Only the Worthy

“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.

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.