Ivan looked behind us. “Where’s Petr?”
Marc dismounted and carefully helped me down from the horse. “Petr’s dead. Urek captured us in Prucha, and then Václav tortured Mila in the name of the Inquisition. Zora and the Gypsies saved us.”
“What?” Stephan looked from Marc to Henrik. “What do... ?”
Henrik shook his head.
“Dead?” Stephan asked.
“Murdered by Urek.”
Stephan swallowed. “I’m sorry about Petr. He was a great man. What do you need from me?”
My legs were weak and Marc had to support all of my weight. “Send for someone who can tend a wound. I need a healer. Mila is ill—”
“I’ll go,” Henrik interrupted. He ran in the opposite direction, before Marc could stop him.
“I need you and Ivan—and just you two—to head to Prague,” Marc said to Stephan. “No one must see you. A prison camp was erected outside the city walls on the Vltava River. They are holding Protestants as prisoners before they torture and kill them. I need to know everything about that prison. How many guards? How many prisoners? Can we get in? How tall are the walls? How far is it from the castle?”
“Consider it done,” Stephan said.
“And Stephan?” Marc gave up trying to hold me upright. He scooped me off the ground. “Hurry; we’re running out of time.”
Stephan and Ivan ran off.
“Come on, love,” Marc whispered. “We need to tend your wound.”
Marc carried me into the house and gently lay me on the bed.
I cried out when my wound made contact with the mattress. Marc rolled me on my side and propped me up with pillows and blankets. He kneeled on the floor beside me and leaned over to inspect the wound.
A low hiss escaped.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“It’s seeping liquid.”
“What color is it?”
“The wound or the liquid?” Marc asked.
“Both.”
“The wound has turned purple and there are spidery veins spreading out from the incision. The liquid is a greenish-yellow.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” I placed my hand on his. “I haven’t had the chance to say so, but I am sorry about what happened to Petr.”
Marc’s eyes glistened. “I know. I’m sorry that happened too. It’s no one’s fault. No one but Urek’s.”
The door flung open.
Marc shot to his feet and I inched my neck around him to see who it was. I was worried that Urek or Radek would appear out of nowhere to capture us. Marc must’ve had the same concerns because he had drawn his sword.
Henrik and Ruzena rushed into the room, Ruzena’s face scrunched in distaste. She jabbed her finger into Henrik’s chest. “You said Marc was hurt.”
Marc sheathed his sword.
“Well, he’s hurting because Mila’s hurt,” Henrik said. “Now please help her.”
Ruzena folded her hands in front of her chest. “I will not.”
“Yes, you will.”
“Forget it,” I said. “I don’t want her help.” I rolled back onto my side and gasped when my wound made contact against the bed again. “Isn’t there someone else who can help me?”
“No,” Henrik said. “There’s no one. The town’s healer died when she visited a family member in Prague. Ruzena can help you. Her mother was a healer. She knows what she’s doing.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Please, Ruzena,” Marc said. “She was stabbed and the wound is festering. You have to help her.”
“Come on, Ruzena.” Henrik nudged her forward. “Help her. We’ll owe you. I promise.”
“You already owe me.” Despite her tone, she’d uncrossed her arms and pushed up her gown’s sleeves. Ruzena moved beside the bed and I rolled onto my stomach. She peeled back the fabric. A long moment of silence passed. “I can’t help her, Henrik. She’s going to die.”
Henrik and Marc stood over me.
“Ruzena, please, do everything you can,” Marc whispered. “Please. You have to try.”
“Fine.” She pushed me flat. She gathered my hair, knotted it on top of my head, and undressed me.
My face burned. I was naked from the waist up, but because I was lying down no part of my breasts were exposed. Still, I felt extremely self-conscious.
“I’ll need warm water, towels, a needle, thread, hops, and dandelion leaf,” Ruzena said. “Quickly. The wound is already festering.”
Marc and Henrik scrambled out the door.
I lay quietly in the bed. Ruzena fell back on her knees watching me.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“I wouldn’t thank me yet.” Ruzena yawned without covering her mouth. “There’s a good chance you still will die.”
Her words were cold, but when the boys returned a few minutes later, she set to work on my shoulder. She washed the wound with a pungent mixture of warm water and herbs. It smelled of the earth, and the concoction bubbled when it touched my skin.
“Get back.” Ruzena swatted at Marc, hovering over me. “I can’t see. You’re standing in the firelight.”
Marc moved to the side. Henrik sat in a chair near the end of the bed and watched Ruzena’s every move.
“Not that you don’t deserve it,” Ruzena said to me, “but who stabbed you in the back?”
“Radek.”
She hesitated before picking up the needle and thread. “Why did your husband stab you?”
“He’s not her—” Marc started.
“I know, I know,” Ruzena said. “She’s not the duchess. Anyway, why’d he do it?”
“Because I ran away from him,” I said.
“Again,” Ruzena added.
“Again,” I repeated.
Ruzena pointed with the needle. “This is going to hurt, but I have to close the gash. Marc, hold her down from the top. Henrik, hold her legs. I can’t have her squirming while I’m stitching.”
A sharp sting that resembled being stabbed again burned my injured shoulder. How many stitches would Ruzena have to make to close the wound? Sweat covered my forehead and the back of my neck.
Ruzena tugged and pulled at my skin for what felt like forever. “There,” she whispered.
“Are you done?” I twisted my neck as far as I could to see her face.
“That was only one stitch. I have at least twenty more to go.”
Henrik walked across the room and grabbed something from the shelf. “Here, Mila, drink this.”
“Good idea,” Marc said.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and accepted the bottle from Henrik. I had no idea what it was and I didn’t care. I swallowed a mouthful. The liquid burned my throat and settled deep in my belly.
I took three more swigs.
“That’s enough for now.” Marc peeled the bottle from my fingertips.
“Yes,” Ruzena added. “Let’s save some for me when I’m done.”
I lay back down, this time with my head buried in the pillow, as Ruzena sewed my skin back together. My entire body was covered in sweat from head to toe. I wanted to cry like a baby. Instead, I concentrated on the cloudiness the alcohol provided.
“Mila?” Marc asked.
Ruzena sewed the wound with the needle and thread. How much longer?
“Hmm?”
The pain was so intense. It was getting hard to focus. My vision was becoming blurry.
“Stay with us. Ruzena is almost finished.”
“Almost,” Ruzena said.
“Is she drunk?” Henrik asked. “Or passing out from the pain?
“Can’t tell,” Ruzena said. “Maybe both. At least she’s not squirming anymore.”
As they discussed me as if I wasn’t lying right in front of them, I felt myself drifting farther and farther away. I welcomed it; the farther I drifted, the less the pain consumed me.
Prague was in flames.
Not Prague Castle sitting high on Hradany Hill. The castle was intact behind its strong w
alls, with the royal flags flapping in the wind. It was the actual town of Prague that was burning.
The houses, the businesses, the people.
The heart of Prague was an inferno.
Thick black smoke hovered in the air above the red-tiled roofs and blocked out the clear blue sky, making the day appear as night. Darkness lingered over the city.
Wolves howled in the distance. A pack of them had gathered at the edge of Kivoklát Forest. The creatures bared sharp white teeth. Yellow eyes shined in the darkness. Hungry. Waiting.
A forest of wolves.
The alpha wolf snapped its jaws and the pack charged toward Prague. I fled through the burning streets. Homes were ablaze. Extraordinary heat radiated from the fire. I lifted my arm to shield my face.
Hundreds of peasants were dead in the road. Bodies were scattered over the cobblestones. Was I the only one alive? How had this happened? I examined one of the bodies at my feet and quickly scanned the others around me. The peasants had not died from the fire, but each had been brutally butchered.
Blood was everywhere.
Even on me. My hands and arms—past my elbows—were covered in a thick, deep crimson. Blood covered my tan peasant dress. I felt no pain, so the blood must not have been mine, but whose was it?
Where was everyone?
Where was Marc? Henrik? The Protestant rebels?
The road curved as it broadened and poured into the giant central square. It was the same place where Marc had been publicly whipped.
Another platform had been erected—one that closely resembled the Inquisition stage in Prucha. This one, however, was triple in size. People occupied the dozens of torture contraptions.
Dead people.
A trumpet blared in the distance.
The sharp sound snapped me back to reality. I had to get away from all this death. Maybe I’d have a better chance behind the castle walls? I raced through the square. Someone had to be alive at the castle.
Anywhere would be better than the death surrounding the city. I carefully stepped over the bodies covering the streets. I had to get to the bridge.
The wolves’ howling transformed to snarls. The pack had descended from the forest and were now in the city. The hungry, primal creatures scavenged the dead bodies scattered in the streets. Ravishing the corpses.
I ran to the bridge.
The enormous structure crossed the Vltava River and was lined by two giant stone parapets on both sides of the water. In between the parapets was the broad bridge—wide enough to place ten carts side by side and still have room to spare.
I reached the walkway, still carefully stepping over the dead bodies. Four men dangled from nooses under the first parapet. I kept my head down and walked straight ahead. I’d seen enough death for one day; I didn’t want to see anymore. I refused to look at their faces.
The trumpet blared again.
As I reached the parapet, the men’s feet were at a height where I’d have to duck under to pass beneath. I breathed in deeply to calm my nerves, but as I was about to run beneath them, I recognized one of the pairs of boots.
My heart sank.
I choked on the thick smoke. I didn’t want to lift my head, but I had to see. Some terrible primitive impulse compelled me to look up.
So I did.
Henrik’s dead body swung from the end of a coarse braided rope. His neck was red and swollen and his hazel eyes were bulging and open wide. It was his eyes that forced me to my knees. Those kind, animated eyes reduced to a lifeless opaque nothing.
My stomach heaved and I vomited.
I forced myself to look at the other three men. I had to know their identities. It could be anyone. I readied myself for the worst and lifted my head. Stephan, Ivan, and Uncle Igor swung beside Henrik.
Was everyone dead? My breathing quickened. Where was Marc?
Henrik’s eyes blinked.
“Henrik?” I scrambled to my feet, but he was clearly dead.
Had I imagined the blink? I slowly reached forward as if I was about to pet a viper. I extended my hand and gently tugged his leg. Nothing. His body was stiff. Dead. I wanted to cut him down, but I had no way of getting up there.
The trumpet blared twice.
I ducked under Henrik’s legs. I ran over the bridge covered in dead Protestants; it was almost as bad as the streets of Prague. The murdered filled the broad expanse of bridge from side to side.
Hundreds, probably thousands of dead Protestants and Catholic soldiers were piled high. It was clear the battle had taken place on the bridge.
The smell of death, now mixed with the dense smoke, was unbearable. I didn’t know what to do, so I stepped over the dead bodies and ran toward the castle.
At the end of the bridge, four more people hung from the second parapet. I didn’t hesitate checking their identities. This was a personal assault. I glanced up.
Ruzena. Branka. Zora. King Rudolf.
My heart hammered against my chest.
Everyone was dead. But where was Marc? Why hadn’t I found his body yet? How could this be happening?
“Ludmila.” A familiar voice cut through the smoky air.
I stopped in my tracks.
“All hail Queen Ludmila, Her Royal Highness, Empress of the Holy Roman Empire, head of the Habsburg Dynasty, and Queen of the Kingdom of Bohemia. The Beloved Ludmila. All hail.”
Radek bowed regally. His forehead almost touched the ground.
Why was he bowing?
When he stood erect, he pointed behind him. Curiously, the king’s throne was sitting outside on the stone walkway. A lengthy purple carpet extended from the throne all the way to where I stood. The rug ended perfectly at my toes.
While I tried to comprehend how a rug had mysteriously materialized at my feet, I noticed my dress had changed.
Odd.
I no longer wore the peasant dress but a sapphire evening gown. The dress was made of satin and silk. Lace and pearls beaded the bodice and gathered tightly at the hips.
The neckline plunged and was offset by a diamond necklace—the same diamond necklace Radek had given me on the night of our engagement, when the crown jewels were revealed.
I’d seen Marc disassemble the piece of jewelry with my own eyes, but somehow the necklace was real. I touched the diamonds. My hands were still covered in blood all the way to my elbows.
“Queen Ludmila,” Radek repeated.
“Where’s Marc?” I asked. “What happened?”
“War.”
“Where is Marc?”
Radek didn’t respond.
“Radek! Where is Marc?”
He pointed to the throne again.
This time when I looked at the throne an executioner’s chopping block stood beside it in the middle of the cobblestoned street.
Crusted crimson blood covered the thick wood. Václav’s decapitated body was slumped over the contraption. His head had rolled a few feet away. Václav’s eyes were open, too.
He blinked.
I swallowed down a scream and raced down the purple carpet. I had to know. “Where’s Marc?”
“Sit and I will tell you,” Radek said.
I reached the throne and sat. The plush chair swallowed me. It felt comfortable. Familiar—as if I belonged. I shook away the thought. From the position of the throne on top of Hradany Hill, I could see the entire city below. The red-tiled roofs and steeples of the town center were an inferno of flames.
Prague burned.
Bodies littered the street. The wolves were now at the bridge, continuing their own assault of carnage. The pack was consuming the dead of Prague.
That’s when I saw—and it hadn’t been there before on the purple rug—Marc’s body. Marc lay on his stomach, spreadeagled. His lifeless eyes were open and staring at me. His own sword was sticking out of his back.
I released a sob and tried to stand, but I couldn’t. Something held me on the throne. Some unseen force. It wouldn’t let me go. I was trapped.
Ev
eryone was dead.
Every single person except for Radek was dead. I felt hollow. Empty. How could this have happened? How could everyone have died except for me? Why did I deserve to live?
Radek stood silent beside me. He was not in his usual regal attire, but in ordinary clothes. He wore a tan linen shirt with brown pants. A green patch covered one knee and his feet were bare.
“How did this happen?” I asked. “Why is everyone dead?”
“Because of the war.”
“Are you not king?”
“No, my queen. This is your land. You have won. You are the heir.” Radek retrieved something from his pocket.
“I’m the heir? Of what? The kingdom is dead.”
“Don’t you see, Ludmila?”
“See what? All I see is death.”
“You are the queen, Ludmila.” Radek twirled an object around and around in his hand.
It was a silver knife. My mother’s ornately carved dagger, depicting fighting dragons with garnet eyes.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
The dimple in his right cheek deepened as he smiled.
“Radek, what are you doing?”
He nonchalantly raised the dragon dagger to his throat and slid the metal blade against his pale skin. Blood bubbled from his wound and poured down the front of his chest, covering his shirt.
He grinned. “All hail Queen Ludmila. May you reign superbly over your beloved land of death.”
Chapter Seventeen
I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Mila! You’re all right.” Marc’s face filled my vision.
“You’re alive,” I whispered.
I placed my palms on his stubbled cheeks. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel his healthy, living flesh. I needed to know he was real. He was alive. I kissed him swiftly on the lips.
“It was only a dream.” Marc pushed the damp hair away from my forehead. I was covered in sweat. “How do you feel?”
“You’re alive.” I breathed in deeply with my nose and pressed my forehead against him. “Thank God. Wait. Where’s Henrik?”
“I sent him home. He’d been here for the past twenty-four hours.”
“I’ve been sleeping for a whole day?” I rubbed my face. My shoulder hurt, but not nearly as badly as it had before.