Chapter Text
amor tussisque non celantur
✹ love and a cough cannot be hidden ✹
June 1403
What more could Hans Capon ask for?
The fresh breeze, the sunshine basking down over the golden fields. The sound of hooves on the road, the creak of the leather saddle. The horizon in the distance, growing closer with every step. Each sensation cascades through him, sending delight from his unburdened shoulders right down to his toes in the stirrups.
The journey to Trosky was not expected to be long, just shy of three days if they kept this steady pace. But it signalled more than that. It was adventure. Life beyond the boundaries of his small world. It was being a part of it all. No longer a mere mention in the margins, but the subject of the book. He can’t help but rejoice, feeling the warmth on his face and that surging swell of joy in his heart.
And more than that, to have Henry - his faithful Henry - alongside him. Truly he was blessed.
He glances over to his squire and lover. Henry appears just as joyous as him, with a smile on his face that occasionally breaks into a grin as he surveys over the undulating hills of wheat and forest. Even that old nag of his trots with purpose and his dog meanders to and fro from the path, tongue askew.
Something about the sight of Henry in his finery, wearing Rattay’s colours, causes Hans’ heart to flutter. To see him donned with armour befitting of a noble. Well, befitting a bastard noble anyway. The pauldrons broaden his shoulders in a truly mesmerising way, glinting in the midday light. He has been licked by the fair tongue of the sun, no longer trapped under a blacksmith’s roof these past few weeks, with more vigour to his skin. He has even adopted a few noble mannerisms in passing: the way he held himself straight and proud, the way he rested one hand upon his hilt when not required on the reins.
Hans watches him for a few moments, longer than is proper. Savouring every last detail. Proud to know Henry was his, in a way far more meaningful than any servitude. It brings a smile to his lips that cannot be quashed.
Then he looks back to the road ahead once again, the weaving thread across the landscape before them. His fists tighten around the reins. It takes all the restraint he possesses not to spur the horse onwards in glee, drunk on freedom.
There would be plenty of time for such antics later, with the letter safely delivered. They weren’t dicking around Rattay any longer. And after this small but momentous task, they wouldn’t be ever again.
At the end of their first day on the road, they make a small camp a few hundred yards off the beaten track. The men quickly set up the tents, light the fire, start the stew. The food portions are quite strict; the less they carried meant fewer days on the road. After all, there would be a bounty fit for a king once they arrived at Trosky. Ample chances to be gluttonous awaited.
However it had been Hans’ insistence that the wine remained plentiful during the trip. And it flowed profusely now.
They sit around the fire, the six of them and Mutt, trading stories. The men have more than their fair share of tall tales to recount, which they do with great enthusiasm.
Hans finds that his years split between languid debauchery and noble study make for poor entertainment, with the others unable to relate. There was simply too much coin involved, not enough grit. Meanwhile, most of Henry’s stories start and end with blacksmithing or bloodshed, which he invariably prefers to keep to himself. Instead the squire deflects each inquiry into his life as skilfully as with a blade, always managing to riposte the topic back onto the man who asked it with a friendly manner.
So for the most part the two listen to the tales of the men and and laugh at the charades of dice games, brawling and slapping shapely arses. The voices echo through the twilight, moths gathering by the illumination of the fire.
As night descends, Hans and Henry become more bold. Of course, they maintain a respectful distance from each other when in the company of the other men. But being a lord and squire permits a certain intimacy. Small gestures here and there as the conversations roll onwards. Knee against knee, brushing past. Watching the flicker of the firelight against silhouettes of the other’s profile, transfixed. Small smiles shared.
And as the darkness takes root, bolder yet. Fingers tantalisingly resting where they should not, at the base of necks and backs, hidden behind armour. Longing lingering gazes. Biting of lips.
When it comes to settling for the night, Hans offers to take a shift of the watch, but the men empathically refuse. That is the privilege of being a lord, to have a full night’s sleep. Tomorrow was another full day of riding after all and he’d need his wits about him when they reached Trosky. And Hans concedes very quickly, relieved.
So he seizes Henry by the shoulder in passing. A hand that pauses on him too long, enjoying the sensation of his chest rising and falling with breath.
"In that case, you can relieve me from this heavy old thing, Henry," he says chirpily.
"Of course." He had been playing tug of war with Mutt using a foot of old rope. The dog whines as the game is ended and nuzzles at his master’s legs to resume. Henry chuckles.
“Later, Mutt,” he apologises as he stands, with a ruffling of the dog’s fur. He walks with Hans towards where their tents stand in wait.
It had gone unspoken but agreed between the two of them that nothing could happen on this trip. The task was too important to jeopardise. And Hans was determined not to botch it up for the sake of a quick fuck, even one shared with the one he loved.
And yet, every touch of Henry’s hands - methodically releasing the many fastenings and belts of his armour - makes him want to throw it all away. Just for one moment closer to him. His fingers like a dozen prickling teasing vexing hot irons on him. Irresistible.
It is more tolerable on the outer layers of ornate armour, his touch dull. But as he works down to helping him doff the gambeson and mail, Hans feels he could scream with want. But the presence of the men, joking around the firepit a few feet away, keeps him in check. His jaw hurts with the effort of maintaining his composure. No one looking at him would be any the wiser, except for the way his brows meet with effort.
Henry, back turned to the men, visibly suffers with the same fate. Lust darkens his shadowed features with every pull and tug at Hans. But, as always, he is used to putting his duty before what he wants and so his hands do not hesitate even once.
With Hans ready to retire for the night, they pause, hovering in front of the each other. Henry fully suited, Hans with the final layers that he can manage himself in the privacy of his tent. Both struggle for the words.
"One of the men can help you undress," Hans says finally. The words are the perfect degree of aloofness required for the situation, but his tone is close to cracking.
"Aye…" Henry replies, voice hoarse. "Goodnight then."
And with that he turns away before the temptation between them, that ever winding yarn, catches them in an inevitable knot.
Hans breathes a sigh, both in relief and in frustration. He quickly enters into his tent, lying down as his cock throbs like the beat of a drum. It keeps him awake until long after the others have gone to bed. Neglected and disappointed.
The next morning, they set off at the crack of dawn, the forest bathed with pink.
The further they travel, the more things appear to stay the same. Peasants pause in the fields to view them as they ride past, squinting for a view of the unfamiliar heraldry of their shields, the bright caparisons of their horses, more golden than the wheat itself.
Under the midday sun, the men convince Hans to let them rest for lunch at a traveller's tavern, another indulgence he is quick to concede. Somehow even this ends up in wagers and fisticuffs, with Henry forced to step in and diffuse the situation. But it is a good laugh shared as they unhitch the horses, another tale to recount on the road.
But towards the afternoon, the landscape starts to change. Rolling hills give way to tall rock formations, cragged and pale, that break up the forest like scars. They trot through ravines, over rivers, marvelling and wary in equal measure. When they pass fellow wayfarers, they give a hail to check their heading. Indeed they remain on the right path still. And so onwards!
As the day proceeds, the order of the horses shuffle repeatedly. Conversations strike up, men move forward and backward in the group to discuss all manner of topics. Mostly gambling and wenches, except for with the young lord where it is weather and lovely ladies.
Hans glances up to the sheer rock pillars that surround them, suppressing his unease. He speaks to the men with overexuberance, an attempt to portray that he is more assured than he feels. But he ends up babbling away about nothing important. Soon he starts to drift behind the main group.
Henry slows and nudges his horse closer towards Hans, matching his pace.
"Is everything alright, Sir Hans?" The escort is far up front, well out of earshot; even their boisterous laughter is distant, reverberating between the rocks. Hans restrains the urge to admonish him for the formal address, letting it slide. After all, it is sensible for Henry to get back into the habit of referring to him in this way.
"Just nerves," he admits. "Christ, I’m keen to arrive and get on with it, you know?"
Henry nods in agreement.
"Me too. Even if half of Oats’ stories are true, I still don’t know what to expect."
Hans makes a noncommittal noise, lost in thought.
Henry glances ahead. The procession disappears over the small crest of a hill, out of view. As soon as they do, he prompts his horse forward and to the side, cutting off Hans’ own steed. The two stop, hooves stomping and giving displeased whinnies. Hans frowns at the display, calming his horse with a palm to the neck.
"What are you doing, Hal?"
Henry pulls further at the reins, guiding Pebbles to turn back, riding up alongside Hans from the opposing direction. Side by side, close enough to touch. And he wastes no time, leaning forward in the saddle and pulling Hans closer by the forearm into a kiss.
Instinctively Hans goes to retreat from him, but by God this man’s lips are like an elixir. Even as the horses shift beneath them, unhappy with this odd arrangement, the two lean closer and closer, deeper and deeper. He raises a hand to caress at Henry’s chest, but remembers that they are fully armoured, his gauntlet brushing off Henry’s breastplate uselessly. Grazing over those colours that bring him such pride.
He breaks away the kiss with a humourless chuckle at his oversight. Henry’s lips twitch into a smile, leaning their foreheads together.
"I’ll be beside you every step of the way," he promises. Hans feels his brows knit with the swell he feels in his chest. Anxious still, yes, but now buoyant as well. Hopeful. Protected. Indomitable.
They draw closer again, lips meeting like it’s the first time, with that same rush in his guts. They’ve only been apart a day but it feels like a lifetime.
At the crest of the hill, Mutt barks. Someone is coming, perhaps the men coming back to see why their lord has lagged behind.
The two part bitterly. Henry kicks his horse forward to perform another full turnaround.
"Owdentey fortoona youvat!" he says as he trots by. The cadence is shockingly bad: he is just repeating the sounds he’s heard Hans make without any greater understanding. But he grins like he has all the answers, bright and beautiful, before galloping away to reassure the men reappearing at the crest of the hill.
Hans waits a moment longer. In disbelief. What a turnip-picking, shit-shovelling ignoramus.
He raises a gauntlet to his lips, enjoying the lingering tickle of Henry there.
His turnip-picking, shit-shovelling ignoramus…
Hans sighs to himself in amusement. What a godawful choice he’s made. Then he spurs his own horse back into action, galloping to catch up. Not a minute to lose after all.
The evening of the second day on the road, they camp in a very different landscape. They settle in a relatively open area, surrounded on two sides by the sheer rock faces. Not Hans’ first choice, staring up at the impassive formations, but he knows that strategically it is the best option on this route.
This time he helps to set up his own tent, bordering right up against Henry’s. The action does not go unnoticed by the squire, but no comment is made.
Again the evening descends with laughter around the firepit. The wine flows and smoked sausages are passed around with gay abandon. The atmosphere is infectious, rife with anticipation. Tomorrow, Oats assures, they would reach Trosky. He alone has seen it prior to this trip and he remains the font of knowledge in this unfamiliar land.
Konrad prompts him to describe the castle again and he does with that simple but effective talk of his, hands raised as he imparts the height of the two famous towers. The starkness of the rock that it resides on. The winding path within the many walls, ever upwards as though towards heaven. The red flags gentle in the wind. His words are curt, but full of reverence. Hans’ breath catches at what he imagines.
Like the night before, Henry helps him doff his armour before bed. Unlike the night before, he does so efficiently, quickly. Not a movement wasted. Not a touch lingering too long. As is his duty. And when he is done, he nods towards Hans with a respectful expression.
"Goodnight, my lord. It will be a busy day tomorrow."
Hans watches him puzzled.
"Indeed. Well, er… Goodnight, Henry," he stammers in response. Henry turns back towards the firepit to negotiate the order of keeping watch with the men.
But as Hans settles down for the night on the hard ground, listening to the men shuffle about to their own tents, he soon understands.
The noises quieten and sleep arrives over the camp. Hans hears movement at the opposite end of his tent, where it borders with Henry’s. And there, sneaking under the sheet, a man barely lit by the subtle firelight. Bare skin he has not seen in days. Heat that threatens to overwhelm as he leans over Hans, breath fighting to be restrained. The indecent gap between their bodies, between their faces. The arm that rolls under his shoulder, turning him towards Henry.
No words are necessary. Just as they had promised without words not to touch each other, that promise had now been broken much the same.
With each new touch they wordlessly promise to only go as far as is required to sate that constant feverish want that burned down to their cores. At first sated with proximity, but then only sated with a kiss and then only sated with hands running over skin, limbs entwining and squeezing.
Love is a slippery slope, but their sex is a precipice.
The snores from the adjacent tents, the sound of the fire cracking, the man on watch coughing and shuffling about: all can be heard as clear as day. And so they both fight to restrain every last sound they make. Even their kisses, usually so relentless, are soft and controlled for the purpose of silence. Every movement is done with necessity, careful gropes, but this only makes them more desperate. Begging to be unleashed.
Henry breaks away first. Even in the barest firelight seeping through the cloth, Hans can see the strain in his features. That adoration in his eyes. Their cocks grind together even as he speaks almost inaudibly.
"Which way?"
Hans lets his hands drag down to cup the curvature of Henry’s backside, an agonising motion for the both of them. Henry responds in turn by pushing him down into the ground, hips on hips.
"I’d-" Hans pauses to get his excited tone back under control, leaning to whisper into his ear. "I’d rather…"
He stops again, too overcome, nuzzling into the tender skin of Henry’s neck. The arms around him tighten in response. Another firm grind of their cocks alongside each other, so hot that it feels as though sparks will fly.
"I’d rather not ride into Trosky with a sore arse…" he finishes, letting his lips curl into a devious smile.
Henry chuckles without sound, a heave that presses against his chest.
"As you command, my lord Capon." And it takes all the strength Hans has not to groan pleasurably at these words.
Refusing to untangle their limbs, they move as one. Together. They roll so that Henry is underneath, thighs parting and lifting to press at Hans’ waist. Drawing him forward. So deliciously obliging.
He feels Henry’s hands wander down, running over the tension of his shoulder blades down towards his hips, pausing there to dig in his fingertips, playing with the details he knows so well.
A little co-ordination is required to unite them, Henry apparently too unwilling to release his iron grip to actually let Hans move as required. But when he slides in that first inch, their faces meet again, stifling their moans with the other’s tongue.
Only when he is confident that Henry won’t make a single noise does Hans withdraw his mouth. Sheathing himself gradually into that tight hot hole that has been begging for his touch for days. It’s not the time or place for big theatrics, but even this slow pace feels like starlight, intense and singular.
Henry breathes heavily as he accepts each thrust, but true to form he is silent. He conveys his delight in other ways: in the tense grip of his hands, in the caresses of his thighs against his waist, in the way he writhes beneath him on the hard ground without a care.
Hans goes to sit more upright, to establish an easier rhythm with his cock. But Henry halts him with a hand behind his head, tangling in his hair. He leans up so that his lips brush over Hans’ collar bones and chest. There he leaves everything he wants to express but cannot, telling it in brushes of his lips, feather light but intense. A hundred confessions, a hundred promises. And, as Hans strikes at precisely the right spot, a single prevailing penitence.
Hans had briefly worried that their moment of confession before the assault on Talmberg had been driven by the threat of that same looming conflict. Love unveiled by the battlefield: vibrant, undoubtedly, but transient in nature. Said only to make it more tragic when one or both of them fell. Said only to be dismissed again if both endured.
For once, he was pleased to be proven wrong.
Hans would like to express that same sentiment now, confess to him afresh whilst so thoroughly joined with him. He knows he can’t, but there will be more than enough opportunities soon. So, like Henry, he aims to express it in ways without words.
As Henry allows him to straighten up, Hans is able to thrust his hips as he pleases. He pulls back his shoulders in enjoyment, eyes closing so he can enjoy every last stroke and pressure on his cock. And in turn he deepens the pumps, jostling Henry’s hips with each motion.
One hand settles to keep the pace, but the other toys dangerously close to Henry’s cock. Nudging close by and alongside, incendiary. One particularly close brush along the side of the shaft sends a shockwave through Henry. Another targeted stroke, just to tease him, savouring that utter pleasure as he fights to contain himself. Henry rolls his head back, bringing his hands away from Hans to cage around his face, defending against his own yearning.
Despite their best efforts to be quiet, where their bodies meet is wetting fast with Hans’ excitement. The tent is filling with those unmistakable rhythmic slaps as he reaches the apex of the rocking thrusts.
But he can’t bring himself to stop or slow. He can only speed up his pumps, desperate to glimpse another view of Henry’s ecstasy laden features, to feel another buck of his hips in response. Ready to risk everything for his love.
Outside, Oats really needs to piss.
He shuffles on the log uncomfortably, unwilling to leave the warmth of the fire in the cooling night. But finally he accepts defeat.
Oats stands and waddles away from the firepit, taking the long route around. He notes the dog asleep, lying between his master’s and the young lord’s tents. A good hound, if prone to stealing scraps when his back is turned.
Next he hears Konrad’s snores, like a war call from behind the thin fabric. How can his wife bear it?
He tuts to himself, but carries on towards the edge of the camp on the far side of the tents. There he stares out into the blackness. His eyes are not adjusted, bleached by watching the heart of the fire, afterimages dancing over his vision.
He takes his prick from his trousers. It takes a moment, but then there is the stream, disappearing into the night with a rustle of the grass.
His mind wandering as he pisses. He sways on the spot, recalling a catchy tune he heard recently at the tavern earlier today. A chuckle to himself at the memory of Tankard narrowly avoiding getting his arse kicked. Still the stream continues.
Looking over his shoulder, he glances back towards the camp. The firelight on the far side of the tents causes a shadow on the occupants within. Most are lying still, deep in slumber. But within the young lord’s tent, there is motion, barely captured by the glow of the fire.
Oats frowns, unable to interpret what he is seeing. There are too many limbs on the silhouette and it is too active to be sleeping, almost as if-
He turns back away from the scene sharply. Shoulders tensed. The stream of piss halts.
The lads hadn’t exactly been subtle about it, making moon eyes at each other the whole trip, but still. To be that bold.
Oats resumes his task, emptying his bladder fully and shaking himself dry. Then he pauses on the edge of the camp before crossing over his chest.
"Almighty Father, forgive them the sin of their naïve, young love," he mutters to himself.
And he turns back to back to his post at the fire, making sure that he looks in the opposite direction from Sir Hans’ tent as things are coming to a sweaty, stifled climax within.
