A Forest of Wolves (2 page)

T
he men removed the poor Protestant and dismantled the contraption. Marc and Henrik buried the person—we still couldn't tell whether it was a man or woman—on the side of the trail and burned the wooden frame and the flags.

“I supposed this means the Letter of Majesty is no longer valid.” Marc's eyes darted to me before finding his brother.

“I'd say so,” Henrik muttered.

King Rudolf had signed the Letter of Majesty over a year earlier. The controversial law had granted religious freedom to every citizen, including all peasants, in the Kingdom of Bohemia. Peasants—supposedly even Protestants—were free to worship as they pleased without the Crown dictating which religion they must follow. The Catholic Church had been furious with Rudolf when he passed the law.

A small sect of royal Catholics, including my father and Radek, had begun their pull away from King Rudolf and the current royal regime. They were enraged at the new law and incensed by the Protestant movement across Europe. The loyalist Catholics wanted King Rudolf off the throne, to be replaced by a more pro-Catholic ruler. They did not want to tolerate Protestantism. Now, with the backing of Austria, the loyalists were well on their way to obtaining exactly the type of regime they wanted to rule the kingdom.

The warning was clear.

It was officially hunting season on anyone who considered themselves to be a Protestant. The Crown was no longer doing their evil deeds in private; they were now blatantly displaying their hatred for all to see. We had finally reached a point at which both sides would not, and probably could not, turn back.

The audacity of the warning infuriated the men. What did this person do—other than be a Protestant—that would warrant such a cruel death? Who would do such a thing?

I could name a few.

The incident, while undeniably repulsive, was terrible on a personal level, too. Who had done it? Was it Radek? Was it on my father's orders? It was clear the Protestant victim had been dead for a few days, so it hadn't been done in response to our escape from the castle last night, but when had it become the norm to torture and murder Protestants and then put their bodies on display?

The rest of the caravan didn't see the spectacle. Henrik ordered the others to stay back while they took down the body, but word spread, and soon everyone knew what had happened.

The mood plummeted as we continued on through the forest. No one spoke. Everyone's thoughts were focused on what was about to happen to our beloved country.

“There it is.” Marc pointed through the trees. “Kladno.”

Thatch-roofed houses were scattered along a winding dirt road, the street ending abruptly at a slanted, two-storied tavern. The small village bustled with activity—people farmed in the plots beside their homes, animals roamed the area around the barn, and residents heaved water from the well.

Marc clicked his heels against the stallion's sides.

The group's mood changed to one of excitement. Kladno was their home. Their base. Where they would feel safe from the Crown and the Catholic Church. My spirits lifted, too.

“Is your father here?” I asked Marc.

He nodded. “And my Uncle Igor.”

I didn't know much about Kladno, only that it was an outlying village and the area was well known for its coal and iron deposits. Now it was the local headquarters of the Protestant rebellion. As we descended on the settlement, people emerged from their homes to greet us. Smiles claimed their faces. The prodigal sons had returned. Villagers cheered and waved. Children ran alongside our horses. Our welcoming felt like a parade honoring Marc and Henrik.

Marc, Henrik, and I rode toward a whitewashed house that sat back from the winding road. The abruptness of the quietness caught me off guard. The caravan of peasants who had joined us in Rika had dissipated into the village. Consumed by family and friends and gracious people.

Without all the commotion, I was able to take in my surroundings. I rapidly came to the conclusion that Kladno was superstitious—all the houses were specifically protected from supernatural forces. Smears of blood covered thresholds over the doors. Garlic bulbs hung from the doorframes and nails over the windows. Crosses were planted in the yards.

What were they so scared of? Ghosts? Vampires? What supernatural being could frighten them so much?

Henrik dismounted and helped me down from the horse. “Do you need help, Brother?”

“I can manage.” Marc winced as he slid off.

“Let me see your back,” I said.

“I'm fine.”

“Then let me see it.” I spun him around and lifted his ragged shirt before he could stop me.

The fabric was torn to shreds, but once I lifted the cloth and exposed Marc's entire back, I couldn't smother my gasp.

When Marc had rescued me from Prague Castle in the middle of the night, I hadn't had the chance to see the extent of his injuries. Now, in the early morning light, the wounds were visible in all their horrifying glory. Multiple lashes crisscrossed the broad plane of his muscular back, creating a canvas of scars and welts. Bloodstains decorated his ripped flesh.

Marc pulled down his tattered shirt. “That's enough for now. I want you to meet my father.”

I bit back my retort.

We followed Henrik to the house, but before he reached the threshold an older man shoved through the front door. The act caught Henrik off guard and he stumbled backward.

The man had thick dark hair—the same color as Marc's—with a shock of gray at his temples. He also had Henrik's slightly crooked nose. His weathered face crinkled as he smiled from ear to ear.

He had to be Mr. Sýkora.

“Boys!” He grinned, and lines exploded in the corners of his eyes. The older Sýkora embraced Henrik and Marc in a bone-crushing hug.

When Mr. Sýkora pulled away, he looked down at his hand, stained red from the blood on Marc's back. He inspected his middle son's wounds without a word.

When he had finished, he sighed. “Bastards. I heard they put you in Daliborka.”

“I'm all right, Dad.”

“I broke him out.” Henrik winked.

Marc placed a hand on his father's shoulder. “I want you to meet someone. This is Lady Ludmila Nováková.”

I curtsied.

“Mila, this is my father, Petr Sýkora.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said.

Mr. Sýkora bowed. “I assume all of what I have heard is true?”

“That depends on what you've heard,” Henrik said. “People tend to gossip in Bohemia.”

“You are the high chancellor's daughter?”

“In the flesh.”

“She's the Duchess of Prucha now?”

Henrik whistled. “Word travels fast. However, that fact is debatable.” He nudged Marc in the ribs. “If anyone asks, we're saying no, she is not the Duchess of Prucha—she is plain old Mila. We are officially taking the stance that she was forced to marry the duke, but the marriage was never consummated.”

Petr glanced at Marc.

“It's true,” he said.

Petr regarded me carefully with kind eyes, but he seemed slightly apprehensive. He turned to Marc. “What about Jiri? Where is he?”

Marc exhaled. “Jiri is dead. I'm sorry, Father.”

A full minute passed before Petr released a frame-shuddering sigh. “I always knew my baby boy would meet a violent end. How did it happen?”

“Urek.”

Petr exhaled again. “Urek killed him?”

Marc's lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded. “I'll kill him,” Marc said. “I swear to you, Father, I'll avenge my brother.”

“We and our,” Henrik corrected. “
We
will kill Urek and avenge
our
brother's murder.”

Henrik's tone was light—Marc's was not. Rage claimed Marc's face. He blamed himself for Jiri's death. I reached for his hand and squeezed. I hated seeing him so upset.

“Let's not talk of vengeance,” Petr said. “My boys and a beautiful lady are here with me. We can have breakfast together. Igor is cooking.”

Henrik's nostrils flared. “Uncle Igor is cooking? Why would you let him cook?”

We followed Henrik and Petr inside the cozy one-room home. The house had a circular space with swept dirt floors and an extended wooden table in the middle of the room. It smelled of dirty laundry and sweaty men.

Weapons, of all shapes and sizes, were stacked high along the perimeter of the walls. I remembered Henrik saying he'd moved the stash from the blacksmith shop in Prague to his father's house in Kladno.

Despite the abundance of weapons, it was not enough to fight the Crown. Even I knew that—I'd seen the armory at the castle. Did Henrik and Marc have more weapons stored someplace else? Did they know what they were going up against?

“Henrik! Marc! You made it! Finally!” A raspy voice boomed from the rear of the room.

I stepped around Marc to see the speaker.

Our eyes met and the man's wrinkled face morphed from pleasant to angry. One side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his chin, drooped. He was missing most of his teeth and his greasy hair was slicked back from his high forehead. He snapped a wooden spoon in the air as if he was striking someone.

I flinched.

“Harlot! Get that Catholic wench out of my house!” He launched himself at me—if he weren't so old, I would've been more concerned, but he moved slowly. He hobbled on one knee with the spoon raised as a weapon. “I know it's her! She looks just like Isabella!”

My stomach twisted at the mentioning of my dead mother.

“Stop!” Marc moved in front of me. “I said stop it, Uncle!”

Their lunatic uncle showed no signs of stopping. He was on a quest to beat me to death with a spoon. Why was he so angry with me? And why had he called me a harlot?

Henrik sprang to the side and slipped his arm around his uncle. When he was finished, Henrik had his bicep securely around his uncle's wrinkly neck. “Settle down, old man.”

“Get . . .” The uncle gasped for air. “Harlot . . . house.”

“If you call Mila a harlot one more time, Uncle Igor,” Marc warned, “I'm going to do more to you than what Henrik's doing.”

“What?” Henrik made a face. “Really, Marc? I have him subdued. He's old. What do you want me to do with him?”

Igor glared. “Ludmila Nováková! Get her out of my house! She's a Catholic spy. That's what she is. Do you know who her father is? Václav Novák, the goddamn high chancellor of the kingdom!” Igor screamed. “That murderous, treacherous killer. And you, my own flesh and blood, have the nerve to bring
his
vile offspring into my house.”

Henrik clicked his tongue.

“Enough,” Petr said. He'd been quiet during the exchange. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Despite his age, the muscles bulged in Mr. Sýkora's arms. “For goodness' sake, put down the spoon, Igor. You are not attacking anyone. Do you hear me? Marc, Henrik, do you trust this woman?”

“Yes,” they both replied in unison.

“With my life,” Marc added.

Henrik rolled his eyes.

“Then I trust her as well,” Petr said. “I have faith in my sons' judgment. Why, Igor, is it so unfathomable to believe that we have a converted rebel in our midst? Think about it. Ludmila could be an asset. She's lived in the castle. She knows the Crown.”

“She's a spy,” Igor spat.

Marc's hand squeezed into a fist. “Uncle . . .”

“Enough.” Petr's voice was as sharp as a razor's. Final. “The girl stays and you will treat her with respect. That is an order.”

Henrik released his hold and Igor stumbled from his grip. Henrik patted his uncle on top of his head before grabbing an apple from the table.

Igor scowled before turning away. He returned to the pot over the fire, all the while mumbling a string of repulsive names at me under his breath.

“Well,” I sighed. “Kladno is lovely, Marc.”

“Don't worry. We'll stay at the tavern.”

“Thank goodness.”

* * *

Staying at the tavern meant Marc and I shared a room with Stephan and Henrik. There were no beds—only a long room with four worn mattresses on the floor. Marc pushed two of the flimsy beddings together.

“You're going to sleep?” Henrik nodded at the open window. “Really? It's barely time for breakfast.”

Marc tugged at his boots. “I haven't slept in days.”

“Good point. All right; come downstairs if you change your mind.”

“Let's get a drink.” Stephan nudged Henrik. “We can start the day off right. Bright and early and tipsy.”

Henrik followed Stephan out of the room.

“Take off your shirt,” I said.

Sweat covered Marc's forehead. It was then that I truly recognized the extent of his injuries—it was a monumental effort for him to simply take off his boots.

I crawled in front of him and removed his worn leather boots.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Don't thank me yet, I have to clean your wounds.” I retrieved a washbowl and towel from the stand near the window. I kneeled on the floor beside him and lightly pressed the damp cloth against his back to wipe away the dried blood.

He winced.

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Is it as bad as everyone makes it out to be?” Marc peered over his shoulder. “I've caught people staring at my back when they think I'm not looking.”

I didn't answer his question. “The wounds will heal.”