PART TWO

CHAPTER FOUR

17 Sun Cycles later

Royce stood atop the hill, beneath the only oak tree in these fields of grain, an ancient thing whose limbs seemed to reach to the sky, and he looked deeply into Genevieve’s eyes, deeply in love. They held hands as she smiled back at him, and as they leaned in and kissed, he felt in awe and gratitude that his heart could feel this full. As dawn broke over the fields of grain, Royce wished that he could freeze this moment forever.

Royce leaned back and looked at her. Genevieve was gorgeous. In her seventeenth year, as he was, she was tall, slim, with flowing blond hair and intelligent green eyes, a smattering of freckles across her dainty features. She had a smile that made him happy to be alive, and a laugh that put him at ease. More than that, she had a grace, a nobility, that far outmatched their peasant status.

Royce saw his own reflection in her eyes and he marveled that he looked as if he could be related to her. He was much bigger, of course, tall even for his age, with shoulders broader than even his older brothers’, a strong chin, a noble nose, a proud forehead, an abundance of muscle which rippled beneath his frayed tunic, and light features, like hers. His longish blond hair fell just before his eyes, while his hazel-green eyes matched hers, albeit a shade darker. He’d been blessed with strength, and with a skill with the sword that matched his brothers’, though he was the youngest of the four. His father had always joked that he had fallen from the sky, and Royce understood: he shared not his brothers’ dark features or average frame. He was like a stranger in his own family.

They embraced, and it felt so good to be hugged so tightly, to have someone who loved him as much as he did her. The two of them had, in fact, been inseparable since they were children, had grown up together playing in these fields, had vowed even back then that on the summer solstice of their seventeenth year, they would wed. As children, it had been a deadly serious vow.

As they’d aged, year after year, they had not grown apart as most children do, but only closer together. Against all odds, their vow turned from a childish thing to something stronger, solemn, unbreakable, year after year after year. Their lives, it seemed, were never destined to grow apart.

Now, finally, unbelievably, the day had arrived. Both were seventeen, the summer solstice had arrived, they were adults now, free to choose for themselves, and as they stood there, beneath that tree, watching the sun rise, they each knew, with giddy excitement, what that meant.

“Is your mother excited?” she asked.

Royce smiled.

“I think she loves you more than I, if that is possible,” he laughed.

Genevieve’s laugh reached his soul.

“And your parents?” he asked.

Her face darkened, just for a flash, and his heart fell.

“Is it me?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“They love you,” she replied. “They just…” she sighed. “We are not wed yet. For them it could not come soon enough. They fear for me.”

Royce understood. Her parents feared the nobles. Unwed peasants like Royce and Genevieve had no rights; if the nobles chose, they could come and take their women away, claim them for themselves. Until, that is, they were married. Then they would be safe.

“Soon enough,” Genevieve said, her smile brightening.

“Are they relieved because it’s me, or because, once wed, you’ll be safe from the nobles?”

She laughed and mock hit him.

“They love you as the son they never had!” she said.

He caught her arms and kissed her.

“Royce!” cried a voice.

Royce turned to find his three brothers striding up the hill, in a large group, Genevieve’s sisters and cousins climbing up with them. They all held sickles and pitchforks, all of them ready for the day’s labor, and Royce took a deep breath, knowing the time for parting had come. They were peasants, after all, and they could not afford to take an entire day off. The wedding would have to wait for sunset.

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.”