Only the Worthy. Morgan Rice
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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,