head tilting up to stare at Capon’s bloody face. “I was terrified you’d do something stupid, Hal-“ He continues and Thomas chokes as Capon reaches down and pulls off the demon's head…
…only to reveal a man. Stained with blood and eyes as black as pitch as they stare at Capon with a demonic intensity, but still a man with thick dark hair and a trembling turn to his lip. Capon yanks off one of his gauntlets and cups the Black Knight’s face, running his thumb over the sharp jut of his chin, “You scared me.”
The man’s lip curls, “I scared you?” He snarls, raising to his full height. He grabs Capon with his gauntleted hands, holding him with the possessiveness of a man forsaken by God. “You have no idea, Hans. I’m in a tavern on the other side of the country when I hear your name - your - ” His voice cracks, fingers digging into Capon’s shoulders who simply stares back, unflinching. “I ride a full day to Kuttenberg where they say the body is traveling because I know it’s not true - I know it can’t be possible. As if I wouldn’t know.”
“Don’t tell me you thought that disgusting creature was me,” Capon scrunches his nose, shoving back at the Black Knight’s shoulders.
“There wasn’t much left to tell a difference,” The Knight snarls back, unyielding in his hold and not letting Capon move an inch. “He was dressed in your armor. Your colors. Had your hair-“
“That is not my hair color!”
“And when I lifted his chainmail-“ The Black Knight’s voice falters, reaching down to his own armor and sliding a hand between the plate, pulling out the metal brooch.
Thomas stares at it, still just as dull and unassuming as the first time he’d set eyes on it.
Capon’s breath catches and he immediately snatches the brooch back, fingers running over the smooth knot. “I killed them for taking it,” he tells The Knight, spoken like an oath.
“I killed them for having it,” The Knight grips his hand.
They stare at each other, something dark and nameless passing between them.“Put it back on me,” Capon demands.
He rolls his eyes, but with impressive skill, The Knight unties Capon’s plated armor and gets him out of his chain mail. Capon then stands there, exposed in only his gambeson in the middle of a not quite finished battle, yet neither of them seems particularly concerned.
“Kneel,” Capon whispers.
Thomas gapes as the Black Knight falls to his knee, his head lowering in subservience. “My Lord,” he murmurs and Thomas has heard and said the same words thousands of times in his life, but he’s never heard them spoken quite like that.
“My most valued servant, my most trusted advisor, my biggest pain in the ass,” Capon says elegantly.
The Knight gives him a long-suffering look but stays put on his knee.
“I grant you the privilege of bestowing upon me a favor.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s usually the other way around.”
“Well, you wouldn’t wear my favor.”
“Hans, I’m not carrying gold on me in bandit country.”
Thomas feels some of his sanity leave him as they argue, but the flicker of metal grabs his attention again, eyes barely pinpricks as he watches Death and his Lord make a pact.
The Black Knight stands, smoothing a spot out on Capon’s gambeson before delicately pinning the brooch right above the Lord’s heart, “I swear to this - to you. My one and only.”
“My love,” Capon whispers back, thumb tracing over the knight’s cheek. “Until my last breath.”
The Knight gives him an unimpressed look, his hand dropping from Capon’s shoulder to his waist, “I’ll be escorting you for the remainder of the trip.”
“What did you even ride out here for?” Capon asks curiously. “I’m grateful but I sent word to Jitka. I’d hoped you’d head there first if you heard the news.”
“I had a sudden, strong desire to see the countryside,” The knight says simply, his hold on Capon tightening.
Capon’s eyes narrow, “You were going to do something crazy.”
“Hans, leave it be.”
“You didn’t know we’d be under attack - Jesus, Henry, did you come out here for my men?”
“I knew you wouldn’t have been by yourself when it happened,” The knight says curtly. “I had a few questions.”
Thomas has enough sense left to piece together The Knight still might be here for him. He moans deliriously, cutting through whatever argument Capon was yelling about, and then hands are suddenly on him and everything goes still.
…
“And you don’t remember anything?” Sir Capon asks him.
Thomas is quite flattered at all the attention he’s received since waking up after the battle. Sir Capon insisted he recover in his personal tent until he woke from his fever, which took nearly two days of restless sleep and strange dreams before finally breaking. He awoke not to his friends, but a strangely familiar man with dark hair and intense eyes, wiping the sweat from his brow.
His name is Henry and he saved all of their asses, at least that’s what William, Jacob, and Kit have told him. He doesn’t remember much of the battle.
“Nothing at all, Sir,” He tells Sir Capon for perhaps the tenth time. He wishes his Lord would give him a hint at what it is he so desperately wants for him to remember from the battle but his mind goes perfectly blank after being sliced by the sword. Strange dreams of the Black Knight and demon pacts still plague him, but he supposes that’s a natural part of being so close to leaving the mortal coil.
Capon never seems that upset, though. He searches Thomas’s face for a long time before nodding in satisfaction and gestures at the tent door as his permission to leave, “Right, the healer has cleared you for light activity but nothing strenuous.”
“I’ll do my best, Sir.”
“Good lad,” Capon nods, following him out into the fresh air. The rains had finally ceased, leaving them camped with a bit of warm sunlight for the first time in a while.
“It’s official,” Jacob tells him when he joins his friends back at their tent. “I’ve been fired.”
“What!” Thomas laughs. “From a job you weren’t even allowed to do?”
“I mean, it’s not exactly a surprise,” William grunts as he scrapes the last of his stew into his mouth, “Capon is used to Henry’s assistance; Jacob was always going to be a disappointment.”
“It’s not my fault he’s got a full Knight assisting him - why is Sir Henry even here? He’s got to have more important things than polishing Sir Capon’s armor,” Jacob grumbles.
“Like taking your job?” Kit offers tentatively, and William lets out a delighted laugh.
“Thin ice,” Jacob grumbles.
Kit hums, “Maybe he’s here to protect him from the Black Knight?”
“Curse is gone for now,” William shook his head. “Capon seems to have righted whatever wrong was upsetting him.
Thomas nods, something pricking at the back of his mind. Something shaped like a demon and tied up in a steel knot. He picks at it for a moment before he catches Sir Capon and Henry heading out into the taller grass with training swords. He raises a hand, and Henry raises one back with a kind smile.
They’ll take Lord Capon to see Lady Jitka’s Father tomorrow. For now, they rest in the sun.