Chapter Text
Hans remembers the first goblet of wine he was ever permitted.
The liquid poured, thick and viscous, from the pitcher in Maid Dusca's hands. She was more careful with him than she ever was with his Uncle Hanush, not a drop more than she intended spilling from the lip. He was used to seeing it mixed with water, and undiluted it reminded him of blood, clinging to the sides of the goblet as he tilted it one way and the next— at least until Hanush snapped at him to stop playing with his food.
He remembers how large the goblet was in his grasp, little fingers sliding into the grooves of the relief carvings depicting a saint whose name he ought to know. It seemed so wide he could have drowned in it. And, in a manner of speaking, he had. What Hans can't remember is who had carried him to his bed that night.
If he had to guess, he would say Captain Bernard.
When the same goblet is set before him now, years later, it seems to have shrunk, or the more accurate observation: that he has grown. He traces the relief with the same fingers, and finds their tips do not fit between the carvings so easily. The hares that flank the still-nameless saint are easily obscured by the breadth of his thumb.
"Would you like the red or the white tonight, Sir Hans?" Dusca hasn't grown, but her face has weathered. Married, now, she wears her hair covered and her eyes seem tired, as if the tiny hands of her infant boy have permanently stretched them.
"White," he answers confidently, now knowing he prefers to see to the bottom of his cup than not.
"Don't be daft, boy," Hanush chides beside him. "We're having boar. He'll have the red."
"Certainly, my lord." Dusca nods to Hanush, not him, and returns with the unrequested drink.
Around him, the feast has begun to get underway. His stomach feels like springtime, turning as fast as the snowmelt streams that flow down from the hills. It's the first time he's been permitted to sit with the visiting lords, rather than shuffled off with the younger heirs (or worse— the women) to entertain them.
At his side the noble Lord Henry of Leipa is host, attended by his son, Lord Hanush (or uncle, as Hans has come to know him by, despite their blood ties not being so close as the term implies).
Sat nearby is Sir Radzig Kobyla, burgrave of Silver Skalitz, and Lady Stephanie, one of the few women gathered at the main table. Without her lord husband to advocate for the affairs of Talmberg it falls to her to speak to its needs, and perhaps that is why she looks so very old; a woman, a wife, and a maid for these last seven years, tasked with responsibilities beyond her God given nature.
She always smiles at him, though. Which is more than can be said for Radzig, who never seems glad to see him.
The feast begins with mindless prattle: talk of peasants and the little people who make up the kingdom. It is business he never has had a mind for, and thinks when he is lord he will find a Chamberlain with him head on straight to see to such matters for him.
"And that master blacksmith of yours," Hanush asks, the question carrying a significant look, "he hasn't grown tired of your little Skalitz?"
"Not yet, it seems." Radzig smiles tightly, although Hans wonders if anyone other than his uncle had asked if he would have answered so kindly.
"Well, if he ever does, we've two castles in Rattay. Enough room for the whole family, eh?"
"I'll be certain to pass your invitation onto Martin, although I suspect you'll be waiting sometime for a reply." Radzig's attention is parted by the arrival of the servant Pavel with a carafe of the white (evidently he can have white wine with boar).
The distraction seems to serve two purposes: an excuse for a drink, and to move onto matters more pressing than the living places of blacksmiths. Radzig speaks at a volume that isn't a shout, but louder than conversation. Heads turn when he begins: "Now that we have our cups I believe we ought to address the empty seat at the table. We draw upon the seventh year of Lord Talmberg's capture. The Lady Stephanie and myself have been in negotiations with Sir Havel and we believe we're drawing close to a solution."
Hans leans close to the table, unwilling to risk losing a word to the busy room. Sir Divish had been taken when he was still a child, and it had begun to look like he would pass away before they'd found the means to rescue him, leaving Lady Stephanie a widow and a maid in one. He'd cried when he heard, still a boy with his mother's heart. He could not help but picture Sir Divish in his own castle, alone and without friends.
He had asked Sir Henry if there was anything to be done, or if he could at least see his friends so he would not he so lonely. A foolish question that had earned a laugh out of his guardian, and silenced any further queries into Sir Divish's health.
But now he is older, beyond a boy's tears. There is a killing thrust behind his sword, and any mustered forces to secure his release will be certain to include him.
Hans sits straighter in his seat as Sir Radzig continues.
"With a little coin from your coffers, we may yet see our friend before the solstice, and should charity in the name of friendship not suffice, Lady Stephanie asked that I remind you that Talmberg's wealth lies in its quarry. Sooner or later, we will all be in want of stone."
Murmurs of agreement, even laughter, sounds from all sides. Hans glances around, bewildered, before looking back at Radzig. "Do we not mean to rescue him?"
This will be his castle, one day, and so he does not gently impose himself into Sir Radzig's proposal. He stands, the heavy legs of the chair he sits in scraping loudly against the stone. All eyes are upon him.
"And what would you propose, Lord Capon?" Radzig speaks in good humour, but he asks Hans to answer a question he had expected Radzig himself to answer.
His voice feels small in his throat, like the wine had shrivelled it. "We mount a rescue, of course." The air is tight, too, as though the laughter from before is being held in check by a mindful tongue. "The groschen we would give for his return is… it would be off the backs of our people. It is their tax for our protection, to give it away in some bid for our own safety seems counterintuitive, and to a- to a villain, no less."
Radzig outlines his beard with his fingers. "It is true I do not relish the idea of Sir Havel profiting off of his many indiscretions, but if you must invoke the well-being of the people, Lord Capon, need I remind you who will march upon the castle should we mount such a rescue? Better to lose a few groschen than a few men's lives."
"True, but he is one man… perhaps a more subtle approach-"
"I am afraid it is decided, Sir Hans. Although when one of us next finds himself in a place of peril, I know, at least, your bravery will not fail us."
If he is mocking him, at least Sir Radzig has the decency not to laugh. Still, Hans's cheeks redden as he sinks into his seat, lifting the chair by the front so it does not groan against the floor in surrender. When he glances at his guardian and his uncle, their gazes neatly skirt his. His shame turns hot under his hood, and the only person he can face is the approximation of his own reflection in his goblet.
Radzig continues as if he had not spoken: "Now that we are all in agreement that today is not the day to play at knights, I would recommend we each commit what we can afford to give. This will be a binding agreement, although in the case that Sir Havel settles for less, less will, naturally, be asked for."
Rather than shake them down like a highwayman, Sir Radzig allows for the subtle pressure of public appearances to weigh down upon the lords. Each wishing to appear the best Christian without giving the most coin.
His guardian, Sir Henry, puts forth the first commitment. One no doubt agreed upon between himself and Lord Kobyla before they'd set foot in this room. Sir Henry leaves few things to chance, and his uncle's long-standing friendship with Radzig likely worked in their favour. Hans knows the summer was long, and kind, and Rattay still reaps its sowing even as winter gathers. Henry's donation to Sir Divish's release is similarly generous, and sets the standard to which the others must live up to.
Hans sits quietly, fingers under his thighs, as though trapping them will keep his tongue from wagging. All coin he would put forth is his in name only, to be doled out by the Lords of Leipa on his behalf until he comes of age. It is humiliating, to have neither steel nor silver to donate to Sir Divish's release.
Bohuslav, the young son and heir of Sebastian vom Berg, slides out from his seat without pushing it back, still small enough to fit between it and the tabletop. Trotting up to the head table, he offers for Radzig's consideration a small stipend from his purse, a paltry sum which nevertheless receives a kind smile and gratitude from the lord. When returning to his seat, Bohuslav smiles like a fool, too young to understand he is being patronised.
Slowly, promises are made and the metaphorical purse is filled. Blue blood does not come cheap, and he suspects if it were more than words being exchanged, the face of the table would have cracked with the weight of it.
It is only when every family in the room have committed something that Sir Radzig speaks in more than general niceties, rising again so his head is above the rest of the room.
"You have my utmost gratitude, Your Graces. With luck, and God's favour to soften Lord Medek's heart, the Lady Stephanie may find herself in her lord husband's company before the month is up." He claps his hands together. "Now that such unpleasantness is behind us, I believe Lord Leipa has gladder plans in store for us, although thanks to your charity I believe it may now be considered a celebration."
"I have hardly your talent for speeches, Sir Radzig," Uncle Henry says with a bob of his head. "I've no choice but to concur with the motion, and declare this feast begun."
A sigh of relief seems to expand the room, like lungs breathing in, accompanied by laughter as his Uncle Hanush barks, "It's about time!"
Soon the meal is underway. Honeyed boar takes up most of the middle of the table, nearly obscuring Lady Stephanie sat across from him. Uncle Hanush, who had always seemed larger than life to young Hans, is undaunted by its size. He carves a portion off for Hans, first, heaping it over the turnip mash, juices running like rivulets from the Sasau. Hans isn't certain what he'd been doing with his face, but he must have looked quite shocked, earning a laugh from Hanush.
"We're not monks, nephew, and that aside— you're still growing. You'll need to eat more than your share to put some meat on those bones."
Hans perks up at the most important part of that sentence, and perhaps the only part he truly heard. "You think I'm still growing?"
He swears his legs have doubled in size in the last year alone, and hopes one day he'll be able to stretch them out and see the tips of his toes out the other side of the table.
"Of course you are! Though hopefully you'll bulk up a bit before you're any taller."
Hanush, quick to prick his ego as he is to bolster it, doesn't seem to notice how Hans slumps, too busy pulling food onto his own plate.
"Are you an archer, Lord Capon?" Lady Stephanie's eyes have dried, her heart no doubt at ease with the news of her husband's imminent return.
Hans squares his shoulders, head dipping in reply. "I am," he says. "I can hit a deer at thirty paces."
"Very impressive. Will the next feast come courtesy of you, my lord?"
She speaks to him as adults often do, with that distinct air that they are addressing a child not worthy of being taken seriously. It's more humiliating than before with Sir Radzig, who at least had the decency to address the problems of his proposal. Of course he will not supply them the next feast, that's what hunt masters are for, not nobles, but he cannot say that. At least not in so many words.
Stabbing at his food, the grain of the meat breaks apart easily, the mark of a roast well-cooked. He's seen boar in the woods before, surprisingly agile despite their impressive size. It's hard to imagine how such a beast can be made into something so tender a dinner fork can pry it into pieces.
"I've never hunted boar before," he admits, looking over Lady Stephanie's head to the murals trimming the castle walls. Hans knows just where to cast his eyes to find what he's looking for: a scene of a hunt, a marksman in pursuit of a boar, crippling blow already struck to its hind leg.
He can do that, he thinks.
"Well, should the talks with Sir Havel proceed as anticipated, we may arrange a hunt. I'll be certain to tell my husband of your courageous words when we are at last reunited."
His cheeks warm, and he almost wants to ask her not to say a word to him, but he wants to go on a hunt more. "Thank you, my lady. Your words do me credit."
Stephanie beams with painted lips, cutting delicately into her meal so not a crumb desecrates their corners. Hans does not keep her attention long, quickly cajoled into conversation by Radzig.
In fact, he does not keep anyone's attention for long.
He remembers, once, watching a group of servants from the palisade. Then, he'd been young enough that the top of his head only just came over the railing. Dusca had been playing with herchild, a babe at the time, still unsteady on his legs. She'd lifted him over her head, his arms spread, as close to flight as any man could hope to reach. From her arms, Oats lifted him higher, and the stableboy higher still. They had passed him around, no one person burdened with him overlong.
Only they had smiled in welcome when the babe was placed in their arms. Hans is received not nearly so warmly in conversation: too grown to be a pleasure, too young to be taken seriously.
The door at the far end of the room begins to look like the gate to heaven, guarded not by Saint Peter, but old Ludek. His moustache droops around his jowls, so long it resembles an extra pair of legs for his chin. Ludek's presence here is all show, if Bernard had any fear of intrusion he would have brought in Nightingale.
Which means, if he's careful…
When he was younger, he could slide from the bottom of the seat and crawl out the other side of the table, palms sticking to the floor where some wine had been carelessly spilled earlier in the evening. Now, there's little hope of that. Still, he lifts the legs of his seat and tries to stand without drawing notice.
A pity Sir Henry has the eyes of hawk. He doesn't speak up at Hans's attempted escape, but nods to Hanush without so much as missing a beat in his conversation with Sebastian.
"And where do you think you're going?" Hanush asks, a question and a warning in one.
"To get some air, Uncle."
"There's plenty of air inside."
Hans begs to differ. Unlike Pirkstein, Rattay Castle's windows are rarely open, even when the room is full and stifling. Lords sweat like all men do, and it doesn't smell any sweeter.
When his guardianship is over, he'll grease the hinges and fling them ajar.
Until then, he'll take the outdoors.
"I'll only be a moment," he protests. "You'll hardly miss me."
Hanush points with his goblet hand, jabbing his finger towards Hans. "Likely not, but you'll miss the entertainment."
Company is all that keeps Hans from rolling his eyes. "I think I might survive without witnessing another juggling routine."
Rattay's entertainers are that in name only. After so many years their routines are better bedtime stories than thrilling displays.
"Tonight's entertainment comes from a little beyond our gates, in fact."
If he had rabbit's ears, they'd be perked. Instead, only the eager lift of his heels can communicate his interest. "Really? How far?"
"Hush, Hans. I'll tell you nothing. You'll have to stay and see for yourself."
Attention successfully recaptured, Hans settles in his seat without another word, head buzzing with possibilities.
Its proximity to Kuttenberg means Rattay has hosted its share of strangers in the past. King Wenceslas's favour of the city had done all of the surrounding regions good (or so Sir Henry said). None, in Hans's experience, stayed long, but it makes market days exciting when the shrewdest of foreign merchants aligned visits with those occasions.
Those are tradesmen though, not entertainers. As the servants tidied away their plates and refilled their cups, his imaginings got steadily more dramatic. At first imagining learned men from Prague, here to demonstrate their inventions and education, he quickly moves on. He pictures troubadours who had travelled in the company of true knights to the Holy Land, and returned to tell the tale; or foreign poets who had penned the stories of pilgrims, made equal in the footsteps of the Lord; or even ones from as far afield as the lands that made the silk he sleeps in.
He will have to ask them how it is made.
By the time the cakes and candied fruits are brought forth Hans is stuffed, the boar and vegetable roast marinating in his stomach with the wine. His head feels twice its true size, bulbous and heavy as lead. Never had the hard edge of a table seemed so tempting a pillow. Only the sight of young Bohuslav testing Hans's premise gives him the strength to resist. Especially as the other lords have not yet begin to tire.
His rescue comes as a gasp of wind from the door, accompanied by the rattle of platemail as old Ludek bolts up straight. The corridor of cold air seems to cure the spell the wine had cast upon Hans, who is suddenly as cool and clear-headed as a monk at the crack of dawn.
Following the wind, a man enters.
Since he was a child, Hans has thought of people as particular animals: matching them like lords to their coat of arms. Hanush has always been a bear, larger than life itself and hairy to boot; Sir Henry, a lion, in thanks to the mane of hair that had not thinned through his many winters; Hans himself inherited the bird from his father, and thinks of them while training, when he has to keep his feet quick.
The man who walks through the door bears resemblance to a cat. He doesn't wear boots or shoes, but has laced leather into the bottom of his hose, which are bright, rich colours. Scarlet adorned with blue garters, and a patterned woad blue tunic with dagged sleeves. If Hanush had not already called him foreign, Hans would have guessed it himself at a glance. The style of his moustache, pressed neatly against his upper lip, so fine he might have mistaken it for an artist's pencil, gives it away. No Bohemian would be caught strolling upon God's green Earth in such a fashion.
Hanush tilts his cup the stranger's way. "Ah, Monsieur Estienne. I was beginning to wonder if I had overpromised your arrival."
"I would not dare risk disappoint, although it seems I may delay. Sir Hanush, Sir Henry…" The minstrel bows his head towards both lords. "It seems I have arrived in good company. I did not anticipate such a gathering 'til I witnessed the entourage in the courtyard. If I may ask, what is the occasion?"
"The heralding of an old friend's return," Radzig says. "Perhaps in your travels through our lands you will have heard of the trials of Sir Divish."
"Ah, yes. I did not dare cross Talmberg's shadow, lest I tempt Sir Havel's greed. I can only pray that my playing from the road might have given him some cheer, and that the Lord lifted my song to his window."
"On a clear day I could hear the quarrywork from my window," Lady Stephanie says. "I would like to think my lord husband might have heard, and taken heart- perhaps have even seen it as a good omen."
"The Lady Stephanie of Talmberg," Radzig adds, giving context to the woman sat near him.
Another bow, hand tented against his chest like his heart will fall out without the help of his fingers. "Enchanté, Madame."
Since he'd entered, Hans has been silent. Afraid the sound of his own breathing might cause him to miss a word. His staring, however, has not gone unnoticed. Estienne's eyes slide across the table, settling on him.
It feels like the first time all evening someone has looked at him. The man's eyes are brown, framed by dark lashes the same colour as his curls— he looks young, but his smile crinkles around his eyes.
"And who is this, who listens so attentively?"
Henry gestures towards Hans. "My steward, Lord Hans Capon of Pirkstein. His late father charged me with rule of his holdings until he comes of age."
The minstrel's eyes glitter with mirth. "Which will surely be any day now, will it not?"
Hans dislikes how the question hangs in the air. Although it was asked in good nature and good faith, it spoils quickly.
"Thank you for coming, Monsieur," he says. Knowing something must be said, he elects to say something stupid, "Are you really from France?"
"I did not come by this accent by a knock on the head. Oui, je viens de France. Although my master would reprimand me if I did not tell you I was born and studied in Troyes."
The name tickles some lesson in the back of Hans's mind, but there are more names and places in books than even the happiest man can hope to visit. He runs his tongue along his teeth, wondering if he should ask, or if asking will bring insult. "And what brings you to Bohemia?"
Yet Estienne bears the question beautifully.
"Its beauty, naturally. For where there is beauty there are stories. Stories of love, of adventure, of God and His kingdom, and those who toil in hope of one day joining Him in it." Estienne stirs the strings of his instrument as though waking a sleeping beast. Though the only thing that stirs is the surface of Hans's skin, prickling with gooseflesh which itches against his sleeves. "Would you like to hear one?"
Hans leans with both elbows on the table and says, playful, "Since you've come all this way it would only be fitting."
"Then where shall I begin?" He plays a few rising notes, the tune a question in itself. "Ah, yes. As I was passing through these lands, taking refuge in the company of gracious lords like the ones gathered here today, I heard tell of Žito, court magician to King Wenceslas. They say he has a fearsome mouth that touches both ears when he smiles his fullest, and he is capable of feats that would make the fiercest warrior doubt his strength."
As he speaks he walks ups and down the table. Hans twists in his seat, following him with his eyes and ears. "In my travels I have come upon men who could quench fire with their tongues, or swallow swords like it was cold mead on a warm summer day, but Žito put them all to shame. At the wedding of good King Wenceslaus and his beloved bride, Queen Sophia, Žito took offence at a juggler's performance. They bickered for hours, until, at last, tired of the juggler's prattling— Žito swallowed him whole, sparing nothing but the bells on his toes."
"Many of Wenceslaus's court have heard of Žito, none of us have yet to meet him." Radzig says between drinks of wine. He had asked for the white, but his cheeks carry the same rouge as the red.
Estienne bows humbly. "I leave the truth to the Bible, Lord Kobyla. I tell stories to entertain."
"Can you tell us a story from somewhere faraway?" Hans asks. He could hear tales of Žito from any servant stricken with the fear of the Devil in their heart. He would even take stories French servants tell.
"I would be happy to, Lord Capon, but I would not wish to bore you twice. What thrills you most? Wicked devils or the restless dead; noble knights or courtly romance?"
Devils make his heart race, and though he's begun to notice the shape of girl's hips, he cannot stomach stories about them.
"Knights," he says decisively, for there can be no other answer. "I want to hear about knights."
"A good choice. Would you not agree, Sir Henry?" Estienne addresses his guardian with a deferent nod, and Hans ignores the little kick his stomach gives, being reminded he might be overruled in his halls.
Henry acquiesces first with a short nod of his own. "How could I object? What better to get the humours flowing after such a heavy meal?"
"Bien sûr. Then I will tell you a tale of my most favoured knight, who serves as a reminder that even the bravest among us may still struggle with vice." A few irreverent plucks of his lute signal the story's beginning. Even Bohuslav rouses from his resting place, blinking blearily at the stranger who had entered their midst.
"Across the channel from belle France lies the kingdom of England— a once-great land, ruled by King Arthur, whose example every king could stand to learn from. Yet even King Arthur did not always rule over a kingdom at peace. Prosperity invites envy, and envy invites conquerors— among these men: the noble Galehaut, the lord of the Distant Isles. Said to be half-man, half-giant, a true man honour if there ever was one."
Hans pops a candied fruit in his mouth, remembering what his uncle said about his growth. The sugar is crystal on his tongue, but the fruit underneath yields to his tongue crushing it against the top of his mouth. It pairs well with the sweet words from the Frenchman's mouth. Better than red wine and boar, at any rate.
"Twice Galehaut met Arthur upon the battlefield, and twice he yielded—"
"A coward, then?" Sebastian, lord of Sasau, suggests.
"Or a strategist," Radzig supplies.
Before Hans can swell with the frustration that the story has been interrupted, Estienne ends the debate with a certain phrase: "A romantic, my lords. The rarest thing in the world in these dark days. You see, Lord Galehaut could have crushed King Arthur in the field on both occasions. The first, his forces were few, he had underestimated his enemy, and crushing him would grant Galehaut no honour."
Estienne continues, quoting conversations between the noble King Arthur himself and knights sent upon Galehaut's behalf, calling for truce in the face of victory. Yet ever upon the end of the Frenchman's tongue is what comes after. Hans finds himself leaning forward, sugar from the candied fruit crushing against his doublet.
"And the second?" Hans asks before he can stop himself. He wants to reach out and yank the answer out himself, but the strings upon Estienne's lute grow silent, his long fingers stilling upon them. The silence is a song itself; Hans can hear the breath in the lungs of the men beside him, the set of their molars, the rhythm of their hearts.
Estienne answers:
"The second time, the Black Knight arrived upon the field."
Hans's mouth opens and closest without sound. A black knight. A knight without heraldry, whose appearance upon the field of battle may spell devilry. And, indeed, what Estienne describes could be explained by witchcraft: a knight beyond the prowess of all other men, who cleft men's arms from their shoulders and split helmets from their heads.
From the corner of his eyes, Hans spies Radzig and his uncle, wondering if he will see their eyes roll. They had scoffed at his suggestion and intentions for Talmberg, but now sit in rapt attention at the accounts of this man's heroic feats.
Estienne may be right: romantics are rare, but admiration of them isn't.
"Galehaut was as astounded as you are now, my lords, and said to himself that he would not want to have conquered all the lands under the heavens, if such a splendid knight were to die through his fault. He met the knight in the field, wielding only a question: 'Who are you?' To which the knight replied: 'Good sir, I am a knight, as you can see.'
"'Indeed, a knight you are,' said Galehaut, 'and the best there is, and the one I would most wish to honour in all the world.'"
Only love and newly forged friendship could persuade the knight from the field, to Galehaut's bed, where the black knight slept soundly in the company of his would-be foe.
"It was there, in bed with the Black Knight and two more of his knights, bereft of armour and all lordly vestments, that Galehaut felt like the world's most powerful man in the world. Upon the verge of victory with King Arthur's forces, and yet here he prospered, for God's first gift to man was not honour, but companionship."
Hans presses his cheeks, flushed hot from the wine, but nothing seems to cool them. The boar sits poorly in his stomach, twisting up his insides, and yet he doesn't feel ill. He summons a cup of water to his table, and tries to drink around the most important parts of the tale; not wishing for the sound of his throat swallowing to cause him to miss a beat.
"By morning, Galehaut had decided how to keep what was dearer to him than worldly honour close. He would quit the battlefield, surrender to King Arthur, even as the latter wept upon the precipice of defeat. For his companion's sake, Galehaut would surrender more than victory— all the world would be his, had Galehaut the power to give it. When the knight asked Galehaut to go to King Arthur, he did so without regret, without malice.
"With his surrender, the battle was over, the war through. Yet what Galehaut lost upon the field, he gained in friendship, for these were but the first moments of the best days of his life."
The stringed notes fade to a more subtle end, a conclusion that conjures a feeling so fierce in Hans's chest he's tempted to throw his half-drunk cup in anger. "There must be more," he insists, "if those are only the first moments. We don't even know the knight's name."
Estienne smiles, and his thin moustache smiles with him. "Nor does Galehaut. The Black Knight asked that he dare not ask again, until he sees fit to tell him, or someone else tells him on his behalf."
"But you know his name," Hans says. "You could tell us on his behalf."
The Frenchman bows low, apologetic. "I know only what the story demands, my lord. He will tell us his name when he is ready."
The boyish temptation to pout is near impossible to resist, but he maintains his stiff lip. "Then… you must come tomorrow! Mustn't he, Sir Henry?"
Sir Henry raises a thick brow, grey with age and cleft in two parts by battle. "He is a free man, from beyond the borders of any land I can pretend to have a claim to, he mustn't do anything… but should he see fit to, there will be a place for him at tomorrow's dinner, and a bed in my castle. At least until my ward's had his fill."
"I will stay," Estienne says, bowing again. Hans imagines it as lesser than the one administered towards him.
He imagines many things that night: his bed, warm with companionship; his deeds, worthy of lauding; his own voice, asking the knight to remain, and the knight in return saying, "I could have no company better than yours."