“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.
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 groan 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.