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.

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.