The Stolen Bride. Susan Spencer Paul

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      “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!”

      One of the remaining men made the attempt, running at Kayne in a furious charge. Kayne didn’t move until his opponent’s sword was nearly at his chest, then with a flick of his own sword pushed the sharp blade aside and, using his fist, struck the man soundly on the head so that he crumpled to the ground beside his groaning comrades.

      The remaining two men stood their ground. One was shaking his head and staring at Kayne with disbelief.

      “He is no common blacksmith, my lord,” he told Sir Griel.

      “Nay,” Sir Griel muttered, eyeing Kayne with a thoughtful frown. “That he is not. But we will see what he is.” He shoved Sofia away so abruptly that she stumbled and nearly fell to the ground. Keeping his sword at the ready and his eyes on his opponents, Kayne reached out a hand to pull her near, and Sofia gladly went. The warmth and strength of his body were a comfort beyond measure.

      She was as shocked as everyone else present at the deftness Kayne the Unknown had displayed in dealing with Sir Griel’s seasoned fighters. It had been almost too simple a matter, as if they’d offered him not the least cause for trouble or worry. And the way in which he held the heavy sword in his hand—as if it weighed less than a feather—was even more amazing. She knew that Kayne had been a soldier once, but he fought like a much greater man.

      Sir Griel rubbed a heavily gloved hand over his dark beard and considered Kayne thoughtfully. At last, with a nod of satisfaction, he spoke.

      “It was once the custom on Midsummer Day for two men to take up the separate halves of the Sun King—his dark and light sides—and battle for the favor of a lady. I challenge you to such a battle.”

      “That is a pagan custom,” Kayne replied, “and not countenanced by the Church. I will not fight you without just cause.”

      Sir Griel’s shaggy eyebrows rose. “You fought my men.” He swept a hand at the pile of groggy men who, with the help of their two unwounded friends, were finally beginning to come back to their senses.

      “Nay,” Kayne replied, shaking his head. “I defended myself, as well as Mistress Sofia. I will fight no man for game or pleasure. It is a vow I have taken.”

      Sir Griel’s eyes widened with amazement, and then, after a short silence, he began to laugh, loud and lustily, as if he’d never heard anything so amusing in his life.

      “A vow?” Sir Griel repeated after some minutes, still chuckling. “N-not to fight? But you jest, blacksmith. Surely you do.”

      “I do not,” Kayne stated. “I will not fight you.”

      Sir Griel’s black eyes still СКАЧАТЬ