Susan Paul - The Stolen Bride

Sellers had set out their wares—jewelry, flowers, toys, herbs, medicines, crafts of every kind and a variety of foods. Great mounds of wood were being set out for the bonfires that would later be lit, and many smaller fires were already being used to roast whole pigs and haunches of venison and beef.

All the village maidens, Sofia included, had twined ribbons in their hair and adorned themselves with circlets of flowers, and were brazenly teasing and dallying with the young men. The young men, apart from admiring the maidens, were waiting for the contests to begin in order to prove their strength and prowess in such skills as archery, running and wrestling. There were prizes for the winners of each contest, all to be awarded with great ceremony by Sofia’s father, Sir Malcolm, who was already strolling amongst the feasters, merrily jesting and laughing and drinking far too much ale and wine. When the dancing began, Sofia noted, her father was one of the first to take a pretty maiden by the hand and draw her in among the other dancers.

“Will you not dance, Mistress Sofia?” Olvan, the cobbler’s handsome eldest son, cried out as three maidens laughingly pulled him toward the music.

Sofia smiled and shook her head—then laughed along with the maidens as Olvan stumbled at their urgent tugging and quickly righted himself, flushed with pleasure at being so sought after by the fairer sex. Everyone, it seemed, was smiling and laughing, and Sofia suddenly twirled about with her arms wide, uncaring of who saw. She felt gladsome and free and happy beyond measure. Could anything be better—or rarer—than a day of ease and pleasure?

She stopped spinning and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun upon her upturned face, thinking of what was to come. The feasting and games and contests, the sailing of wishes, and then, as night fell, the bonfires and music and merriment throughout. Oh, how she wished Kayne would put his stubbornness aside and come. He would enjoy himself so very much—

“Sofia.”

A cruel hand closed over her arm, pulling her about. Sofia’s eyes flew open to see the man who’s voice she’d already recognized.

Sir Griel.

He was dressed, as he always was, in black, and surrounded by a half-dozen of his fighting men. They were the only men present who were fully armed, as if for battle, and silence began to fall over the assembly as their daunting presence was noted.

Sofia drew herself up full height, refusing to let anyone see the fear that welled up at the memory of her last meeting with Sir Griel. His fingers gripped her in the same steely manner as he had done then. Sofia made one effort to wrench herself free, saw his amused smile, and fell still.

“My lord,” she greeted coldly.

“Mistress,” he replied, still smiling. “You are very beautiful this afternoon. But this, to my partial view, is as you ever are.”

Sofia gave no answer to this, sickened by the way his gaze moved over her in so brazen and lecherous a manner.

“You have come to make merry for St. John’s Day?” she asked, calling the day by its church-given name, rather than what it had been known by since time began. “You have not honored us with your presence on such occasions before. I’m certain the people of Wirth are most pleased to have you attend their festivities.”

“But not you, Sofia?”

She lifted her chin.

“I have come,” he said, “but only to celebrate the day with my lovely betrothed. To bear you company both the day and night long, as Midsummer is surely among the most romantic times of the year. A day for maids to discover who their husbands might be. But you’ve no need of such as that, Sofia—” his tone grew softer “—for you already know who that man is. Do you wish to dance?” His grip tightened and he moved as if to draw her toward that place where the other dancers had fallen still, watching them.

“Nay, the music has stopped,” she told him, struggling in vain as he dragged her along. “There is no more dancing.”

“There will be music, presently,” he promised. “Where is your father? We will make him useful—though he is seldom so.”

The crowds melted away at Sir Griel’s approach, and Sofia could see her father, standing in the midst of the now still dancers, clutching his partner’s hand and gaping at Sir Griel in open fear.

Suddenly their way was blocked by a tall, muscular figure. Sir Griel actually ran into the man, so sudden and unexpected was his appearance, pulling Sofia into the same collision.

“Mistress Sofia.”

She looked up at the sound of Kayne’s voice, almost afraid to believe that it was truly him. But it was, and he stood before Sir Griel like a strong, immovable mountain, completely unafraid.

“Master Kayne,” she whispered. She was so glad to see him.

He held out his hand, holding her gaze, not even looking at Sir Griel.

“I’m sorry to be so late. We had arranged to meet much earlier. Come and teach me to dance, as you promised.”

She gratefully set her free hand in his, smiling up at him.

“Yes,” she began, just as Sir Griel, yet holding her other hand, tugged so hard that she slipped free of Kayne’s reassuring grasp and fell against her captor.

“You overstep, blacksmith, to address Mistress Sofia in so forward a manner,” Sir Griel warned in a low voice. “Move out of our way.”

Kayne stood where he was, still ignoring Sir Griel. He reached out to take Sofia’s hand once more, and, with a violent motion, Sir Griel shoved at him, unsuccessfully trying to push him aside.

“Move now!” Sir Griel shouted furiously. His men, as one, drew their swords and stepped nearer. Except for the sound of the river running nearby and the wind rustling in the trees, the silence from those attending the festival was complete.

Kayne gazed into Sofia’s eyes with what seemed to her an ineffable sadness, then he sighed and, at last, looked at Sir Griel.

“I do not wish to make trouble, neither do I desire a fight,” he stated calmly. “I carry neither sword nor dagger.” He held his arms out from his sides to prove the truth of the words. “But I will not move until you have released Mistress Sofia and let her make a free choice of who she will go with.”

Sir Griel looked at Kayne as if were a madman seeking certain death.

“Mistress Sofia is my betrothed,” he said with ill-concealed fury. “She has no free choice in any matter, and will do my bidding.”

Kayne was clearly unperturbed by this.

“No banns have been read to proclaim your coming union,” he said, “and Mistress Sofia wears no betrothal ring marking your possession of her. She herself has openly denied any such betrothal, to which many who are present can readily bear witness. By what right or law, my lord, do you make such a claim?”

Sir Griel’s face had turned red. “By my own law and none other!” he shouted. “Fool! I’ll see you dead for such insult!”

The biggest of Sir Griel’s fighting men lifted his sword and moved as if to strike Kayne. Sofia cried out with dismay, but Kayne moved so quickly that the other man never had a chance to so much as touch him. With an easy, fluid movement, Kayne bent, avoiding the blow of the gleaming sword, and picked the big man up. Just as easily he tossed him in a wide arc to the ground, where he landed with a loud thump.

Before Sir Griel’s other soldiers could fall upon him, Kayne had snatched up the fallen man’s sword and turned to face them. The first two were dispatched as quickly as the first, without an exchange of swordplay, and the other three stood back, holding their swords aloft and staring at Kayne warily, clearly unnerved by his calm and confident manner.

“Why do you wait?” Sir Griel shouted. “He is but a village blacksmith! Take him!”