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Authors: Chelsea Luna

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BOOK: A Forest of Wolves
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I forced my face to look pleasant, which was difficult. I didn't want to seem alarmed by the extent of his injuries. Marc wouldn't want me to feel guilty or pity for his wounds. And I wouldn't. The lacerations would heal, but Marc would always have the scars on his back. He would always remember what happened to him.
What my father did to him . . .
Marc reached behind him and squeezed my knee. “I never had the chance to tell you because the last few days have been a blur, but what you did for me when I was being whipped . . . standing up for me in front of that crowd—”
“It was nothing.”
“No, it was something. I could feel it in the air. The crowd was behind you. You ignited their passion.”
“I was scared. For you. For me.” I shook my head. “I didn't think about it. I reacted. I had to do
something
to stop the whipping.”
“I'm grateful.”
“I love you.”
Marc took the wet rag from my hand. “I love you, too. Mila, why are you crying?”
I hadn't noticed I was crying. I wiped the tears away. “It's nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“
My
father did this to you. If we had never met—”
His mouth crushed against mine before I could finish my sentence. When he pulled back, his eyes were wild. “They can't hurt us anymore. Do you understand? Radek. Your father. The Crown. No one. We're finally free.”
“We're not free.”
“Right now, this moment, we are free. And that's exactly what we're fighting for. Freedom.”
I closed my eyes.
His lips brushed against my eyelids. “No one will hurt us again, Mila.”
I pulled him down beside me on the thin mattress. His words were not true. We both knew that—we were on the verge of a rebellion. Everyone wanted to hurt us. And the undeniable truth was that there was no way all of us were going to escape this revolution alive.
Marc lay on his side and held me against him, so my back pressed against his chest. His breathing grew heavy, and once he had drifted off, I allowed the pull of sleep to take me away, too.
I awoke in the middle of the night.
Marc softly snored. Stephan and Henrik were not in the room. In fact, they hadn't been back upstairs because their blankets were still neatly folded on the mattresses.
The pitch-black sky and sounds of drunken laughter roaring from downstairs indicated it had to be well in to the middle of the night. When I shifted under Marc's draped arm, the stiff corner of my mother's letter stabbed my leg through my cloak.
I'd almost forgotten about it.
I ran my thumb over the raised seal. The wax was sapphire blue—her favorite color. I imagined my mother's long, slender hand dipping the quill into the ink as she wrote the letter to me. She would place the thick parchment in the envelope and seal the letter, impressing her ring with the
I
emblem into the sticky wax.
My innocent daydream changed to my mother's stiff hand hanging over the rim of the porcelain tub. Blood dripping and pooling onto the tile floor.
I shook the familiar image from my head.
Marc shifted in his sleep, but he didn't wake. He looked innocent while he slept, so undisturbed and calm. I waited for his snoring to resume before I moved again. I needed to be patient, but I couldn't wait any longer.
If Marc woke when I was reading, he'd want to see the letter. I couldn't chance it—not until I read what she'd written. What was so important to her to have a letter delivered to me from beyond the grave? I would safeguard the letter's contents until I knew what it contained.
I carefully disentangled myself from Marc's grasp and rose to my feet. He rolled onto his side. I tiptoed to the door and quietly closed it behind me.
Smoke filled the narrow hallway. I descended the creaky steps as the roar of laughter and the stench of stale ale attacked my senses. When I reached the bottom of the stairs, all conversations ceased. The entire room of men—and two women—stared at me expectantly.
“Mila, what are you doing?”
I turned to the familiar voice.
Oh, thank goodness.
Henrik stumbled toward me.
Stephan clambered to his feet. Blood had soaked through the ivory linen bandage wrapped around his thigh. He'd sought treatment for the wound, but he still didn't appear to be in good shape. He bowed and faltered, catching himself on the edge of the table before he fell to the floor. He half-bowed again. “Lady Ludmila.”
Henrik towered over me. “Where are you going?” His stance was wobbly, too. Had they been drinking since morning? What was that—sixteen hours of alcohol consumption?
“I want some fresh air,” I said.
Dozens of drunken men watched me. I edged closer to Henrik to shield myself from their leers.
Unfocused hazel eyes found my face. “Where's Marc?”
“Sleeping upstairs.”
“You want to go outside? Alone? Now?”
“Only for a few moments. I need some fresh air.”
Henrik's glassy eyes wandered around the dark tavern. A majority of the men had resumed their conversations, but a few of them were still watching us. Watching me. Henrik shook his head. “That's not a good idea.”
I frowned.
“You're not going to listen to me, are you?” Henrik asked. “You're going outside regardless if I say you shouldn't.”
“It will only take a few minutes.”
“What if I order you?”
My eyebrows rose.
“I didn't think so.” Henrik yawned. “You're going to make me take on all of these men, aren't you? Fight for your honor and all that nonsense?”
“No, of course not.” I sighed. I didn't want to cause Henrik any trouble and I especially didn't want him to get into a fight because of me. I'd have to read the letter another time.
“Fine, you win. But I'm going with you.” Henrik staggered toward the tavern's doors.
“Really?”
“Come on.” He didn't wait to see if I'd follow him.
I hurried ahead, struggling to keep up with his long stride. “Are you sure you're all right? You've had quite a bit to drink.”
Henrik swatted the air. “I'm good. Come on, this way.”
The air outside was unseasonably cold for late May. I still hadn't had the chance to change my clothes and wore only my nightgown beneath my cloak. I tugged the thin wool tighter around my body to shield the brisk air.
Henrik stretched. “You wanted fresh air. I give you fresh air.”
“Thank you.”
The letter felt heavy in my pocket. I couldn't read it now that I was with Henrik. I'd have to find another opportunity to be alone . . . if that ever happened.
“You didn't want fresh air, did you?” Henrik crossed his arms over his chest. The muscles bulged in his forearms. He clicked his tongue. “You're up to something.”
“I am not.”
Henrik smiled. “I can always tell a bad liar. It's a talent of mine. I can spot one anywhere.”
My back stiffened. “I am not a liar. I am Lady Ludmila Nováková—”
“No, now you're plain old' Mila—which is still great—but you are officially a defector from the Crown and a Protestant rebel who my crazy uncle happens to think is a Catholic spy. You're not a spy, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“I didn't think so. Though if you were a spy, you'd deny it.” Henrik grinned and shook a long finger at me. “But you are up to something. That I do know. Something behind my brother's back.”
I lowered my eyes. “It's not like that.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“I can keep a secret,” Henrik whispered.
“Oh, fine; you probably won't remember any of this conversation anyway.”
Henrik shrugged. “That's possible.”
I retrieved Isabella's letter from my cloak. The parchment weighed heavily in my hands. “I wanted to read this in private and I was worried if I read it upstairs Marc would wake up.”
Hazel eyes regarded the seal. “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“You want privacy while you read your letter? Fine. I'll stand guard so no one steals you in the middle of the night while you're reading it.”
“Really? You'd do that for me?”
“Sure.”
“And you won't tell Marc about the letter? I . . . I don't know what it says, and sometimes he's—”
“Overbearing? Protective? A worrier?”
I smiled. “Thank you, Henrik.”
He lifted his chin toward a tree beside the tavern. “That looks like the perfect spot for uncovering scandalous royal mysteries.”
I walked around the old oak, dipping under its low branches, and sat on the ground. My hands trembled. I leaned against the rough bark and inhaled a deep, calming breath. I could do this.
Henrik sat on the other side of the trunk. “Don't worry about my Uncle Igor. He's crazy. No one in town listens to him anyway. He always rambles on and on about the Crown.”
I slid my finger under the wax. “At least you don't believe I'm a spy.”
When the seal broke, my heartbeat pounded against my chest. I unfolded the thick parchment. I eagerly pressed the paper against my nose, hoping to find some remnants of my mother, but it only smelled of musty paper and old books.
My eyes flooded when I recognized my mother's slanted handwriting. I inhaled a deep, lung-clearing breath and read her words.
Dearest Mila,
If you are reading this letter, I am dead. I have instructed Branka to secure this letter in the event of my demise. She is to give it to you when she believes you are ready to hear the truth. I have much to tell you, but I must first say that it saddens me that I will not be able to tell you these things in person.
The enemy surrounds us. The castle does not protect us. It confines us.
I smile and nod when prompted to do so, all the while knowing these royal vipers are ready to strike at any moment. Let this be the one lesson I teach you from beyond the grave—Branka is your only ally within these castle walls. Trust no one else, especially Václav.
He is not who he seems—a viciousness courses through his veins. He is a corrupt, evil man and I've done my best to shield you from him. My political views have infuriated him and, as a result of my refusal to blindly follow, my life in now in grave danger. I know with a heavy heart that my days are numbered. . . .
I have converted to Protestantism.
This revelation may come as a shock to you, as you've been raised a devout Catholic, but it was the right choice for me to make. Protestantism is where my heart truly lies.
I believe in their cause. All men and women should be treated equally. Writing these words is sufficient evidence for the Crown to hang me as a traitor, but I want you to understand why I helped the rebellion on numerous occasions. I've supplied information to them and smuggled jewels and coins to fund their cause. I have done everything in my power—from behind these confining walls—to help in their effort to overthrow the current regime.
The Crown and the Holy Roman Empire must be stopped.
I must point out and you must understand—King Rudolf and the Crown are NOT one and the same. The idea that they are different—as he is the king—sounds preposterous, but he is a good, kind man imprisoned on the throne. Rudolf does not rule the kingdom—the Catholic Church does.
What I am about to say next will be extremely hard to believe, but I swear on my life and yours that it is true.
King Rudolf is your father.
I can hardly imagine the surprise you will feel at this revelation. You are the princess and heir to the throne of the Kingdom of Bohemia. Now listen carefully, Mila, NO ONE must know about your true lineage . . . not yet . . . not until the time is right.
I've loved Rudolf since I was eighteen. We fell in love when we were in Spain, but we could not marry because my lineage was not worthy enough for a king, or so we were told.
As a consequence, Rudolf brought me to Prague as a member of his court, so I could be near him. After some court speculation, my marriage to
Václav
was arranged to quell the whispers of our relationship.
Mila, please understand, you must keep your lineage a secret until the time is right.
If this critical information falls into the wrong hands, before you are ready to accept what this truly means, they will kill you. When the time comes, and this great kingdom needs your leadership, you will be there to bring guidance and integrity to this beautiful land.
Fight for your beliefs.
Fight for what is right.
Fight for the people of Bohemia.
With my last words, let me solidify your claim to the throne. In the Royal Treasury keep, in a small golden treasure box with an emerald rose gilded on the lid, is a royal decree signed by King Rudolf.
The decree attests to your lineage.
No one can deny your right to the throne once this document comes to light. The treasure box is locked and Rudolf wears the key around his neck. When the time comes, and you are ready, use this decree to save the kingdom.
I love you more than you could ever imagine. Please remember when you hear about the things I've done, know that I did them for one of three reasons—for my love of you, for the People of Bohemia, or for Rudolf.
Long live Princess Ludmila Nováková, the first of her name, may you reign justly and intelligently.
With all my love,
your mother
P.S. Remember that doing the right thing is not always the easiest. However, doing what is right should come before everything else. Before self-satisfaction. Before pride. Even before love.
BOOK: A Forest of Wolves
9.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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