Only the Worthy (9 page)

As he spoke, Genevieve
felt the life slowly slipping from her, felt her body go numb with shock. She
was not surprised that he would have her; indeed, she had expected to be raped
and tortured by him, if not killed. What surprised her were his words. How
soaring, how elegant they were. He had complimented her when he had not needed
to; he had even spoken admiringly of her. He would not take her as his
plaything, as she had expected, but as his
wife
. As a member of his
family. As a noble.

It was all, of
course, supremely insulting given what had just been done to the love of her
life, to the man she loved most. Yet what bothered her the most was that there
was also something complimentary in it. She wished there hadn’t been; it would
make all this easier to accept as punishment. Despite herself, despite her
intense hatred for him, despite wanting to stab him through the heart, she had
to admit to herself that there was a part of her, deep down inside, that was
surprised by him and that maybe even admired him, too. Despite his arrogance,
he was cut from a shockingly different cloth than his brother; the contrast was
startling, and completely caught her off guard.

Genevieve felt
ill, feeling a sense of betrayal for even thinking these thoughts, and she
hated herself for it. There was only one way, she knew, to drive away these
less-than-negative thoughts about him from her mind: she scanned the room again
for the dagger. Her heart beat faster as she prepared to lunge for it.

He laughed,
surprising her.

“You will never
reach that dagger,” he said.

She flinched and
looked back to see him staring back at her, smiling.

“Look carefully,”
he added. “It is strapped in on all sides. Try to draw it, and you will get
stuck. And you forget this.”

She followed his
hand and saw it resting on a dagger in his own belt.

She reddened,
feeling foolish, knowing her mind had been read. Altfor was much more
perceptive than she had given him credit for.

He looked at his
guards, his eyes suddenly cold again.

“Take her away.”

Suddenly the
rough hands were grabbing her again, yanking her arms, pulling her away. She
fully expected Altfor to order them to take her to the gallows, to order her
killed for attempting to kill him. But instead, he gave them a command that
shocked her more than sentencing her to death ever could:

“Have her
cleaned up,” he said. “And prepared to wed.”

Royce sat in the
hold beneath the ship, curled up in a dark corner with his hands wrapped around
his knees, and opened his eyes slowly, awakened from a fitful sleep. He peered
out, on guard immediately, as he had all the time since he’d been thrown down
here. His eyes adjusted slowly as he stared out at a room filled with chaos and
death.

What he saw made
him wish he had never woken. It was as grim as ever, more people dead down here
than alive, bodies covering the floors, covered in boils and vomit. The stench
was nearly unbearable. He marveled that more and more boys had been shoved down
here, a seemingly endless stream, this hold used as a dumping ground,
presumably for punishments up above, or just for the unlucky ones.

All the hammocks
were filled with kids, some alert, others snoring, some staring blankly at the
ceiling, all of them swaying more wildly than usual as Royce felt waves pound
the boat. He wished he was in one now. Yet he had learned long ago to vacate
the hammock in favor of the floor. He had seen too many kids killed by sleeping
in hammocks, others creeping up on them and stabbing them for their sleeping
place. They’d been helpless to resist while trapped in the hammock’s net. Royce
had long since kept to the floor, finding the darkest corner he could and
sleeping with his hands across his knees, his back to the corner so no one
would attack him. It was safer this way.

Once a day the
guards opened the hatch, letting in a burst of ocean air and light. At first
Royce thought that meant they would let them all go up and have a little
freedom to move. But then he saw huge sacks being opened and dumped down, heard
the scattering of what sounded like sand on the floor, and as he’d watched the
boys dive for it, like savage animals, grabbing fistfuls, he realized: grain.
It was their feeding time.

The boys shoved
it in their mouths, shoving each other aside, punching, elbowing, blood landing
in the grain. It was a brutal competition for survival—and it happened once a
day. The guards always left the hatch open long enough to watch, grinning down
at the spectacle, then slammed it shut.

Royce had told
himself he would never participate in that mosh pit. Yet after a day his hunger
got the best of him and he dove in with the others, grabbing a handful of grain
just as another boy tried to pry it from his hands. They fought over it
briefly, until Royce yanked it away and the boy moved on to some other place.
Royce gulped it down immediately. It was crunchy and tasteless and it hardly
nourished him. But it was something. He learned his lesson, too—the following
day he would try to grab two fistfuls, and ration it.

It had been a
grim existence down here, one of survival, day after day of watching for the
hatch to open, grabbing whatever food he could, and retreating back to his
corner. He had seen too many boys die; he had tolerated too long the perpetual
stench. He had watched as too many bullies roamed the hold, predators, waiting
until other boys appeared too weak to fight—then pouncing on them and taking
whatever meager possessions they had. It was constantly unsettling.

Royce barely
slept. He was troubled constantly by nightmares, images of being stabbed in his
sleep, of floating in a coffin in a sea of blood, of being engulfed by the
massive waves of the ocean. These, in turn, morphed into nightmares of Genevieve,
of her being raped by the nobles of the castle, of his arriving too late to
save her. Of his brothers and family back home, their house and fields burned
to the ground, all of them having moved on, having long forgotten him.

He always woke
in a cold sweat. He did not know which was worse these days: to sleep or to
wake.

On this day,
though, as Royce woke, he immediately sensed something was different. He felt
his stomach dropping more severely than usual, heard the crashing of the waves
against the deck more strongly, heard the high-pitched whistling of the wind,
and he knew right away that a storm had come. And no normal storm. But a storm
that might change everything.

Panicked
shouting came from somewhere high above, followed by the sound of boots running
across the deck, more urgent than before, and a moment later, to Royce’s
surprise, the hatch was thrown open. It was never thrown open this early in the
day.

He sat up,
alert.

Something was
wrong.

He stared at the
open sky, such a luxury these days, and saw it was thick with dark, angry
clouds, moving too quickly; he saw rain lashing down, so severe it was
sideways. He did not even need to see it—the sound hit him first. He stared at
the open hatch but did not see several strong hands opening it, as usual.
Instead, it had opened by itself—yanked up by a gust of wind.

Royce watched in
amazement as the hundred-pound wooden hatch suddenly lifted, all by itself, and
went spinning and flying into the air, as if it were a child’s toy. He gulped.
If winds could do that to something so heavy, what could they do to a man?

Indeed, the
sound of roaring winds drowned out everything, a sound so intense that it
struck terror in him even far below. It sounded as if it were tearing the ship
to pieces. As he watched, a plank of wood went flying up into the air, right
off the deck itself.

Suddenly, his
stomach plummeted, as the ship dropped and there came the crashing of an
enormous wave against the hull. He felt as if he had dropped fifty feet. He was
amazed the ship did not capsize.

Royce looked at
the other boys, their faces finally visible in the sunlight, all of them
appearing full of hope to see the sky—yet also full of terror at the storm.
Freedom finally sat right before them, a chance to climb up, to go above and
get out of this hellhole.

Yet none of them
dared move. All sat frozen in terror of the storm.

A heavy rope
suddenly flew down into the hatch, landing like a coiled snake with a thud.
There appeared the face of a guard, clutching a beam for dear life and scowling
down as he leaned over.

“Man the decks!”
he cried, struggling to be heard over the wind. “All of you up here now!”

No one moved.

He looked irate.

“Come now, or I
will come down there and kill every last one of you myself!”

Still, none
moved.

A second later,
a spear came flying through the air, and Royce watched in horror as it
punctured the chest of a boy right beside him. The boy cried out, pinned to the
floor of the hold, instantly dead.

Two guards jumped
down, raised their swords, grabbed the closest boys and stabbed them in the
chest.

As the boys
fell, the guards turned and looked at the rest.

All the other
boys jumped into action, rushing for the ropes, climbing up and out of the
hold. Royce went with them. Death surely awaited him up there—but at least it
would be a cleaner death. Maybe he’d get lucky and a wave would wash him out to
sea and he could leave this entire nightmare behind him.

Royce looked up
and watched as the first boy climbed up, struggling, weak with malnourishment.
He finally reached the deck and as he did, grabbed hold of the railing, pulled
himself up, and crawled over the edge. He did so awkwardly, raising his legs in
the air, and as he did, Royce watched with horror as the boy lost his grip and
flew through the air, lifted by the wind like a plank of wood. He spun again
and again, his shrieking drowned out by the wind, until he flew over the rail
and into the sea.

Royce’s
apprehension deepened. His turn finally came, and he grabbed the rope firmly,
his heart pounding in his ears, and climbed up one inch at a time. The noise of
the wind grew louder as he reared his head, and he finally grabbed hold of the
deck, hands shaking.

The noise was
unbearable up here, the visibility almost zero, and as he crawled over the
edge, out of the hold for the first time in weeks, he held on for dear life. He
lost his grip and slipped, his body sliding across the deck, then grabbed it
again. He learned from the others’ mistakes, keeping his body low and crawling
along the deck.

Royce grabbed
hold of a peg firmly attached to the deck and crawled against the wind,
fighting for every foot, until he finally found a spot where he could brace
himself. He grabbed hold of two pegs, one in each hand, and braced his feet
against two pegs behind him, taking shelter behind a high mast. He felt stable
here, even as the boat rocked violently from side to side and rose and
plummeted, waves crashing all around him.

“Bring in that
sail!” yelled a soldier, shouting over the wind.

Royce looked up
at a violently flapping sail high overhead, its weight bending the mast until
it nearly broke. He felt a soldier’s spear prod him in the back and knew that
if he did not jump into action, he would meet another death.

Royce stood and
grabbed the mast, hugging it with all he had. Holding onto it with one hand he
then reached out and grabbed the dangling rope, pulling it in. The coarse, wet
rope slipped in his hand, yet as he yanked, several other boys joined him,
they, too, prodded by the soldiers. Together, they all yanked, and foot by foot
they managed to lower the sail. As it came in, the thick mast stopped bending,
and the ship righted and rocked less violently.

A fierce gust of
wind blew through and Royce held the mast tight. The boy beside him, though,
did not react as quickly, and before he could grab hold he lost his balance and
went stumbling backwards, landing on his back on the deck. A wave hit, the ship
turned sideways, and Royce watched as the boy slid all the way across the deck,
a dozen other boys sliding with him, until they all fell overboard, shrieking.

Royce looked out
and saw an army of whitecaps dotting the seas, and he knew he would not see
them again. His dread deepened. He felt increasingly he would not survive.

“Tie in that
canvas!” shouted a soldier.

Royce realized
the canvas sail was flapping wildly over his head and he reached up and grabbed
it, trying to tie it down. It slipped from his hands, but he finally managed to
grab hold of it with his arm and hold it tight. He grabbed the rope that was
flailing in the wind and wrapped it around the canvas again and again, tying it
to the mast.

The ship
suddenly rocked and turned sideways again, and as Royce held on for dear life,
he watched as several boys went slipping the other way, heading for the rail.
He recognized amongst them the boy with the wavy black hair, who had spared him
all those weeks before in that stampede: Mark. There he was, sliding, trying to
grab hold of anything he could, but unable to. In moments he would be
overboard.

Royce could not
let him die.

As risky as it
was, Royce let go of the mast with one hand and reached out for him.

“HERE!” he
shouted.

Mark looked
over, reached out, and as he slid past, he just managed to grab hold of his
hand. He held on tight, looking up at Royce with fear and desperation in his
eyes, and most of all, gratitude. Royce held on with all his might, not letting
him slide back the other way as the ship turned nearly vertical. The other
boys, though, shrieking, fell overboard.

Royce held on
with shaking hands, feeling as though all his muscles would burst, praying for
the ship to right itself. He was barely able to hold the mast with his other
hand, his grip slipping. He knew that in but another moment, he too, would go
overboard.

“Let me go!”
Mark yelled. “You’re not going to make it!”

But Royce shook
his head, knowing he had to save him. He owed it to him.

Finally, the
ship righted itself, and Royce felt his muscles relax as Mark was able to hurry
over and grab the mast beside him. They both stood there, hugging the mast,
breathing hard.

“I owe you,”
Mark called out.

Royce shook his
head.

“We’re even.”

Royce heard a
cry behind him, and he turned to see one of the bullies from below raise his
dagger and stab an unsuspecting boy in the back; he then grabbed a sack from
the dead boy’s waist and stuffed it on his own. Royce shook his head, marveling
that these predators would attack even in the midst of such a storm.

Yet a moment
later a huge wave doused the ship, and that bully, in turn, went flying
overboard into the sea.

The wave doused
Royce. For a moment he was completely submerged in freezing water, and then the
wave left just as quickly, leaving him gasping for air, trying to catch his
breath. He blinked and wiped water from his eyes and hair and was relieved to
see that Mark was still there, holding on. He felt colder than ever, and as he
looked out at the angry sea before them, filled with whitecaps, he knew it
would only get worse. He realized then that staying up here, above deck, would
mean certain death.

“We’re not going
to make it up here!” Royce called out to Mark.

But before he
could finish, another wave came crashing down on them; again they held on, yet
as the wave disappeared, Royce watched it take several men—including the
soldier who had been standing guard over him.