A Forest of Wolves (6 page)

T
he sinking feeling rapidly changed to drowning. I sucked in a gulp of early morning air.

Marc didn't move. He didn't respond to Henrik or the cheering crowd. He stood frozen, staring down at Kristoff. Marc's eyes bore into him. I wouldn't have been surprised if flames had ignited and Kristoff burst into a fiery blaze.

I'd never liked Kristoff. Along with Urek and Jiri, he'd kidnapped me from Prague Castle the night King Rudolf had revealed the Holy Roman Empire's crown jewels. But I wasn't the only one who'd disliked Kristoff from the beginning. Marc and Kristoff didn't care for each other either; the hatred between them was undeniable and of long standing.

After Marc and I had escaped, it had been Kristoff's life that was bargained for when Urek ambushed us in the woods. Marc and Kristoff had fought. Marc had his sword to Kristoff's throat, but Urek had pulled a knife on Marc's younger brother, Jiri, at the same time.

Urek had proposed an even trade: Kristoff's life for Jiri's. Marc had made the mistake of trusting him, but when Marc released Kristoff, Urek had slit Jiri's throat. Urek and Kristoff had fled into the woods while Marc and I watched poor Jiri bleed to death.

Marc's jaw clenched. He'd crossed his arms across his chest—just like Henrik. His forearm muscles were taut, the veins protruding in spidery channels.

I prayed Marc wouldn't lose control.

“Where did you find him?” Marc asked.

“In H
ebe
, while we were looking for recruits,” Henrik answered. “This worthless idiot was passed out on the grass next to the tavern. I heard him snoring. He didn't put up a fight . . . smells like piss, though.”

Kristoff mumbled something behind his gag.

“He had these on him.” Henrik retrieved two gemstones from his pocket—a garnet and an emerald, both roughly the size of a thumb.

The gemstones were part of the crown jewels Kristoff and Urek had stolen from King Rudolf. Where was the rest of the treasure? Where was the chest filled with gold coins and jewels? Had they hidden it somewhere? Surely they hadn't spent all the treasure yet.

A handful of rebels whistled at the sight of the jewels.

Stephan inspected the emerald in Henrik's hand. “We can buy supplies for the rest of the winter with those beauties.”

“Where are the rest of the jewels?” Marc asked. “Did you hide them? Spend them? Are they with Urek?”

Kristoff mumbled behind his gag.

Marc nodded.

One of the rebels slipped the gag down to his neck.

Kristoff panicked. “Let me go! You can't hold me, Marc. You're not the law or the Crown! I demand to be set free!”

“Put the gag back on,” Marc said. “I don't want to hear his voice.”

The rebel regagged Kristoff, muffling his curses.

“What do you want to do with him?” Stephan's hand rested on the hilt of his sword—he still wore remnants of his Royal Army uniform: a white linen shirt with a black leather jerkin, royal blue breeches and soft black boots turned down into cuffs below the knee. “If you want my opinion, he's not worth the food we'd spend if we kept him as our prisoner. It'd be easier to slit his throat and be done with it, especially after what he did to Jiri. That's my vote.”

The men rumbled their assent.

“Kill the Catholic!”

“Kill him!”

“He's a murderer! And a thief!”

“String him up!”

Marc's face was unreadable, a blank mask of indifference, which scared me because I knew how much Marc hated Kristoff. He wanted revenge for Jiri's murder.

This was his best opportunity to seek it.

I placed my hand gently on Marc's arm. “You can't kill him.”

“Why not?” Igor slid out from behind two rebels.

Great.
I hadn't noticed him in the group before now. He was the last person I wanted involved in this argument.

The old man raised his ever-popular gnarled finger and shook it at me. Again. “Is this man one of your royal comrades? Another one of your filthy Catholic allies? Do you have feelings for him? Why do you want us to let him go?”

“He wears a black string on his wrist,” I said. “He's a rebellion supporter, which means he's one of your men.”

Igor's face became beet red. “He's a Catholic! He wears that bracelet as an insult to us. He used it to blend in with other rebels. This man does not care about our cause! He's a loyal royalist. A sneak. A rat—”

“Enough, Uncle.” Henrik extended his arm so Igor wouldn't come any closer to me.

“This man,” Igor spat at Kristoff's feet, “played a key role in the events that led to Jiri's murder. He's a coward, a traitor, and a Catholic. We should hang him now. My nephew deserves that much.”

“What right do you have to punish him?” I'd had enough of Igor and his anti-Catholic sentiments. I was done listening to his tirades. “You're not the law. You don't determine life or death!”

“No, you're right,” Igor said. “I do not decide life or death. Your father does. And if it were up to Václav Novák, the high chancellor, he'd let Kristoff go and hang all of us for treason. Is that what you'd like to see, Duchess? Do you want to see all of us hanging from tree limbs?”

“Don't call her Duchess.” Marc's eyes remained on Kristoff.

“That's a sensitive subject for Marc,” Henrik mumbled.

Marc's face was clear; he was weighing all his options. Could he get past his desire for revenge and see that every man deserved the right to a fair trial? Didn't Marc understand that he couldn't kill Kristoff? That he'd be no better than Urek if he murdered Kristoff in the name of revenge?

“Take the jewels and kill him!” Igor yelled.

“Marc?” Henrik frowned at his uncle. “What should we do with him?”

“Father?” Marc finally dragged his eyes from Kristoff and searched for Petr in the crowd. “What should we do?”

Petr stood on the edge of the circle. His red-rimmed eyes blinked. “This man was involved in the murder of my son, but his fate is not in my hands. You are the leader, Marc. It's your decision to make and yours alone.” He nodded before walking away from the mob.

“Kill him!” Igor yelled. “He would do the same to you if the situation were reversed.”

I stepped between Marc and Kristoff. Maybe if Marc wasn't staring at Kristoff's face he could think rationally. “I understand that you're angry, but you can't kill him out of revenge.”

“Why not?” Stephan shrugged. “He's a captured enemy. Marc can do as he pleases.”

“Marc?” I touched his arm again.

I had to pull him back from the precipice. He was about to jump, and if he did, there would be no turning back. “Please don't kill him. Think about what you're doing.”

Kristoff struggled behind his gag. His eyes met mine. Desperation claimed his face. His eyebrows kneaded together in a plea for mercy.

“Marc, you can't kill him,” I whispered.

“Why do you care?” The words tumbled out of Marc's mouth.

“Because he's a human being! You have no right to kill him. We can't start murdering one another!”

“This is war,” Igor replied. “The Crown murders Protestants every day without hesitation. Every single day. Why should we show mercy?”

“We're replacing one murdering regime for another?” I addressed the rebels, but my words fell on deaf ears. “Is that your great plan? Be better than them, Marc. Turn Kristoff over to the Crown. He's a wanted man. Let them punish him.”

“Give him to the Catholics?” Stephan shook his head. “They won't punish him. Your father would probably reward him for the role he played in Jiri's death. Besides, it's too late to give him up. Kristoff would give the Crown information about our camp and tell them about our numbers. It's too risky to let him go. He has to remain our prisoner or we need to kill him. There's no other choice.”

“Marc, please, think about it,” I pleaded.

Marc's gaze shifted behind me and settled on Kristoff. Mahogany eyes hardened to obsidian. “Tie him up in the barn. I want two men guarding him all day long. Do you understand? I'll make my decision tomorrow.” He walked away from Kristoff without another word to the crowd.

Or to me.

* * *

“Are you angry?” I stood in the middle of the room. The space felt smaller than usual. I twisted my hands together and waited for the yelling to start. It was ironic that only this morning the mood had been so different between us.

Marc ate a bowl of stew at the table. “You voiced your opinion. I shouldn't be angry.”

“But you are.”

He focused on the stew. “I may not have been important in Prague; I was only a blacksmith, but people here in Kladno—at this rebel camp—look to me for guidance and leadership. It's different here, Mila. This is the center of the rebellion and I'm in charge. We've only been here six days and I already have a Catholic woman questioning my authority.... It doesn't look well to the others.”

“Now I'm the Catholic woman?” I said icily.

He placed the spoon in the bowl. “That's not what I meant.”

“That's what you said.”

“It's a delicate situation, Mila.”

“You don't have to explain the situation to me. I understand what's going on. But you shouldn't let your thirst for revenge cloud your judgment.” I sat beside him on the bench. He still hadn't met my eyes. “You're not thinking clearly. You have no reason to hang Kristoff.”

Marc ran his hand over his face, dragging down his features. He sighed, causing his entire frame to shudder. “I'm the Protestant leader. He's my prisoner. It's my decision.”

“What is it between you and Kristoff? Why do you hate him so much?”

“For one, he was instrumental in my brother's death.”

“There was tension between you two when I was kidnapped by Urek. Why do you hate Kristoff so much?” I repeated.

Marc puffed. “Must we discuss this? I don't want to talk about Kristoff anymore. I want to eat dinner in peace.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I don't know, Mila. Maybe I'll have a clearer head in the morning.” He pushed his half-eaten stew across the table.

Steam rose from the bowl and my stomach growled in response.

He smiled. “Not accustomed to peasant rations, are you?”

“I'm starving.” I spooned the leftover stew into my mouth. “This is delicious.”

“Henrik made it.”

“He is a good cook.” I ate the rest of the food in the bowl in silence. Marc watched me, but I didn't look up. I didn't want to argue anymore. We'd deal with Kristoff in the morning. Maybe Marc was right; maybe taking the night to think would give everyone some much-needed perspective.

“You're angry with me.” Marc leaned over the table. “I don't like the way you're looking at me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Why do you care so much about what happens to Kristoff?”

“Because I don't want you to become like Václav.”

Marc blanched. “Why would you think that?”

“Václav uses his power to suit his own agenda. He doles out unjust punishment for the sole purpose of proving a point.” I moved around the table and sat beside him. I pulled back his collar. “Here's my proof. Look at what he did to you.”

I carefully tugged the fabric until I maneuvered his shirt off. Marc tried to stop me, but I pushed his hand aside. His shirt fell to the ground and I inspected the lash wounds covering his back. The lacerations were healing, but the wounds were crusted with blood.