Only the Worthy. Morgan RiceЧитать онлайн книгу.
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.”
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