by Morgan Rice
Royce gained speed, urging his horse on, and he rode even faster, using his horse as a weapon, bumping the remaining guards hard enough to send them flying, in their heavy armor, over the sides of the narrow bridge, and into the moat’s waters below. It would take them a long while, Royce realized, to get out. And that was all the time he needed.
Behind him, Royce could hear his brothers helping his cause; on the far side of the bridge they rode for the gatehouse, slashing at the guards, disarming them before they had a chance to rally. They managed to block and bar the gatehouse, keeping the flummoxed knights off guard, and giving Royce the cover he needed.
Royce lowered his head and charged for the open portcullis, riding faster as he watched it begin to lower. He lowered his head and managed to burst through the open arch right before the heavy portcullis closed for good.
Royce rode into the inner courtyard, heart pounding, and took stock, looking all around. He’d never been inside and was disoriented, finding himself surrounded by thick stone walls on all sides, several stories high. Servants and common folk bustled to and fro, carrying buckets of water and other wares. Luckily, no knights awaited him inside. Of course, they had no cause to expect an attack.
Royce scanned the walls, desperate for any sign of his bride.
Yet he found none. He received a jolt of panic. What if they had taken her elsewhere?
“GENEVIEVE!” he called out.
Royce looked everywhere, frantically turning on his neighing horse. He had no idea where to look, and had no plan. He had not even thought he would make it this far.
Royce racked his brain, needing to think quick. The nobles likely lived upstairs, he figured, away from the stench, the masses, where the wind and sunlight was strong. Naturally, that was where they would take Genevieve.
The thought inflamed him with rage.
Forcing his emotions in check, Royce kicked his horse and galloped across the courtyard, past shocked servants who stopped and stared, dropping their work as he raced by. He spotted a wide, spiral stone staircase across the way and he rode all the way to it, dismounting before the horse could even stop, hitting the ground at a run and sprinting up the stairs. He ran around and around the spirals, again and again, ascending flight after flight. He had no idea where he was going, but figured he would start at the top.
Royce finally exited the staircase at the highest landing, breathing hard.
“Genevieve!” he cried out, hoping, praying for a response.
There was none. His dread deepened.
He chose a corridor and ran down it, praying it was the right one. As he raced past, a man suddenly burst open a door and stuck his head out. It was a nobles, a short, fat man with a broad nose and thinning hair.
He scowled at Royce, clearly summing him up from his garb as a peasant; he wrinkled his nose as if something unpleasant had entered his midst.
“Hey!” he shouted. “What are you doing in our—”
Royce did not hesitate. As the indignant noble lunged for him, he punched him in the face, knocking him flat on his back.
Royce checked quickly inside the open door, hoping for a glimpse of her. But it was empty.
He continued to run.
“GENEVIEVE!” Royce cried.
Suddenly, he heard a cry, far away, in response.
His heart stopped as he stood still and listened, wondering where it had come from. Aware that his time was limited, that an entire army would soon be chasing after him, he continued running, heart pounding, calling her name again and again.
Again there came a muffled cry, and Royce knew it was her. His heart slammed. She was up here. And he was getting closer.
Royce finally reached the end of the corridor and as he did, from behind the last door on the left, he heard a cry. He did not hesitate as he lowered his shoulder and smashed open the ancient oak door.
The door shattered and Royce stumbled inside and found himself standing in an opulent chamber, thirty by thirty feet, with soaring ceilings, windows carved into the stone walls, a massive fireplace and, in the center of the room, a huge, luxurious four-poster bed, unlike anything Royce had ever seen. He felt a surge of relief as he saw there, in a pile of furs, his love, Genevieve.
She was, he was relieved to see, fully clothed, still flailing, kicking, as Manfor tried to wrestle her from behind. Royce fumed. There he was, clawing at his bride, trying to strip her clothes. Royce was elated that he’d made it in time.
Genevieve writhed, trying valiantly to get him off her, but Manfor was too strong for her.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Royce burst into action. He rushed forward and pounced, just as Manfor spun to look. As his eyes widened in shock, Royce grabbed him by the shirt and threw him.
Manfor went flying across the room and landed hard on the cobblestone, groaning.
“Royce!” Genevieve called out, her voice filled with relief as she spun and faced him.
Royce knew he could not give Manfor a chance to recover. As he tried to rise, Royce jumped on top of him, pinning him down. Flooded with rage for what he had done to his wife, Royce pulled back his fist and punched him once, hard in the jaw.
Manfor bounced back, though, sitting up and reaching for a dagger. But Royce snatched it from his hand, and pounded him again and again. Manfor fell back, and Royce knocked the dagger away, sliding it across the floor.
He held Manfor in a lock and Manfor sneered back, ever defiant and superior.
“The law is on my side,” Manfor seethed. “I can take anyone I want. She is mine.”
Royce scowled.
“You cannot take my bride.”
“You’re mad,” Manfor countered. “Mad. You will be killed by the end of the day. There’s nowhere to hide. Don’t you know that? We own this country.”
Royce shook his head.
“What you don’t understand,” he said, “is that I don’t care.”
Manfor frowned.
“You won’t get away with this,” Manfor said. “I will see to it.”
Royce tightened his grip on Manfor’s wrists.
“You will do nothing of the sort. Genevieve and I will leave here today. If you come after her again, I will kill you.”
To Royce’s surprise, Manfor smiled an evil smile, blood trickling from his mouth.
“I will never let her be,” Manfor replied. “Ever. I will torment her the rest of her life. And I will hunt you down like a dog with all my father’s men. I will take her, and she will be mine. And you will be hanged on the gallows. So run now and remember her face—for soon enough, she will be mine.”
Royce felt a hot flush of rage. What was worse than these cruel words was that he knew them to be true. There was nowhere to run; the nobles owned the countryside. He could not fight an army. And Manfor, indeed, would never give up. For cruel sport—for no other reason. He had so much, and yet he could not help but deprive people who had nothing.
Royce looked down into this cruel noble’s eyes and he knew that Genevieve would be had by this man one day. And he knew he could not allow it to happen. He wanted to walk away, he really did. But he could not. To do so would mean Genevieve’s death.
Royce suddenly grabbed Manfor and threw him to his feet. He faced him and drew his sword.
“Draw!” Royce commanded, giving him a chance to fight honorably.
Manfor stared back, clearly surprised that he would be given this chance. Then he drew his sword.
Manfor charged, swinging down hard, and Royce raised his sword and blocked it, sparks flying. Royce, sensing he was stronger, raised his sword, pushing Manfor back, then spun with his elbow and smashed him in the face with the hilt.
There came a crack as Royce broke Manfor’s nose. Manfor stumbled back and stared, clearly stunned as he grabbed at his nose. Royce could have taken the moment to kill him, but again, he gave him another chance.
“Back down now,” Royce offered, “and I shall let you live.”
Manfor, though, let out a gr
oan of fury. He raised his sword and charged again.
Royce blocked, while Manfor swung furiously, each slashing back and forth, swords clanging as sparks flew, driving each other back and forth across the room. Manfor might be a noble, raised with all the benefits of the royal class, yet still Royce had superior fighting talent.
As they fought, Royce’s heart sank as he heard distant horns, heard the sound of an army closing in on the castle, the horses’ hooves clomping on the cobblestone below. He knew his time was running out. Something had to be done fast.
Finally Royce spun Manfor’s sword around sharply and disarmed him, sending it flying through the air and across the room. Royce held his tip to Manfor’s throat.
“Back away, now,” Royce commanded.
Manfor slowly backed away, arms up. Yet when he reached a small wooden desk, he suddenly spun, grabbed something, and threw it at Royce’s eyes.
Royce shrieked as he was suddenly blinded. His eyes stung as his world turned black and he realized, too late, as he groped at his eyes, what it was: ink. It was a dirty move, a move unbecoming a noble, or any fighter. But then again, Royce knew he should not be surprised.
Before he could regain his sight, Royce suddenly felt a sharp blow to his stomach as he was kicked. He keeled over, dropping to the floor, winded, and as he looked up, he regained just enough of his vision to watch Manfor smile as he extracted a hidden dagger from his cloak—and raised it for Royce’s back.
“ROYCE!” Genevieve screamed out.
As the dagger plunged down for his back, Royce managed to collect himself, rising to one knee, raising his arm, and grabbing Manfor’s wrist. Royce slowly stood, arms shaking, and as Manfor continued to lower the dagger, he suddenly sidestepped and spun Manfor’s arm around, using his force against him. Manfor kept swinging, though, unwilling to stop, and this time, as Royce stepped aside, he plunged the dagger into his own stomach.
Manfor gasped. He stood there, staring back, eyes wide, blood trickling from his mouth. He was dying.
Royce felt the solemnity of the moment. He had killed a man. For the first time in his life, he had killed a man. And no ordinary man—but a noble.
Manfor’s last gesture was a cruel smile, blood pouring from his mouth.
“You have won back your bride,” he gasped, “at the cost of your life. You’ll be joining me soon enough.”
With that, Manfor collapsed and landed on the floor with a thump.
Dead.
Royce turned to look at Genevieve, who sat on the bed, stunned. He could see the relief and gratitude on her face. She jumped up from the bed, ran across the room, and into his arms. He embraced her tightly, and it felt so good. All made sense in the world again.
“Oh, Royce,” she said in his ear, and that was all she needed to say. He understood.
“Come, we must go,” Royce said. “Our time is short.”
He took her hand and the two of them burst out the open door of the chamber and into the corridors.
Royce ran down the hall, Genevieve beside him, his heart pounding as he heard the royal horns being sounded, again and again. He knew it was the sound of alarm—and he knew it was meant for him.
Hearing the clanging of armor down below, Royce knew the fort was sealed off, and that he was surrounded. His brothers had done a good job of holding them off, but Royce’s raid had taken too long. As they ran he glanced down into the courtyard, and his heart dropped to see dozens of knights already pouring through the gates.
Royce knew there was no way out. Not only had he broken into their home, he had killed one of their own, a noble, a member of the royal family. They would not, he knew, let him live. Today would be the day his life changed forever. How ironic, he thought; this morning he had awakened so filled with joy, so anticipating the day. Now, before the sun had set on that same day, he would instead likely be facing the gallows.
Royce and Genevieve ran and ran, nearing the end of the hall and the entrance to the spiral staircase—when suddenly a half dozen knights appeared, emerging from the steps, blocking their way.
Royce and Genevieve stopped short, turned, and ran the other way, as the knights pursued them. Royce could hear their armor clanging behind him, and he knew his only advantage was his lack of armor, giving him just enough speed to keep ahead of them.
They ran and ran, twisting down corridors, Royce desperately hoping to find a rear staircase, another way out—when suddenly they turned down another corridor and found themselves facing a stone wall. Royce’s heart dropped as they slammed to a stop.
A dead end.
Royce spun and drew his sword while putting Genevieve behind him, prepared to make a stand against the knights even though he knew it would be his last.
Suddenly he felt Genevieve clutch his arm frantically as she cried: “Royce!”
He spun and saw what she was looking at: a large, open-air window beside them. He looked down and his stomach sank. It was a long drop, way too long to survive.
And yet he saw her pointing to a wagon full of hay ambling by beneath them.
“We can jump!” she cried.
She took his hand, and together, they stepped up toward the window. He turned and looked back, saw the knights closing in, and suddenly, before he had time to think through how crazy this was, he felt his hand yanked—and they were airborne.
Genevieve was even braver than he. She always had been, even as kids, he recalled.
They jumped, falling a good thirty feet through the air, Royce’s stomach in his throat, Genevieve shrieking, as they aimed for the wagon. Royce braced himself to die, and was grateful that he would not die, at least, at the hands of the nobles—and with his love at his side.
To Royce’s immense relief they landed in the pile of hay. It shot up in a huge cloud around them as they did, and while he was winded and bruised from the fall, to his amazement, he did not break anything. He sat up immediately and looked over to see if Genevieve was okay; she lay there in a daze, but she, too, sat up, and as she brushed off the hay, he saw with immense relief that she was unhurt.
Without a word they both at the same time remembered their predicament and jumped from the cart, Royce taking her hand. Royce ran to his horse, still awaiting him in the courtyard, mounted it, grabbed Genevieve, and helped her up behind him. With a kick the two of them took off at a gallop, Royce aiming for the open gate to the castle, as knights continued to flood in, racing past them, not even realizing it was them.
They neared the open gate and Royce’s heart pounded in his chest; they were so close. All they had to do was clear it, and with a few strides they would be out in the open countryside. From there they could rally with his brothers, his cousins, and men, and together, they could all flee from this place, and start life anew somewhere. Or better yet, they could amass their own army and fight these nobles once and for all. For one glorious moment time stood still, as Royce felt himself on the precipice of change, of victory, of everything he had known being turned upside down. The day for revolt had come. The day for their lives to never be the same again.
As Royce neared the gate, his veins filled with cold dread as he watched the portcullis, open again to let knights in, suddenly lowered, slamming shut before him. His horse reared, and they stopped short.
Royce turned around, looking back into the courtyard. There he saw fifty knights, now realizing who they were, closing in. Royce prepared to ride forward, to meet them in battle, however foolhardy it was, when suddenly, he felt a rope landing on him from behind, and heard Genevieve cry out.
The ropes tightened around his waist, and with a jerk, Royce felt himself thrown backwards from his horse. He landed on the ground hard, winded, bound from behind. He looked over and saw Genevieve bound by ropes, too, also yanked to the ground.
Royce rolled and stumbled, frantically trying to break free, the ropes tight around his arms and shoulders. He reached down to his waist, grabbed his dagger, and with one jerk, managed to cut them loose.
Free, he rolled out of the way of a club as it came down for his head. He reached out and grabbed his attacker’s sword, and then he wheeled, standing in the center of the courtyard, surrounded by what was now nearly a hundred knights. They closed in on him from all sides.
They charged. Royce raised his sword and fought back, defending as they slashed, slashing back himself, feeling invincible, stronger and faster than all of them. Still, they closed in tighter and tighter, their ranks growing thicker.
Royce raised his sword and blocked a blow aimed for his head; he then spun and slashed at another sword aiming for his back, and slashed up and knocked the sword from his attacker’s hands. He then leaned back and kicked another knight in the chest as he neared, forcing him to drop his club.
Royce fought like a man possessed, slashing and parrying, managing to keep dozens of them at bay, as swords clanged and sparks showered down all around him. He breathed hard, barely able to see from the sweat stinging his eyes. And all the while he thought of only one thing: Genevieve. He would die here for her.
The ranks thickened even more, and soon, it was too much even for him. Royce’s arms and shoulders ached, his breathing grew heavy, as he found the crowd so thick, so close, that he could barely maneuver to swing. He raised his sword one last time to slash, when suddenly, he felt an awful pain in the back of his head.
He dropped to the ground, dimly aware he had been clubbed. The next thing he knew he was lying sideways on the ground, unable to move, as dozens of knights pounced on him. It was a wall of metal pinning him to the ground, bending his arms, knees in his back, arms on his head.
It was over, he realized.
He had lost.
CHAPTER SIX
Royce woke, startled, to the feeling of ice water on his face, to the sounds of shouts and jeers, and he squinted in the light. One of his eyes, he realized right away, was sealed shut, the other barely open, just enough for him to see by. His head reeled from the pain, his body stiff, covered in lumps and bruises, and he felt as if he had been rolled down a mountain. He looked out at the world before him, and wished he hadn’t.