Chapter Text
The fireplace was still burning brightly, but there was no comfort in its heat. Capon felt the sweat on his skin dry slowly, leaving only the raw feeling between his legs as proof that Henry had just held him, had shared his body. Capon still tasted their kisses on his lips.
I should feel bad.
But it was a fleeting thought that held no bite. The fear of divine judgement paled before the fear of losing Henry.
You have to come back. You promised. You can’t leave me alone in this world – even less now, after this happened between us.
Please come back.
He shivered. Almost hesitantly, he put his clothes back on, closing button after button, sealing their sinful secret from the world.
Clanking steps on the stairs behind his door announced the arrival of someone in heavy boots and metal armor. Capon quickly smoothed out the rumpled blanket on his bed and ran his fingers through his doubtlessly ruffled hair.
“Sir Hans?” The familiar voice was calm, but full of barely concealed worry.
Capon opened the door and greeted his visitor.
“Godwin.”
The old priest’s face was even more wrinkled than usual. Deep shadows sat under his sunken eyes, telltale signs of terrible exhaustion after weeks of bad sleep and hunger. Capon suspected he himself didn’t look much better.
“They climbed the wall and made it to the ground. It’s now in God’s hands,” Godwin said.
Another wave of ice-cold fear took hold of Capon’s heart. He thought about the last thing he had seen from Henry: his strong back, shoulders straightened, as he walked out of the room and towards this hopelessly dangerous mission. No fear. At least none that he had shown.
A warm touch on his leg brought Capon back to the here and now. Mutt had followed Godwin and now pressed his snout into Capon’s calves, looking for comfort after the departure of his master.
“Good boy,” Capon mumbled and scratched the dog between his floppy ears. Then he looked back at Godwin.
“Do you want to come in, Father? I would offer you food and drink, but I think it’s been two days since I saw anything edible other than rainwater.”
“And I would have brought something with me, but I would have had to duel Janosh for the last crumbs of moldy bread – and that cheeky bastard is quicker with his sword than one would expect.”
Capon held the door open for Godwin and closed it once the priest had stepped in and Mutt had wiggled into the room, too. The dog sat down beneath the shut window, listening to every sound outside.
I would do just the same if I were you, boy. I wish my ears were good enough to hear Henry out there.
God, I hope the Praguers don’t have dogs.
Godwin saw the sword – Henry’s sword – leaning against the bedframe, right next to Capon’s own.
“Feels weird to see it here, while he is out there,” the priest said.
“I gave him my dagger. I just… I hope he doesn’t need it. And if he does – that it’s enough.” Capon couldn’t manage more than a hoarse whisper.
“Henry is also not alone. He has Sam with him.”
“Yes … but Sam is Sam. Not a spy master and not a trained knight.” Capon had learned to somewhat respect the man, but he wasn’t sure he would be able to protect Henry. More likely, it would be the other way round.
I swear to God, Samuel, if you put Henry in danger …
Godwin patted him on the shoulder before he started slowly pacing through the room. Capon sat down on the bed, picking up a few hairs from his pillow, fine gold threads in the firelight. He wondered if they were his own, Henry’s, or both of theirs.
The two men didn’t talk as time went by. Godwin kept walking, Capon threw wood into the fire every now and then, staring into the embers as if they were holding answers.
Suddenly, Mutt perked up. His head snapped toward the window and his ears twitched.
“What is –“
Godwin’s question was cut short by a sudden bell ringing. No chapel or church bell – this was the high-pitched sound of an alarm.
Capon shot up from the bed and ran over to the window, shoving the shutters open so hard that the wood creaked in protest. Godwin stepped behind him and stared into the dark camp that spread around the castle.
Only it wasn’t all that dark anymore.
Orange flickering light brightened the night, dancing wilder than an ordinary campfire. Black smoke shrouded the stars and filled the air with the smell of burning cloth and wood.
“To the wall,” Godwin commanded and stormed out of the room. Capon followed, dazed, his legs moving on their own accord.
No. Please, God, no.
They nearly ran into Zizka, whose expression was dark and bitter.
“What happened?” Godwin demanded.
“Don’t know more than you. Hurry.”
Outside, the scent of smoke was even stronger; the wind blew it right from the Praguers camp to the castle. Something big must have caught fire over there.
Capon followed Godwin and Zizka as they ran up the stairs to the wehrgang that led along the inner castle wall. Dry Devil was already standing there, watching whatever was happening through a crenel.
“What is it?” Zizka asked.
“Think a shed caught fire. Smells like burning hay, if you ask me.”
“Our boys’ work?” Godwin wondered aloud.
“Don’t know why they would set fire to the place instead of sneaking out. Unless something has gone very wrong.”
Capon leaned forward and squeezed his eyes. It was nearly impossible to make out any details in the soldiers’ camp. From here on the wall, he could hear yelling and barked commands – people trying to get a bucket brigade together and put out the flames before they spread.
It didn’t take long before the orange sheen faded.
“They got it under control,” Zizka growled. It seemed he wanted to say something else, but a shout from the Praguers’ camp shut him up. The words cut through the night air, loud and clear despite the distance:
“Get that fucking Jew over here! I’ll hang him myself!”
“Fuck.” Dry Devil spat over the wall.
For one last, merciful heartbeat Capon didn’t understand what it meant. Then the realization hit him like a war hammer.
They caught them.
“No no no no. No! We need to help them!” He leaned over the wall without even thinking about the thirty-foot-drop – he had to get there, get Henry out before–
Godwin grabbed his arm.
“Hans!” the priest shouted, “Stop! There is nothing we can do for them besides praying. Nothing. You can’t get down that wall!”
NO!
He wanted to cry out Henry’s name, but Zizka seized him from behind and pressed his palm on Capon’s mouth with brutal strength.
Capon screamed into the rough hand until something ripped in his throat.
Zizka was lucky Capon didn’t have his dagger on him; his hands reflexively reached for the weapon, and he would have blindly stabbed the man in the gut to get him to let go.
“Shut up!” Zizka hissed into his ear. “Listen to me. LISTEN. Maybe they only got Sam. And they seem to know he’s a Jew. They will know his name is not Henry. You could reveal him to them. So shut – the fuck – up.”
Desperation suddenly paralyzed Capon’s limbs. Zizka seemed to sense it. He slowly loosened his iron grip and let the young noble sink onto his knees.
They found them.
They will kill them.
Maybe he is already dead.
His heart shattered. Dark shadows narrowed his field of view and for a moment he hoped that he’d just die, here and now.
But God didn’t show him that mercy.
Through blood pounding in his ears, he heard the muffled voices of Zizka and Godwin but couldn’t make sense of their words.
Henry…!
“Sir Hans.”
I should have gone with you, I–
“Hans!”
Godwin nearly yelled his name. Capon blinked and looked up.
“Let’s go inside,” the priest said. He looked as if he had aged ten years in the last few minutes.
Capon just stared at him. He was vaguely aware that the man was asking him to do something, but what sense was there in doing anything ever again? He’d much rather just lay down and stop breathing.
“God damn it. Zizka, help me with him.”
Capon was sitting on wooden floorboards. Back in his room, he realized – with no recollection how he had gotten here.
Godwin was there, too, staring out the window.
“What else happened?” Capon heard his own voice as if it belonged to another, strained and broken.
The priest turned around.
“We didn’t hear anything more. Can’t see shit, either. The camp is quiet again. How are …” Godwin left the question unfinished when he saw Capon’s face. “Hans. Please listen to me. We can’t lose hope now. We simply don’t know what went on out there.”
Speaking hurt Capon’s throat and he tasted bitter iron, but nothing had ever bothered him less. “You heard them. They got Sam. And Henry would not leave him behind,” he said.
“I will not give up on them. We have to wait and see. It will take at least a week for them to reach Jobst and gather enough fighters. We need to focus on surviving until then. Do you hear me?”
Capon didn’t answer.
“Hans?”
“Leave me alone, Godwin. I can’t … I just can’t.”
The priest hesitated. But finally, he obeyed. Before he went out the door, he turned back and said: “Henry is a survivor. He’s made it out of worse situations in one piece. You have to trust him. Please, try to rest, we will need all our strength.”
Then Godwin was gone, and Capon rested his head in his hands, fingernails digging into his scalp until he felt his skin burst.
When he came back to his senses, the fire had burned down, only dim embers glowed through thick ash. He was lying on his side on the floor – had he fallen asleep or just lost consciousness?
A warm body was pressed against his. He reached out; his fingers met rough fur.
Mutt.
The dog must have snuck in through the half-open door and snuggled up to Capon. As he felt the probing touch of a human hand, he wagged his tail, little thump thumps against the hard ground.
Capon had never cared much for Mutt’s cuddles – that was Henry’s world; he deeply loved this four-legged flea bag. But here and now, Mutt was the only living thing that Capon could bear to be close to. He rested his pounding head against the dog’s flank and shut his eyes.
The morning came with birdsong and sunshine, as if the world hadn’t ended last night. Capon sat up, his arms and legs stiff from lying on the bare floor. Mutt was still there, jumping up as the noble rose to his feet.
“Got nothing for you, boy,” Capon mumbled. Every syllable stung in his throat, still raw from the screaming yesterday.
He looked over to Henry’s sword, waiting for its master to return.
You and me both. But he …
It was too painful to even think about. Capon stumbled under the weight of his desperation.
God, please help me.
He struggled to make it out of his room and into the one next to it – the small chapel of Castle Suchdol. It was beautiful in its simplicity, just a wooden shrine with a portrait of the Holy Mary cradling Jesus Christ in her arms. The walls were painted with religious scenes: a shepherd leading his flock to water, people kneeling before an angel with raised arms, knights being blessed by a priest.
A faint echo of incense still lingered in the air. The familiar scent brought a sliver of comfort to Capon. He knelt at the unpadded bench before the shrine and pulled out the rosary he kept in a pocket of his garment. For most of his life he had dreaded the Sanctum Rosarium – it took hours that he’d much rather spend riding, shooting, or hunting.
Now, it was the only possible deliverance from his pain he could think of.
His fingers trailed over the smooth pearls made from oak wood, every eleventh one bigger than the rest and formed out of golden amber.
He hoped that merciful Mother Mary would still hear him, even though he had sinned yesterday. With his eyes closed, he started the prayer, offering the pain in his throat as an additional sacrifice to God.
As his fingers counted the pearls, he slowly lost conscious thought in the rosary, going through the decades. When he reached the end, he tried to decide on a fitting final prayer – and instead started the entire rite again from the beginning.
Henry’s face – his beautiful, dazzling face – kept creeping into his mind, sometimes laughing and sometimes bloody, pale and terribly still.
Capon was still praying when Godwin found him.
The priest paused at the door, then stepped in and knelt next to Capon. He bowed his head and waited until the young noble was done. Then he offered him a leather bottle.
“You should drink something, Sir Hans.”
Capon shook his head, but Godwin nudged him on the shoulder. Reluctantly, he took the bottle from the priest and drank, grimacing as the earthy taste of stale rainwater hit his tongue. But there was something else in there, a hint of …
“Where the fuck did you find schnaps, Father?”
Godwin shrugged. “I have my wondrous ways. How are you feeling?”
“What do you think.” Capon drank again. The alcohol went to his head immediately – he hadn’t eaten anything but a few pieces of bread for days.
Maybe I shouldn’t get drunk in a chapel. Don’t need any more sins on my list right now.
But on the other hand, it had been a priest who had given the drink to him, so God was probably willing to look this one over.
“They are dead.” Capon suddenly felt the urge to speak it out loud. The proclamation was bitter enough that it should have made even Mother Mary weep, but she just stared down from the shrine with calm, indifferent eyes, offering only her divine silence.
“I do not think so, Sir Hans.” Godwin’s voice was calm and unwavering.
“We heard it, remember? They caught them. I keep thinking about how they died. How painful–“ His voice broke, and it had nothing to do with his strained throat.
Godwin put his hand on the young noble’s shoulder, fingers gripping firmly as if to lend him some strength.
“We only heard that they wanted to hang Samuel. But they didn’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because they would have made a spectacle out of it, to weaken our resolve. There would be absolutely no sense in killing one – or both – of them without letting us know. Either they’d put up gallows right in front of the gate or they’d have thrown their heads over our walls. They didn’t. Why? They must have gotten away.”
There was soundness in Godwin’s words. The priest looked him straight in the eye, no doubt in his gaze. He seemed to truly believe what he said.
Capon’s battered spirit tried to decide if he should allow himself this foolish hope – it would only be more painful if it collapsed one day soon. But if he didn’t cling to something, anything, he couldn’t keep living. If he fully accepted that Henry was dead, then there wasn’t any reason not to walk right out the gate and let himself be cut into pieces by the Praguers.
Henry… How could you be dead when I still feel your hands on my skin, your tongue in my mouth, and your body inside of mine?
He took a last sip of thinned schnaps and chose life.
For now.
Capon tried passing the time by keeping busy, and out of sight from everyone else. He knew he should apologize to Zizka – and thank him – at some point. But he couldn’t bring himself to join the others yet. He heard them through the window as he sat on his bed; they were outside in the courtyard, taking care of the wounded, discussing who would keep watch at night. Dry Devil told some undoubtedly dirty joke and made the entire pack scream with laughter.
Meanwhile, Capon was cleaning his armor in the silent presence of Mutt. There still was some blood on his chainmail from the last fight on the outer courtyard, when the Praguers had scaled the walls at night. He didn’t want the metal to start rusting. That was how men died – just a few brittle chain links and a blade might wedge through.
When it was immaculate again, he turned his attention to his longbow, checking the limbs for damage. He replaced the string because he didn’t like how a few threads had come loose on the old one. He still carried scars on his left hand from once breaking a bow when its weakened string had ripped, the sudden release of tension splintering the wood into a hundred sharp pieces. A mistake he’d never risk again.
After that came the arrows. Any faulty fletching or crack in the shafts could mean the difference between hitting a target or sending the arrow astray, maybe even wounding an ally.
Twenty-two left. Twenty-two dead Praguers if I’m lucky.
As the sun sank, coloring the horizon in bright oranges and yellows, there was nothing more to do. His hands were ice-cold and shaking – a feeling he had almost grown used to in the last week, ever since the starving started. But now the weakness started to crawl deep into his bones. It was high time he got something to eat, so he hung Henry’s sword on his belt – not that he thought anyone here would steal it, but he wanted to keep it close. Then he walked through the living quarters, down the steps to the courtyard and into the kitchen. Janosh’s realm. Mutt kept close at his heels.
Dry Devil, Zizka and the self-declared cook were already sitting inside, interrupting their talk as Capon stepped in.
“Evening,” he muttered, avoiding Zizka’s steel-blue eyes in particular. “Anything left to eat?”
“No more bread,” Janosh declared with his weird accent. “But I cook some leather straps.”
Which explains the stench.
Capon pulled a face and sat down.
“The trick is not to chew, lad,” Dry Devil explained to him. “Otherwise, you’ll still be chewing on Judgement Day.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Want to hear some more? We should cook that beast.” Dry Devil pointed at Mutt. “A bit tough, I reckon, but enough meat for a meal.”
Capon shifted to stare in Dry Devil’s disfigured face and put his hand on the hilt of Henry’s sword.
“I will cut you down and let you bleed out right here if you put a finger on Mutt.”
Everyone looked at him, Janosh concerned, Dry Devil with cold calculation, and Zizka with a mix of surprise and amusement.
“Let it go, Hynek,” Zizka said after a few tense seconds. “No use fighting each other. And the dog is hardly worth it, look at the skinny thing. If we have to, we can slaughter a horse. Let’s give it two more days.”
“Mmmmmh.” Dry Devil seemed to weigh his chances against Capon – difficult to assess, given their hungry and weakened state. Then his bumpy lips curled into that disturbing demonic smile of his. “Well, keep the mongrel, then. But I’m not sharing my tasty, cooked leather with him.”
Janosh stood up, relief clearly visible on his face – this could have been ugly, and the mercenary knew it. He fished around in a steaming kettle and brought wooden bowls to everyone, including himself.
Capon looked down on the shriveled brown-grey pieces of leather.
Maybe if I pretend they are mushrooms …
It didn’t help. The putrid taste was almost as revolting as the texture. Dry Devil was right, one had to just swallow a piece whole, chewing was in vain. Capon picked up a larger piece – the way it jiggled nearly made him vomit – and threw it to Mutt. The dog snapped it out of the air and blissfully started chowing down.
It was terrible, but at least it somewhat filled Capon’s stomach. He tried not to think about sizzling meats, sweet butter and fresh bread as he gave the empty bowl back to Janosh. Instead, he thanked the cook and turned to face Zizka.
“I wanted to say … I am sorry for yesterday. You were right, I was acting foolish. I couldn’t think straight.”
The older man gave him a hearty pat on the arm. “I don’t blame you, lad. Staying behind while your best friend risks his skin – that’s maddening. We have to keep up our spirits and be ready when Jobst arrives. Hopefully with an army behind him.”
“And with Henry.”
“Aye.” Zizka nodded. “With Henry and Sam. May God protect them.”
Every morning was worse than the one before. Capon didn’t sleep much but spent most of the nights trapped in a horrible void between waking and resting, haunted by violent images and nameless fears. Only once did he dream of warm light and soft lips on his, of strong arms around him, tender whispers in his ear. When he opened his eyes in the dark loneliness of his room, he felt cold tears drying on his cheeks.
Even the leather straps grew scarce as the days went by. Janosh had started cooking moss with water and salt – the only things they still had plenty of. Yesterday, Zizka and Dry Devil had debated which horse they should slaughter, but they hadn’t decided yet. In case they had to make one last desperate break through enemy lines, they’d need every animal to carry people. Eating them meant condemning some to stay behind.
Capon was just glad that good old Pebbles wasn’t here – Henry had left his mare in a stable near Kuttenberg before they traveled to Suchdol because she was still healing from a nasty cut. The shaggy horse would have certainly been the first to go into a pot and it would have broken Henry’s heart if – when he returned.
The Praguers kept them on their toes. Several times a day they sent volleys of arrows over the wall – luckily so far, the men keeping watch on the wall had shouted warnings early enough for everyone to duck behind roofs. Most of the projectiles broke on impact – they were built fragile on purpose as to avoid gifting the enemy new ammunition. But Capon managed to at least collect a few good arrowheads. Something to keep his hands busy. Mutt meanwhile ate the scattered feathers without complaining.
Capon spent much of his waking time in the chapel, praying for any sign that Henry was still out there breathing. Godwin joined him sometimes, either silently praying along or speaking psalms when Capon was too exhausted to form words. But no matter how many hours he spent kneeling until he couldn’t feel his legs anymore – God stayed silent.
Please, Lord Almighty, if you need to punish someone for what we did that night – let it be me. I started it. I was the one who lay beneath him, I committed the bigger sin. I will accept your just retribution without complain. Just let him live and be safe.
But of course, there was no bargaining with God.
When he wasn’t praying, Capon shot arrows at the ragged straw puppets on the far side of the courtyard. It was getting harder and harder to use his bow, because his strength had started to wane. But he trained with grim resolve, adjusting to his now shorter draws, until he hit his targets regardless.
He was just pulling out the last arrow from the straw for another round, when a loud honking sound drew his gaze upward to the sky. Five geese were flying over the castle, wings flapping loudly. Without thinking, he quickly nocked the arrow and sent it straight above, guided only by instincts sharpened over years and years of hunting. It pierced one of the birds right through the belly; the goose fell like it had suddenly turned to stone – dead before it hit the middle of the courtyard.
“Jesus Christ, be praised!”
That was Katherine’s voice. She ran down the stairs cheering and a heartbeat later, Dry Devil joined her. They must have seen it from above on the wehrgang.
“What a shot, you mad lad!” Dry Devil picked up the limp bird and pulled the arrow out. “Look at that juicy bastard, that’s the biggest goddamn goose I’ve ever seen! Hahaha! Tonight, we will feast!”
Pride and joy flooded Capon’s heart as he watched the others gather and marvel at the fresh meal that he had just plucked from the sky. Janosh ran over, threw his arms around the young noble and gave him a wet and hairy kiss on the cheek while praising him. Then he snatched the bird from Dry Devil’s grasp and vanished into the kitchen.
“Leave a bone uncooked for Mutt!” Capon yelled after him.
This evening, they all gathered in the big hall of Suchdol: Lord Peter Pisek himself, Zizka and the Devil’s pack, Godwin, the few remaining soldiers – except two that stood guard on the wall – the bathhouse maid, Pisek’s scribe and Musa, who rarely left the makeshift infirmary. Under normal circumstances, all these people would never have sat together at a lord’s long table – but here, in this castle besieged by enemies, the borders of hierarchy dissolved for once.
Of course, one goose – even such a big one – wasn’t nearly enough to fill everyone’s belly. But they cheered as if they were being served a lavish banquet when Janosh brought out the meal: for each person a few bites of meat and a small bowl of broth made from salty water, bones, blood and innards.
“And for the Mutt!” Janosh said and gave Capon one uncooked leg bone. The noble held it in front of the dog’s drooling snout and laughed at how quickly Mutt ran into a corner with his meal.
“Well, everybody.” Lord Pisek cleared his throat, looking a bit overwhelmed with all these commoners in his hall. “Before we dig in, we should say a prayer to give thanks for this blessing – brought to us by Sir Capon’s skilled hands. Father Godwin, maybe you would…?”
“But of course!” Godwin stood up and held his bowl of broth up as if it were a communion chalice. “Dear community! We have gathered at this table to celebrate a meal that’s not made from grass and mud for once. Praised be Sir Capon, the best archer Rattay has ever produced. Hail Mary, thank you, Jesus Christ, and blessed be the food! May God keep us safe and may He crush the Praguers under His divine fist. Amen!”
“May He crush them!” A few voices picked up Godwin’s last sentence before they said their Amens and started eating.
He is in a good mood tonight. Capon smirked – after all, this still was the rascal priest he knew from back home.
The goose meat was fatty, soft and delicious; its juices ran down Capon’s chin as he took his first bite. Next was the broth – salty, bitter, and strong. Never had anything tasted this good and nourishing before. It was a small meal, but enough to make him feel full. Any more and his stomach might have revolted after the long fast.
Cheerful talks filled the hall. It was as if the meat fed the people’s spirits even more than their bodies.
“My friend.”
A melodic voice addressed Capon from the other side of the table. It was Musa, wearing a bright smile on his face. Capon had to remind himself not to stare at the unfamiliar dark skin that made the scholar look so different from everyone else around him.
“I also wanted to thank you for getting us this food. I will take some broth to the wounded later. It will certainly aid with their recovery.”
“My pleasure. Thank you, Musa, for taking care of them so tirelessly.”
Musa bowed his head. “God must truly smile upon you, my friend. To send this bird flying above you in the right moment and you aiming true – Alhamdulillah.”
“Do you mean my God or yours?”
“I am not sure there is much difference. God is God – you Christians just have strange ways of worshipping Him.” He winked to show he meant no offense.
Capon returned the smile and excused himself from the table. With a full belly – well, at least fuller than in a while – fatigue settled into his bones. He got a few more shoulder pats and thanks when he wished the others a good night. Tonight, his silent room seemed a bit more comforting, the darkness in the corners not as oppressive. What a difference one meal made.
Musa said God smiled upon me. Did he? I don’t know – can a tasty bird be a divine sign? Maybe I’ll ask Godwin tomorrow.
He took Henry’s sword off his belt and carefully leaned it against the bed.
Christ, Henry. You should have seen that shot. I’ll have to tell you everything about it when you come back.
You have to come back.
You promised me.
It was the first time Capon slept well since the start of the siege. When the morning dawned, the desperation inside his heart had lost some of its chokehold. It was still there, but he could breathe.
He opened the window and let cool air caress his face. It had rained in the night. Puddles covered the courtyard – smooth mirrors that reflected the cloudy, blue sky, like little doorways into heaven.
Some people were already outside: Kubyenka carried something over to the infirmary, Dry Devil traded places with a soldier on the ramparts and Katherine strolled along the walls, hands on her hips, looking up and down the mossy stones.
Capon got dressed and joined them, lured by yesterday’s lingering sense of camaraderie. His soles sank ankle-deep into the mud. But at least that meant the Praguers would suffer from slippery ground, too. No storming against the castle for at least another day or two.
“If you feel like shooting us another bird today, Sir Hans, I would be much obliged.” Katherine walked up to him, now holding a woven basket in her arm.
“I’ll try my best, my Lady,” Capon said with a slight bow. Katherine was just a commoner, of course, but she had saved their asses more than once. And she scared him sometimes with her piercing eyes that rivaled even Zizka’s stern looks. A little courtesy towards her was certainly appropriate.
He pointed at her basket. “Collecting moss for dinner tonight?”
“Not quite moss.” She showed him the contents – a handful of snails, mostly tucked back into their shells.
“Oh no. Jesus Christ. No.” The idea of eating … that was like a kick to the stomach.
“Well, unless you repeat your miracle hunt from yesterday, it’s still better than nothing. The walls are full of them today. In fact – would the noble Lord Capon please be so kind as to help me?”
“You want me to pick snails?” Capon’s voice came out a bit shriller than he had intended.
Instead of answering, Katherine pressed the basket into his hand and briskly walked away to get herself a new one. Capon stared at the slimy little crawlers and tried to suppress a gag as he imagined how it would feel to eat them.
A few months ago, he would have stormed away, huffing and cursing about Katherine’s insolence. But he wasn’t the same hot-headed boy anymore. This was not about dignity and pride; this was survival. And everyone had to do their part.
Best get to it, then.
He walked along the walls, plucking snail after snail, surprised by how fast the basket filled. Katherine came back and kept close to him, pointing out whenever she saw a snail that she couldn’t reach herself. The biggest harvest waited on the shadowy side of the wehrgang. It was disgusting work, but somehow also calming to focus on finding crawlers – as long as Capon didn’t think what they were planning to do with them later.
They both were careful to keep their bodies and heads behind the stone walls at all times, ducking whenever they passed a crenel. A motivated crossbowman could decide to take a lucky shot if he saw them – even from all the way back in the Praguers’ camp.
Capon took a moment to look at the enemy; rows and rows of tents, banners with the three white towers of Prague, wagons and barrels. The bastards had already built palisades with sharpened posts. If Henry indeed had made it through unseen, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
He turned away from the threatening sight before fear could overwhelm him again. Already he felt his pulse quicken.
Remember what Godwin said. Focus on surviving. Imagine if Henry comes back, but there are only skeletons left here. Not good, eh? So, come on, get a grip.
Katherine’s voice drew him out of his thoughts; she sang to herself while collecting. Capon hadn’t heard her voice this soft before – gentle, higher-pitched, and beautiful. It was a simple melody, a song made for lulling children into sleep. One that Capon had long forgotten, but now remembered clearly, as if his nursemaid had hummed it to him only yesterday.
May God's angel in heaven
Watch over him for me
So that he sleeps quietly
And gets up again in good health.
Anguish hit him like a bolt to the heart. Surprised and embarrassed, he tried to blink away unexpected tears that suddenly burned in his eyes. But not fast enough before Katherine read the sorrow in his face. She stopped singing.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“Yeah, I’m … it’s just – you have a nice voice. That’s all.” He cleared his throat, but the lump wouldn’t go away.
Katherine put her basket down and reached out to him. For some reason he expected a slap to the face and flinched – but then she just gently touched his arm.
“I know you are suffering. I know you are scared.” Her tone was warm, almost soothing. A stark contrast to her usual brash manner.
“I’m not scared.” The lie in his answer was obvious. Hollow words, spoken in an empty voice.
She sighed: “Lord, help me with these stubborn men. We all are scared and it’s okay to admit that.”
Capon didn’t know how to answer. Katherine took a long look at him and sighed again.
“Come here, you dumb fool,” she said and wrapped her arms around him. Capon tensed under the unforeseen embrace, but she didn’t seem to mind. Her hug was tender, firm, and strangely sheltering.
Capon had never been held by a woman outside of bed chambers or bathhouses – not since his mother had died many years ago. There was nothing seductive about Katherine’s gesture. Just warmth.
After a few seconds, Capon’s strained shoulders slumped, and he surrendered into the comfort she was offering.
“He will come back,” she said, her stern voice leaving no room for doubt.
For one mad second, Capon felt the urge to tell her everything – about Henry’s visit before leaving Suchdol, about the forbidden feelings that thrilled and terrified him. But, of course, he couldn’t tell her any of it. She would have recoiled in horror, like any good Christian.
Capon pulled back and quickly wiped the corners of his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said so quietly that he wasn’t sure if she had heard it. His gaze fell on something up on the wall behind her.
“Katherine!” he whispered excitedly. “Look!”
She turned around and saw what he was pointing at: the biggest snail they had seen all day, its chalk-grey shell almost as big as a sword pommel.
“Quick, before–“
He realized his stupidity halfway through the sentence. Katherine looked at him, then at the snail crawling upwards at an agonizingly slow pace, and back to Capon again. She grinned.
“I think I’ll be able to catch it, as long as I move within the next hour, Lord Capon.”
He chuckled, embarrassed about his mouth running faster than his thoughts – and about the genuine enthusiasm he felt about spotting this huge crawler. A few weeks ago, only a magnificent stag in front of his arrow would have excited him that much. How thoroughly his mind had adapted.
Katherine plucked the snail from the stone with an audible plop. She dropped it in into her basket and checked to see how full Capon’s was.
“I think that’s good for now,” she concluded. “I’ll take them to Janosh. Maybe you could go check on … whatever that’s about?”
Capon followed her gaze down into the courtyard, where Kubyenka just marched bare footed through the mud, carrying a wooden plank and a look of pure resolve.
Capon quickly made his way toward the stairs leading down from the wehrgang, careful not to slip with his still muddy soles. The sun had chased away most clouds, its rays already starting to dry the rain-soaked Castle Suchdol. Steam rose up from the shed that they used as stable. By noon, it would be another sweltering summer day.
Kubyenka had seemingly found what he was looking for: a wet, shadowy piece of loose soil next to the bathhouse.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, sticking the plank into the ground, using his entire weight to ram it down until it stood on its own.
Capon came up to Dry Devil and Musa, who were standing with their arms crossed, also watching Kubyenka. The mercenary seemed pleased with his work and started to drum wildly on the plank with his knuckles. There was no melody to his knocking – or at least none that Capon could make out.
“What in God’s name is he doing?” Capon asked.
“Poor lad’s lost it.” Dry Devil shook his head, looking solemnly grieved. “Seen it before. Siege takes too long, some minds just go poof. He’ll dance around naked before nightfall.”
“Dear Lord, everything but that. I really don’t need to see him swing around his muddy sausage,” Capon groaned.
“I could try to tie him to a bed in the infirmary,” Musa thought out loud.
“Ey! You fuckers know I can hear you, yes?!” Kubyenka didn’t pause his erratic drumming as he glared at the three men.
They exchanged a quick glance.
“Well – uh, what the hell are you doing, then?” Capon asked.
“You just wait and see, your Lordship. I’ll show you some peasant magic!”
“Jesus.” That was Dry Devil again. “I swear, the second he starts taking his pants off …”
Kubyenka scoffed and turned his focus to the ground beneath him. A few moments later, he cheered in triumph, bent down, and picked something up. He held it high, face beaming like he had just found a gold coin.
It was a writhing, wet earthworm.
“Are you – oh no. He’s eating it.” Capon couldn’t believe his eyes – Kubyenka just opened his mouth and slurped the worm up. Musa raised his hand to stop him. Too late, of course.
“You really shouldn’t eat that raw,” the scholar muttered.
“Don’t be envious, now! There is much more where that one came from. You see, the little bastards are stupid. The drumming makes them think it’s raining again, so they come back up. Something my nana taught me.” Kubyenka looked extremely thrilled with himself.
Musa sighed deeply and walked off.
Poor man probably wishes himself ten thousand miles away, back home. He’s enduring all this remarkably well, surrounded by people he barely knows, Capon thought. He expected Musa to vanish into the infirmary for the rest of the day but instead he came back right away, carrying a shovel.
“Might as well help,” he said with a shrug.
Dry Devil shook his head and took off to keep watch on the walls. Capon fought with himself for a few seconds – pride against practicality. Then he joined Musa, who kept a careful distance to Kubyenka and his worm-calling plank.
They silently agreed to their shared work: Capon took the shovel first, digging up a few spadefuls of rain-soaked soil at a time, while Musa rummaged through the dirt and pulled out worm after worm. He then tossed them into an empty bucket behind him.
It was sweat-inducing work, especially as the sun rose higher and heated the courtyard. Capon was quickly drenched, and he daydreamed of cold rivers and soap that smelled like herbs.
Snails and worms. A fine noble I am. If Uncle Hanush could see me now.
“Ya Allah! Seriously, Kubyenka, you should cook them first!” Musa looked over at the mercenary who held another wiggler suspiciously close to his face. “I have enough to do with the wounded, I don’t need you shitting out your guts.”
“What do you know about eating worms? Is that written in your smart books?” Kubyenka’s answer came snappy, but he dropped the worm into a pouch instead of swallowing it.
“Actually, yes. And I know about stupid children I had to treat because they ate some. You do not want to know what that does to your intestines.”
Capon’s curiosity was piqued, but then he quickly decided he didn’t actually want to hear the answer. He chose another question instead.
“What do the people eat in your home country, Musa?”
The scholar wiped pearls of sweat from his brows. “We grow grain for porridge, of course. But different ones than you have here: millet, sorghum, rice, fonio. Lots of vegetables, too. And peanuts! How I miss a good stew with peanuts and lamb. And sometimes traders from the north bring dates. Have you ever eaten a date, Lord Capon?”
“Can’t say that I know what that is.”
“God’s sweetest gift. It tastes like honey became a fruit.” Musa let out another sigh. “This talk is making the hunger worse. Any more and I will start slurping raw worms, too.”
“Please don’t. Do you want to switch?” Capon offered him the shovel, and the scholar nodded.
Before he started digging, Musa opened his garment and peeled himself out of its many layers. He carefully draped everything over a barrel, now standing there only in boots and trousers.
“Are you mad?” Capon asked. “The sun will burn your skin off!”
Musa stared at him for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed.
“What?” Capon tilted his head, confused by the scholar’s outburst.
“My friend,” Musa said, still grinning. “I don’t burn in the sun. Not here in the north, anyway.”
“You … what? Wait, is that why your skin is so dark?” Once again, Capon tried not to stare at the unfamiliar appearance of the scholar.
“I suppose so! The further south you go, the darker the people become. It has pleased God to protect us from the scorching sun,” Musa explained. “Your delicate skin would get red like a rose and sizzle like a roasted chicken.”
“Don’t start again with the food talk!” Capon groaned.
They worked until the bucket was nearly full and the soil to dry to lure any more worms out – even with Kubyenka’s surprisingly effective drumming method. The mercenary volunteered to carry their prey – well, more like harvest, Capon thought – over to the kitchen. Janosh yelled something, but it was hard to say whether it was from excitement or horror.
Capon excused himself and went to his room to clean up a bit. At least they had fresh rainwater now. He looked at his hands, rubbed sore, dark soil under his fingernails. In his earlier life he’d have scoffed at a man for such undignified peasantry. Sometimes he even had mocked Henry for his calloused and dirty fingers.
I truly was an idiot then.
He dried his face and went down to the kitchen.
“You know,” Capon said as he took another bite of crispy earthworm. “It’s actually not even that bad. With all the salt it kind of tastes like dried fish. You just shouldn’t think about it having been a slimy, wriggling wo–“
“Would you kindly shut up, please?!” Katherine glared at him. “No more talk about what this used to be. Ugh. I can’t wait until all this is over and I am finally away from you lot.”
“You’d miss us,” Zizka teased.
“You, least of all!” she hissed back. Capon laughed with the rest of the Pack, scattered around the kitchen hearth, where a snail stew was still bubbling.
It would take much more than starvation and sieges to dampen Katherine’s temper – the wild spark in her eyes seemed as immovable as the north star.
It was reassuring that some things didn’t change.
Capon picked up another worm – Janosh had roasted them until they looked like dry sticks. There was an earthy aftertaste, but it felt good to chew on something more agreeable than leather.
No, it really wasn’t that bad. Still, he would probably leave that part out when he’d tell Henry about these days of survival.
If I ever get the chance.