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Hans had never looked more beautiful, but now, up by the altar, all Henry could see was the back of him. The magnificent scarlet brocade jacket. The gleaming golden belt. The elegant slope of his pale neck leading up to cropped light strands and then to longer golden hair, bright like a halo in the sunlight streaming through the window.
A dark shadow of a priest hovered on his left and the staring mass of guests on his right. None of them mattered; Henry only had eyes for Hans.
If Hans would turn around… Maybe things could be different if he just turned around. If he faced Henry and properly looked him in the eye. Maybe then he could see what Henry felt.
Henry gripped the pommel of his sword. He was here to protect the groom, and that he would do, whatever the cost. Given the sign, he would drag him out of the church and cut down anyone who dared try to stop him. Henry thought it loudly, passionately, and prayed Hans would hear him. It’s not too late.
Hans turned his head a little, and Henry twitched, but Hans stayed put, gazing towards the door. Hans’ eyelashes waved gently when he blinked, like a butterfly calmly opening and closing its wings. He was so beautiful that breathing became difficult. It hurt his chest where his poor heart hammered against his ribs. It hurt his hand where he burrowed his nails into his palm so he wouldn’t reach out and touch him.
Anything. Any sign…
A heavy creak of wood and a clank of metal echoed into the church room.
Henry’s breath caught in his throat, and a chilly wind washed over him, sending rippling gooseflesh down his back.
Hans’ eyebrow twitched, and he straightened up to his full height. He was ready.
It must have been God who entered the church. The simple church in Rattay had opened its doors for God himself, and the brightness blinded Henry and shot a sharp pain through his skull. The breath left his lungs; the strength drained out of his limbs, and his ears buzzed like a beehive. His face went numb, and an overwhelming and horrible nausea overtook him. The world tilted. God had shown up to smite Henry for all his sins, of which there were many—more than he could even remember—yet it was now God showed up. Was this his biggest sin then? Or was it simply the last drop that made the cup run over? The one sin he did not regret—how typical. It was easy—dying—when God took the matter into his own hands. Perhaps Henry was lucky—his own victims had not got the same mercy.
In the kingdom of God, the heart moved to the head. The body was no more. Angels sang a long and piercing note, and eternity was a bright, warm, late summer’s day.
And Hans Capon was there; lovely and radiant. And worried.
“And no one thought to catch him when he fell?!” Hans’ voice bounded around in echoes and then faded into silence. No answer came.
The brightness faded. The high-pitched noise, like a kettle whistling, faded. The ceiling of the Rattay church materialised, shielding him from the heavens.
Hans sat on the floor next to him. “Henry.” He patted his cheek a little too hard. “Henry!” Henry made eye contact with him, and his heavenly blue eyes relaxed. “Oh, thank God,” he breathed and cupped Henry’s cheek in his hand.
Henry slowly and jaggedly moved his hand up to cover Hans’ hand with his, but just as Henry’s fingertips grazed his skin, he pulled away, his eyes snapping up to something out of Henry’s sight.
It was an angel. A woman with pale skin and red hair wearing a blue dress and glittering gold jewellery. She looked down at him with gentle concern.
Henry didn’t want to come with her.
“Oh goodness, are you alright, dear?” she asked, and sank to the floor beside him.
Henry cast a glance at Hans again; he was still looking at her.
Look at me. Please, for the love of God, look at me.
Hans looked at him.
“Aye,” Henry said.
“It sounded like you hit your head something awful,” the angel said.
His head pounded, pain throbbing through his skull. As if he knew, Hans stroked a hand over Henry’s hair, and it helped a little.
The angel looked at Hans then. She looked at him with such soft eyes, moving her gaze around his form. Beautiful and worried face, brocade-clad chest, legs kneeling on the hard stone floor, hand stroking Henry’s hair.
The angel pulled something from a silk pouch on her belt and held out an elegant hand above Henry.
It was an embroidered handkerchief. It waved from her fingers like an embellished ghost.
“Here, please,” she said, not to Henry.
Hans hesitated for a moment, but then he reached out too, stretching out his long noble fingers towards the ghost.
He shouldn’t, Henry thought. He shouldn’t do it. Something would happen once he reached it. Something terrible. It would be catastrophic if he took it in his hand.
Henry drew a breath; it was heavy and laborious. The heart thundering in his skull made him dizzy. No, he was going to say, no!
He took too long. His chest was too heavy, his tongue too slow.
Hans’ fingers grazed the angel’s, and for a moment they both held the handkerchief. And Hans’ face—it changed; he was looking at her, and he smiled so gently.
When she let it go, Hans wiped his fingers on it, leaving dark red stains in the white fabric. Then he finally, finally turned to Henry. He pressed the handkerchief to the back of Henry’s head and looked down at him once more. He wasn’t smiling now.
An unfamiliar man’s voice sounded out of sight. “Lady Jitka, let them handle it!”
“No, it’s my wedding. I want to make sure everyone lives through it,” Jitka said, and the crowd murmured and laughed.
Jitka, Jitka, Jitka. That was more of a devil’s name than an angel’s.
He felt it now—the hellfire she had brought. It burnt in his stomach and in his chest and up his throat.
His body was back; his senses were back. The late summer’s day wasn’t eternity; it would end, and September would come. The angel was just a woman. The angels’ song had just been in his ears. He was not in God’s kingdom, but in God’s house. One thing remained the same; his heart was still throbbing in his head.
The angel—the woman—had not come to get Henry; she had come to get Hans.
“How do you feel?” Hans asked, and he looked soft now, eyes gentle, smile gentle, voice gentle, and it was for him.
And it was terrible, because this was Henry losing Hans. God had let Henry live, and the punishment was seeing him being taken away by a stranger. Not an angel or a devil. Just a woman, a wife.
Henry could have stood up. He could have got back to his role as the groom’s protector. He could have told the crowd and the priest and the bride and the groom that the ceremony could begin and forgive me for the interruption. He could have stood there on guard with his heart pumping blood out the back of his head. But Hans was looking at him, so he lay there, hard stone pressing into his back, and delayed the inevitable.
The bride would be a wonderful wife, and Henry could not help the sob that tore itself out of him as too late arrived.
Tears rolled easily out of the corners of Henry’s eyes and disappeared into his hair. He wept inconsolably as Hans’ gentle facial expression changed to a sorrowful mask, fighting the emotions threatening at the edges of his eyes.
Henry grasped his own chest, took the red fabric, the same colour as the groom’s wedding attire, in his hand and answered Hans’ question.
“My head,” he cried. “My head.”