Chapter Text
The first time Bartosch saw Sir Hans Capon was at the Trosky gallows. The young Lord of Pirkstein was stepping off the hangman’s block just as Bartosch glanced over to look at the commotion. He stumbled as his feet found solid ground, but quickly caught himself. His companion, the one who had called out in defence of the condemned man, was at his side in moments, having leapt up the stairs two at a time. He grasped Lord Capon by the shoulders and looked him over with concern palpable even at such a distance as Bartosch was watching from, and as Lord Capon looked back at him with naked relief and gratitude written on his face, Bartosch felt oddly like he was intruding on something.
Then Lord Capon straightened, shrugging off his companion’s worried touch, and his face cleared, eyes going flinty. His jaw tightened and he lifted his chin, gazing over at the injured Von Bergow and catching Bartosch’s eye, largely by accident. Later, much later, Bartosch would reflect on this moment and realize that, despite the rags on his back and the way his hands had trembled before he tucked them out of sight, Hans Capon had looked the part of a knight and noble, standing defiant and proud in the face of death. He had been utterly radiant.
The second time Bartosch saw Lord Capon was when they officially met. Bartosch was engaged in a spar with Henry, Lord Capon’s squire and bodyguard, in Trosky’s combat arena the day after Bartosch had returned to Trosky. Von Bergow was still recovering from his injury, and so the two messengers had little to do while they awaited his summons.
Bartosch and Henry circled each other warily, both worn down after several clashes and watching for an opening to strike. Henry was an excellent duelist, already having bested Bartosch in their previous bout, though the first time they fought Bartosch had emerged victorious. The squire had suggested a best-of-three and a wager, to which Bartosch readily agreed, so now he was doubly motivated to win.
He spotted his opening when Henry was momentarily distracted by a voice shouting from behind him, “Kick his arse, blacksmith’s boy!” Bartosch launched into the offensive, raining down a series of strikes that he hoped would bring an end to their bout. Henry recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. He missed a step and faltered, and Bartosch was able to slip his sword past his guard and strike him decisively in the ribs.
“Kurva!” Henry cursed, lowering his sword. He ran a hand through sweaty, flattened hair and turned toward Lord Capon, who stood leaning against a wooden pillar, smirking. “Really, sir? You just cost me 40 groschen!”
Bartosch blinked, surprised at the cheeky, familiar tone. He couldn’t imagine speaking in such a way to any lord he was in service to. He braced for Lord Capon’s temper to flare, but instead the noble merely laughed, throwing his head back. “Me? Maybe someone should learn not to get distracted in a fight—what sort of bodyguard are you?”
“The only one who’s willing to put up with you,” Henry muttered, but the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his jest. He reached into his pouch and counted out some groschen. “Ah well, it was a good fight, Lord Bartosch. Even if you got some help in the end…”
Bartosch accepted his winnings and inclined his head. “Anytime, I’m usually here if you ever want to spar again. Lord Capon, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Lord Capon inclined his head. “Likewise, Lord… Bartosch?”
Though they were about the same height, Bartosch got the impression that the nobleman was looking down his nose at him. It was not unexpected; Bartosch hadn’t had much time to learn about the visiting lordling, but what he’d heard thus far didn’t impress him. Most obvious was the poaching, and the entitlement one must have to have the audacity to freely hunt in another noble’s land without permission. On top of that, servants and soldiers complained under their breaths about the young noble’s aloofness and general distaste toward Trosky, and the way Lord Capon glared like Bartosch was beneath him spoke volumes. Bartosch had little respect for men who behaved as though the world owed them something simply for having the good fortune of being born with a silver spoon in their mouth. Thankfully, Bartosch was practised with hiding his distaste and averting political scandal, and so his affable smile never faltered as he replied, “Bartoschek of Drahonitz, though most call me Black Bartosch. I am the swordmaster here and Lord Von Bergow’s personal bodyguard.” He bowed, as was expected of him to a lord of higher standing, and Lord Capon bowed in return, a fake smile plastered on his face.
“Lord Bartosch, then. I have some matters of import to discuss with my squire, so if you’ll excuse us.” Without waiting for a response, Lord Capon turned on his heel and marched off toward the inner courtyard. Henry gave Bartosch a sheepish smile and a helpless shrug, and with a brief farewell, followed at his lord’s heels.
Bartosch bit back an audible sigh as he watched them leave. Admittedly, he’d been hoping to spend more time with Henry—they had many things in common and Bartosch had been curious if his interest in the other man was returned. Though it seemed Lord Capon was the jealous sort.
He paused. Huh.
Now there was a thought.
The third time was over a game of dice. Henry and Lord Capon had returned from Nebakov with the news that the fortress had been seized by bandits, and now they and the rest of the castle were waiting with bated breath for Lord Von Bergow to draw up a plan of attack, which Bartosch expected would take a few days at the least. Henry had invited him to a game of dice after he had won a set of sparring sessions, and Bartosch was eager to see if he could win back some of the wager he had previously lost.
“Well, looks like someone’s enjoying themselves,” Lord Capon said, sauntering up to the table. “Who’s winning?”
Henry threw his dice, glanced at the collection, and groaned before passing the cup back to Bartosch.
Bartosch smirked. “Well, you never know which way the winds of fortune will blow.” He threw his own dice. “Though today, it seems like they were in my favour. Good game, Henry.”
“I’m never playing this game again,” Henry muttered, handing over Bartosch’s winnings.
“That’s a pity,” Lord Capon said, “I was hoping for a game myself.” Though his tone was light enough, there was something about the way he was looking at Henry… Bartosch suspected his hunch had been correct. Though it was still too early to tell.
“Well, why don’t you play against Sir Bartosch?” Henry said, standing and gesturing at the table with a guileless smile. “Maybe you can win back what I lost!” Bartosch would feel a little bad on Lord Capon’s behalf at Henry’s obliviousness to an obvious attempt at monopolizing his attention if it hadn’t been so amusing. The noble looked taken aback, as if such a concept had never even crossed his mind.
Something of a scheme was brewing in Bartosch’s mind. Maybe this was an opportunity to… well, not pry. Seek information, perhaps.
“I’d be happy to,” Bartosch said easily, “though, maybe we should make things a little more exciting. I propose that the winner takes the wager, but the loser must drink.”
Lord Capon’s eyebrows raised. “A drinking game? I was under the impression Lord Von Bergow was planning an attack on Nebakov soon, no?”
Bartosch shrugged. “It won’t be as soon as tomorrow. I wouldn’t have proposed it if I thought today would be the eve of battle, believe me.”
Henry was looking at Lord Capon expectantly, and, seemingly feeling the pressure, the young lord sighed and took his seat across from Bartosch. “Oh, very well. But you’ll be sorry when you’re sotted out of your mind!”
A few games and a few drinks later, tongues were much looser and the atmosphere was almost jovial. Bartosch had initially thought Lord Capon to be just another stuck-up noble, waving around an unearned title. And perhaps he still was, but he hardly acted the part now. Instead, under the disarming haze of drunkenness, Lord Capon jested with Henry and Bartosch almost like a peer or an equal would. Or, he pondered, watching as the young lord nearly doubled over with laughter at a remark from Henry, perhaps it was just the company.
Bartosch was smugly vindicated in his tentative theory as he watched Lord Capon’s behaviour toward Henry slowly change as the night grew later. It was like watching a flower turning towards the sun. He became looser-limbed, freer with his touch and eyes bright like the world suddenly held joy and hope instead of monotonous responsibility. And if Capon was a flower, then Henry was the sun he turned to.
It was somewhat a pity, to be sure. Bartosch had wondered if he had seen some small reciprocated interest in Henry, during their spars and friendly interactions. But the way Capon leaned subtly into Henry’s side, feigning imbalance, and the way his hand rested lightly on his squire’s arm, could not be interpreted as anything other than subtle shows of ownership. He’s mine, Capon’s eyes seemed to say, whenever Bartosch caught them from across the table.
Oddly, he felt almost wistful. Bartosch had never been interested in the fairer sex, and he’d made his peace with that long ago. But he did often wonder what it would be like, for two men to have the kind of love he’d only ever seen in married couples. And now that he was seeing it, he wondered at how rare it was, and if it was possible he would ever find something like that for himself.
“Enough of that,” Capon was saying, beaming bright as if to replace the sun, which had long since set. “I doubt the good sir wants to hear about the tragic failure of our botched infiltration!”
“If you can laugh about it now, I doubt it was such a failure as you say,” Bartosch remarked, smiling into his mug as he took another sip.
“No, it was a complete cock-up,” Henry said, shaking his head vehemently. “Like you wouldn’t believe. Not only did we not rescue anyone, but Sir Hans took a crippling shot.” Henry paused and leaned in, clearly preparing to deliver the punchline. “Right to his noble seat!”
At that, the squire burst into raucous laughter, and Bartosch could only follow suit. Capon flushed in obvious embarrassment, but he was chuckling too. “Will you ever tire of telling that story?” he complained good-naturedly. “Or will it come up every time you try to impress some wench with your heroic prowess?”
“Well, I’m no wench, for starters,” Bartosch interjected. Capon’s eyes widened, but he recovered quickly enough from his blunder and flashed Bartosch that disarming smile of his.
“My apologies, Sir Bartosch, I just meant to say, the last few times he told the tale, it was to impress a lady he fancied. Most improper, to use stories of your lord’s plight to woo the local women, eh?”
“You’re exaggerating,” Henry rebuffed, waving the teasing accusation off. “It’s just a good tale, is all! It’s got action, stakes, and heroism; it’s got nothing to do with wooing.”
Capon rolled his eyes, and when he next spoke, there was a note of bitterness in his voice. “Aye, of course, you’re still hung up over that girl from the mill, as you’re so determined to remind everyone. Still, no harm in having a little fun now and again, right? Who knows—maybe you’ll find someone new!”
Bartosch raised an eyebrow as Henry, clueless, smiling and blushing like a lovesick puppy, shook his head and looked down at his drink. “No way, Sir. Theresa’s the only one for me,” he declared, and the sweetness of his tone would have been enough to warm anyone’s heart.
Anyone, it seemed, except for Capon, whose jovial mood vanished entirely. In a rare moment of vulnerability that Bartosch had seen only in the immediate aftermath of the gallows, Capon seemed almost distraught. Which was quickly followed by a rapid-fire onslaught of irritation, anger, and shame, all burning through his eyes in a fraction of a heartbeat, before the mask slammed back into place.
Bartosch realized too late that he had been staring when Capon turned cold eyes toward him and lifted his chin slightly, as though to challenge him. It was almost enough to make him wonder if he’d imagined the emotions crossing the noble’s face. Almost. But Bartosch knew what he’d seen.
“What about you, Sir Bartosch?” Capon said, changing the subject. “Do you have a special lady from back in Prague? Or perhaps one of the locals caught your interest?”
“Ah, no, there’s no one waiting for me, I’m afraid. And I’m not much interested in the local women,” Bartosch said, weighing his words carefully. “I much prefer having drinks with interesting men such as you.”
Capon blinked in surprise, and in the beat of silence that followed his declaration, Bartosch wondered if perhaps he had been too forward. Then Capon smiled—a brief, fleeting thing, and a sense of mutual understanding passed between them.
Henry, blissfully oblivious, carried on the conversation. “Well, I’m sure you’ll find someone soon, eh? My good Sir Hans has fancied himself in love a handful of times, and Lord knows how long he’s spent with each of his loves!”
And with that, the night resumed. Though never quite returning to the previous heights of good cheer, the three parted in good spirits, and Bartosch went to bed with a spring in his step. He had not expected to find any camaraderie with others of his particular persuasions outside of Prague, and that it had been with the young Lord of Pirkstein was a pleasant surprise. He couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad that his initial interest in Henry had fallen through.
If he played his cards right, then perhaps their mutual understanding could blossom into something more. It had been far too long since he’d had a night of enjoyable reprieve, after all. To be sure, Capon was arrogant, reckless, and often acted like any other spoiled noble Bartosch had ever encountered, but this night had shown most of his behaviour to be an obfuscation. And besides, some negative aspects of his personality were hardly a factor for such a brief encounter as what they would no doubt be afforded during Capon’s negotiations with Von Bergow. Capon was easy on the eyes and tolerable enough, and Bartosch was hardly in a position to be picky.
The fourth time they saw each other was, atypically, without Henry. Bartosch had seen Capon’s squire ride off in the morning on the half-starved mare he had insisted on keeping despite Von Bergow’s offer of an objectively better animal, as Von Bergow had announced he needed another day to plan the attack on Nebakov. A few days had already passed since his declaration of an imminent assault, and the troops were starting to get a bit anxious. As swordmaster, Bartosch was practising with a few of said troops in preparation for the conflict when Capon showed up.
Bartosch hadn’t noticed him at first, busy showing the young upstart who had challenged him what a true swordsman was capable of. It was only when they’d finished and Bartosch was wiping the sweat off his brow that Capon called out to him.
“Greetings to you, Sir Bartosch!”
He turned to see the young lord leaning on the fence of the combat arena, a bow slung over his back and a quiver full of arrows at his hip.
“Good day, Lord Capon,” Bartosch replied, sheathing his sword. “May I help you?”
“You may, in fact!” Capon said cheerily. “My squire has callously abandoned me to boredom today, and you know what they say about idle hands! So, I ask you this: how practised are you at archery?”
Bartosch hummed. “I can shoot competently, though I admit that I much prefer the art of swordplay.”
Capon laughed. “Just like another bodyguard I know, though you are far less block-headed than he! Nevertheless, I hear you have an archery range nearby, and I was wondering if you would be so kind as to point me in the right direction?”
“Of course! Actually, I’ll accompany you, if it so pleases. It’s been a while since I’ve practised my shooting, and it might prove useful for the upcoming battle.” Bartosch hopped over the short fence of the combat arena and took a bow and a quiver off a nearby weapons rack. “Shall we?”
Capon seemed pleased by the turn of events, if the subtle bounce in his step was any indication. “We shall, and perhaps I can persuade you into a little wager of sorts?”
Bartosch hummed thoughtfully as the pair began making their way down to the archery range. “Perhaps you might. Though I feel I should first ask you in return, how practised are you at archery?”
“Afraid, are you?” Capon teased. “Maybe I won’t answer, and you’ll have to find out for yourself!”
“That’s hardly fair, sir, when you know my answer already.”
Capon sighed. “Very well, if you must know, archery is one of the skills in which I consider myself quite accomplished indeed! Second only to boozing and whoring, of course.”
“Of course,” Bartosch said, smiling. It truly was remarkable how much that night of drunken dice had changed Capon’s disposition toward him. Bartosch was hard-pressed to believe that the standoffish noble who had jealously come between himself and Henry was the very same individual casually discussing his own raucous endeavours with Bartosch as though they were now good friends. Perhaps Bartosch was the first person Capon had ever met who shared… similar inclinations.
“So, how about it? Still feeling up to that wager?”
Bartosch considered whether Capon’s confidence was born of typical noble arrogance or if he really did have the skill to back up his brash words. Either way, Bartosch figured he would lose a lot more than just some groschen if he refused, and on the other hand, he had much more to gain as well. “Why not?” Bartosch said, “Maybe you’ll teach me a few things.”
“Excellent! What shall we wager, I wonder,” Capon said, tapping his chin in a show of contemplation.
“Some groschen isn’t exciting enough for his lordship?”
“Not nearly, Sir Bartosch!” By this time, they had passed through the castle and out the gates, and were making their way down the path towards their repurposed quarry. There was no one out here, and the guards at the gate they had passed through were well out of earshot. Still, Capon leaned in as he suggested in a low voice, “How about this: if I win, you’ll owe me a drink. Perhaps later in the evening, so we won’t be bothered.”
Oh. Oh.
Bartosch certainly hadn’t been expecting such boldness from the young lord, especially not so soon. But, he supposed, time was of the essence, with the attack on Nebakov looming on the horizon and uncertainty whether there would be any time afterwards to indulge in any such activities. It wasn’t like Bartosch hadn’t been planning such an encounter himself.
“And if I win?” Bartosch asked, voice lowered to match Capon’s.
Capon smirked, a slow, sensual thing, eyes hooded. “Then I’ll owe you a drink, of course.”
Bartosch’s tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips, and he grinned when Capon’s eyes followed the movement. “Very agreeable terms, Lord Capon. I look forward to winning our wager.”
“Ha! You’ll be eating those words soon enough, my good sir!” Capon boasted. “And before I forget—Lord Capon is a bit distant between friends, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sir Hans, then.”
“Acceptable,” Capon said, still smirking, giving Bartosch another once-over. “Very acceptable indeed.”
For once, Capon had not been lying or exaggerating. His skill with a bow was astounding, far beyond anything Bartosch had seen in all his time as a mercenary and even in Prague, where masters in all sorts of weapons seemed all too abundant. Capon could have been a master himself, if he ever ventured that far out.
“My word!” Bartosch said in amazement, as Capon released his final arrow. The tip sank decisively dead centre of the bullseye, again.
“Are you eating your words yet?” Capon said smugly. “I don’t reckon you’ve any chance now, though do please keep trying. No one likes a quitter.”
Bartosch counted up the points in his head. Sure enough, he was at least fifteen points behind. And he only had two arrows left, so it truly was hopeless. Still, he persisted, adding seven points to his total. Not bad, though clearly, not good enough to best such a prodigious archer.
Capon pumped a fist into the air. “And the victory goes to me! Though there was little doubt in the first place. No offence, of course.”
“None taken,” Bartosch said. “Regretfully, I had thought you might have been embellishing your skill with a bow, though I have been soundly disabused of that notion. Where did you learn to be such an accomplished archer?”
Despite his own boasting, Capon seemed almost taken aback by the genuine compliment. A pleased flush dusted his cheeks and he glanced away as if made suddenly shy by Bartosch’s admiration. It was rather endearing. “The woods of Rattay, where else? As a young lad, archery was just about the only part of my teachings I took to, much to Uncle Hanush’s displeasure. So I suppose I engaged with it quite a lot in my youth. Hunting was a favourite pastime of mine… in case it wasn’t already made clear by… recent events.”
There was that sardonic self-recrimination again, Bartosch noted. Easy enough to dismiss as a simple joke, but Bartosch was starting to wonder if there was something more to Capon’s passing remarks. Perhaps some more flattery would not go amiss?
“Unpermitted hunting aside, Sir Hans, your skill is truly remarkable. I’ve rarely seen such marksmanship in my travels. I commend you for your innate talent and years of dedication to the craft.”
The pleased flush had transformed into a full, roaring blush, reaching even the tips of Capon’s ears. He laughed and waved off the compliment, turning away to collect his discarded arrows from the range. “Well, of course! I am, after all, a fount of talent in many things, as we’ve already established. Such as boozing, for one! Which we’ll be indulging in tonight, I hope?”
Bartosch, who had started collecting his own arrows, smiled at him as he replied, “You won our wager, after all. Besides, surely you wouldn’t expect me to assess your talents without a practical demonstration.”
Capon grinned back. “I wouldn’t dream of it!”
The fifth time they saw each other, Bartosch had a pitcher of the castle’s finest wine in hand. He had taken a quick bath after they’d parted ways, and after dinner had ended, he had rushed to acquire the wine from one of the cooks with a handful of charming words. He felt a bit guilty about stringing her along, but Capon surely had high standards and it would be a shame to disappoint him.
Bartosch knocked on the door to Capon’s chambers, mentally thanking Von Bergow for gifting the visiting lord with a room in a relatively less populated area of the castle. Not that he wasn't practised at being quiet—it was rather in the nature of such relations.
Capon opened the door almost as soon as Bartosch lowered his hand from knocking, and his eagerness sparked the embers that had simmered in Bartosch’s gut since the young lord had leaned in earlier that day with his proposed wager. “Sir Bartosch,” Capon said, “I see you’ve brought my winnings! Please, come in.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside with a gesture. Bartosch inclined his head as he passed by, setting the pitcher down on the dresser by the door. He could hear Capon close the door behind them, quickly followed by the distinctive sound of the lock clicking.
Bartosch turned back towards Capon, smirk on his lips. However, it quickly faded. In the privacy of the locked room, Capon no longer seemed eager. In fact, he appeared hesitant.
Was this his first time with another man?
“Well,” Capon said, reaching for cheerful and not quite getting there. “Shall we get started, then?”
“Is everything alright?” Bartosch asked instead, voice soft. This wasn’t his first time with a nervous lover. After all, many men confused over their feelings hadn’t the slightest idea of how to act upon them. He would much rather spend some time assuaging Capon’s concerns than sleep with anyone less than enthusiastic.
“Yes! Yes, of course,” Capon said, somewhat strained. He paused, and under Bartosch’s expectant gaze, began wringing his hands. “Only… well. I’ve never…”
“Never been with a man before?” Bartosch ventured. “To be honest, I would never have guessed.” He had hoped the compliment would put Capon at ease, but it seemed to have the opposite effect this time.
Capon winced. “Ah, well. Flirting is just flirting—something which I am well versed in. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression. To be honest, this is something of an… experiment for me. I mean, I didn’t even know something like this was… an option. At least until—”
“Until your squire?”
Immediately, Bartosch knew he had said the wrong thing. Capon flinched as though he had been struck, before rearing back like a startled horse. His earlier trepidation was instantly replaced by pure, naked fear.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up such a sensitive subject,” Bartosch added quickly, trying to smooth over his blunder.
“How?” Capon demanded, fists clenched. He looked ready to deck Bartosch, or kick him out of his chambers right then and there.
Bartosch bowed his head. “I apologize, Lord Capon. I misspoke and overstepped.”
“How. Did. You. Know?”
After a brief hesitation, Bartosch replied, “When you have certain preferences such as I, you learn to read these things better than most. It was anything but obvious, believe me. No one else would be able to tell, much less your Henry.”
Thankfully, the words seemed to calm Capon, and he relaxed minutely. “Well then. I’m not sure whether to be relieved or unnerved,” he joked weakly. There was a long, awkward pause. “I apologize for my overly zealous reaction. Looks like I’ve well and truly cocked things up, eh?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Bartosch demurred. “The night is still young, after all.”
Capon arched a brow. “Really? It’s difficult to imagine a more terrible way to start things off.”
“On the contrary, this is far from my most awkward encounter,” Bartosch said, and finally, the last of the tension melted from Capon’s shoulders as the young lord released a relieved chuckle and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Maybe you’ll have to tell me some of those tales later,” Capon said, “so I don’t feel like I’ve made such an arse of myself.” He paused, weighing his next words carefully as a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “So you really don’t mind at all? About what you observed. Between myself and…” he gestured helplessly before clasping his hands together until his knuckles went white, unable to force the words out.
Ah. Bartosch was, admittedly, somewhat surprised and endeared at the young lord’s concern over Bartosch’s feelings. He hadn’t expected that someone he’d originally pegged as an arrogant, self-obsessed noble would be such a considerate partner. Rather the opposite, actually. “Think nothing of it,” Bartosch said softly. And, following some sort of instinct, he reached out to steady Capon’s fidgeting hands. The lordling’s skin was soft from a life lived in luxury, and though it was roughened in some places from combat training and archery, it was still a far cry from Bartosch’s usual bed partners. It reminded him of some of his earliest dalliances, fumbling, awkward flings with other wide-eyed university students yet to experience the harshness of life and enraptured by the novelty of freedom.
Bartosch smiled when Capon lifted his head at the gentle touch, finally meeting his eyes again. “It’s not like I’m some maiden you’re courting,” he joked. “We’re here to drink and enjoy ourselves. I’m not expecting anything more than that.”
Capon stared at him for a moment, something unreadable in his gaze. Then Capon smiled back at him, and it was like all of the insecurity melted away from his frame at once. “Thank you,” he said, and Bartosch was oddly touched by the sincerity in his voice. Then he cleared his throat. “Alright then. Forgive me for asking, but… how exactly does this,” he gestured between the two of them helplessly, “work?”
Bartosch grinned, amused, and pulled away from their joint hands, glad that he had managed to settle Capon’s nerves. “Much the same as it works with a woman. There’s kissing, and touching, and undressing, and eventually we get to the main event. Though there are many ways to go about it.”
Capon pursed his lips. “Well, it can’t be all the same, can it? After all, there are different parts involved.”
“It’s similar enough,” Bartosch shrugged. “Men have holes too, you know.” And then he winked.
To his delight, Capon blushed again, for the second time that day. Bartosch couldn’t wait to find out just how far that blush travelled. “My word, Sir Bartosch! I didn’t expect you to be so brazen!” he laughed nervously.
“Just Bartosch, if you will,” Bartosch said, “I’d prefer it if the people I lay with refer to me by name alone.”
“Then you may call me Hans. Though I won’t complain if you slip up once in a while.”
Though said as a joke, Bartosch filed the information away as he nodded, something pleased and warm lodging in his chest. “Very well, Hans. In any case, we don’t have to go quite so far tonight. There are many other things we can do to reach mutual enjoyment.”
Hans considered this, folding his arms in thought. “Hmm. Well, I can’t say I’m not curious. If we did go to that extent, who would…”
“I can receive, if it’s more comfortable for you. Most men find it less daunting for their first time if they play a familiar role.”
“That’s true enough, I suppose. I’d be curious to try the other way around, though maybe not tonight. The wenches seem to enjoy it enough, right?” Hans smirked. Bartosch smiled back, glad that he had managed to draw Hans out of his shell again. After the rocky start to the night, he had been worried the young lord would change his mind. It seemed Hans was steadily regaining his boldness, however.
“I certainly find it enjoyable,” Bartosch agreed. Then he remembered the wine. “Ah, but before I forget the original terms of our wager,” he said, turning towards the pitcher and beginning to pour. “The best wine I could find in the Trosky cellar. Shall we indulge?”
He turned, two goblets in hand, and handed one to Hans, who swirled it briefly, a contemplative expression on his face. Then, after a moment of deliberation, Hans quickly downed the goblet’s contents and set it down with a decisive thunk, before he stepped forward into Bartosch’s space and kissed him soundly.
“Sod the wine,” Hans said as they broke apart. “I’d rather indulge in something else first, if you don't mind.”
Bartosch grinned. “As you wish.”
The sixth time they saw each other, Bartosch had stopped counting. It was evening, the day after their night together. Von Bergow had finally decided on a plan to take back Nebakov fortress from the invading bandits, and a feast was being held to raise morale before their march.
Bartosch had been quietly displeased when Von Bergow declared that Chamberlain Ulrich would lead the attack. He was not one to boast in his abilities, but surely even he would have been a more appropriate choice, seeing that he had far more practical combat experience? Nevertheless, it wasn’t his place to question his lord, only to follow orders, even if Bartosch privately agreed when he overheard Hans’s questioning of Chamberlain Ulrich’s plans. Nebakov was a small fortress, and its positioning and limited path of approach were some of the only things bolstering its defences. But instead of circumventing these challenges, they were about to walk right into them. It was a needlessly reckless course of action. Unfortunately, Bartosch was not surprised when Von Bergow and Ulrich waved away Hans and Henry’s concerns. It was true that they had considerably more forces than the bandits, and since the bandits had no idea they were coming, they had the advantage. Being attacked while approaching the fortress was highly unlikely.
After the discussion of tomorrow’s plans, Henry was drawn into conversation with a few of the noblemen, and Bartosch watched as Hans drifted towards the edge of the room. The young lord downed a drink before grabbing a second one, seemingly to occupy his hands with, as he scanned the crowd. Eventually, Bartosch caught his eye and had the pleasure of watching Hans’s face light up in immediate recognition.
“Lord Bartosch! Finally, someone whose presence I can tolerate,” Hans said jovially as he approached, not bothering to lower his voice or disguise the pointed barb. “How are you finding the Hungarian wine?”
A few nearby nobles sent dirty looks in their direction, not that Hans seemed to care for their opinion. Bartosch had initially interpreted Hans's disdain for Trosky as evidence of the noble’s general entitlement and arrogance, thinking everything beneath him. He now knew that Hans’s dislike actually stemmed from the grudge he still held at nearly being hanged. Which was fair—Bartosch wouldn’t exactly hold warm feelings toward a place where his life had nearly come to an untimely end, either.
“I’m on duty at the moment,” Bartosch said, a touch mournful, “so I’m afraid I can’t indulge. It seems everyone is enjoying it well enough, though.” With a heavy sigh, he added, “Sakra, I miss Prague.”
“More’s the pity, and we had such a good time drinking last night, too,” Hans teased, eyes gleaming in the candlelight. “Tell me, though—how is Prague? Surely you have many a tale to tell from your time there!”
Hans was in a good mood tonight, so the two of them spent quite some time conversing. Mainly about Prague, and Bartosch’s experiences there both as a student and later as Von Bergow’s bodyguard.
“I’ve never been as far as Prague,” Hans said, almost wistfully. “Actually, I’ve never been beyond Rattay until now. Can you imagine! Not even to Kuttenberg.”
“A tragedy,” Bartosch agreed, “Prague is a wonderful city. Have hope, though, Kuttenberg is not so far away! You might be able to stop by soon enough, perhaps on the way back to Rattay.”
Hans pursed his lips, suddenly shifty-eyed. “Do you… get along with many people in Prague?” he asked pointedly, and it took Bartosch a moment to decipher his meaning.
“I would say so,” Bartosch said, “I know many people in Prague. Certainly far more than around these parts.”
The answer seemed to surprise Hans, and it was no wonder. If he had truly never been away from Rattay, and Trosky was the farthest from home he’d ever travelled, he would have been hard pressed to find anyone like them. Bartosch was happy to reassure him, even in this indirect way, that neither of them were alone in their inclinations. Many had come before them, and many more would come after.
Their conversation was interrupted by someone clearing their throat nearby. Bartosch startled, not having realized someone else had approached their little bubble and slightly unsettled that he had gotten so distracted while on duty. “Sir Hans?” Henry inquired, looking between the two of them. “Sorry to interrupt, but you said you wanted to speak to me earlier?”
“Ah, of course! My apologies, I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, blacksmith’s boy,” Hans teased. He was lightly flushed from the alcohol, though he had stopped drinking a while back, not wanting to wake up the morning of a battle with a nasty hangover. Hans turned toward Bartosch, an apologetic smile on his lips. “And my apologies to you, Lord Bartosch, as we will have to continue this conversation later.”
“Of course, Lord Capon. I do have some good brandy in my chambers, if you’d be interested in a nightcap when you tire of the feast.”
Hans grinned. “More drinking? How could I refuse that, hm? I’ll find you later for that nightcap, then.”
Bartosch inclined his head. “I’ll be happy to wait for you.”
As Hans and Henry retreated to find a more private corner of the room, Bartosch heard Henry say, “Sir Hans, is it really wise to be drinking so much? We have a battle tomorrow, after all…”
“Come off it, Henry,” Hans said, audibly rolling his eyes, “we really won’t be drinking all that much, no need to fuss.”
“Well, if you say so,” Henry said doubtfully, and Bartosch had to disguise his chuckle as a cough.
Hans was right in the end—in fact, they hardly drank at all that night.