by Morgan Rice
It did not bother Royce to work on this day, but he felt bad for Genevieve. He wished he could give her more.
“I wish you could take the day off,” Royce said.
She smiled and then laughed.
“Working makes me happy. It takes my mind off things. Especially,” she said, leaning in and kissing his nose, “of having to wait so long to see you again today.”
They kissed, and she turned with a giggle and linked arms with her sisters and cousins and was soon bounding off to the fields with them, all of them giddy with happiness on this spectacular summer day.
Royce’s brothers came up behind him, clasping his shoulders, and the four of them headed their own way, down the other side of the hill.
“Come on, loverboy!” Raymond said. The eldest son, he was like a father to Royce. “You can wait until tonight!”
His two other brothers laughed.
“She’s really got him good,” Lofen added, the middle of the bunch, shorter than the others but more stocky.
“There’s no hope for you,” Garet chimed in. The youngest of the three, just a few years older than Royce, he was closest to Royce, yet also felt their sibling rivalry the most. “Not even married yet, and already he’s lost.”
The three laughed, teasing him, and Royce smiled with them as they all headed off, as one, for the fields. He took one last glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Genevieve disappearing down the hill. His heart lifted as she, too, looked back one last time and smiled at him from afar. The smile restored his soul.
Tonight, my love, he thought. Tonight.
*
Genevieve worked the fields, raising and swinging her sickle, surrounded by her sisters and cousins, a dozen of them, all laughing out loud on this auspicious day, as she worked halfheartedly. Genevieve stopped every few hacks to lean on the long shaft, look out at the blue skies and glorious yellow fields of wheat, and think of Royce. As she did, her heart beat faster. Today was the day she had always dreamt of, ever since she was a child. It was the most important day of her life. After today she and Royce would live together for the rest of their days; after this day, they would have their own cottage, a simple one-room dwelling on the edge of the fields, a humble place bequeathed to them by their parents. It would be a new beginning, a place to start life anew as husband and wife.
Genevieve beamed at the thought. There was nothing she had ever wanted more than to be with Royce. He had always been there, at her side, since she was a child, and she had never had eyes for anyone else. Though he was the youngest of his four brothers, she had always felt there was something special about Royce, something different about him. He was different from everyone around her, from anyone she had ever met. She did not know how, exactly, and she suspected that he did not either. But she saw something in him, something bigger than this village, this countryside. It was as if his destiny lay elsewhere.
“And what of his brothers?” asked a voice.
Genevieve snapped out of it. She turned to see Sheila, her eldest sister, giggling, two of her cousins behind her.
“After all, he has three! You can’t have them all!” she added, laughing.
“Yes, what are you waiting for?” her cousin chimed in. “We’ve been waiting for an introduction.”
Genevieve laughed.
“I have introduced you,” she replied. “Many times.”
“Not enough!” Sheila answered as the others laughed.
“After all, should not your sister marry his brother?”
Genevieve smiled.
“There is nothing I would like more,” she replied. “But I cannot speak for them. I know only Royce’s heart.”
“Convince them!” her other cousin urged.
Genevieve laughed again. “I shall do my best.”
“And what will you wear?” her cousin interjected. “You still haven’t decided which dress you shall—”
A noise suddenly cut through the air, one which immediately filled Genevieve with a sense of dread, made her let go of her sickle and turn to the horizon. She knew before she even fully heard it that it was an ominous noise, the sound of trouble.
She turned and studied the horizon and as she did, her worst fears were confirmed. The sound of galloping became audible, and over the hill, there appeared an entourage of horses. Her heart lurched as she noticed their riders were clothed in the finest silks, as she saw their banner, the green and the gold, a bear in the center, heralding the house of Nors.
The nobles were coming.
Genevieve flushed with ire at the sight. These greedy men had tithe after tithe from her family, from all the peasants’ families. They sucked everyone dry while they lived like kings. And yet still, it was not enough.
Genevieve watched them ride, and she prayed with all she had that they were just riding by, that they would not turn her way. After all, she had not seen them in these fields for many sun cycles.
Yet Genevieve watched with despair as they suddenly turned and rode right for her.
No, she willed silently. Not now. Not here. Not today.
Yet they rode and rode, getting closer and closer, clearly coming for her. Word must have spread of her wedding day, and that always made them eager to take what they could, before it was too late.
The other girls gathered around her instinctively, coming close. Sheila turned to her and clutched her arm frantically.
“RUN!”” she commanded, shoving her.
Genevieve turned and saw open fields before her for miles. She knew how foolish it would be—she would not get far. She would still be taken—but without dignity.
“No,” she replied, cool, calm.
Instead, she tightened her grip on her sickle and held it before her.
“I shall face them head-on.”
They looked back at her, clearly stunned.
“With your sickle?” her cousin asked doubtfully.
“Perhaps they do not come in malice,” her other cousin chimed in.
But Genevieve watched them come, and slowly, she shook her head.
“They do,” she replied.
She watched them near and expected them to slow—yet to her surprise, they did not. In their center rode Manfor, a privileged noble in his twentieth year, whom she despised, the duke of the kingdom, a boy with wide lips, light eyes, golden locks, and a permanent sneer. He appeared as if he were constantly looking down on the world.
As he neared, Genevieve saw he wore a cruel smile on his face, as he looked over her body as if it were a piece of meat. Hardly twenty yards away, Genevieve raised her sickle and stepped forward.
“They shall not take me,” she said, resigned, thinking of Royce. She wished more than anything that he was at her side right now.
“Genevieve, don’t!” Sheila cried.
Genevieve ran toward them with the sickle high, feeling the adrenaline course through her. She did not know how she summoned the courage, but she did. She charged forward, raised the sickle, and slashed it down at the first noble that came for her.
But they were too fast. They rode in like thunder, and as she swung, one merely raised his club, swung it around, and smashed the sickle from her hand. She felt an awful vibration through her hands and watched, hopeless, as her weapon went flying, landing in the stalks nearby.
A moment later, Manfor galloped past, leaned down, and backhanded her across the face with his metal gauntlet.
Genevieve cried out, spun around from the force of it, and landed face first in the stalks, stung by the searing pain.
The horses came to an abrupt stop, and as the riders dismounted all around her, Genevieve felt rough hands on her. She was yanked to her feet, delirious from the blow.
She stood there, wobbly, and looked up to see Manfor standing before her. He sneered down as he raised his helmet and removed it.
“Let go of me!” she hissed. “I am not your property!”
She heard cries and looked over to see her sister and cousins rushing forward
, trying to save her—and she watched in horror as the knights backhanded each one, sending them to the ground.
Genevieve heard Manfor’s awful laughter as he grabbed her and threw her on the back of his horse, binding her wrists together. A moment later he mounted behind her, kicked, and rode off, the girls shrieking behind her as she rode further and further away. She tried to struggle but was helpless to fight back as he held her in a vise-like grip.
“How wrong you are, young girl,” he replied, laughing as he rode. “You are mine.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Royce stood amidst the wheat fields, hacking away with his sickle, his heart filled with joy as he thought of his bride. He could hardly believe his wedding day had arrived. He had loved Genevieve for as long as he could remember, and this day would be a day to rival no others. Tomorrow, he would wake with her by his side, in a new cottage of their own, with a new life ahead of them. He could feel the flurries in his stomach. There was nothing he wished for more.
As he swung the sickle, Royce thought of his nightly training with his brothers, the four of them sparring incessantly with wooden swords, and sometimes with real ones, double-weighted, nearly impossible to lift, to make them stronger, faster. Although he was younger than his three brothers, Royce realized he was already a better fighter than them all, more agile with the sword, faster to strike and to defend. It was as if he were cut from a different cloth. He was different, he knew that. Yet he did not know how. And that troubled him.
Where, he wondered, had his fighting talents come from? Why was he so different? It made little sense. They were all brothers, all of the same blood, the same family. Yet at the same time the four of them were inseparable, doing everything together, whether it was sparring or working the fields. That, in fact, was his one touch of apprehension to this joyful day: would his moving out be the beginning of their growing apart? He vowed silently that, no matter, he would not allow it to be.
Royce’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a sound at the edge of the field, an unusual sound for this time of day, a sound he did not want to hear on a perfect day like this. Horses. Galloping with urgency.
Royce turned and looked, instantly alarmed, and his brothers did, too. His alarm only deepened as he spotted Genevieve’s sisters and cousins riding for him. Even from here Royce could see their faces etched with panic, with urgency.
Royce struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Where was Genevieve? Why were they all riding for him?
And then his heart sank as he realized that clearly something terrible had happened.
He dropped his sickle, as did his brothers and the dozen other peasant farmers of their village, and ran out to meet them. The first to meet him was Sheila, Genevieve’s sister, and she dismounted before her horse had come to a stop, clutching Royce’s shoulders.
“What is it?” Royce called out. He grabbed her shoulders, and he could feel her shaking.
She could barely get the words out between her tears.
“Genevieve!” she cried out, terror in her voice. “They’ve taken her!”
Royce felt his stomach plummet at her words, as worst-case scenarios rushed into his mind.
“Who?” he demanded, as brothers ran up beside him.
“Manfor!” she cried. “Of the House of Nors!”
Royce felt his heart slamming in his chest, as waves of indignation coursed through him. His bride. Snatched away by the nobles, as if she were their property. His face burned red.
“When!?” he demanded, squeezing Sheila’s arm harder than he meant to.
“Just now!” she replied. “We got these horses to come tell you as soon as we could!”
The others dismounted behind her, and as they did they all handed the reins to Royce and his brothers. Royce did not hesitate. In one quick motion he mounted her horse, kicked, and was tearing through the fields.
Behind him, he could hear his brothers riding, too, none missing a beat, all heading through the stalks and for the distant fort.
His eldest brother, Raymond, rode up beside him.
“You know the law is on his side,” he called out. “He is a noble, and she is unwed—at least for now.”
Royce nodded back.
“If we storm the fort and ask for her back, they will refuse,” Raymond added. “We have no legal grounds to demand her back.”
Royce gritted his teeth.
“I’m not going to ask for her back,” he replied. “I’m going to take her back.”
Lofen shook his head as he rode up beside them.
“You’ll never make it through those doors,” he called out. “A professional army awaits you. Knights. Armor. Weaponry. Gates.” He shook his head again. “And even if you somehow manage to get past them, even if you manage to rescue her, they will not let her go. They will hunt you down and kill you.”
“I know,” Royce called back.
“My brother,” Garet called out. “I love you. And I love Genevieve. But this will mean the death of you. The death of us all. Let her go. There is nothing you can do.”
Royce could hear how much his brothers cared for him, and he appreciated it—but he could not allow himself to listen. That was his bride, and whatever the stakes, he had no choice. He could not abandon her, even if it meant his death. It was who he was.
Royce kicked his horse harder, not wanting to hear anymore, and galloped faster through the fields, toward the horizon, toward the sprawling town where Manfor’s fort stood. Toward what would surely be his death.
Genevieve, Royce thought. I’m coming for you.
*
Royce rode with all he had across the fields, his three brothers at his side, cresting the final hill and then charging down for the sprawling town that lay below. In its center sat a massive fort, the home of the House of Nors, the nobles who ruled his land with an iron fist, who had bled his family dry, demanding tithe after tithe of everything they farmed. They had managed to keep the peasants poor for generations. They had dozens of knights at their disposal, in full armor, with real weapons and real horses; they had thick stone walls, a moat, a bridge, and they kept watch over the town like a jealous hen, under the pretense of keeping law and order—but really just to milk it dry.
They made the law. They enforced the cruel laws that were passed down by all the nobles throughout the land, laws that only benefited them. They operated in the guise of offering protection, yet all the peasants knew that the only protection they needed was from the nobles themselves. The kingdom of Sevania, after all, was a safe kingdom, isolated from other lands by water on three sides, at the northern tip of the Alufen continent. A strong ocean, rivers, and mountains offered thick walls of security. The land had not been invaded in centuries.
The only danger and tyranny lay from within, from the noble aristocracy and what they milked from the poor. People like Royce. Now even riches were not enough—they had to have their wives, too.
The thought brought color to Royce’s cheeks. He lowered his head and braced himself as he tightened his grip on his sword.
“The bridge is down!” Raymond called out. “The portcullis is open!”
Royce noticed it himself and took it as an encouraging sign.
“Of course it is!” Lofen called back. “Do you really think they are expecting an attack? Least of all from us?”
Royce rode faster, grateful for his brothers’ companionship, knowing all his brothers felt as strongly for Genevieve as he did. She was like a sister to them, and an affront to Royce was an affront to them all. He looked out ahead and on the drawbridge spotted a few of the castle’s knights, halfheartedly looking at the pastures and fields surrounding the town. They were unprepared. They had not been attacked in centuries and had no reason to expect to be now.
Royce drew his sword with a distinctive ring, lowered his head and held the sword high. The sound of swords rang through the air as his brothers drew, too. Royce kicked out front to take the lead, wanting to be the first into battle. His heart
pounded with excitement and fear—not fear for himself, but for Genevieve.
“I will get in and find her and get out!” Royce called out to his brothers, formulating a plan. “You all stay outside the perimeter. This is my fight.”
“We shall not let you go inside alone!” Garet called back.
Royce shook his head, adamant.
“If something goes wrong, I don’t want you paying the price,” he called back. “Stay out here and distract those guards. That is what I need the most.”
He pointed with his sword at a dozen knights standing at the gatehouse beside the moat. Royce knew that as soon as he rode over the bridge they would break into action; but if his brothers distracted them, it could perhaps keep them at bay just long enough for Royce to get inside and find her. All he needed, he figured, was a few minutes. If he could find her quickly, he could snatch her and ride away and be free of this place. He did not want to kill anyone if he could help it; he did not even want to harm them. He just wanted his bride back.
Royce lowered his head and galloped as fast as he possibly could, so fast he could hardly breathe, the wind whipping his hair and face. He closed in on the bridge, thirty yards away, twenty, ten, the sound of his horse and his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His heart slammed in his chest as he rode, realizing how insane this was. He was about to do what the peasant class would never dream of doing: attack the gentry. It was a war he could not possibly win, and a sure way to get killed. And yet his bride lay behind those gates, and that was enough for him.
Royce was so close now, but a few yards away from reaching the bridge, and he looked up and saw the knights’ eyes widen in surprise as they fumbled with their weapons, caught off guard, clearly not expecting anything like this.
Their delayed reaction was just what Royce needed. He raced forward and, as they raised their halberds, he lowered his sword and, aiming for the shafts, cut them in half. He slashed from side to side, destroying the weapons of the knights on either side of the bridge, careful not to harm them if he didn’t need to. He just wanted to disarm them, and not get bogged down in combat.