Only the Worthy

“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.