A Crimson Frost (3 page)

“Yes. An…an extraordinary beginning, indeed,” Monet stammered. In truth, she had never witnessed such a ceremony. In all other tournaments to which she was in attendance, the competing knights were already in possession of their lady’s color when they entered the arena. Monet felt her innards churn at having now twice misled the Crimson Knight concerning her knowledge of King Ivan’s tournament.

“Indeed,” Sir Broderick mumbled, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he studied her face.

Monet sensed the heated blush of vermillion at her cheeks yet attempted to appear composed.

“And an unusual end, as well,” he added.

“Indeed,” she said, wondering if perhaps the champion’s prize were something other than the customary honors presented.

“Then you will present me with your favour in the morning…at the Ceremony of Colors,” he began, “and I will win this tournament for our kingdom, for your father—my king—and for you, your highness.”

Monet could not stop a delighted smile from donning her lips. Her heart leapt within her bosom. The Crimson Knight would bear her favour! Sir Broderick Dougray would—for all common appearances—compete in King Ivan’s tournament for Princess Monet of Karvana! In truth, Monet had dreamt of just such an occurrence many times. Still, she would not dwell on dreams.

“And you will
accept
my favour when I offer it on the morrow?” she asked, doubt suddenly besting her confidence.

“As eagerly as you will bestow my prize when I am named tournament champion,” he said, his grin of mischief broadening. She returned his smile, basking in his pure masculinity, his ethereal comeliness. She wanted to touch him—simply know her hand had pressed to him—to know he was real and not some dream. She was a princess, was she not? Did not princesses own special allowances? Of course they did!

Reaching up, Monet gently placed a dainty hand against one broad shoulder belonging to Sir Broderick Dougray.

“I thank you, Sir Broderick,” she said, “for your loyalty to your kingdom…and its king.”

“I am—as ever—your servant, Princess,” he said, lowering his head in a gesture of respect and compliance.

Monet smiled, her hand warmed by having touched him. She drew the hood of her cloak over her head once more. “I think I am not so afraid of you as I was before coming,” she whispered.

Sir Broderick frowned. “What did you have to fear of me?” he asked.

Tilting her head to one side, Monet studied him for a moment—his powerful and handsome countenance causing her heart to flutter.

“Have you forgotten, Sir Broderick?” she asked, stepping from the pavilion. With a breath of light laughter, she pronounced, “There is reason Father christened you the Crimson Knight.”

An Enemy Revealed

“Father,” Monet began, seating herself next to the King of Karvana.

“Yes, my dove?” King Dacian asked.

“Considering the rare Ceremony of Colors King Ivan has arranged to commence his tournament,” Monet ventured, “is there anything else different concerning it? His tournament, I mean?”

King Dacian chuckled, smiling at his lovely daughter. How proud he was of Monet’s compassionate soul, humility, and beauty! Her heart was pure, kind, and caring, yet strong as a lion’s. He studied the features of her face—the warm violet of her eyes, the pure ruby of her lips, her angular and high-swept cheekbones. Her ebony hair—the exact color her mother’s had been—was drawn away from her face, upswept as befit a young woman. How he missed the tender cascade of a little girl’s tresses, the bobbing curls Monet had worn so often in her childhood. Yet she was a woman now—ever as beautiful as her mother had been, as slender, as graceful. Oh, how he loved her! His greatest treasure—this was his Monet.

“Anything else different you ask, my lily?” Dacian asked. “Why, yes. Ivan always attempts to make his tournaments…distinctive—thus the Ceremony of Colors. There are other alterations as well.”

“Such as?” Monet asked. She had not slept well through all the night. Something Sir Broderick had said the day before gnawed at her mind as a mouse to cheese—his reference to the tournament champion’s prize, as if it were different from the customary prizes awarded. Furthermore, she had wielded deceit—twice lied to mask her own ignorance. Vain lies were these. She had spent much of the darkest hours of the night in scolding herself for such sins.

King Dacian frowned, tilted his head, and considered Monet for a moment. Monet felt a cherried blush rise to her cheeks.

“Why do you ask?” her father inquired.

“Father…I,” she stammered. “It is all quite a long and drawn-out tale, you understand.”

“
What
is a long and drawn-out tale?”

Monet swallowed the thick discomfort in her throat.

“I-I have asked Sir Broderick to carry my favour in the tournament, Father,” she confessed. “Please do not be angry. I—”

Her father’s familiar laughter gave her a measure of comfort, his smile warming her heart.

“Why should such a thing anger me, Monet?” he asked. “Sir Broderick is a noble and valiant man. His loyalty to me and his kingdom is unrivaled.”

“Then you are not angry with me?” she asked. She had been so fearful—so worried her father may find fault with her favour being displayed in tournament, even by his first knight.

“No, my dove,” he said. His smile broadened, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Still, I now have a question of my own.”

“Anything, Father,” Monet said, relieved to be yet in his good graces.

“There is conduct…events, if you will…about this tournament of King Ivan’s that is unusual. I would ask you now what
you
know of these differences.”

Monet shrugged. “The Ceremony of Colors. I have never attended a tournament wherein such a ceremony is performed. And I must confess to being greatly unsettled at being part of it…of having to appear before so many spectators.”

Again her father offered a chuckle. “Oh, I well believe that by the end of the tournament
that
appearance will be the least of your worries, my dove.”

Monet felt her heart begin to hammer within her bosom. She was not at all certain if it hammered for the excitement of the sudden eruptive roar of the crowd as the knights began to enter the jousting arena or from the sense her father and Sir Broderick owned knowledge she did not.

“What do you mean to say, Father?”

Yet her father only laughed, his smile broadening as he nodded to the lead knight to ride past the stands.

“Here rides our knight now, Monet,” King Dacian said, “the Crimson Knight of Karvana.”

Monet looked to the direction her father nodded. The sight of the Crimson Knight caused her breath to catch for a moment.

Astride a high-marching black charger robed in white, crimson, and black, the Crimson Knight entered the arena. His chain mail and armor shone bright, as did the armored chanfron of his charger—glinting in the morning sun as if each piece had been polished to its highest possible sheen.

The Crimson Knight paused before the stands, where Monet and her Father sat with the other royals. He nodded, the piercing steel of his eyes barely visible through the slit in his helmet. He spurred his horse, and it reared, its white robes, adorned with Sir Broderick’s crimson shield and black dragon coat of arms, rippling in the breeze. The Crimson Knight raised his lance in respectful recognition of his king.

The crowd—both common and noble—cheered and applauded as the Crimson Knight’s charger stomped and snorted.

King Dacian nodded to his first knight—smiled as Sir Broderick rode on and the procession of knights continued.

“Thus your hero has entered the tournament, Monet,” King Dacian said.

“Your Crimson Knight seems lacking in humility,” King Rudolph said, taking his seat next to Dacian and nodding as his own first knight approached.

“He only displays his unconditional allegiance,” King Dacian said. Monet glanced to where Anais stood next to her father, her expression that of caching some great secret.

“I beg your pardon, Father,” Anais said, “but I must away to prepare for the Ceremony of Colors.”

“And which knight bears your favour this tournament, Anais?” Monet’s father inquired.

“If you will forgive me, your majesty…I have promised to keep that secret until the ceremony,” Anais said.

“Such wisdom in one so youthful, Rudolph,” Monet heard her father force. “You have done well in raising her.” Monet knew her father was loathing of propriety—at the necessity of having to offer insincere compliments. King Dacian held no respect for Rudolph, King of Alvar. Yet propriety demanded civility in such circumstance.

“Thank you, Dacian,” King Rudolph said, smiling with unwarranted pride.

“Anais,” King Dacian said as Anais turned to take her leave, “pray…would you allow Monet to accompany you to the ceremony platform?”

Monet tried not to smile—tried not to feel triumphant as the pink plainly drained from Anais’s pretty face.

“Monet, your majesty?” Anais asked.

“Yes,” King Dacian answered. “She has granted favour in this tournament and is a novice to the Ceremony of Colors. I would be indebted if you were to escort her down.”

“Of-of course, your majesty,” Anais said—nearly growled—her eyes narrowing with indignation.

“Monet,” King Dacian said, gesturing she should follow Anais. Monet smiled when her father offered a nod of understanding.

“Yes, Father,” she said, rising.

“Come along, Monet,” Anais said—any remnant of a smile fading from her beautiful face.



Four and ten young ladies of royal or noble birth stood shoulder to shoulder on the platform erected for the Ceremony of Colors. Monet held her posture straight—though she considered lifting her skirts and running. All eyes would be upon her when Sir Broderick approached to receive her favour; all eyes in the stands would fall to her. She loathed the thought—abhorred the attention often heaped on her as Karvana’s princess.

She ventured a glance at Anais. Head held high, smile soft and laced with vanity, Anais of Alvar shone conceit—delight in knowing all eyes would fall to her. Auburn-haired and green-eyed, Anais of Alvar was nearly as opposing in appearance to Monet of Karvana as she was in nature.

“You have granted favour, Monet?” Portia asked from her place next to Monet on the stage. Portia’s golden hair and blue eyes seemed to imprison the sunlight and sky—hold them captive to radiate her lovely countenance.

“I have,” Monet said. She could not help but smile, delighted with what she knew the reaction among the other royals and nobles would be when she presented her scarlet favour to the Crimson Knight: astonishment—astonishment and envy!

“But you never grant favour!” Lenore exclaimed in a whisper. Lenore’s brown eyes were bright with excitement as well, her acorn hair hanging long down her back, nearly to her ankles.

“This day I do,” Monet said.

“To whom?” Lenore asked.

“To the champion of King Ivan’s tournament, perhaps,” Monet answered.

Portia and Lenore smiled, pleased with Monet’s courageous answer. Anais, however, did not smile—did not look to Monet, nor to any other lady present.

“King Ivan’s herald approaches,” Portia whispered as a man robed in King Ivan’s signature blue and yellow stepped to the front of the platform. “He will herald each knight to come forth and claim our favours.”

The crowd in the stands fell silent as King Ivan’s herald raised one hand.

“My kings and queens…my lords and ladies…King Ivan of Avaron welcomes you to his tournament of knights!” the herald announced.

Applause and cheering were allowed for a moment, and then King Ivan’s herald raised a hand once more, restoring silence.

“You are well aware of the great event that is one of King Ivan’s tournaments,” the herald began. “Feasting, music, and dance at sunset…brave men in battle at day!” More cheering—a raised herald’s hand. “And what manner of unusual prizes has King Ivan collected for his tournament champions? Gold!” Cheering. “Jeweled swords and daggers!” Cheering. “Further, to the tournament champion goes the greatest of all prizes! Not only will he who is named tournament champion choose and name the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty—”

Monet ventured a glance to Anais when she heard Alvar’s princess lightly laugh—a laugh of conquest.

“—but also a prize above all prizes! A prize worth more than gold or jeweled swords,” the herald continued. “King Ivan has granted that whichever gallant knight triumphs as champion in this tournament…said knight may claim the lips of his lady…a kiss bestowed by she whose favour he bears in this tournament!”

Monet gasped, rendered breathless by the herald’s revelation as the crowd roared with approval. She glanced across the arena to her father’s seat in the stand. He was applauding, smiling, and nodding his sanction.

“A kiss?” Portia exclaimed. “A kiss? Did you know of this, Anais?”

“Of course,” Anais of Alvar answered. Anais looked to Portia. “Do not tell me you chose to give your favour to your father’s ancient Sir Terrence, Portia.”

“I did!” Portia said. “For he is the best of men.”

“Then you will not concern yourself over bestowing a kiss,” Anais said. “For is he not worthy of it?”

“Did you know of the promised prize to the champion?” Lenore asked of Monet.

“If he triumphs, I will gladly bestow such a prize to he who bears my favour,” Monet said. Nevertheless, of a sudden she feared fainting! The knowledge of the champion’s prize was near to overwhelming her. A kiss? Lips? To bestow a kiss, to press lips with, Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight? In truth, Monet could imagine nothing more desirable! Yet to bestow a kiss in front of so many—and to a man who no doubt counted kisses as mundane trivialities compared with knightly duties and battle.

“Knights of the tournament…approach!” Ivan’s herald commanded.

There came upon the air the sound of armor marching in unison.

“As I herald you…each one…come forth and claim favour from your lady!” the herald instructed. The crowd roared, and the herald raised his hand to hush them.

“Sir Terrence Langford,” the herald began, drawing out each word with dramatic result. “Son of Dimitrie Dumitru…Earl of Luestin…First Knight of Norvola…Defender of
Queens
…Rescuer of the Ninth Legion…come forth and bear color!”

Monet watched as Portia stepped forward. A knight in dark armor approached, his coat of arms a sapphire shield and roaring bear.

“Present your favour, Princess Portia of Norvola!” the herald called.

Portia nodded to Sir Terrence. Drawing the ribbon from around her throat, she reached out, tying the length of white adornment around Sir Terrence’s right armored arm.

The crowd cheered, and Portia smiled, offering a nod to Sir Terrence as he bowed for a moment.

“Prince Martin of Avaron…Second Son of King Ivan…Prince of Avaron…Defender of Innocence and Destroyer of Malice…come forth and bear color!”

A knight in a helmet adorned with a gold crown stepped onto the platform. Monet smiled, pleased to see Lenore step forward. Lenore smiled at Prince Martin as she secured her own yellow ribbon to his arm. The crowd cheered, and Monet did not miss the expression of elation on Lenore’s countenance. It was clear she favored Prince Martin—more even than Monet had suspected.

King Ivan’s herald raised a hand to silence the stands once more.

“Sir Fredrick Esmund…Son of Esmund Tudor…First Knight of Rothbain’s Round Table…King James’s Favored One…Commander of the Fifth Legion…Commander of the Third Legion…Conqueror of Kingdoms…Vanquisher of Weakness…come forth and bear color!”

Monet’s eyes narrowed as Anais of Alvar stepped forward. Somehow Monet was not surprised Anais should ask one of King James’s knights to carry her favour—Sir Fredrick, a man infamous, known for his arrogance and cruelty. Sir Fredrick was branded by his thirst for blood in battle, for his ungallant behavior in tournament. No doubt when Sir Broderick had declined to carry Anais’s favour, she had sought out the knight most likely to wound any other in the tournament—including, and most of all, Sir Broderick. Anais secured a length of lavender silk to Sir Fredrick’s arm, nodding at him as he bowed to her.