Chapter Text
The road narrowed where the forest drew close, branches knitting overhead until even the light felt strained. Henry eased his horse into a slower walk, knowing the toll waited ahead, just beyond the pinch of trees. Already he could discern the gate through the leaves.
Radzig’s errand—a simple, perfunctory matter—was well behind him now, and his thoughts had already turned homeward: to Rattay, to the forge he kept when he was not needed elsewhere, whether as courier or bodyguard; to Hynce’s eager chatter about lessons or whatever small triumph had seized the boy’s attention that day.
And, most of all, to Hans’ crooked smile and the warmth of his embrace.
In the years since the siege of Suchdol, Henry had found his restlessness tempered by the shadow it cast over Hans. However lightly Hans pretended to take his departures, there was always that faint wilt to him when Henry rode out. I ask only that you bring me back the grand tales of your adventures, he would say, smiling—recalling, as Henry did, the months they had spent riding side by side after Suchdol.
Henry had expected those days to be filled with complaints: about Hans' duties, about his impending marriage, about the bride herself. Instead, Hans had talked only of them together.
When duty finally called them back, nearly half a year later, Hans had stood on their last evening gazing toward the horizon, silent, a quiet sorrow in the set of his mouth. Henry had known what he was weighing. He had known, too, why the words never passed Hans’ lips.
Hans had not fought Hanush for his inheritance only to cast it aside at the final stretch. He would have abandoned it and much more, had Henry asked—but Henry knew too well what loss could do to a man. He would not lay that upon him.
Henry did not need the world to know the depth of his love for his lord—nor did the world need to know how far Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein’s favour extended toward one bastard blacksmith. They would be all right, he had sworn that evening—earning a soft look from Hans, meant for no one else, and a kiss to the back of his hand that had sent heat flooding his cheeks.
Thus Hans had married Jitka, and a year later had laughingly pressed a bundled, wailing infant into Henry’s arms, deaf to every protest, radiant with joy over this new son of his blood.
Fatherhood—and duty—had gentled Hans’ wilful spirit. He took to it like a duck to water, boasting over every small triumph Hynce achieved, while Jitka looked on in fond, weary amusement. And Henry—God help him—fell only deeper in love, not only with his lord, but with the child he paraded so proudly.
These days, Hans’ unease when Henry rode out had little to do with fear. Henry had become known, it was true—in Radzig’s service, in Hans’, and as Master Blacksmith besides. But Hans did not fret because the world was dangerous. He fretted because Henry was not beside him.
Home, Henry thought. Hans. Hynce. Rattay. The forge. With Henry away, Hans had admitted the keep felt wrong—colder, quieter—and Henry, in turn, had come to understand that however much he still loved the road, it was no longer where he belonged.
He would be home by evening. The thought drew a small smile to his mouth: Hans greeting him with stiff formality before yielding, later, to the quiet of his chambers. Once he passed the toll, perhaps he would urge Pebbles into a gallop.
The road narrowed as it rose, the gate waiting just ahead. A low palisade straddled the way, men loitering beside it with the careless watchfulness of those who believed the ground beneath their boots belonged to them. Four of them kept close to the gate. Another stood a little apart, half-turned toward the road rather than the palisade.
Henry had disliked the look of them yesterday; today proved no different. With a quiet breath, he reined Pebbles in. At least he would soon be through and riding on.
One of the men stepped forward.
“Toll.”
Henry reached for his purse, counted out the groschen, and tipped them into the guard’s waiting palm. The man’s eyes flicked over the coins with a practised quickness—though Henry knew he weighed each one—before he closed his hand around them.
“Forest dues as well,” he said. “Bandits about.”
Pebbles shifted beneath him; Henry quieted her with a hand to her neck.
“I paid no such dues last time I passed,” he said evenly. Then, pointedly: “Yesterday.”
The guard offered something meant to be a smile, though it slid more easily into a sneer. His gaze kept straying—to Henry’s purse, his satchel, the line of Pebbles’ neck—and in that restless appraisal Henry saw less a keeper of the road than a man measuring what he might take.
“The road you are about to enter lies under the lord castellan’s jurisdiction,” the guard said. “Yesterday, you left it behind. So I repeat: forest dues, good man.”
Henry knew better than to humour them. Delays would only sour his temper, but he would not allow himself to be fleeced for the sake of peace.
“You’ve taken your toll,” he said, lifting his chin. “You have no right to lay a second charge upon me for the same road. If you do, I’ll take the matter to the castellan himself—and he’ll not thank you for it.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. He glanced aside, exchanging looks with the men beside him, before turning back with a sour twist to his mouth.
“Certainly, sir,” he said. With a curt, begrudging wave: “Go on, then.”
Keeping any hint of a smile from his face, Henry inclined his head in regard and nudged Pebbles forward.
A farmhouse crested the low rise in the distance, far enough that its windows were near indiscernible from its walls. Ahead, the path forked: one branch leading toward the house and the town beyond, the other curving toward the trees hemming the fields.
He urged Pebbles into a canter. The land slipped past on either side, and a brook ran close to the road, its quiet murmur carrying him for a moment back to Sasau. Home lay just ahead.
Then—beneath the water’s voice—hooves. More than one. Fast.
Henry looked over his shoulder.
Three riders. Not strangers—the guards from the toll.
They were riding straight for him.
Pebbles snorted as Henry gathered the reins and drove her on. She broke into a gallop, veering for the dark line of trees. He could not outrun them—but perhaps, in the tangle of branches and shadow, he might yet lose them.
He had no wish to fight men who still wore a lord’s livery—but he would not let them take him either.
The trees drew nearer. Beneath him, Pebbles shifted and panted; against his ribcage, his heart beat as fast as her hooves on the trodden path.
Shouts rose behind him. Henry pushed her harder. The brush would slow Pebbles as well, so he needed to put ground between them.
An arrow hissed past. Pebbles shied, but a low murmur from Henry kept her on the path.
Fields gave way to trees. A branch struck his cheekbone, the sting barely registering. A few more strides—the forest thickened—
A jolt of pain shot through his left shoulder. He cried out and hauled at the reins as Pebbles blew and stumbled.
“No—”
Another arrow struck a trunk beside her. She reared, and this time there was nothing Henry could do to stay in the saddle.
The ground greeted him viciously and without mercy. He twisted as he fell, taking the impact on his side and back rather than his wounded shoulder, the air driven from his lungs in a harsh, helpless gasp. Pain flared, stinging and hot beneath the padding where the arrow had penetrated through. Twigs scraped his palms, and something in his satchel cracked as he rolled.
He was on his knees before he had quite found his breath.
Hooves thundered closer. Pebbles was gone. He could not run.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword, and he drew it right as the guard with the fastest horse came into view between the trees. Upon the sight of him, he snorted and unsheathed his own weapon.
“Not backing down without a fight, eh?”
Henry said nothing. He set his feet and lifted his blade, teeth clenched against the pain.
He would fight. If he could bring one of them down, he might yet even the odds—but he would not strike to kill if he could help it.
The guard swung down with a derisive laugh that cut off in a yelp as Henry lunged. Steel rang; the man barely turned the upward cut aside. Henry pressed in at once, giving him no time to find his footing. The others were coming.
He feinted low, then drove his blade in high. It slipped between mail and padding beneath the raised arm and drew blood. The guard recoiled, and Henry was on him again, striking where it would bruise and maim rather than kill—armpit, ribs, thigh.
The man stumbled and went down.
More hooves closed in.
Henry fell back into a defensive stance as the other two dismounted with their swords already drawn. One of them checked their fallen companion with a furtive glance before turning a scowl at Henry.
“You bastard,” he spat. “You’ve done it now.”
Henry had faced worse odds than this—though never without draughts in his blood and no thought for mercy.
They came at him together. One caught his blade in a hard bind; the other lunged at his flank, forcing Henry to twist aside. He gave ground he could ill afford, still locked blade-to-blade as pain flared in his shoulder.
He could not win by yielding—and he was already tiring. Blood crept down his arm, slicking his fingers.
The second man struck him across the padded chest. Henry took the blow and used it, crashing forward into the guard who had him bound, shouldering into his space and wrenching their blades apart.
He scarcely regained his footing before he was forced into parry after parry, every failed riposte costing him breath and ground. A blade tore through his hose and opened his thigh; he staggered, ducking a thrust meant for his throat.
He swore under his breath and struck back, slashing under the nearer man’s sword arm. The guard cursed loudly—but before Henry could press the opening, the second was already upon him, forcing him to give ground again.
Then—
Something seized the arrow in his shoulder.
Pain tore through him as it was wrenched free. He cried out, vision blurring as he was shoved forward into a desperate, scrambling parry.
The third guard.
Panic pierced the fog of pain. His hand went to his dagger, slick with blood as he dragged it free and lunged for the man closing in on him—
Mail turned the point and a shove sent him reeling. He grasped for his sword again, but he was too slow. A blade cracked across his wrist; his fingers spasmed and his grip broke.
A boot struck the back of his knees.
He went down.
Fingers curled into his hair, wrenching his gaze from the ground. A blade—his own dagger—brushed the soft skin beneath his chin.
The third guard, favouring his right side, hand pressed to his ribs to slow the bleeding, grinned down at him, all teeth and cruelty. He tipped Henry’s head aside with the dagger, humming.
Then a fist struck across Henry’s face. He groaned, jaw ringing, and spat to the side—no blood; no loose teeth yet.
“So this is how you treat men who won’t be wrung for coin,” he rasped. “Rob them. Kill them. That it?”
The guard’s boot drove into his gut. Henry wheezed, folding instinctively around the blow.
“With a mouth like that,” the man sneered, “we’d be doing the world a favour.”
Henry surged up—and the guard behind yanked him close, fist tearing free of his hair to snare his collar instead. Nails scraped his throat; something tore loose around his neck. A brief, ugly struggle followed, ending with his nose bloodied and a knee driven hard into his back, his face forced into the dirt.
“Let’s see what you’re carrying,” one of the others said, amused.
His body screamed in pain, but still he writhed when greedy hands tore at his belt, his satchel, his purse.
“Hold up,” another said, suddenly, something in his voice shifting in a way Henry could not discern.
A boot slammed into his side. He groaned, breath knocked out of him as his arms were hauled behind his back. When someone yanked at them, agony flared in his shoulder—he bit down hard to keep from crying out.
“So many groschen,” the third guard crooned over the clink of coin. “And you wouldn’t part with a few more at the toll?”
“Stop.”
Henry blinked through the haze. That tone—not fear. Not quite. Something else.
He twisted his head enough to see what the man was holding.
It caught the light between his fingers.
The chain. Broken.
The livery badge—black linden branches on a field of gold.
Henry’ stomach dropped.
“Don’t—” he rasped, but was silenced by a strike to the side of his skull.
“Quiet,” the second guard ordered, and now there was no mistaking the unease in his voice.
Henry would rather have died before they found Hans’ token—but they had, and now caution slowed their hands. That, at least, he could use.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. God’s wound, everything hurt. “Bet you’ll think twice about killing me now.”
“Kurva,” the third guard hissed. “This—this is the seal of the royal hetman. Radzig Kobyla. This must be—”
Hissed whispers and panicked muttering rose around him. The knee in his back eased, still holding him down, but without the brutal weight behind it. The grip on his arms loosened.
Henry closed his eyes, the fight draining from his body like the blood from his shoulder. His father’s letter of safe conduct—previously in his satchel, now in the guards’ hands. He travelled colourless for a reason, but Hans’ badge was too dear to him to leave behind, and Radzig had insisted upon the letter.
A sharp command cut through the murmur of voices: “Find his horse. Bring it to the castle. We’ll have our orders then.”
“And him?”
Someone lifted his head by the hair—
He saw the hilt of the sword coming toward him from the corner of his eye—
Then nothing.
~
Hans knew better than to fret when Henry was delayed on the road. If there were a soul in need of saving or a mess in need of meddling, his man would find it—and God help anyone who tried to stop him.
Hans loved him all the more for it.
Yet night bled into day, and day into night. Twice this passed, and by then Hans’ fingers drummed a faltering rhythm against the table—knee bouncing, fingers tracing his mouth, eyes skimming words on a page he did not read, assurance slowly giving way to unease.
On the third day, Jitka’s presence—she had insisted on seeing him rather than spending the day at Rattay castle—calmed him somewhat. Their shared concern passed between them in quiet looks across rooms and over supper. Even Hynce had noticed Henry’s absence, asking when he would return, and Mutt had taken to waiting by the castle instead of at Henry’s forge.
It gnawed at him, this slow-blooming dread. That damned fool should have been home by now. Radzig’s errand should have taken no more than two days—and still no watchman spoke of Henry’s figure on the road.
Needing to do something, yet reluctant to sound the alarm too soon—Henry would tease him for worrying needlessly—Hans penned a blunt letter and sent it to Radzig by messenger. Then he summoned two young men—trainees under Captain Bernard, capable and swift riders—and sent them to follow Henry’s trail.
Then he waited.
It had been years since he last feared for Henry on the road. Not nearly long enough. He trusted Henry’s silver tongue when trouble found him—or he found it—and when that failed, he trusted his blade. But this—this not knowing—he loathed it.
He hated waiting. He hated being idle when he should be out there with him.
Hans drew a careful breath, held it, then let it go.
He was not idling—not as he once had, before Henry, before Suchdol. He had real power now. Still, waiting tasted as bitter as it ever had.
The night dragged. He slept in fits, haunted first by the phantom tightening of a rope around his neck, then by the sight of Henry’s back as he left through the door, certain death waiting for him out there amidst enemy lines.
He woke before the next dream could show him Henry’s corpse and did not try to sleep again.
It was late afternoon when one of his scouts returned with news.
Henry had last been seen at the toll at Borovice, riding home after his errand the day before. He had been stopped both times, but the guards swore they had seen him ride on.
Hans thanked the scout and sent him off a few groschen lighter.
Zdeněk Velek was the castellan of Borovice. Hans dragged his fingers through his beard—too long, he needed a trim—eyes narrowing. The name was familiar. He had heard it in council chambers, if never from the man’s own mouth.
Lord Velek might know nothing—but Henry had vanished on his road, under his authority.
Hans would make it his concern.
Eight men would make up his retinue; enough to look respectable without seeming a threat, yet still enough to ease Captain Bernard’s frown when Hans announced he would ride at first light.
Four days Henry had been gone. Four days Hans had done nothing but wait. He longed to saddle Aethon and ride out at once—but night was already falling, and impulse had no place here. If Henry had been taken on the road, riding alone would only deliver Hans into the same snare. With men at his back, at least, he would have a chance.
Jitka would endure his death, if it came—but he would not leave Hynce fatherless through folly: he would not damn his son to the childhood he himself had known.
And yet he itched to know what had befallen Henry—even as terror nipped at his heart that his man might be lying dead on some wretched road, taken by a simple errand when he had survived torture and siege and starvation.
No. Hans had to rein in his emotions before they mastered him. Henry might yet come ambling through the gates with a sheepish grin and some sodding excuse about rescuing a fair maiden from brigands.
Hans could be fretting over nothing. God’s teeth, the tongue-lashing he would give Henry before kissing him senseless.
He took his supper in his study; the thought of sitting among others and keeping up appearances was too wearying.
So he was in no mood to be disturbed by a rap at the door half an hour later—his plate barely touched—yet when he looked up, a sharp rebuke ready on his tongue, it was Radzig who stood there instead of some hapless servant.
Hans straightened at once, eyes narrowing. If Radzig were here already, he must have ridden hard from Sasau the moment he received the letter. The man looked as though he had scarcely dismounted before coming straight for him.
Radzig shut the door behind him and stepped fully inside. His gaze flicked over Hans once, quick and assessing, before he spoke.
“What have you found?”
Hans pushed his plate aside and steepled his fingers. Radzig would know he had not been idle—but the haste of his arrival still caught him off guard. Henry was prone to delays; Radzig of all men knew that. To ride so hard for this meant more than routine concern.
Henry and his father had grown closer over the years, though a certain distance still lingered between them. Perhaps it always would. Radzig had never spared him the dangers of the road.
Still, Hans could not wholly fault the man. There were worse fathers than one who rode through the lands for his son.
“He was last seen at Borovice—at the toll.”
Radzig’s brows drew together. “Borovice. That falls under Lord Velek.”
Hans nodded. “I’ve never met the man.”
“Hmm.” Radzig tipped his head, eyes on Hans though his thoughts were clearly elsewhere. “On paper he supports Wenceslas—but there are whispers he’s been courting Sigismund’s favour these past years.”
Hans’ mouth thinned. A man who played both sides always did so for a reason.
“I ride for Borovice at dawn,” he announced. “If Lord Velek knows more than he’s telling, I’ll find it.” The unease in him cooled, drawing into something sharper. “And if he has something to hide, he’ll be more inclined to show me the way.”
Hans set his palms upon the table and stood.
“Sit, Sir Radzig. I’ll have supper brought for you—and while we eat, you can tell me everything you know of Lord Velek.”
~
Radzig rode out in the morning, but not with Hans. They would meet again in Borovice in two days’ time—each of them with whatever knowledge they had been able to prise loose along the way.
The weather improved during the ride, from a grey dawn to a sunny afternoon, and by then, Borovice lay before them—the toll, the road, the place where Henry had last been seen.
Hans had come in full livery, his golden pourpoint bright beneath the riding cloak. The men at the gate would do well to remember who they were speaking to.
A guard stepped forward, hand half-raised.
“Toll, my—”
“I am Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein,” Hans said. “You will speak to me of the rider who passed here four days past.”
The guard bowed. “I beg your forgiveness, my lord. We see many riders.”
“A lone rider,” Hans said, watching the men as he spoke. “Grey mare. Passed here twice, bound for Rattay.”
“Aye…” The man nodded slowly. “There was such a rider. He passed. Later that day there was trouble on the road. Bandits.”
Before Hans could press him further, the guard spoke again.
“Our lord would wish to speak with you.”
Hans gave a measured nod. “Then I will see him.”
The guard bowed again and, after murmuring to his fellows, motioned Hans and his men onward.
The story did not sit right—the scout had said nothing of bandits—and being sent straight to Lord Velek only sharpened the unease.
But Hans held his tongue for now.
The guard led them down the road and at the fork turned them toward Borovice itself. Open fields gave way to grassland and scattered houses, then to narrow streets where vendors called out and peasants going about their day paused to stare at the noble retinue as it passed through their modest town.
The barbican loomed ahead, its shadow cooling the road beneath it. They passed beneath the raised portcullis and into the inner bailey, where a steward hurried to meet them.
“Lord Capon,” he said, catching his breath. “Lord Velek has been informed of your arrival. Please, allow us to offer you refreshment while he prepares to receive you.”
“Certainly.” Hans glanced back and caught his captain’s eye, inclining his chin a fraction before turning again to the steward. “We have been riding since morning. My men—and the horses—will welcome the chance to rest.”
The steward nodded quickly, his gaze flicking toward the keep. “Of course, my lord. Follow me. The captain will see to your men’s comfort.”
A voice answered from behind Hans—the captain of Borovice’s garrison, a stern-faced, broad-shouldered man at least twice Hans’ age, streaks of grey threading a dark beard, and something of Captain Bernard’s iron about him.
“The horses will be stabled here.” The captain gestured for a boy to step forward. “As for food—”
His voice trailed off as the steward ushered Hans toward the keep, through a narrow passage and up a stone staircase, passing a floor, before he was brought at last into a chamber overlooking the yard below.
The room was plainly meant for receiving guests—well-furnished, orderly. Sound seemed to settle here rather than carry, and a table had already been set with bread and fruit, and a pitcher of what Hans hoped was wine.
“Please, my lord,” the steward said, stepping forward to pour him a cup, “do make yourself at ease.”
He did not quite meet Hans’ eyes. That might have passed for deference, if not for the way his fingers worried at his sleeves whenever they were not otherwise occupied. A man who served a castellan should have been accustomed to noble company. He was younger than the captain by some years—perhaps newly come into Lord Velek’s service.
Hans gave the chamber a final, measured sweep before choosing a seat that offered him a clear view of the door and the yard below from the open shutters. He set the wine aside, untouched for now, and seized an apple instead.
The steward had withdrawn to the wall, hands folded, head bowed; present, yet trying to disappear.
Hans imagined how the man might sputter if asked about Henry and bit into the apple, its sharpness grounding him as he waited for Lord Velek to show his face.
There would be a reason for the delay. Either Lord Velek meant to play the gracious host and speak of bandits and compensation—or he was weighing how much truth the matter of the road would bear, and whether Hans was a man to be trusted with it.
Hans was no patient man by nature, but his station had taught him to act the part.
He had eaten the apple down to its core, taken a cautious sip of the wine, and was considering a bread roll when heavy footfalls on stone drew his gaze to the door.
One breath. Then another.
The door swung open to admit a robust man dressed in fine fabrics, dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard framing steel-grey eyes set in a rounded face.
Hans rose.
“Lord Velek,” he said, inclining his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I have heard of you.”
“And I of you, Lord Capon.” Lord Velek clasped Hans’ hand and smiled warmly. “Welcome to Borovice. You must forgive the meagre fare—” he gestured carelessly toward the table “—there was no time to prepare. Tonight, we shall dine together, and I give you my word you’ll have the finest game my huntsmen can bring in and my kitchens set before you.”
“I am grateful for your hospitality,” Hans said, “but I have come on urgent business. One of my household vanished upon your road.”
Zdeněk’s easy cheer softened into something more grave. “Yes. Master Henry.” He stroked his beard and glanced to the steward. “Wine—and see that our guest’s cup is filled.”
The steward hurried to obey, eyes fixed on the floor as he set the cups before them. Once he had withdrawn again to the wall, Zdeněk took a slow sip and sighed.
“Cutthroats, the lot of them. Farmers brought word of an attack on the road, so I sent my men at once. Master Henry was found badly hurt—but alive. He is now in the care of my physician.”
Alive.
“I wish to see him,” Hans said.
Zdeněk’s smile did not quite fade. “I fear that would be unwise. An infection set into his wounds, and the fever has only just been brought down.”
He held Hans’ gaze.
“Master Henry is, for the moment, a guest under my protection. I cannot in good conscience allow him to be disturbed while he recovers.”
“I am glad to hear he lives,” Hans said. “You have my thanks for your care.”
His emotions were a storm within; only vigorous schooling and experience ensured an even response from him. But he now knew what kind of political board he had stepped onto—and he knew how to play.
Henry was safe—for now—but he was held somewhere in the keep.
A hostage in all but words.
“He seems a strong man, Master Henry,” Lord Velek, clasping Hans’ elbow. “He will pull through.”
He stepped away from Hans, gulped down the wine, then turned to the steward. “Have a chamber prepared for our guest, Matthias. I am certain he wishes to rest before tonight’s dinner.”
The steward bowed and slipped out of the room.
“It is a poor host who takes his leave so soon,” Lord Velek continued, “but I am afraid I have matters to attend that cannot possibly wait. We shall reconvene this evening, Lord Capon, and have a chat over dinner.”
“It is no trouble at all,” Hans said. “I think I shall welcome the chance for some rest, indeed.”
“Marvellous!” The castellan clapped his hands. “The steward will be back shortly to take you to your chamber. I bid you a good rest, Lord Capon.”
“My gratitude.” Hans inclined his head. “Tonight then, Lord Velek.”
~
His chamber was perfectly adequate—tasteful tapestries, an inviting bed, fresh herbs laid out for a faint, pleasant scent, and enough floor space to pace, which Hans took advantage of the moment the steward closed the door.
The audacity.
He could scarcely believe it.
Had the cur found Henry wounded on the road and dragged him in under the guise of charity, only to seize the opportunity once he knew who he was? Or had the bandit attack been nothing but a lie to mask deliberate violence?
How had Lord Velek learned Henry’s identity? Had they found something on him—Hans’ token—or had Henry spoken?
Hans felt sick.
If Henry had been tortured again—
He banished the thought. Panic was useless. What mattered was this: Henry was here, alive but under guard, and being used.
He needed to know what had truly happened on that road. His men were already at work, but this ran deeper than he had anticipated. He would have to speak with Captain Marek as soon as he could.
Lord Velek had not forbidden him from moving about—but Hans would be a fool to believe he was unobserved. If he strayed too near something the castellan wished hidden, he would soon find a door closed in his face.
Still, he was a noble guest, and Lord Velek was committed to the theatre of decorum. That afforded Hans a certain freedom: he could move through the keep as though he had every right to be there.
For now, he would play the road-weary lord. He kicked out a chair and dropped into it, steepling his fingers and resting his chin against them. Much as he wanted to seize this keep by its foundation and shake it until answers fell loose, he would not be rash.
Lord Velek. What did he want? What did he know?
Henry was being used as leverage. That much was clear. But did Lord Velek merely believe Henry to be a valued man of Hans’ household… or did he suspect more? Did he understand how far Hans would bend—how much he would bleed—to see him returned?
His jaw tightened. The private dinner was beginning to look less like hospitality and more like an interrogation—one that cut both ways. Lord Velek had offered him a silver-plattered chance to measure him: his ambitions, his fear, the limits of his nerve.
Most importantly, Hans could learn how much Lord Velek truly grasped Henry’s worth.
The dice had been cast; he could yet influence where and how they landed.
Lord Velek might hold Henry, but he did not hold impunity. Henry’s death on Borovice soil, under Borovice protection, would demand a reckoning.
And Hans Capon of Pirkstein did not forgive.
Curse Lord Velek’s father for bedding the woman who bore him—Hans was not defeated yet. Lord Velek had opened the game, but Hans would see it finished on his own terms.
He was certain now: Henry’s presence in this keep was no accident. Lord Velek was entangled in it somehow. All Hans had to do was pull at the right threads and let the lies unravel.
A rap on the door cut through his thoughts.
“Come.”
His captain entered—still in travel attire, still alert, as though the keep itself were something to be weighed.
“My lord.”
“The men?”
“Settled,” Captain Marek said. “The steward Matthias said you were to dine with Lord Velek. I gave the men leave. They’ve gone to the tavern.”
His gaze flicked to the door. “Hospitality here is… attentive.”
Hans smiled faintly. “Yes. I am very well looked after.”
A spy assigned to watch him, dressed in linen and courtesy. Clever.
“Master Henry is recovering from a bandit attack,” he said.
Captain Marek’s brow rose a fraction.
“I was advised not to see him yet.”
“I see.”
“We will discuss his return over dinner.”
Captain Marek inclined his head. “Then I will await your word.”
Hans flicked a hand. “Stay within the castle walls, in case I have need of you. Dismissed.”
“Of course, my lord.”
~
With his men making merry at the tavern and Captain Marek nearby, Hans spent the hours before supper languishing in his chamber.
He made thorough use of his title, summoning the servant no fewer than five times: once for wine, once for better wine, twice to retrieve items from his saddlebags, and once to inform the kitchens that saffron was not to be used in any dish prepared for him.
He had nothing against saffron.
He did, however, object to being kept under such careful watch.
If Lord Velek wished to gather intelligence through an impassive servant, the least Hans could do was ensure that the only conclusion drawn was that he was a fastidious, demanding, mildly insufferable nobleman.
Not untrue under other circumstances—Henry never failed to remind him—but if Lord Velek were expecting a petulant peacock instead of a calculating adversary, so much the better.
Matthias returned to announce that dinner would be served within the hour. Hans requested a bath to freshen up, then welcomed a maid’s hands to dress him in his usual finery—earning a shy giggle with a few suggestive remarks. Let her, or whatever ears were turned his way, report that to Lord Velek.
They dined in the same chamber in which Hans had first been received, though this time Lord Velek was already seated when Hans entered.
“Lord Capon,” he said, rising. “I trust your chamber was to your liking?”
“Entirely,” Hans replied. “You have been most generous.”
Lord Velek gestured for him to sit and followed suit. “I am honoured to host you, though I would have wished for better circumstances. It grieves me that your man met such misfortune on my land. Borovice prides itself on order.”
Hans merely smiled as Matthias poured his wine. It was good wine; of better quality than what he had been served earlier, so he drank deep.
“Then I am fortunate he fell into your keeping,” he said at last. “Some roads are less… civil.”
“Quite.”
Servants arrived with laden platters: roasted venison dusted with thyme, rich meat pies filled with spiced game and root vegetables, white loaves of bread with butter and soft cheese, and bowls of stewed fruit glistening with honey.
Lord Velek helped himself to a little of everything, piling his plate high, while Hans went straight for the venison and pies.
“The unrest these years is a burden on honest lords,” Lord Velek said. “Certainly you must be under some pressure to keep your lands safe as well. It is difficult to keep order with bandits thinking they can do whatever they please.”
Hans hummed. “Did you find the men behind the attack?”
“Ah.” The castellan shook his head around a mouthful of food. “No. My men combed the forest, but found only an abandoned campsite. I reckon they knew the guard would be on their heels once they realised who they had ambushed, so they fled in all haste.”
Hans carefully did not smile.
“Then allow me to assist,” he said mildly. “No lord should be made to suffer such disorder on his land—and bandits who strike a toll road are rarely gone for good.”
Lord Velek lifted his brows. A heartbeat passed—just long enough to measure the offer—before he nodded.
“Your concern does you credit, Lord Capon.”
He waved the steward over.
“They robbed the poor man of everything of value,” he went on, “but left behind a letter bearing Lord Kobyla’s seal and a badge with your crest. Matthias—in my study. The cupboard.”
Matthias bowed and hurried out.
“Being found with either would have been enough to see them hanged,” Hans said quietly. “A wise choice, leaving them behind.”
He turned his gaze on Lord Velek then.
“Are such attacks common on your roads?”
“Certainly not,” Lord Velek replied at once, lifting his goblet. “The forest is well patrolled. I do not tolerate lawlessness.”
Hans inclined his head. “Spoken like a true nobleman, Lord Velek.”
The man visibly preened, but reined himself in fast enough that anyone not watching him closely might have been none the wiser. A peacock, then. Hans, of all, knew how to deal with those.
Talks of bandits continued for a while, with the castellan managing to pry a few tales from Hans—Suchdol one of them, and Hans told it with all the vigour of someone who had been there for the battles and victories and not the grisly details, despite the wine turning sour on his tongue at the memory of the constant terror and stomachs that grumbled louder than any cheer.
“These are trying times,” Lord Velek said with a sympathetic headshake. “One never knows which banners will still fly a year from now.”
“Some men stand by their oaths,” said Hans carefully, swirling the wine in his goblet; he had no appetite for anything else on the table anymore. “Others find new loyalties more… profitable.”
Lord Velek lifted his goblet slightly. “Indeed. One must be loyal—but never blind.”
Before Hans could decide whether to press, Matthias returned.
“Lord Capon,” he said, proffering the sealed letter—broken, but by whom?—and the badge Hans had gifted Henry; a token of his affection and a promise of protection in one.
Now, it was to blame for Henry being used against him, which had always been Henry’s deepest fear, and the reason he never rode in Hans’ colours.
Once they were safely back in Rattay, Henry would be insufferable.
“Thank you,” Hans said, pocketing the items.
“I must admit to a certain degree of surprise that it would be you here and not Lord Kobyla,” Lord Velek said. “Master Henry is Lord Kobyla’s bastard, is he not?”
“Sir Radzig has placed him in my charge,” Hans said smoothly, knowing this was dangerous ground, “which makes him mine to answer for. Sir Radzig will not be pleased to learn what befell him, but he would look favourably upon those who saw to his safe return home.”
Lord Velek nodded thoughtfully. “Lord Kobyla places great trust in you.”
Hans gave a mild smile, offering nothing further. Lord Velek seemed not to mind, cheerfully chewing on a cut of cheese.
“You must stay,” he said after swallowing. “I would be glad to house you whilst your man lies abed. Leaving now would be unseemly.”
“If it is no trouble.”
Lord Velek waved away his feigned courtesy with much gusto. He was pleased with how dinner had turned out.
“Nonsense! You and I could be very useful to one another, Lord Capon. Tomorrow we shall have a feast. I am quite convinced Master Henry will be well enough to ride out the next day—so let us save politics for then, what say you? There are matters that interest us both.”
Hans weighed Lord Velek’s words, the warmth, the generosity, the sudden talk of shared interests.
So that was it.
An alliance.
Of course. The Capon name was powerful, and Lord Velek meant to turn it to his advantage. Even his talk of loyalty rang hollow, edged with something far less faithful than it sounded.
Useful, indeed.
He inclined his head. “I look forward to it, Lord Velek.”