A Forest of Wolves (18 page)

“Don't you have rebel work to do?”

“No. Well, I don't think so. Why?”

“Marc said you did.”

“Oh.” Henrik shrugged. “I don't know. I haven't seen him today.”

“I let him read my mother's letter. He knows.”

“How'd he take it?”

“Relatively well.” I grabbed a section of my hair and twisted it. “He wants me to keep the secret quiet for now. To keep me safe.”

“That's reasonable.”

“He was angry I told you first.”

“Ah.” Henrik stood at the end of the table. He placed his hands on his head and stared at the floor.

A long moment passed. “Henrik?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you all right?”

He went to the fireplace and retrieved a wicker basket from the top of the mantel. “Here, I brought bread. It will be a few more minutes before the soup is ready. Have some.”

I devoured the bread; it was warm from sitting over the fire. It practically melted in my mouth and settled in my empty stomach. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. When was the last time I'd eaten? Five days ago? Had it been five whole days since the meal at the tavern in Prucha with the blond barmaid?

Poor Helga.

I closed my eyes and images exploded behind my lids of Helga's body swinging from the gallows. I shook my head.

“You all right?” Henrik asked.

“Did you like the barmaid in Prucha? Helga?”

“What?” Henrik asked.

“The barmaid at the tavern? The one Václav killed?”

“She was nice. I can't believe that happened.” Henrik exhaled. “We all watched her die for being a Protestant.”

“Did you like her?”

“Sure, she seemed nice.” Henrik tilted his head. “Mila? Why are you asking?” He walked around the table and stood behind me. “How's your wound?”

His presence radiated behind me and I couldn't ignore it. He kneeled beside me. The tips of his fingers grazed my neck as he gathered my hair and moved it to the side. Shivers rippled over my flesh from his touch. He stood so close that I could smell his scent: cedar and the strong, lovely fragrance of man. He pulled down the collar of my dress.

“It looks better,” he whispered.

My sleeve slipped off my shoulder, exposing my back and collarbone. The fabric stopped right above my breast, but the cloth wouldn't stay there for long before falling all the way down and exposing me.

Yet I didn't push it up.

I sat nervously still.

His fingertip brushed my skin near the wound. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not so much,” I whispered.

His breath prickled my skin. “It's healing. Ruzena did a good job.”

“Yes, she did,” I said.

The name snapped me back from whatever had or may not have transpired between us. I pushed my sleeve back into place. I twisted on the bench and forced a smile, trying to feel comfortable around him again.
Needing
to feel comfortable around him.

He must have felt the tension between us, too, because he shot to his feet. “Shall we eat some soup?”

“Please!” I prayed my face wasn't red. Why did I feel this way around Henrik? What was wrong with me?

Henrik served the soup and we ate companionably across from each other at the table as if nothing strange had passed between us.

Marc walked in.

I looked up from my bowl.

Marc stared at Henrik. “What are you doing here? Where's Igor?”

“I sent him home,” Henrik said. “Want some soup?” He retrieved a bowl from the shelf.

“Why are you here?” Marc repeated. He took two steps into the room. His jaw was clenched and somehow he looked bigger than usual.

“To look out for Mila. I made food. You didn't expect her to eat that slop you made, did you?”

“Get out.”

Henrik slowly turned around. He made a face. “What did you say?”

I placed my spoon in the empty bowl. “Marc...”

“I said, get out of my house.” Marc stood large in the doorway. His rigid body filled the doorframe. The muscles in his forearm twitched, but his hands hung loose by his sides.

“You're kicking me out of your house?”

“You have no reason to be here,” Marc said. “That's why I asked Igor to watch Mila.”

Henrik looked at me and then back at Marc. “Fine. If that's how it's going to be. Bye, Mila.” Henrik marched to the front door.

For a terrible second I feared it was about to escalate. But Marc moved to the side as Henrik stormed out.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Why is he hanging around here? Why is it every time I turn around or come back from some meeting, my brother is here with you?” Marc's nostrils flared.

“Why are you always gone?” I stood and held the table for support. “I could ask you that, but I don't. I understand you're busy with this revolution, but your questions seem to be implying something else. Go ahead and say it. Is there something you'd like to ask me, Marc?”

Marc's eyes hardened. “Do I need to ask you something?”

“You tell me.”

“I think my brother should focus more on the rebellion and less on you,” Marc said. “And maybe you need to find a new friend to spend your time with.”

“Well, I think—”

Henrik burst through the front door.

“What are you doing?” Marc said.

Henrik's eyes were wide. “Stephan's back. He has Dad's body.”

S
tephan and Ivan's wagon was parked in front of our house. A spotted colt was attached to an old wooden cart filled with straw. Inside the cart, covered in a tattered green quilt, was a body.

“Stephan? What's going on?” Marc edged toward the wagon.

“We brought your father's body back.”

“How?”

“On the way back from the prisoner camp in Prague we saw a fire pit not far from Prucha. They were burning bodies from the Inquisition.”

“Smelled horrible,” Ivan added.

“We stopped to see if we recognized anyone, you know, so we could bury them properly and pay our respects.” Stephan sighed and scratched his scarred chin. “And then I saw Petr's body in the pile.”

“Thank you, Stephan.” Henrik squeezed his shoulder. “You don't know what this means to us. Thank you so much.”

Marc leaned over the wagon and lifted the quilt. I couldn't see from where I stood in the doorway. It had to be Petr's body by the look on Marc's face. Complete despair flashed across his features. It quickly disappeared, replaced by a stoic mask. “Thank you. We'll give him a proper burial tonight.”

“You're welcome, sir,” Stephan said.

My head lifted. Stephan had never called Marc
sir
before.

“We have information on the camp,” Stephan said.

“And... ?”

“Roughly one hundred prisoners. Twenty guards during the day. Ten or so at night. The camp is west of the city on the river within a quarter-mile from Prague. It's close. The castle oversees the camp.”

“Any sign of the Habsburg army?” Henrik asked.

“No. It's only the Royal Bohemian Army for now. They are stationed behind the walls.”

“Then we'll go tomorrow,” Marc said. “We'll take a group, sneak into Prague, and break out the prisoners.”

“With force?” Stephan asked.

Marc frowned. “Not at the outset. Let's focus on getting them out. If it comes to a fight, we'll fight. But let's try to do this as quietly as possible.”

“Noted, sir,” Stephan said. “I'll gather the men. How many?”

“Thirty, with another hundred to camp a few miles from Prague—in case we need them.”

“And the Gypsies?” Ivan asked.

Marc frowned. “They should've been here by now. Send a scout to scour the forest between here and Prucha. See if they can find Zora.”

Stephan nodded and saluted—another gesture I'd yet to see from anyone. Stephan jogged away with Ivan on his heels, leaving the cart and Petr's body to Marc, Henrik, and me.

The boys set aside whatever conflict they had between them and proceeded to carry their father's body into the house to clean and dress him. When they were finished, they placed Petr's body back in the cart outside.

We readied for a funeral.

I'd never been to one outside of the castle. I'd passed a peasant death procession when I first ran away from the castle, before I met Marc, but that seemed so long ago. The residents of Kladno were superstitious and I was curious to know how they would bury him.

What happened to the man I'd met in the Kladno graveyard a few days back? Had he been disappointed that his daughter-in-law never rose from the grave? Did he still keep watch? Or perhaps... had she risen?

I pushed those thoughts aside. I dressed in a simple gray dress. It was one I'd purchased in exchange for a basket of food Henrik had given me from the dressmaker down the street. I did not own anything in black, so the gray would have to suffice. I tied my hair back and ignored the dark circles under my eyes.

Funerals terrified me.

Not because of the dead body or the sadness the ceremony conjured, but because I had, ever since I was ten years old, associated every single death and every single funeral with my mother's. It was all one and the same for me, and the feelings that were invoked were painful and terrifying.

Even now, knowing that my mother hadn't committed suicide, I still dreaded attending Petr's funeral. I knew how I'd feel. How I would be screaming on the inside for Marc and Henrik but calm and stoic on the outside.

The days following my discovery of my mother's dead body floating in the tub had been mostly a blur. I had no recollection of who'd found me or how I'd managed to hide the dragon dagger. I've tried on numerous occasions to piece together those days, but I've never been able to.

I remember the whisperings of the castle. The words
suicide
,
sinner
,
Hell
—none of them spoken in such a devoutly Catholic castle—were now being thrown around in my dead mother's memory. Yes, people would lower their voices when I passed them in the hallways or if I sat near them at dinner, but I still heard those cruel words.

The priest had refused to bury my mother in the vault at Saint Vitus Church, even though she rightfully belonged there as a member of the nobility. Now I realized this refusal most certainly had been made on Václav's orders.

I remembered the priest's exact words: “
I apologize, Chancellor, but as you know, we do not allow suicides to be buried with our holy deceased. It is... discourteous to our dearly departed. Unfortunately, we do not make exceptions. I apologize profusely. Perhaps you can make arrangement for a burial... elsewhere?”

I'd bet my life that the priest's words had been memorized and delivered perfectly on cue. Had the priest and Václav practiced before they spoke them in front of me? I was also certain a significant amount of money had been exchanged between Václav and the Church.

As a consequence, my mother was buried outside, in a spot in King Rudolf's Royal Gardens. No one had attended the funeral except for Václav and me. I'll never forget the smooth, polished coffin and the white lilies piled on top of it.

Thinking back on it now, she probably would've been thrilled to be buried in Rudolf's beloved garden and not some deep, dank crypt under Saint Vitus Church. Nevertheless, Václav had given a worthy performance of crying and carrying on during the funeral and, at the time, I truly believed he grieved for my mother.

To make my own guilt worse, I had been angry with my mother during her funeral. I blamed her for leaving us. For leaving my father and me alone. How could she so selfishly take her life? What about us?

Now that I knew the truth—that Václav had murdered her—the whole memory seemed tainted. Had King Rudolf ever visited her grave? I'd assume so.

I hoped so.

“Are you ready?” Marc's words pulled me back to the present.

He was dressed in clean trousers and a white linen shirt. His hair was still wet from his bath but combed and in place. He'd shaved; his normally scruffy jaw was smooth, making his lips and chin look foreign to me.

I smiled. “You look nice.”

“Thank you,” Marc said. “So do you.” He held out his hand and we walked outside together.

The wagon holding Petr's body was no longer outside the house, so we walked hand in hand down the road to the opposite side of town. Most of the residents of Kladno were gathered around a pile of wood.

“You're burning the body?” I asked.

“Ashes to ashes,” Marc said.

I understood, but I wasn't expecting it. I had assumed they would bury Petr's body. The Protestant belief wasn't too different from Catholic ones, as I'd recently learned from Marc. One of the most important differences between the two religions, however, was the authority we believed in.

In Catholicism, only the Roman Catholic Church had the authority to interpret the Holy Bible. Protestants, on the other hand, believed that each individual person had the authority to interpret the Bible. It's easy to see how the Catholic Church would have a problem with keeping their elitist control over religion. It would usurp the power held in the church.

In the Catholic religion, we didn't burn our dead. The church banned the practice as sacrilegious because of the belief in the resurrection of the body.

So seeing this was... different for me.

The crowd parted for Marc and me. Everyone was dressed in their finest out of respect for the eldest Sýkora. Henrik stood with Igor near the cart carrying Petr's body. When we reached the inner circle, I went to stand next to Ruzena and Stephan.

Her eyes were wet with tears. She nodded at me.

Marc, Henrik, and Igor lifted Petr's body onto a wooden slab and carried him to the pyre. Each Sýkora kissed Petr on the forehead before stepping away. Stephan handed a torch to Marc.

Marc walked to the pyre and lit the wood. The flame caught fire and ignited, slowly at first, around the edges of the pyre, before consuming the entire bundle, including Petr, in a glorious fan of flames.

The crowd stood back as an intense heat radiated off the fire. Flames flickered in the night and drifted up into the starry sky.

Marc's body relaxed beside me. He must've been somewhat consoled now that he had possession of his father's body. Marc was able to give Petr a proper funeral. He'd suffered a great deal over the past month; hopefully this would give him some solace.

As the flames consumed the pyre, the crowd's mood changed from solemn and respectful to festive. I was reminded that this wasn't only a funeral but a celebration of Petr's life.

Alcohol arrived in wagons from the tavern and soon most of the town was drinking around the fire. I accepted a glass of ale from Ivan, but I needed to do something first.

I found Ruzena in the crowd. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

She sighed but followed me as I walked away from the party. She crossed her arms in front of her. “What do you want?”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I'm sorry for being mean to you and for the way I treated you at the castle. I was jealous of you and your relationship with the Sýkoras. I was jealous of your relationship with Marc.”

Her eyebrows rose. “You were jealous of me?”

“Yes. I apologize for the way I've acted. You've helped me on numerous occasions and you saved my life. I'm not asking you to like me, but I wanted to tell you that I appreciate everything you've done for me.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “I still love Marc. That will never change.”

“I suspect it won't. I love Marc, too.”

“I know,” Ruzena said. “Are we done? Can I return to the party?”

I nodded and followed her back to the fire.

It was a start. It was the best I could hope for at the moment. She would never stop loving Marc and neither would I. As long as Marc and I were together, she would be the odd woman out.

We joined the crowd. Henrik and Stephan were having an animated conversation. Marc stood beside them, talking to Igor.

“Hello,” I said quietly.

“Hey.” Marc kissed my forehead. “How is your back feeling?”

“The alcohol is helping.”

“It always does.”

“Look!” Stephan pointed.

The crowd collectively turned to the east as a caravan of Gypsies descended the hill into Kladno.

“Oh, thank God,” Marc whispered. “Zora brought her people.”

Over twenty wagons and forty horses rode into town. I couldn't tell how many people were with Zora's caravan because most of them rode inside the covered wagons.

Zora rode at the head of the pack with an older man I recognized from my previous trip to the Gypsy village. The man had told ghost stories around the fire the night Marc and I had stayed with the Gypsies.

Zora, with perfect posture, rode her horse down the hill like a queen leading her troops into battle. The aura surrounding her was... regal. She looked like a queen, too—with an ivory dress covered in pink flowers and dozens of golden and silver bracelets decorating her wrists.

“Who's that?” Ruzena asked Stephan.

“Zora.”

Zora dismounted. She hugged Marc, Henrik, Igor, and me. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

She walked to the pyre and kneeled before the flames to pray. When she finally stood, she threw something from her pocket into the pyre. The fire ignited in a burst of bright green flames before dissipating back to its normal color.

All eyes were on Zora.

“Petr was one of my favorite people in the world.” Zora's eyes were wet. She smiled sadly. “He was one of the kindest men I'd ever met.”

“Thank you, Zora,” Marc said. “And thank you for coming with your people.”

“Everyone is here. I thought it would be safer to move the whole caravan to Kladno. Understandably, not all of my people will be coming with us on the rescue mission.”

“Of course,” Marc said. “They can stay here as long as they like.”

“When do we leave?” Zora asked.

“In the morning.”

“Then we shall celebrate Petr's life tonight?” She flashed a gorgeous smile. “Mila, you look much healthier than you did the last time I saw you. Has your wound healed?”

“It's better. Thank you.”

“I have juice for you.” Zora tugged on her long earrings. “I remembered you liked it the last time we celebrated by firelight.”

Within minutes, cups of Gypsy juice were shoved in our hands. I remembered the effect it had on me before. The pungent smell of herbs and berries filled my nose and burned my eyes

I sipped carefully.

We talked well into the night. Ale and Gypsy juice flowed through the crowd. The pyre burned bright and the stars shined down from above. For the first time in a long time, despite the knowledge of the impeding rebellion and tomorrow's quest to free the Protestant prisoners, I felt good.