Christina Bindon

Spring has arrived. The trees have shaken off the tyranny of winter and crowned themselves with green garlands, and upon the treacherous cliffs of Pirkstein flowers bloom. For a while, he looked out at his subjects travelling the roads at the feet of Rattay, until his eyes could no longer bear the sunlight, and he was forced back into bed. Nose to the wall, too tired to close his eyes.

The hours drag from Laud to Vespers, and life moves without him. Remembered only at mealtimes, so hunger does not finish the job the Cumans began.

A knock at the door signals the arrival of such a meal, although he hadn't realised how long in the tooth the day had become until then. He casts his eyes up, trying to measure the light before he decides it doesn't matter.

"Come in!" he calls.

The door squeals when it opens, and the feet that follow through are driven by an ill-defined purpose.

"Erm…" comes a hesitant sound, too deep to be a maid.

Hans feels his heart beat for the first time since he'd been lain in this bed. He twists, mussing the sheets, ignoring the twinge in his chest to see if his ears have failed him.

"Henry?"

He asks, because it isn't immediately obvious. The boy that had dragged him here from the Sasau Woods has weaned off the milk he was raised on and stands in Hans's chambers, half-a-knight. There's a proper sword at his hip and a padded shirt meant to bear a breastplate, though still he wears that scarf, all worn about the edges, underneath it all.

"Yes…" Henry answers, as if he's uncertain himself. He's standing strangely, arms held behind his back, hiding something that Hans strains to see, leaning until his healing body twinges in protest. "I, em, I came to see how you were getting on, sir. See if after our little adventure you were finally on the mend. I see you're still in bed, though."

"Physician's orders, I'm afraid. Though boredom may finish the job the Cumans started." Hans casts his wrist over his forehead, looking Henry up and down. He's smiling sympathetically, not put off by Hans's complaints.

"I know the feelin'. Once I was laid-up in bed weeks after a bad illness, but I've brought you something." He reveals what's been hidden behind his back since he came in, proffering forward a fistful of flowers. They're still wet with morning dew, and no doubt crawling with bugs, but they're bright— brighter than the murals that decorate the room around them. Only Henry's eyes can compare. "My ma always said it was good for healin', bringing in some of nature. Gives you a taste of what you're missin' out on… of course, the daisies that grew outside the forge weren't so pretty as these ones. Maybe that'll make you mend quicker."

Hans snorts. "That's peasant nonsense if I've ever heard it. Healing is all about science: the four humours, the excess of one thing, a lack of another."

A little pang of regret drops in Hans as Henry shrinks slightly, no doubt curbing his tongue for a change. "Well, I'm still alive."

"So you are," Hans says, "and because of that so am I. I suppose they won't do any harm. You'll find a vase on the table over there, just be careful not to knock anything over, blacksmith's boy!"

"Aye, Sir."

As Henry shuffles over to the corner of the room he'd instructed him to, Hans can only rely on his ears to determine where he is, unable to crane his neck quite so far to watch him. From the corner, Hans hears: "I dunno how you've been bored, Sir. You've got plenty of books to keep you company."

"Which would solve all my problems, if my head wasn't splitting open."

"Don't you have someone who can read to you?"

Hans rolls his eyes. "Who? Everyone is either too busy to play nursemaid or couldn't read their own name."

"I could read for you," Henry offers immediately. Then, perhaps realising he had offered too quickly, adds, "Only if you like, of course."

"You can read?" Injury or no, Hans forces himself to turn to look. Henry's back is turned, but he can make out the colour of his ears turning red, a nice contrast to the blue forget-me-nots he clutches in hand.

"I only just started learnin'," Henry mutters, then adds with a louder voice, "but beggars can't be choosers. I may not read like the minstrels who've passed through Pirkstein, but they're not here right now. I am."

There's a defiance to those words that makes Hans's heart skip. The same obstinance he'd berated the first time they met now nurtures a blossom of admiration. "Go on, then," he says gently. "Read for me."

Henry whips around, blinking widely. Once the words settle, his brow knits, turning back to the books as he asks, "Any of them?"

"I had only my favourites fetched from my room while Sir Radzig… occupies it." Hosting Sir Radzig is, of course, the knightly thing to do, yet Hans regrets agreeing to give up his room to him. He's sure in his proper bed he would be healed already, but it's not as though he can ask for it back. "In short, you can't go wrong."

"Right, em…" Henry's fingers pass over the books, their leatherbound spines seem to shiver under his touch, speaking to him. He decides upon the brightest of the lot: bound with new, red leather with gold ornament, and perhaps the one Hans is proudest of. Stuffing the flowers in the vase, he pulls the book out and lets it fall open to the first page. From this angle, Hans can see his eyes moving, a flash of white as they skim the page. Then: "What the hell is this?"

Books are an escape, and it appears Henry had forgotten where he stands. In a lord's chamber, with the lord himself present. He turns on his heel, and points to the page like it's committed an indiscretion. "Is this Latin?" he asks.

Hans pauses, and laughs, wincing as his ribs punish him for it. "That would be French. They are similar, though, I'll grant you that. There should be a slip of paper a few pages in, I was trying to translate it into Czech."

Henry wets his fingers and pulls apart the next few pages, holding the book beneath his breast so the loose leaf between them doesn't fall out. His eyes scan the page, side-to-side, mouthing the words before he looks up and says, "The Knight's Tale?"

Hans rests his cheek on his knuckles, now past the point of pain. Curiosity surges through him like adrenaline and he says with undisguised astonishment, "You can read after all."

"What, did you think I was lying?"

"No. That doesn't mean it's not a surprise. Not a bad one, I'll say." Hans pulls himself out of bed, sights set upon the seat near the window. It's a short distance, even an old man on his death bed could drag himself over, yet Hans is scarcely on his feet before he's winded. He reaches for the back of a nearby chair, and finds himself clasping something warm— someone warm. Henry, with gentle eyes and gentle hands, guiding him into his seat.

Hard to believe mere days ago he had used those hands to cut the colour from the Cumans who'd held him. But then, knights were supposed to be men of romance as well as violence.

They sit together by the window, Henry with his book and Hans with his flowers, which will drink no water until he has his fill of them, and they begin:

"Once, as old histories tell us, there was a duke who was called the… The-sea-us."

"Theseus," Hans says. "A famous Greek hero. I'll tell you about him some other time."

Henry nods, a little smile tucking into his cheek as he continues: "He was lord and governor of Athens, and in time, 'scuse me, in his time such a conqueror that there was no one greater under the sun."

Hans tries not to watch him speak, but finds himself fascinated by the shape of the words upon his lips. Penned by a poet for a noble court, they're coarse upon a peasant's tongue, but not unpleasant. And he has a way of speaking that draws the listener in to the reality of the page. This place he has always known has home— now suddenly a tower the likes of which their heroes find themselves locked within. His privilege, his indulgence, a cage.

As Henry reads, Hans discovers new meaning in words he must have read no less than a dozen times. Before, a knightly romance of star-crossed loves and star-crossed friendship, now appears to him a farce. The divine will at the heart of the story, now utterly human in its making. What use did Emelye's love have compared to the one shared between Arcite and Palamon? She, a woman, lacks the strength to hold them should they ail and the skill to wield a sword— good for one thing only, which despite the many times Hans has visited the baths, feels suddenly inconsequential.

And though the character of a room has a finite number of qualities, the things which he notices about Henry feel infinite. How his hose stretch around his thighs in a manner they hadn't when he'd first shuffled into Pirkstein; the way he breathes through his mouth, and licks his teeth when a word fails him. A thousand, thousand minutiae, which may well bear Hans to health. Though his eyes, growing heavy, begin to slip shut as Henry's reading turns to tragedy.

Hans breathes in the spring that clings to Henry's shoulders and the sweet smell of the flowers he clasps to his breast. Through the open window he imagines, not Rattay, but Athens lies at their tower's feet.