A Forest of Wolves

by Chelsea Luna

  “There you are!”

  Urek grabbed a handful of my hair and snapped my head back. He wrestled the knife from my hand. “You weren’t expecting to see that painting?” He inspected the knife before slipping it into his pocket.

  I didn’t respond.

  Urek laughed. He dragged me through the hallway, the kitchen, and back into the dining room.

  “She almost got away. Almost.” Urek tossed me to the ground. I skidded across the marble floor and slammed into Marc’s chair. “The next person who tries to escape will get a knife to the gut. Does everyone understand?”

  “Mila!” Marc asked.

  “The time has come,” Urek said, “to collect my pardon.”

  I scrambled to my knees. “Radek’s here?”

  “Soon. But we have to go now; we’re late.”

  “Go where?” Marc’s eyes skidded to Petr’s body. “Where are you taking us?”

  “Down to Prucha. The three of you are the guests of honor.”

  “Guests?” I asked.

  “I don’t want to know,” Henrik muttered.

  “No?” Urek said. “I’ll tell you anyway. The Inquisition is in town.”

  * * *

  Urek’s henchmen escorted Marc, Henrik, and me from the dining room to an open wagon outside. Petr’s body had been left slumped in the chair. I knew Marc wanted to ask Urek whether they planned to bury him or not, but he knew better. Urek would only do the opposite of whatever Marc wanted. It was better not to say anything and hope for the best.

  There was no sign of Radek. The anticipation of seeing him was making me sick to my stomach. What would he do to Marc? To me? Were we walking to our deaths?

  The men marched us to the open wagon. Our hands were no longer tied, but the guards were careful not to meet my eyes. Had what I’d said scared them?

  I sat in the corner of the wagon on a pile of loose straw with Marc and Henrik on either side of me. Urek rode on horseback beside us.

  Marc leaned in. “We need to be ready.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “Anything,” he whispered. He licked his chapped lips. His left eye was blackened and swollen to a slit.

  “What?” I asked.

  “If we see a chance to run or fight, we have to take it. If they hand us over to the Inquisition, we’re not leaving alive.”

  “I’ll be ready,” Henrik said.

  “Me too,” I whispered.

  The wagon rolled over the smooth path between the hedges and onto the bumpy trail through the woods. The road cut through the forest and down toward town. My teeth clenched together as the wagon’s wheels struggled over the rocky road.

  The boys were silent. They both looked incredibly sad and I ached to comfort them. Marc gazed vacantly at the trees. Henrik kept his head bent and absently picked at his injured fingers.

  My temple pounded from Urek’s assault, but I was more terrified of what was about to come. The Inquisition? Radek? The wagon steadily descended into the forest and before long the bustling town of Prucha came into view.

  The wagon waddled up the main road to the square in the middle of town. The tavern, where we had eaten lunch and recruited prospective rebels only the day before, was located in the far corner of the street.

  The royal flags of the Kingdom of Bohemia were draped around the buildings surrounding the square. Yesterday there were no decorations; the flags had been hung for the Inquisition.

  Lush trees filled the spaces between the buildings and created an enclosure despite the outdoor setting. Fifteen royal guards stood watch in the middle of the opening where three apparatuses had been erected: a gallows, a rack, and a table covered with dozens of torture objects.

  A crowd of about forty people had gathered to watch the spectacle. In a town of this size, the showing of support from the locals was extraordinarily slim. I didn’t blame them; everyone was afraid of this newly established Inquisition.

  Horror stories had poured in from Western Europe, especially Spain. The Inquisition had been reestablished more than sixty years earlier by Pope Paul III to combat Protestantism. The church had founded the Holy Office of the Inquisition and staffed the body with priests and cardinals.

  The Inquisition’s task was to maintain and defend the integrity of the Roman Catholic faith and to examine with the utmost scrutiny all false doctrines. Its sole aim was to combat heresy, which meant anything that went against what the Catholic Church believed.

  “Is Radek in charge of the Inquisition?” Henrik hadn’t bothered to look up from his bloodied fingernails.

  His question was so nonchalant. Wasn’t he afraid? Was he in shock from what had happened the night before?

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if he was,” I answered.

  “Torture. Murder. Those seem like activities Radek would enjoy,” Marc said.

  I couldn’t argue with that assessment. Not after what I’d seen in the last week or so. I scanned the crowd. “Do you see Radek? I don’t see anyone from the castle. Only the guards.”

  “I’m sure he’ll appear in some dramatic fashion,” Marc said.

  “Don’t antagonize him.” I lightly touched Marc’s hand. “He’s going to be furious

  Marc managed a smile.

  The last time Marc and Radek had met was when Marc had saved me from consummating my marriage. Radek had attacked me in his bedchamber, but Marc, with a back ripped to shreds from a public whipping administered only the day before, had climbed the castle’s walls to the balcony.

  They’d fought, but Marc was a much better swordsman than Radek. Marc could have killed him, but unwisely, I had begged Marc to spare Radek’s life.

  And he did. For me.

  I tended to beg for people’s lives—even when they didn’t deserve it.

  Was Marc thinking the same thing? If I hadn’t pleaded for Radek’s life, Marc would have killed him. Urek wouldn’t have brought us to Radek’s castle and Petr would still be alive.

  Was I to blame for Petr’s murder?

  After Marc agreed to spare Radek—opting instead to tie him up—we’d escaped Prague Castle in the middle of the night.

  No, Radek wouldn’t be happy to see Marc or me. Or Henrik for that matter, because he was the one responsible for freeing Marc from the impenetrable Daliborka Tower. I had no doubt in my mind that Urek’s words were true—Radek would do anything to capture Marc and me. We had insulted him and, to Radek, that was the worst possible offense.

  “How’s your hand?” I asked Henrik.

  Blood had dried on the tips of the two fingers missing the nails. He held his hand at an awkward angle so they wouldn’t inadvertently bump into anything. The pain must have been unbearable.

  I inwardly smiled when I remembered how Henrik had refused to cry out or scream.

  “Hurts like hell.” Henrik nodded to the torture devices in the square, finally acknowledging them. “But I’m sure my fingernails will be the least of my problems today.”

  He was right.

  Our only reprieve would be to pray for a swift death. But that was not a likely outcome.

  Selfishly, I wished they’d take me first; I wasn’t sure if I could watch either Marc or Henrik be tortured to death.

  “I don’t see Radek, do you?” I asked the boys.

  “No,” Marc whispered.

  Henrik pointed a bloody finger in the opposite direction. “Look over there.”

  A pale blue coach entered the square, interrupting my grotesque thoughts. The crowd parted as the driver jumped down to open the door.

  My breath caught in my throat when I recognized the royal carriage—only a nobleman would arrive in such spectacle.

  Radek was here.

  It was time to face the consequences of our actions—which were what? Being a Protestant? Not wanting to marry Radek?

  Perhaps I could reason with him? Was it possible? Would our lifelong friendship influence Radek? Would he give me a chance to negotiate?

  Or was I simply a traitor to
the Crown, as he’d implied on our wedding night?

  The carriage’s gold-trimmed door opened and a shiny black boot attached to a skinny leg stepped onto the stairs.

  I blinked.

  Oh no.

  It wasn’t Radek. It was much worse.

  The footman cleared his throat. “All Hail, Václav Novák, the high chancellor of the kingdom, lead inquisitor to the Bohemian Inquisition.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Václav Novák.

  The man I’d thought was my father for seventeen years. The man who had murdered my mother and convinced a kingdom, and me, that she’d killed herself. Who’d ordered Marc’s public whipping. Who’d forced me to marry Radek. The man who now led the Inquisition in killing and torturing Protestants.

  I don’t know why I was so shocked to see him in person; it was the perfect job for him. Who else but him? Václav was evil enough to torture—he probably enjoyed it.

  Two guards escorted Václav to the middle of the square. A wrinkled, yellowed hand caressed the torture machines the way a mother would touch a child.

  My stomach lurched.

  He didn’t look well. Václav’s normally sickly appearance seemed worse than it had the last time I’d seen him. His frame resembled a skeleton, with saggy, crumpled skin hanging from the bones. His wreath of white hair had lost its thickness. The white strands were barely there, making him appear mostly bald. Dark age spots covered his face, neck, and hands. Swollen fatty tissue puffed below his eyes and there was a slight hobble to his walk. He didn’t have much time left.

  “I would’ve preferred Radek,” Marc mumbled.

  “Me too,” I said.

  Marc was right. There was a slight chance I could’ve negotiated our way out of this situation with Radek. There would be no such luck with Václav.

  I frantically studied the crowd, looking for any sign of Radek, but I didn’t see him. Hadn’t Urek sent for him already? Why wasn’t he here yet?

  Urek hopped off his horse.

  I didn’t waste any time. “Urek, where is Radek?”

  “He’s on his way, but your father was eager to start the day’s festivities. Don’t worry, blue eyes, the duke will be here soon. Stand up, all of you.”

  The men pulled us to our feet before we had the opportunity to stand for ourselves. We were led off the wagon and to the center of the square, Marc behind me and Henrik behind him.

  I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t plead for our lives; Václav would show no mercy. I’d lost my status in the castle when I fled.

  I had nothing to bargain with.

  As we neared Václav, my hatred for him grew. He was the one who’d taken Branka’s hand. He’d sent the package to deliver his message to me. I should’ve realized he was heading the Inquisition in Bohemia when he sent me the letter.

  Václav was in charge.

  He now had free rein to punish people who didn’t believe as he did. He no longer had to conduct sham trials to condemn someone. He no longer had to hold to false pretenses. Now he could kill whomever he liked whenever he wanted. And the entire Kingdom of Bohemia, the Holy Roman Empire, the Habsburg dynasty, and the Catholic Church were behind him.

  It was frightening.

  The men lined us up side by side in front of Václav. He hadn’t looked up from the tools on the table yet. He was admiring a particularly sharp crescent-shaped battle-axe made of wrought iron; I immediately had visions of crushing his skull with the razor-edged blade.

  Finally, his gaze lifted to me. His eyes tightened and hundreds of tiny lines emerged from the corners. “Ludmila, you look so... common. Living off the land in the forest hasn’t agreed with you.”

  “You look as if you’re dying,” I responded. “Hopefully, you don’t have much longer to live.”

  The sagging skin on his face somehow tightened. “Still with the blacksmith’s son? Wait... two sons now. I never understood your taste in men.” He shrugged. Beady eyes twitched to Marc. “I was highly impressed by your escape from Daliborka Tower.... I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “I’m delighted I could surprise you,” Marc said.

  “This is the brother who helped you escape?” Václav asked.

  Marc didn’t respond.

  “Very well,” Václav said. “Let us begin, shall we?”

  “Wait,” I said. “Is Branka alive?”

  Václav grinned. His skin had a yellowish, sickly tint to it. “Ah, you received my package. Did you like it? I was worried it was slightly overdramatic.”

  “Is she dead?”

  He shrugged. “You will never know.”

  I cursed.

  “I will tell you this, Ludmila.” Václav crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “Branka suffered dreadfully when I sliced off her hand. She cried and screamed your name. I could tell in her eyes the moment she realized she’d been rendered useless. Who needs an old, one-handed maid conspiring with a known traitor?”

  It was a blow to the gut. My lips parted and I sucked in a gulp of air. I would not cry in front of Václav.

  “She still could be alive,” Marc whispered. His dark eyebrows came together. “Don’t listen to him, Mila. He’ll say anything to upset you right now. Don’t let him get to you.”

  My stomach tightened.

  The sight of Václav was too much. The hatred I had for him couldn’t be contained; violence bubbled at the surface, threatening to explode. I would never know whether Branka was alive. My knees wobbled. The uncertainty of something so important threatened to render me unconscious.

  Suddenly, I was aware of every sensation in my body. My temple throbbed in rhythm to my pounding heartbeat.

  I couldn’t bear to see Marc or Henrik tortured. Not anymore. Not after Marc’s whipping and what Urek had done to Henrik. Not after Petr’s brutal murder. I couldn’t take it anymore.

  Urek stood to the side with his men. The peasants surrounding us all stood silent. Passive. Scared.

  My skin was clammy.

  Václav addressed the crowd. “Bring her forward.” He motioned to one of the guards.

  My eyes scanned the crowd. Who? Who was Václav bringing? Why wasn’t he calling our names?

  The crowd parted.

  Two guards dragged a woman behind them. High-pitched screams pierced the air. The woman was half on the ground, her legs dragging against the cobblestones.

  Who was she?

  The guards threw the woman at Václav’s feet.

  Her head snapped up and a flood of reddish-blond hair moved from her face. I recognized her; it was the barmaid from the tavern. The woman who’d flirted with Henrik.

  “Helga Svobodová, you are guilty of the crime of conspiring with the rebellion, facilitating in crimes against the Crown, and, finally, the ultimate offense of being a Protestant.”

  “Let her go!” Henrik shouted.

  The guard struck Henrik in the back of his head with the pommel of his sword. Henrik dropped to one knee.

  Václav sneered. “The punishment for your crimes is death.”

  A heavyset guard with a thick beard—one I recognized from my time at the castle—picked Helga up from the ground. Her body went limp in defiance and he dragged her to the gallows. Shrill sobs cut through the murmurs of the crowd.

  Five guards surrounded us and secured our arms. Václav didn’t want any interference. The crowd rumbled anxiously. It was as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. For something or someone to stop this brutality.

  Václav leaned against a table, waiting for the guard to secure Helga.

  The guard, wearing a heavy iron breastplate and thick chainmail over his leather breeches, marched Helga up the three creaky stairs to the wooden framed contraption. The structure was a raised platform with a horizontal beam placed across two upright beams that swayed and groaned under their combined weight. Two coarsely braided nooses hung down from the timber.

  The gallows, along with burning people at the stake, were a popular execution method for heretics
who were not considered worthy enough to be killed quickly and cleanly by beheading. The headsman and his chopping block were left for the rare noble who was unlucky enough to be tried and sentenced to an execution.

  Václav, in his role as High Chancellor, frequently used all three forms of punishment for criminals of the Crown. How many innocent people had Václav murdered in his administration of “justice”?

  The guard forced Helga to step onto the stool underneath the hanging braided rope. He secured her hands behind her back.

  Helga’s face was wet from tears. Moisture leaked from her nose as she sobbed. “Please, please help me. Please! Someone!” She sobbed. Her breathing sputtered; she couldn’t catch her breath.

  “You can’t do this,” Marc said. “She’s just a girl.”

  “Watch me.” Václav motioned to the guard.

  The heavyset guard slipped the noose around her neck. Helga shook her head back and forth. Tears streamed down her blotchy face. “Please.”

  Chills slid down my spine.

  Helga tilted her head back and gaped at the beam above her. Red-rimmed eyes widened. Her lower lip quivered.

  “Please, Chancellor,” Henrik begged. “Let her go. You don’t have to do this. You’ve made your point.”

  Cold sweat covered my neck and forehead. My heart pounded against my chest. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening.

  The guard glanced at Václav, waiting for instructions.

  “You’ve been warned,” Václav addressed the crowd. “The Crown has cautioned you time and time again. You did not heed the warnings. Therefore, we must demonstrate that we are serious in our convictions. The Kingdom of Bohemia will no longer tolerate Protestantism.”

  “No!” Henrik shouted.

  Václav motioned with his hand.

  Helga squeezed her eyes shut. Her lips mumbled a prayer.

  The guard dramatically lifted his leg and kicked out the stool from underneath Helga. The small wooden stool flew forward. Helga screamed. There was a horrible snapping sound and her cries were immediately silenced.

  I closed my eyes before it happened, but I would never forget the sound of Helga’s neck breaking under the pressure of the rope. The crowed reacted as one, one loud gasp before complete silence.