Chapter Text
Hans Capon’s life has always been cushioned and pleasurable. Every morning for as long as he can remember, he’s been woken by a maid opening the shutters and laying out his clothes. When he was younger, he’d pretend to be asleep so she would have to roll him over and dress his limp form. His barely suppressed smile and giggles would give him away, nevertheless, they indulged him.
Then followed breakfast, usually a lush buffet with fresh bread and cheese, sweet pancakes and plump fruit, often made richer with leftovers from last night’s dinner. Spoiled enough to complain if there was no bacon— and loved enough to only receive a scoff and a ruffle to his hair— Hans never left the table hungry.
Mornings were spent locked inside stuffy chambers, buried in books with tutors hanging over him like a hawk. Latin, Italian, religious texts, poetry, history and politics. Hans would grow to appreciate them all; however, with the tutors’ voice droning endlessly, demanding he repeat the same phrase over and over again if he mispronounced a single syllable, he loathed it.
Only past noon was he allowed outside, and there, there he found the joy of childhood his heart still yearns for. Sparring with wooden swords and archery with dulled arrowheads turned to real combat and hunting. The sky bluer and grass greener than it seems nowadays, his eyes brighter and laugh louder. Memories of climbing trees for eggs and feathers, shooting his first deer, presenting it to his father with a face-splitting grin.
And evenings were his favorite, when his father would settle down beside the hearth and take his boots off. An announcement that another day of lordship was over, and another night of fatherhood began. A blessed trait he’s later learned to be rare among noblemen; to take time for his children. To sit Hans on his lap, to hold and kiss him until he’s shrieking with joy. To take time for all his questions, inane as they might be, and answer each patiently, seriously.
And his dear mother at his side, laughing almost as hard as Hans as her husband told stories and jokes and gossip. Each night he shared their bed— perhaps too old for such childishness anymore, but Pirkstein housed few chambers and being alone on the lower floor scared him. So he fell asleep, housed in their warmth and never doubting their love.
It was a blessed childhood, in truth, and Hans lacked for nothing.
Until his father died, just shy of his thirteenth year. The man he childishly believed to be immortal and indomitable, unfairly torn away by an unlucky fall from his horse.
After several hushed discussions between his mother and the neighbouring lords, Hanush was placed in his father’s seat. His mother was sent to her family in Polna— to avoid any unrest from two noble families inhabiting the same castle, they said. Hans cried and begged for her to not leave— they could stay in Pirkstein, as they always had, and Hanush could rule from Rattay castle— but to no avail. The adults’ decision was final.
How was he to know then that would be his last glimpse of her; teary-eyed in the wagon, holding his hand until the last second, whispering fervently, I love you, my little bird, I love you. In hindsight, he wished she’d kissed him just one more time, and that he’d been able to say the same to her, instead of sobs rendering him unable to speak. But such a child was he; always victim to his emotions.
Slowly, things changed. Captain Bernard remained for his combat lessons, and for that Hans was forever grateful. The other tutors Hanush called backwater charlatans and brought in old, stern scholars from Prague and Kuttenberg. Men who never even cracked a smile at Hans, or entertained a single of his jokes. The Latin teacher would even ruthlessly smack his fingers whenever he made a mistake, leaving them red and aching after each lesson.
Still; a fine life free from hardship, a life peasants would covet. Yet Hans was miserable. Bored out of his skull, trapped by the oppressive schedules and never-ending demands.
While he still had many fine days under the sun, what he remembers the most, is chastisement. Hans could never seem to find the perfect balance that would deem him just right. Sure, he executed any task before him, but he was always too fast, too sloppy, too careless, too eager, too impatient, too loud, too restless. Never was he just right. He wanted the whole world, and he wanted it yesterday. No matter what he tried, no one would offer him the encouragement and unconditional love of a parent.
So he turned to rebellion. He concocted increasingly clever schemes to wiggle out of lessons— feigning illness, a sprained wrist, even simply running away. By adolescence, he was all but escorted to the lessons by armed guards, his countless escape attempts no longer tolerated. After his fifth attempt to outrun the huntsman, his horse was tied to his during the hunts, and no matter how increasingly difficult it made finding game, the huntsman would tread in his every footstep.
This was also the time Hans discovered the wonders of girls. More than once, after hours of searching, had he been found past curfew in compromising situations. Rarely did he get past flirting, maybe a kiss and a fondle of her breast, but it was enough to set his blood aflame. Each week he was lusting after a new one; a cook’s daughter, a city guard’s sister, the merchant’s wife, a travelling minstrel, even a farmer’s daughter. Not to mention the lovely bathhouse wenches, who eventually would suffer his first fumbling attempts at lovemaking.
Hanush would frequently call his tutors to the upper castle for a stern talking-to about the young lord’s education. Any time his jailors were called, Hans would creep close to the door on quiet feet and press his ear to the crack.
“Ride him harder, goodmen. All he needs is discipline,” Hanush barked. “Give him your little finger, and he takes the whole hand, the little devil.”
From bird to devil, was he deemed, and discipline he was given. On a tighter leash than ever, now he was woken by a guard roughly dragging him out of bed before daybreak, forced to fast and join the soldiers’ drills. By noon he was always dizzy with fatigue and sun, and by the second week, he fainted in the middle of the courtyard. As if that wasn’t humiliating enough, out came his uncle to pull him on his feet and yell at him. Only when he fainted a second time did Captain Bernard step in to calm the dragon, and release him from the cruel drills.
Back in his room with cool, wet rags all over his overheated body, Hanush came to sit by his bedside with a downcast head and heavy sigh. Fooled by body language, Hans almost believed his uncle would offer him apology, until his mouth opened. “I don’t know what to do with you, boy. I have offered you the finest education in the fiefdom. You could have been a scholar by now, or taken your knightly vows. Yet you resist every attempt at forming you into a good man.”
“Uncle—” he attempts, dry throat failing him.
Hanush only holds up a hand, and stares right into his eyes with pure disdain. “I’m glad your father isn’t alive to see the spoilt brat you have become.” He might as well have struck him; that would hurt less. Hans’s face crumples, and it only makes the humiliation burn worse on his sunburnt face. “I give up. No more tutors. No more lessons. Bernard, God bless his soul, is still willing to spar with you, but I relieve you of all other duties. I expect nothing of you, boy, just don’t saddle some poor girl with your child, or I will find a way to disinherit you and banish you from Rattay.”
His uncle leaves Hans to gasp with the sheer pain in his chest. Younger, he would have curled up and cried; now, he only heaves for breath. This isn’t pure and clean sadness from being unfairly chastised; now it burns with self-loathing. Because he caused this himself. No word of his uncle was a lie. He is a useless wastrel, only kept alive by obligation to the Capon bloodline, an inheritance he clearly doesn’t deserve, and likely never will.
Since then, Hans has been mostly left to himself. Hanush would only grunt at him over the breakfast table, and otherwise ignore him as loudly as possible. Hans is still allowed inside the council chambers for meetings with vassals or other lords, for the sole reason that Hanush can’t banish him with good reason. They spend many hours like this, side by side separated by an icy wall between them, Hans making sure to only speak up when his point is exceedingly well-made and reasoned. A mutual understanding settles between them; neither man respects the other, but is forced to pretend for the good of the land.
Defeated and left to his own devices, he succumbs to sin. Hans revels in his misadventures. If no one will punish him, why should he restrict himself? With more time spent in the taverns, he soon earns a faithful posse of young, bright-eyed boys, clearly of lower standing but yearning to be his equal, clearly abusing how loose his groschen sit after a couple of mugs. They are fine enough company for a while, as they listen and laugh to his boasts, but when the bell strikes curfew they scram and he’s left alone with the chasm of emptiness in his stomach demanding attention.
Often he relieves it by stumbling down to the baths, more often than not ending up passed out before even pulling his cock out. Having suffered many of his drunken, miserable tirades, the women mostly pity him and allow him to sleep cuddled close to them. That’s what he wants most, he realizes, one evening he actually is fucking one of them, but failing to keep his manly vigor up; a warm body to hold, without expectation or performance. Someone who will not chastise him or hound him endlessly.
Later, allowed to rest his head on her bosom, shame burns through him. How pathetic a man is he, to only find solace in the paid company of whores?
Other nights the wine sets the loathing coursing through his blood, and with an arrogant sneer he challenges any man who dares look at him funny to a fight. With wild eyes and hard hands, he seeks to turn his misery to physical proof. The guards are so sick of breaking up his unprovoked fights they threaten to disregard his standing and throw him in the pillory, and every time Hans’ grin is feral as he issues the challenge, I’d like to see you try.
But most nights, he slinks back home, head bowed. This isn’t the life he imagined or wanted, only the corner he’s backed himself into. He’s so desperate it becomes his evening prayer;
Lord, let something, anything, change. Change me into a man worthy of my father’s pride.
Change comes, only not how he expected nor hoped.
The raid on Skalitz. Sir Radzig settled in Pirkstein. Refugees under the drawbridge. A war larger than he could ever imagine looming.
The lords and the friar are all gathered for dinner and discussing the developing situation, when in barges a dirty boy in tattered rags more fit for a farmer’s bowl of gruel than a noble feast. The guard sets his polearm across his chest, and better, he is soon being chastised for insolence and disobedience by both Radzig and Captain Bernard. Hans leans back in his chair with a pleased smile, certain the lad will be in the stocks come nightfall.
“Sir Robard and his men risked their lives to save you,” Radzig says sternly.
The lad doesn’t even know how to take his punishment, talking back to all lords with an, “I’m sorry, but I had to.”
A scoff of a laugh from Hanush. “When you have to, you have to, Radzig!”
And Hans is almost kicking his feet with glee, to see Hanush’s sarcasm unleashed on someone other than him. Clearly, this Henry is even more impertinent and hot-headed than he, and deserves to be taught a lesson.
But Radzig’s tone shifts, to ask if he managed to bury his parents. Henry’s face turns down in shame. “I wouldn’t be alive if not for that girl. The miller’s daughter, Theresa.”
Again Hanush laughs, and Hans almost joins him. The friar jumps in with some sanctimonious bullshit, and Radzig and Hanush both mock the man. Hans can barely restrain the grin threatening to split his face with a boisterous laugh. Such good entertainment, he’d almost believe he were at the royal court.
Radzig’s attention turns to this Henry again, whose shameless pigheaded arse starts pleading for employment. Hans simply can’t take it anymore— Radzig should not entertain this filthy peasant’s ideas, he should have been in the pillory yesterday.
“The gall of him!” he exclaims, rising. “Fled from the enemy, disobeyed your orders, duped Sir Divish, lost your sword, put Sir Robard in danger, and now he wants a promotion?!”
Henry’s gaze meets his, as if only now noticing his gold-clad form. In his eyes, Hans startles to find a mirror— the same angry hurt. He can’t stand to see it reflected back on him. Hans’ eyes narrow and he sits back down with an annoyed huff he buries in his goblet. The peasant’s eyes are still on him, sizing him up. The insufferable nerve of him.
Captain Bernard, blessed be his name, agrees. But Radzig, infuriatingly, takes the lad’s side. He’s known for his even temperament, and unusual but just punishments. A fair man who Hans usually respects immensely; but right now his teeth grit, wishing it was Hanush and he alone who had received the boy. They’d have stripped him clean of all insolence, and sent him to rot in the jail. Instead, Radzig orders the boy to train under Bernard’s tutelage.
After he leaves, Hans turns to his superior lords and hisses, “What the fuck was that?!”
Hanush claps him on the back of the head. “Shut up, you fool.”
“No, I shan’t!” Hans shakes off Hanush and doubles down. “Are we rewarding peasants for disservice to your orders and good names? He should be in the pillory!”
“Sir Hans.” Radzig’s even voice cuts like a knife. “Yes, the lad misbehaved, but like I said; any man would have fled. That he turned back to honor his parents is a testament to his bravery. Captain Bernard’s discipline will surely work all the impertinence from him.”
Bernard offers a nod of agreement. “I have turned worse lads into fine men, my lords.” He rises with a polite bow, and excuses himself.
After another deep swig of wine, Hanush’s arm comes around Radzig’s shoulder with a conspiratorial grin. “Besides, you wouldn’t pillory your own son, would you, my friend?”
Radzig’s eyes fall shut with an exasperated sigh. Hans leans forward in disbelief. “Son?!”
“Yes,” Radzig admits. “A foolish escapade from my younger days.”
“And you left him to rot with the peasants?!”
Radzig’s gaze pierces him sternly. “Jana was a remarkable woman, and Martin even more so, for willingly claiming a bastard as his own. He was apprenticed at his father’s forge, a fine blacksmith in his own right. They always had food on the table and fire in the hearth. He was loved no less than any other son would. I am proud to have my son raised by such good folk.”
Something twists sourly in Hans’ stomach, and he realizes it’s jealousy. Has ever anyone talked about him so well, despite his misdeeds? How can he be jealous of a peasant? And worse— that little niggling part of his heart that resonated with the boy. They have nothing in common, and never will.
In bed he tosses and turns, concocting increasingly ridiculous plans to humiliate Henry in the same manner he himself has been for years. Hans has a special talent for getting underneath people’s skin, and surely, the insolent and hotheaded peasant will be no different.
He falls asleep with a shit-eating grin on his lips, eagerly awaiting dawn for the first time in months.
Right after wolfing down breakfast, Hans rides to the upper castle, and sneaks through the guard’s chambers to the window on the ramparts with the best view of the training pen. Far too early, he spends the time reading a small tome of poetry. Fine lines of romance and chivalry that never fails to brighten his mood. He slams it shut mid-poem at the telltale sign of Captain Bernard’s voice from the drawbridge below.
There he is, followed by that dirty boy. He looks a little better, today, rags replaced with some patch-work excuse for a guard’s armor. Hans snorts. You can dress up a pig in armor— it’s still only a pig.
He watches as Henry fumbles through training, his yells of frustration carrying all the way up to the ramparts. Hans is grinning the whole time. How entertaining the lad is turning out to be— and this is just the start.
About an hour in, Hans must concede the boy has improved somewhat. When he actually started listening to Bernard, his moves became smoother, more capable. Still a long way to go, of course, but perhaps the lad will make something of himself.
Unless Hans has something to say of the matter, of course.
He saunters leisurely towards the arena, calling over Bernard to interrupt the lesson. “I see you’re entertaining Sir Radzig’s esteemed guest.” He pauses to catch Henry’s glance, surly and sweaty under that stupid-looking kettle helmet. “Not the same as holding a hammer, is it, blacksmith’s boy?”
Henry only spits at the ground, before continuing to glare at him. No inclination of a bow, or addressing him as befits his station. That disrespect alone would be enough to demand a turn in the stocks— if it weren’t for the curious background granting him protection. Hans’ eyes narrow before turning to Bernard to ask for a turn at archery. He agrees, of course; what man would deny his lord?
Unable to resist, Hans calls a final parting to the boy, “Good day to you, blacksmith’s boy. Try not to hurt yourself.” He leaves without more fanfare, grinning when he hears soft curses trailing behind him.
An hour later, the boy and Bernard turn up at the archery range. Hans raises one eyebrow sarcastically— Bernard only waves at him dismissively, and starts the lesson. Hans keeps shooting, straightening his posture to be the shining example of excellence. Bullseye after bullseye. He glances out the corner of his eye to watch the blacksmith’s boy fail miserably. The taunts come easier than breathing.
“Maybe the fellow’s short-sighted?” he turns to comment to Bernard. The lad curses and nocks another arrow, which lands several feet short of the target. “Has anyone told you you’re supposed to shoot at the target?”
Bernard tries to shout instructions for Henry; but from the flush rising on his protruding ears, Hans’ taunts are all he hears.
“You missed, blacksmith’s boy! By a mile.” Hans says this over his shoulder as he saunters over to collect his own arrows all nested beautifully within the black circle. When he returns, he scoffs at Henry’s form. “I’m not surprised that a girl had to save your arse.”
“Enough!” Bernard tries shouting, but it’s too late. Henry is glaring daggers at him, fists trembling with restraint. Hans ignores the insolent display and turns to Bernard. “Why are you wasting your time, Sir Bernard? Nothing will come of him anyway, and at the first sign of trouble he’ll run away like any other cowardly peasant.” Here he looks to Henry again, to deliver the final blow. “After all, he’s done it before.”
“What did you say?!” Henry yells. Again Bernard tries to defuse the situation by reminding him of Hans’ station. Henry’s head tosses like a wild stallion making its stand. “A braggart who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”
“Now you’ve really done it, boy.” Bernard sighs. “You’ll go to the stocks for that.”
The stocks aren’t enough, Hans decides. First, he wants to see the boy humiliated by his own hand.
“Calm yourself, Sir Bernard,” Hans says, playing the role of benevolent lord, letting only a smidge of rudeness bleed into the words. “If the blacksmith’s boy feels he can prove himself, then let him try.”
They settle the terms of the bet under Bernard’s world-weary eyes.
To his credit, Henry does strike the target twice. Unfortunately for him, Hans keeps shooting straight bullseyes. A feat he’s accomplished many a day— but doing so with an audience always makes him preen. When the last arrow has struck, Hans turns to the peasant. “So, blacksmith— do you know your place now? Or do you need more reminding?”
Henry looks downtrodden and defeated, but still he glowers furiously.
“Sir Hans, is this necessary? Sir Hanush has already had words about you fighting with your subjects. He explicitly told me—”
“I know what he told you,” Hans interrupts. Captain Bernard is a fair man who takes his side more often than he should, but he must defer to his stupid uncle. “You can just tell him I didn’t listen to you, as usual. So what’s it going to be, blacksmith?”
“If we must,” Henry concedes, and Hans wants to laugh. Yes, you must. The lad might be a noble’s bastard, but born and raised a peasant, his fate is at Hans’ mercy. He strides to the combat pen with a swagger in his step, so pleased to teach him a damn lesson.
Henry puts up a better fight with a sword. Hans still parries and pivots away, but whenever the blacksmith’s sword meets his, Hans’ arms tremble with the strain. The boy is strong as an ox. And he fights dirty. When their swords are locked, Henry will kick him. The first time it lands in his stomach, sending Hans reeling, and Henry standing back with a feral grin. The next time, Hans sidesteps, and shoves his fist in Henry’s jaw.
It’s the dirtiest, least honorable fight he’s ever been in— and Hans revels in it. He’s too out of breath to taunt, but he laughs with every strike, and finds it not solely mockery— Hans is having the time of his life. He feels alive for the first time in years.
After long minutes of wearing Henry down, Hans decides enough is enough. The lad is red-faced and sweating like a pig, and like a pig, it’s time to put him down. A feint, a strike, a pivot, then Hans tackles him to the ground. He follows him down, knees around his waist and hands easily pinning down Henry’s— who, to his credit, is still bucking and flailing.
“Yield,” Hans says coolly, staring down into his shamed face. A bruise blooms on his jaw, thick blood runs from his nose, yet the fight in his eyes never dim. He’s panting so hard his stomach heaves against Hans’ thighs.
Finally Henry stills, and, looking everywhere but at Hans, mumbles an unwilling I yield.
Bernard exhales with relief, like he might have believed Hans would actually kill the lad. Hans steps easily off him, sheathing his sword like the whole affair meant nothing to him. “A second defeat, blacksmith’s boy. Consider this a lesson in holding your tongue when facing your superiors.” Trying to hide his heavy breath, Hans continues, “Though I suppose I should give you credit for taking on my challenge, despite your… limitations.”
Henry replies with the most hostile thank you, sir, he’s ever heard. He might as well have uttered the words fuck you out loud. When he learns Henry only has seven groschen in his pouch, he scoffs and refuses any prize money.
“What lord would I be, to deprive a subject of his supper? Trot along now, blacksmith’s boy.”
Hans practically feels the rage radiate behind him as he leaves. Childishly, he wants to skip and jump. Today has been the most fun he’s had in ages. He’ll almost be sorry to see the lad thrown into a cell, for all the entertainment he’s provided.
Evening finds him in the tavern again, in the boastful, jolly mood that attracts his so-called friends. With a new victory to tell of, they spend hours insulting the insolent blacksmith’s boy.
Night falls around them, the tavern empties, but his spirits only rise. The bell for curfew rings, but he pays it no mind. Any guard worth his salt knows not to intrude on the lord’s merrymaking— until Hanush himself comes to resolve the situation.
As if by some miracle, it’s Henry who’s doing the rounds this night. Henry, not worth his salt and not knowing how much lenience to grant the town’s rightful lord.
At least he bows before speaking, this time. Perhaps Nightingale has managed to beat some sense into his thick skull. “Sir Hans, forgive my intrusion, but I need to—”
Hans’ tongue is light and easy with drink. “You want to join us? Buy us a round? I’m afraid we don’t drink with peasants. We’re not in your village now, boy!”
Annoyance flickers over Henry’s face for a moment, before settling in an even expression. “No, sir. Curfew’s been rung. The alehouse is closing.”
“Nothing closes while I’m sitting here,” Hans says in a low, threatening voice. “If that’s all, you’re dismissed.”
The poor innkeeper sidles over to Henry to offer him advice. Advice Henry, God bless his simple soul, does not heed. His voice comes louder, this time. “The Bailiff instructed me to close the tavern at the proper hour. He doesn’t want anyone disturbing the peace after curfew.”
“The Bailiff can kiss my arse! I trust you haven’t forgotten who’s the rightful Lord of Rattay.”
“No.” Henry’s jaw lifts in challenge. “It’s Sir Hanush.”
“Oh, is he here? Is he hiding under the table, maybe?” Hans can’t help the theatrics, looking under the table, grin shit-eating as he watches the peasant simmer. “Then what he wants isn’t worth a fart in a bathhouse. And besides, he’s only in charge ‘till I grow up.” His lackeys rise in a protective stance around him.
“Which clearly hasn’t happened yet,” Henry scoffs.
And that is the last drop.
“Enough!” Hans slams the table. “You can’t talk to me like that! I’m a nobleman!” His voice is far more a child’s petulant whine than a lord’s command. The innkeeper tries to defuse the situation, begging for no fights, but Hans waves him off. “This yokel needs to be taught his place— again! Having your arse handed to you in archery and swordplay weren’t enough, blacksmith’s boy? You want me to put you into the ground this time?”
Hans swings— and promptly realizes exactly how drunk he is, as Henry easily sidesteps and Hans almost stumbles to the ground. He spits, and charges again. This time he feigns a punch, steps against Henry’s pivot, and hits him straight in the jaw. Right where he got him earlier— where the bruise glows sickly in the torchlight, he notes with pride. To his unending annoyance, Henry manages to get in two good hits— both in his stomach, none touching his face, thank the Lord.
They’re deadlocked in a wrestle when his uncle’s voice booms over the tavern green, striking fear in the terror of the crowd gathered there. “What in the name of Christ is happening here?!” Hanush stalks closer with a thunderous glare. “Answer me, damn you!”
They both disengage to stand side by side like children awaiting punishment. “This peasant insulted me! I had to teach him a lesson.” His lackeys nod and hum in corroboration. Thank the Lord they are all arselickers enough to back him up in a verbal argument, despite failing in the physical.
“By rolling around in the mud like a hog?! That’s a fine example of noble conduct!” Henry steps closer, attempting to plead his case. “Silence! You shut your mouth and thank your lucky stars that you are Radzig’s ward! Have you gone out of your mind, raising your hand to a nobleman?!”
Finally, Hans grins, finally someone is taking his side in the struggle against this insufferable peasant. Surely now he’ll get what’s for— a jail cell overnight, the stocks in the morning to be laughed and mocked—
Unfortunately, Hanush’s attention turns back to him for the usual scolding. Hans’ face lowers to hide how little he’s actually listening— it’s the same every time, blah blah drinking blah blah whoring blah blah irresponsible—
Until Hanush saddles him with some insufferably boring hearing over a land dispute as punishment. That will not do.
“I had planned to go hunting, uncle— Oats asked for some game to give Sir Radzig a proper feast.” That part is true; the next he exaggerates. “But if you think listening to the pointless gripes of a bunch of old fools will benefit me, so be it.”
Hanush’s voice drops into that dangerous tone that promises a pleasant, jolly lord, but hides a dark anger beneath. “Oh, hunting? Well then, Your Grace, you can go hunting." Hans stares at him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It takes seconds, and Hanush’s grin only widens when he continues. “Who am I to deprive the young Lord Capon of his sport? And you can take Henry here as your page.”
Unable to restrain his outrage, Hans exclaims, “Him?! Absolutely not!”
“You’ll do as I’ve commanded,” Hanush yells. “It’s time you learned to lead people, and not just in drinking and brawling. Now get out of my sight!”
Hans walks off, steaming with fury and shame alike. How dare Hanush chasten him so in the presence of a mere peasant— the very peasant he’s spent all day riling up to be thrown in the stocks; not to become a watchdog to tag along and ruin his hunt with his clumsy feet and heavy hands.
Tossing and turning in bed, he’s plagued with thoughts of what he could’ve, should’ve said, to ensure the blacksmith’s boy be punished. Radzig’s bastard or not; somehow Henry will get what’s coming to him.