“Wake up, Henry.
It’s past sunrise.”
The voice floated through a thick blanket of exhaustion, soft yet insistent.
Henry stirred, his eyelids heavy as lead.
Every muscle in his shoulders felt as though it had been beaten with an oak stave, the lingering ache of four frantic, blood-soaked days catching up to him all at once.
“Henry, can you hear me?
Get up, Henry.
Wake up.” A hand touched his shoulder, warm against his cool skin.
“It’s a new day, Henry.
Can you hear me?”
Henry let out a long, ragged exhale and opened his eyes.
The dim light of early morning filtered through the wooden rafters of the Miller’s house, casting long grey shadows across the room.
Theresa was crouching beside his straw mat, searching his face with a look of quiet relief.
“Hallelujah,” she murmured, a faint smile touching her lips.
“I thought you would never wake up.
Did you have a good sleep?”
“Yeah…” Henry’s voice was a rough rasp.
He cleared his throat, pushing himself up on one elbow.
“It was the best sleep I’ve had in days.
Running these past three or four days…
it didn’t allow me a single moment of proper rest.
But here…
knowing I was safe within these walls, safe near Rattay…
sleep finally came.”
“Well, you slept like a log,” Theresa said, gathering her apron.
“The sun is already up over the hills.
You should start preparing—get yourself ready to meet Ser Radzig, if you want to catch him before he leaves for Ser Hanush or rides off somewhere else.”
“You’re right,” Henry muttered, rubbing his face with both hands.
“Ser Radzig won’t wait on a sleepy blacksmith’s boy.”
Theresa stood up and smoothed her skirts, heading toward the doorway.
Once she stepped outside, Henry swung his legs off the low bed.
His joints popped in protest.
Crossing the room, he stopped at the brass washbasin, scooped up a handful of cold water, and splashed it directly into his face.
The shock sent a shiver straight down his spine, snapping the last cobwebs of sleep from his brain.
Woof!
Woof!
A sharp bark echoed from the open doorway.
Mutt trotted in, his tail thumping rhythmically against the doorframe.
“Here you go, boy,” Henry smiled, crouching down to scratch the hound vigorously behind his ears.
Mutt leaned into the touch, letting out a low, content whine.
“Who’s a good boy?
You’re a good boy.
Did you have a good sleep too?”
Woof!
Mutt yipped, his tail wagging faster.
“A proper night’s rest to start a proper day,” Henry said, standing up and checking his belt pouch.
“Are you ready, boy?
We have too much work to do today.”
Mutt let out a soft bark of agreement, turning on his heels to lead the way outside into the crisp morning air.
Henry stepped out into the yard, squinting against the golden sunlight spilling over the valley.
He looked toward the house, then toward the riverbank, but saw no sign of the master of the mill.
Theresa was by the grain sacks, tying off a hemp cord.
Henry walked up to her.
“Where is your uncle?
I don’t see him anywhere.”
“Uncle took his mule upriver toward Kohelneck to meet with Miller Bojeck,” Theresa replied, pulling the knot tight.
“Because of the war and the refugees, he needed to talk to him about the winter rye supply.
Before he left, he said that if you intend to drag those miserable branches from the cart, you’d better do it before the town watch finishes changing the guard at the upper gate.”
Henry nodded grimly.
“He’s right.
I should get to them before someone else starts asking questions.”
He turned and strode up the dirt slope toward the large threshing barn.
Pushing the heavy wooden door open, the scent of damp wool, straw, and horse sweat washed over him.
In the far stall, his two mares shifted their weight, their ears flicking as they recognized his step.
Parked beside them was the heavy wooden cart—and bound to a thick timber support block in the center floor were the two captured bandits.
Their hands and feet were secured with thick hemp rope, and heavy rags were stuffed into their mouths, held in place by strips of leather tied around the backs of their heads.
Their eyes—bloodshot, dark, and rimmed with dirt—snapped toward Henry the moment he walked in.
“Did you have a proper night’s sleep?” Henry asked dryly, leaning against the side of the cart.
“I sure did.”
The bandits only glared, one of them letting out a muffled, guttural growl against his gag.
“Well, it’s time we get going,” Henry continued smoothly, looking them up and down.
“I wonder…
do either of you happen to have a bounty on your head?
Rattay’s Bailiff is usually quite generous with men who plunder the roads.”
At the word ‘bounty,’ the smaller bandit’s eyes went wide, his jaw tightening against the rag as he shrank back against the post.
The other man shifted uncomfortably, pulling weakly against his bonds.
Henry noted the shift—they were either wanted men or possessed information the Rattay garrison would pay dearly to pull out of them.
Turning his back on them, Henry pulled the oilcloth canvas off the back of the cart, revealing the pile of scavenged gear from their road encounters.
He set to work organizing the haul with methodical care.
He separated the rations, iron arrowheads, leather straps, and spare tools into one pile—things Miller Peshek or the local smith could turn into immediate supplies.
Then he turned to the weapons and armor: padded gambesons, iron kettle hats, a notched arming sword, and two tarnished hauberks.
He set aside one clean hunting sword and a decent helmet for himself, packing the heaviest armor and weapons back onto the cart.
“This should be enough to make a name for myself,” Henry mused aloud, hoisting a heavy ring-mail shirt onto a wooden crate.
“It’ll earn the goodwill of Ser Radzig and help the Scalitz people down at the refugee camp.
The rest we can use for ourselves.”
Satisfied with the sorting, he walked over to his mares, patting their necks and running a comforting hand along their muzzles before hitching them securely to the wooden cart harness.
He checked the iron rimming on the cart wheels, stepped back toward the barn door, and cast a final glance at the prisoners.
“I’ll change my clothes,” Henry said over his shoulder, “and then we shall head out.”
He stepped outside, pulling the heavy barn doors shut to keep the captives out of sight.
Theresa was standing near the watering trough, wiping her hands on a linen cloth.
“So, are you ready for your journey?” she asked, turning to face him.
“Well, I’ve sorted the things that might be of help to us—consider it payment for our trouble,” Henry said, leaning against the wall.
“The rest goes straight to the castle.
It’ll serve as proof of what happened on the road.”
Theresa looked at him, her dark eyes tracing the dark crust of dried mud, horse lather, and faded blood clinging to his wool tunic.
Her expression softened, a touch of sympathy mixing with exasperation.
“You look like a ditch digger who just had an argument with a bear and lost,” she said softly.
Henry rubbed the back of his neck, a wry smile breaking across his dusty face.
“I had other things on my mind than grooming, Theresa.
I think I’ll head down to the bathhouse by the river first.
Get my clothes washed and look like a proper human being before I present myself to the lords.”
Theresa’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of an inch.
Her posture stiffened slightly, a subtle shift that did not escape Henry’s notice.
“You won’t be paying anyone anything,” she said coolly.
“Come with me.”
She turned on her heel and walked purposefully back toward the rear of the large threshing barn.
Curious, Henry followed her through the low side door into the shadowy interior.
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Set directly in the center of the clean threshing floor, flanked by towering stacks of sweet-smelling rye straw, was a massive, cooper-built wooden wash tub.
Steam was coiling lazily from its dark water, billowing up into the wooden rafters and carrying a clean, sharp scent of lavender and boiled lye soap.
Beside the tub, resting neatly on an overturned salt barrel, was a folded linen sheet, a dry wool shirt, and a clean shaving razor resting beside a block of pale tallow soap.
Henry blinked, staring at the rising mist.
The tub was filled almost to the brim—a massive oak vat steaming like a horse trough in winter.
“What in God’s name…” Henry murmured, stepping closer and dipping two fingers into the tub.
The heat was deep, penetrating, and biting—perfect for loosening seized muscles and scrubbing off days of grime.
“Where did this come from?
Did your uncle secretly open a tavern for traveling merchants?”
Theresa stood by the wooden support pillar, her arms folded tightly over her chest.
A streak of black soot smudged her left forearm, and her linen cuffs were soaked through from carrying the heavy iron buckets.
“The great copper kettle over the kitchen hearth was already boiling for the brewers’ mash,” she said with practiced indifference, her eyes fixed firmly on the straw beyond his shoulder.
“Uncle didn’t use it before he rode out.
Water left over wood embers cools to nothing if you leave it, and it seemed a sinful waste of good dry birch logs to let it sit.”
Henry looked from the tub to the heavy iron buckets resting beside the barn door.
One of them still had a wet ring around its base on the floorboards.
It had taken at least four or five solitary trips through the dawn frost, hauling forty pounds of scalding water each time across the muddy courtyard.
His chest tightened with a warmth that had nothing to do with the steam.
“You hauled this yourself,” he said, his voice dropping low, the casual banter slipping away entirely.
“You complained yesterday that your mail shirt was chafing your ribs raw,” she replied, her voice dropping to a near-whisper before she quickly caught herself and cleared her throat.
“And you smell of swamp water and dead men, Henry.
If you march into Pirkstein Castle looking like a wild Cuman from the steppes, Sir Radzig will have Captain Bernard throw you into the horse pond before you can open your mouth.
I simply have no desire to see my work wasted.”
A slow, deliberate smile broke across Henry’s face.
He stepped closer, feeling the radiant heat of the water rising between them.
“Well…
You’ve truly made my day.”
Theresa gave a sharp, flustered nod, stepping back toward the barn door.
“Just…
don’t take all morning.
The water won’t stay warm forever.”
Once she went outside and closed the door behind her, Henry stripped away his mud-caked tunic, grease-stained hose, and chafing undergarments.
Stepping into the wooden tub, the scalding water washed over him with exquisite relief.
He scrubbed away the grime, the sweat, and the dried blood of the road using the lye soap, sinking deep into the water until his shoulders rested against the smooth oak rim.
When he finally stepped out, dried himself with the clean linen, and dressed in the fresh wool tunic and hose Theresa had provided, he felt like a new man entirely.
He pushed the barn door open and stepped out into the bright sunlight.
Theresa was standing near the well, turning as the heavy door creaked open.
Her eyes widened slightly as she took him in.
“Now you look like a noble in those clean clothes,” she said, a playful spark returning to her eyes.
“With a clean face, someone might actually mistake you for a lord’s son.”
Henry grinned, striking a theatrical posture.
“Well, who knows?
Maybe I am of noble blood.
Maybe my grandfather was a knight of great renown.”
Theresa burst into a soft laugh.
“That is a good joke, Henry!
If you are of noble blood, then I am the Queen of Bohemia.”
“Perhaps,” Henry said softly, his smile turning genuine.
“But truly, Theresa…
I’m very thankful for what you did for me.
Seeing how good I look in clean clothes makes me think I should take a proper bath every day.” He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfuly.
“Though…
that would mean paying a fortune in groschen to the bathhouse wenches in town.”
Theresa’s smile vanished, her lips pressing into a firm, stubborn line.
“You shouldn’t be giving your hard-earned groschen to those bathhouse wenches!”
She crossed her arms tightly, but her dark eyes softened as she looked at his clean tunic—the one she had carefully washed and laid out for him.
“You saved my life in Skalitz, Henry,” she said, her voice dropping, stripping away all the teasing from a moment before.
“When those Cumans had me pinned…
if you hadn’t ridden up…
I wouldn’t be standing here in this yard.
Washing a few tunics and hauling hot water…
it’s the least I can do.
I have a life debt to you.”
“A life debt,” Henry repeated softly.
He took a slow step closer, the lingering warmth and scent of lavender lye soap rising between them.
Reaching out, his calloused thumb gently wiped away the smudge of dark hearth-soot resting on her forearm.
Theresa caught her breath, her chest rising sharply, but she didn’t pull away.
Henry met her gaze, his voice dropping to a quiet, grounded murmur.
“We survived Skalitz, Theresa.
We don’t owe each other debts—we just owe it to each other to stay alive.
But…” A gentle, crooked smile touched his lips.
“…if you keep treating me like this, I might just make sure it takes a lifetime to settle it.”
Theresa flushed, a deep, helpless crimson rising on her cheeks.
She looked down at his hand against her arm, a soft, trembling breath escaping her lips before she looked back up, her eyes bright and shining in the morning sun.
“Just go to the castle, Henry,” she whispered, her voice thick with sudden emotion, though a radiant smile broke through.
“Before I decide to throw you back in the river.”
Henry turned back toward the threshing barn, Mutt trotting faithfully at his heels.
Pushing open the heavy oak doors, the cool, shadowy air of the interior greeted him once more.
Bound against the central timber block, the two captured bandits snapped their heads up at the sound of his boots on the floorboards.
Their eyes widened in pure, unadulterated disbelief.
Just an hour ago, the man standing over them had been a blood-soaked, mud-caked vagabond who looked like he had crawled out of a mass grave.
Now, standing tall in a clean wool tunic, fresh hose, and scrubbed clean of the road’s filth, Henry looked less like a desperate survivor and more like a commander stepping out to inspect his spoils.
“What’s the matter?” Henry asked dryly, walking over to check the tightness of the hemp ropes binding their wrists.
“Did you think I was going to present you to the Rattay garrison looking like a ditch digger?
Appearance matters when you’re claiming a bounty.”
The smaller bandit let out a muffled, desperate whine against his gag, his eyes darting frantically between Henry’s clean boots and the heavy cart loaded with stolen armor.
Henry gave the knot a firm, final tug, patting the man’s shoulder with cold mock courtesy.
“Up on your feet,” Henry ordered, grabbing them by their collars and hauling them toward the cart.
“Time to go meet the Bailiff.”
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