A Crimson Frost (10 page)

“I vowed to give you the truth, Sir Broderick,” she exclaimed, “and I have! Do not dishonor me with the implication I did not answer your question truthfully…please!”

“Of course I will not,” he said. But she knew. Monet knew he did not believe her. Such was the nature of deceit—once wielded against another, it was not but anticipated. He must believe her! He must!

“Sir Broderick, you say for a knight to receive the lips of his princess…you tell me it is a far greater reward than I imagine. Is that not what your flattery endeavors to make me believe?” she asked.

“It is…and it was not with vain flattery that I spoke it,” he rather growled.

“Then a kiss from your princess—offered here—without witnesses to lessen its value to that of a mere champion’s prize…if it is such a great and rare reward, then I insist you allow me to prove myself…to prove I speak the truth of it…that I would have had you bear my favour even knowing the nature of the champion’s prize.” Monet could not believe her own utterance! Yet she must evidence herself to him—atone for having lied once and prove she had not lied again.

“You need prove nothing, Princess,” he said.

“Yes! I do need to prove it! For I will not have you thinking me a constant liar…an invariable deceiver! And I would have you know my thanks, Sir Broderick. I would have you
know
it! Further, I would know for myself that you know it,” she cried in a whisper.

Monet stepped forward. Raising trembling hands to his face, she was rendered breathless at the feel of his roughly shaven face.

“Princess Monet, do not lower yourself to—” he began.

“I thank you, Sir Broderick,” she whispered. “I thank you for your valiant efforts…for your hard-fought battle and triumph in behalf of our king, our people, and our kingdom. I am ever in your debt for doing this thing for me…for refusing the favour of Anais of Alvar…and for bearing mine.”

Her hands burned warm with touching him, the heat of his body warming hers. Of a sudden, his great height and the broad expanse of his shoulders intimidated her. Yet she was bound to prove herself to him—to prove she was honest and not a liar.

Monet swallowed, raised herself on toe, and pressed her parted lips to his. Would he spurn her? Would he put her away from himself, revolted by her lack of skill in kissing him—by the fact she was not a woman he wished to kiss?

Her heart leapt in her bosom. She gasped as she felt his strong hand at the small of her back—felt his lips part further as he pressed her kiss once, twice, thrice—each kiss more firmly applied, the moisture of his lips blending with her own—each warm, thrilling coupling lingering a moment longer than the one before. She could not keep her hands from slipping from his face to rest on the breadth of his strong shoulders. The sense of his smooth flesh against her palms caused heat to flood her limbs and body.

Of a sudden, frightened by the sensations his touch and kiss inflamed in her, she drew away from him—however unwillingly. As her knees struggled to keep the strength necessary to support her, Monet knew: the ability of the Crimson Knight to dominate any circumstance was far more powerful than any man could realize.

“Forgive me my weakness, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. His voice was low, its intonation no less than entirely seductive. “You find me in a weakened condition…somewhat out of countenance. Forgive me if I gave offense. I should not have—”

“I will not forgive you,” Monet interrupted, unable to meet his bewitching gaze. “There is nothing to forgive. And to offer forgiveness…for you to ask it of me…it is only to say that were you in perfect condition and countenance, you would not have wished me to…to prove my earnest words, nor to offer my sincere thanks.”

“No, please, your highness,” he began. “You mistake me.”

Monet looked to him, fearful the moisture in her eyes would betray her heartache at his kissing her being only a matter of weakness of the mind and body—not because he wished to do so.

“I would have begged your help in besting Anais…even knowing the nature of the champion’s prize, Sir Broderick,” she said. “Know you now the truth of this?”

The sapphire eyes of the Crimson Knight narrowed. “Yes,” he said.

“And know you now the depth of my gratitude, Sir Broderick Dougray?”

“Yes.”

Slowly Monet let her hands slip from the Crimson Knight’s broad shoulders and over his massive chest. The soft caress caused Monet to tremble with a pleasing bliss she had never known. Stepping back from him—for she feared she would throw herself against the strength of his body and beg for another press of his lips—she said, “Then I leave you to Eann’s stitching.”

As Monet pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, the Crimson Knight asked, “King Ivan has requested I attend his banquet this evening. I do not commonly attend banquet. However, in support of my princess, whose favour I carried in this tournament…I will attend…if you wish it.”

Monet studied him for long moments. He was battle-worn—bruised, bloodied, and undoubtedly fatigued beyond anything she could imagine.

“I will leave that decision to you, Sir Broderick…for it must be as you wish,” she said.

“Will you have escort if I do not attend?” he asked, his beautiful eyes suddenly shadowed with profound weariness. “You are so in habit of appearing unescorted…it oft concerns me.”

Monet smiled. “I will have my father…and King Ivan. And though I admit to owning no fondness for the attentions I must no doubt endure as Queen of Love and Beauty…I am not, perhaps, so weak as you think, Sir Broderick. Having twice mustered the courage to kiss the Blood Warrior of Ballist—the Crimson Knight—can I not muster enough courage to endure one evening of banquet?”

“I have no doubt that you can, your highness,” he said, a tired grin curving his perfect mouth.

Monet forced a smile, inwardly overwhelmed with disappointment that he would not be seated next to her at banquet. She hoped her hood cached her awe as she allowed her gaze to travel the length of him—from the dark raven of his hair, over the powerful breadth of his shoulders, to the small leather pouch hanging from the thin leather strap around his neck, to the doeskin trousers he wore.

“Good-bye, Sir Broderick,” she said.

“Your highness,” he said. He nodded and bowed, and Monet stepped from the Crimson Knight’s pavilion.



“Thank you, sire,” Monet said as King Ivan himself held her chair for her. The whispers concerning the kiss Karvana’s Scarlet Princess had bestowed upon the tournament champion hissed from every corner of the banquet hall. Some said the kiss was not adequate—that it did not honor the Crimson Knight as he deserved. Others said it was immoral—too lingering, lips too parted to be virtuous.

Though Monet’s resolve to hold strong and steadfast in the tide of gossip had once been resolute, it was waning at being so thoroughly tried.

“Yet your champion does not appear,” Anais said from her place across the table from Monet.

“I offered him respite from this evening’s demands,” Monet said. “Tournament is wearing beyond comprehension. Is it not enough he battled for three days? Must he now be expected to endure the demands of banquet?”

“Indeed,” King Ivan agreed. “I too offered our champion reprieve.”

“Still, he should attend, Ivan,” Rudolph said. “After all the wealth heaped upon him at your hand.”

“Wealth he well earned, Rudolph,” King Ivan reminded.

Monet glanced to her father sitting next to the empty chair at her left—the chair meant for the Crimson Knight.

“Well earned,” King Dacian said. “As well earned as peaceful respite.”

Monet smiled as her father winked at her with understanding.

A sudden and distinct hush fell on the room, followed by a resounding meeting of hands in clapping.

Monet’s heart leapt where it lay in her bosom as she looked up to see the Crimson Knight striding toward the king’s banquet table.

“Ah! And yet he musters!” King Ivan exclaimed. “A true champion indeed!”

“Forgive my tardiness, your majesty,” the Crimson Knight said, taking his seat between Monet and her father. “It was needs be I had a bit of stitching rendered…to keep my arm from…” He paused, glancing to Monet. “How did you speak it, your highness?”

“To keep your arm from rotting off,” Monet giggled.

“Yes, that’s it,” Sir Broderick said, grinning at Monet.

He had come! He had come to the banquet, though Monet knew he was loath to do so. In her heart, she determined to pretend he had done it for her—that he had forced himself to attendance for her own sake.

“A noble cause for a belated arrival, Sir Broderick. Indeed!” King Ivan chuckled.

Monet felt moisture rise to her eyes, for he yet looked weary, the bruises and cuts causing a notable stiffness in his hands as he raised his goblet for King Ivan’s toast.

“To the Crimson Knight of Karvana, our champion of tournament!” King Ivan roared. “And to Monet…the Scarlet Princess…our Queen of Love and Beauty!”

The banquet guests cheered, and Monet forced a smile. The Crimson Knight’s arm brushed her own for a moment, and she quivered with delight at his nearness.

“It is bad of me, I know,” Sir Broderick began in a lowered voice, “but I neglected to return your veil…the favour you gifted me for the tournament.” He reached into his tunic, but Monet’s hand on his forearm stalled him.

“I would bid you keep it, Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. “W-would you keep it? As a memento of your victory today?”

“With pleasure, your highness,” he said. He smiled at her, and Monet’s breath caught in her throat at the pure magnificence of it.

Attempting to slow the sudden mad pounding of her heart, Monet looked across the table to Lenore and Portia. Each princess was seated to the right of her father, their eyes twinkling with a resplendent, romantic admiration as they gazed at the Crimson Knight.

Monet smiled and ventured a glance back to Sir Broderick. He was in conversation with her father, and she sighed—content to be in the company of the two men she loved most in all the world.

A Call to
Battle

War. It was unavoidable—so King Dacian had counseled with his knights the previous day—so he had informed the court and then the people of Karvana that morning. If Karvana were to remain a free and blissful kingdom, it could not fall to James of Rothbain—James of Rothbain, who at that moment was amassing troops at Karvana’s northern border.

Monet attempted to appear calm—strong in the face of battle, death, and the threat of Karvana’s fall. Yet as she stood before her father—his dark armor and golden-crowned helmet glinting in the morning sun—calm was not what bound her soul. Had it truly been only six months since King Ivan’s tournament? She glanced past her father to the Crimson Knight standing just behind him and to his right. Her gaze fell to his lips—not to his armor or chain mail, not to the weapons he bore, but to his face, his handsome countenance, and his lips. She knew his lips—knew his kiss—and never had she ceased in considering it. Not for one moment since King Ivan’s tournament, not once since she had kissed him in the arena, in his pavilion—not once had her mind wandered from the memory of his hand at her arm to steady her, of his hand pressed to her back as his parted lips met with her own.
             

“I must lead the men into battle, Monet,” King Dacian said. Her attention was thus torn from the Crimson Knight at her father’s side—back to impending battle. “If I am lost—”

“Father, please do not—” Monet began.

“If I am lost…you will be queen,” Dacian growled. A deep frown furrowed his brow as he near glared at his daughter. “I have left instruction for you…you know where.”

Monet nodded. How could she ever forget where? The secret compartment in her mother’s tomb.

“Yes, Father.”

Fury and rage owned Broderick Dougray—Karvana’s Crimson Knight. As he watched his good King Dacian strike terror into the tender heart of his noble daughter, Monet, a hatred as he had never known rose within him—a desire to vanquish James of Rothbain with his own hand.

He could see her trembling. By the manner in which her scarlet gown quivered, Broderick knew the princess was awash with fear. He fisted one hand beneath its gauntlet, resisting the compulsion to reach out and touch her—to reassure her he would protect her father. He would defend King Dacian and Karvana with his life. He wondered if she knew this of him. For a moment, the violet of her eyes lingered on him—seemed to plead with him—beg him for a thing. Yet he knew not what, in truth. To protect her father? To save her kingdom? He was uncertain as to what her frightened gaze wished to convey, but he nodded all the same. Karvana would not fall while Broderick Dougray yet drew breath. This was his silent oath. Nor would King Dacian.

The Crimson Knight felt his eyes narrow as he watched his king give instruction to she who would one day be queen. She would rule well. This he knew, for he had seen the strength in her, the compassion for the people, and great wisdom—even in one so young. Further, he would serve her as he had served her father. If he lived to do so, he would serve her. He felt his jaw tighten as he thought of a new king—Monet’s one-day husband. It angered and sickened him to think of any man taking Dacian’s throne—of any man taking the Princess Monet to his bed. Yet he would serve the monarchy of Karvana to the death. For good kings and queens were a rarity, as were good knights—and he was a good knight.

Monet could not stop the tears from escaping her eyes. As they trickled over her cheeks, she began, “Father…I—”

“Bless them…each one as he passes, Monet,” King Dacian said. “They require your approval.”

Monet nodded, and her father pressed a firm kiss to her forehead.

“Knights of Karvana!” he shouted as he turned to face the knights lining the hall behind him. “We go! We fight! We fight for Karvana! For her people! For freedom!”

Monet closed her eyes for a moment as the roar of the knights echoed through the castle.

“To battle!” King Dacian shouted.

Monet’s trembling increased as her father brushed past her.

“God be with you, Princess,” Sir Alum said. Monet opened her eyes. The eldest of her father’s round table, Sir Alum Willham, knelt before her.

Remembering her father’s instruction, Monet placed her hand on the top of Sir Alum’s helmet.

“God protect you, Sir Alum,” she said. The knight, Sir Alum Willham, stood, nodded, and followed his king from the gathering hall.

“God be with you, Princess,” the next knight greeted, taking a knee.

“God protect you, Sir Blevin,” Monet said, placing her hand atop the helmet of Sir Blevin Jonstone.

Eleven more knights knelt before Monet—eleven more of King Dacian’s round table, commanders of legions, heroes of Karvana.

King Dacian’s first knight—Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight—approached last. Monet thought her heart might tear itself from her breast, so brutally did it hammer. To send Sir Broderick to war! The thought caused terror the like Monet had never known to seize her in its painful grip.

As tears flooded Monet’s cheeks anew, the Crimson Knight took a knee before her.

“God be with you, Princess.” The low, powerful intonation of his voice as he addressed her caused her to tremble. “God watch over and protect you, your highness,” he added.

Monet placed both her hands on Sir Broderick’s bowed helmet.

“God go with you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed. “God watch over you. May He wield your sword with you…and count you preserved.”

The Crimson Knight rose to take his leave. Yet he paused. Monet resisted, barely restrained herself, from reaching out, from throwing her arms around him and begging him not to go—to stay out of harm’s way that he may be assuredly preserved.

“I will not let Death claim your father, Princess,” he said, his eyes narrowed with determination. “I will give my life to—”

She could not hear him speak it; thus her fingers pressed his lips to silence him. She would not hear him speak of giving up his life—not for anyone, nor anything! Not even for her father or Karvana!

“God…protect our Crimson Knight,” she whispered.

She turned and fled—ran up the winding stairs leading to the crest of the castle’s keep.

Her body wracked with sobbing, she stepped out onto the keep’s crest. Far below she could see them—her father astride his white charger, the Crimson Knight of Karvana at his side, thirteen remaining knights of the table behind them. Beyond the walls of the castle kingdom, she could see the glinting in the sunlight—three legions of soldiers ready to be commanded, waiting to be led into battle by her father and the Crimson Knight.

War had come, and the people—the land—Karvana must be protected.

The horns sounded, and the inner gates were lifted, the inner drawbridge lowered. A sudden breeze freshened the air. It caught the gossamer scarlet veil draped over Monet’s shoulders, whisking it away—carrying it out over the parapets. The rumble of horses shook the earth as the knights and their king charged toward their legions in await.

Squires followed, cooks, blacksmiths—and Monet trembled.

She could see her father’s white charger in the distance. She could see Sir Broderick’s armor glinting in the morning sun.

“God protect you, Father,” she whispered. “God love and preserve you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed.

She could hear it then—the lute of a minstrel and a familiar tune. Glancing over, she saw him, there in one corner of the keep—the Minstrel Marius. She well knew Marius and the melody he plucked.

“At your bidding, your highness,” Marius said with a nod.

Monet nodded. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she returned her attention to Karvana’s soldiers amassing to the north as the minstrel began his ballad—the ballad of “A Crimson Frost.”

Once Ballist was a battle stage

Where soldiers fought and war was wage

To keep Karvana for an age,

And poets yet put ink to page

Of a Crimson Frost upon him.

As blade met blade ’mid winter snow

And legions battled row on row,

The North Wind did begin to blow

And bid the Reaper then to sow

With a Crimson Frost behind him.

Up-mounted on his demon stud

The Reaper reaped amidst the flood

Of dying men strewn in the mud

As Ballist’s field ran red with blood

With a Crimson Frost beside him.

As Winter and the North Wind roared

Ten men would fall to cold and sword.

Ten more and then the Dark Death Lord

Would reap them up into his hoard

With a Crimson Frost to aid him.

Then midst the brutal, bloody fight

The Reaper spied a comely knight,

His hilt and sword a flame of light,

Battling for his kingdom’s might

And no Crimson Frost upon him.

This knight so comely, brave, and strong,

Who fought for right instead of wrong

Amidst the battle’s bloodied throng

Pure vexed the Reaper’s reaping song,

For no Crimson Frost adorned him.

And this, the Reaper’s fury fanned—

To see this knight stay Lord Death’s hand

And triumph at the battle stand

When Death should rule the blood-stained land

And a Crimson Frost consume him.

“What Knight is this?” the Reaper growled.

His sickle stilled—his death brow scowled.

The Reaper saw his reaping fouled.

“Sir Broderick!” the North Wind howled,

“With no Crimson Frost upon him.”

Thus, on the battlefield that day

Broderick was the Reaper’s prey

Beneath the clouds of winter’s gray

Lord Death, this knight, would surely slay

And cast Crimson Frost upon him.

Then drew the Reaper his death blade,

For Broderick’s life must be paid

To see Karvana’s glory fade

And spur the Reaper’s bloody trade

With a Crimson Frost to aid him.

With sickle and a blade for ware,

The Reaper rode his stud to where

The battle raged, that he may bear

The comely knight to Lord Death’s lair

With a Crimson Frost upon him.

Yet Broderick, of noble heart,

Knew well the Reaper’s ghastly art

And would not let his soul depart

Upon the Reaper’s black death cart

With a Crimson Frost upon him.

Thus for his people and their crown,

Broderick turned to face Death down

And with his sword and skill renown

Feared not of Death’s dark heinous frown

And the Crimson Frost beside him.

The comely knight met Death each stride.

They battled raw till eventide,

Till Death was weary from the ride

And with his sickle reaping wide

Cast a Crimson Frost upon him.

Sir Broderick then knew the cost

Of fighting Death, though Death had lost,

As, of a sudden, he was crossed

And lay in darkness in the frost

With a Crimson Frost upon him.

Red blood caressed his raven hair.

Red blood was at his brow so fair.

Red blood adorned his breastplate there.

Red blood did stain the very air,

And a Crimson Frost entombed him.

Still, worth he more than measured gold,

Broderick, bound by winter’s cold,

Was brave and strong and ever bold,

Drew breath and fought the red frost’s hold.

Thus the Crimson Frost released him.

This knight, with Death, in battle brushed,

Yet battle-bruised and broken—crushed

Broderick rose and forward rushed

And, with his blade, an army hushed

With a Crimson Frost behind him.

Thus Ballist fell, and bells did ring

For Broderick had spurned Death’s sting

And warriored well for his great king.

Hence poets pen and minstrels sing

Of a Crimson Frost upon him.