A Crimson Frost (4 page)

Monet gazed across the arena to her father. King Dacian nodded—a nod of encouragement. Monet let her attention linger on her father, concentrating on his goodness to the people of their kingdom—and the honor the Crimson Knight would bring to them all by venue of the tournament.

Seven more knights were heralded to the platform before Monet’s attention was again full on King Ivan’s herald.

“Sir Broderick Dougray…Son of Kendrick Nathair…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of King Dacian…Commander of the First Legion…Commander of the Second Legion…Slayer of a Thousand Enemies…Blood Warrior of Ballist…Protector of the Kingdom…the Crimson Knight…come forth and bear color!”

The roar of the crowd was near deafening as Sir Broderick Dougray stepped onto the platform.

“Princess Monet,” Sir Broderick spoke, the deep intonation of his voice far more intimidating as it sounded from within his helmet, “pray grant me the honor of bearing your favour.”

Monet paused. No other knight had spoken to his chosen lady when heralded to the platform. She was momentarily struck silent—uncertain as to response.

“Accept me, Princess,” Sir Broderick demanded. “I am the Crimson Knight of Karvana…your servant.” The crowd erupted into approving shouts and deafening applause as Karvana’s Crimson Knight took to one knee before his princess.

“Pray rise, Sir Broderick,” Monet begged, “for the honor would be mine.”

The Crimson Knight nodded and stood erect once more. Monet pulled the scarlet silk from around her shoulders. Reaching out, she watched her trembling hands begin to tie the favour to the Crimson Knight’s right armored arm.

“If you please, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said, “pray tie it at my throat…that I may better bear and shield your precious favour.”

As Monet reached up, securing her veil around the neck of the Crimson Knight, the crowd roared with approval.

“I will win this tournament for you, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet looked up—gazed through the slit in Sir Broderick’s helmet—breathless as the severe blue of his eyes captured her own. For a moment, Monet was certain her heart would cease in its beating—certain she may faint from Sir Broderick’s nearness, from his gestures and words of respect to her. No other knight had knelt before his lady. No other knight had spoken to his lady—begged his lady’s favour be worn at the throat—let alone promised aloud to win King Ivan’s tournament in her name.

“Pray take care against any wound or injury, Sir Broderick,” Monet said as Sir Broderick bowed. How she worried for him suddenly! As the memory of tournaments past washed over her—of blood and broken bones—she feared for his well-being, as ever she had.

Sir Broderick raised his head, and through the slit in his helmet, she saw his blue eyes narrow.

“Yes, your highness,” he said. He turned then, and the crowd roared with a delight.

The Crimson Knight stepped down from the platform, and Monet stepped back to her place between Portia and Lenore.

“Sir Broderick agreed to carry your favour?” Lenore asked in a whisper as the herald called for the next knight.

Remembering the moments she had been secreted in the Crimson Knight’s pavilion—the conversation between Sir Broderick and Anais—Monet said, “In truth, he asked a token before I had the opportunity to request it of him.”

“Then for your sake, Monet,” Portia began, “I hope he wins the tournament for you! To press one’s lips to those of the Crimson Knight…do you not suppose it would be worth near any price?” Monet looked to Portia to see her eyes bright with merriment and anticipation.

“I do suppose it would be,” Monet said, smiling.

“Sadly, you will not know such an honor, Monet…for Sir Fredrick will triumph. There is no doubt,” Anais said.

“The Crimson Knight has promised to win the tournament in the name of his princess, Anais,” Portia said through clenched teeth. “His reputation in tournament manifests he would die before breaking promise.”

Anais glared at Portia, then Monet. “Then he may well die…for Sir Fredrick told me he would kill any foe barring his way to my kiss.”

“It is well my father knows Sir Fredrick, Anais,” Portia said. “If Sir Fredrick would kill to clear a path to you…then he would expect far more than a simple kiss when he arrived.”

Monet heard Lenore gasp—felt her own cheeks grow pink at Portia’s assurance to Anais.

“Portia!” Lenore scolded. “Such an implication!”

“It is the truth,” Portia said. “And I suspect Anais knows it is the truth.”

Monet looked to Anais. The haughty Princess of Alvar simply smiled and returned her attention to the knights in the arena.

Monet—still stunned by Portia’s revelation concerning Sir Fredrick and Anais—looked to the knights aligned in the arena before her. Her attention was instantly drawn to Sir Broderick. He offered her a slight nod, and she returned his acknowledgement by bowing her own head for a moment. As she studied him—his massive form, the polish of his heavy armor, his great height—she was certain the scarlet veil at his throat was merely a dream.



Monet held her breath and allowed her hands to fist where they lay in her lap. The sound of the horses charging—of powerful hooves beating upon the ground—of leather straining and armor braced for battle echoed—thundered as a violent storm. The Crimson Knight’s lance struck, splintering into a thousand pieces just above its base. As Sir Ostler fell back—tumbled from his charger and to the ground—Monet closed her eyes and offered a thankful prayer for Sir Broderick’s victory and thus his safety.

“He has unhorsed Sir Ostler with one lance!” King Dacian shouted, applauding his Crimson Knight.

The crowd in the stands roared with approval as the Crimson Knight turned his horse. Monet watched as the black charger carrying Sir Broderick Dougray paused before the place where she and her father were seated. The charger reared, and Sir Broderick raised his splintered lance as tribute to his king. Monet bit her lip but could not keep a delighted smile from spreading across her face.

“Well done, Sir Broderick!” King Dacian shouted. “Well done, lad!”

The Crimson Knight nodded as the banner bearing his crimson shield and black dragon coat of arms replaced that of Sir Ostler’s on the tournament scoring wall.

“He has yet to face Sir Terrence of Norvola,” King Rudolph reminded.

“As well as Sir Fredrick, your majesty,” Anais added.

King Dacian was undaunted, however.

“He will face them,” he said, “and triumph, no doubt.”

Monet smiled, pleased by her father’s faith in his first knight.

Yet she next sighed, for the tournament was weighing heavy on her mind. This third day of tournament seemed all the more brutal than the two previous. Monet’s father had explained the manner in which a lengthy tournament wore down those knights competing. Three days of mock battling—of sword fight, mace play, wrestling, archery, and jousting—wrought havoc on a man’s body. By the third day and the final jousts, most knights were bruised, broken, and worn to the bone with fatigue.

Monet worried for Sir Broderick. He had battled hard. His victories were the talk of Avaron! Having bested every knight in swords and maces, he had bested all but Sir Terrence in archery. Gossip was his loss to Sir Fredrick in wrestling was to be blamed on the deep wound at his right arm. Sir Fredrick—owning little or no chivalry or sense of fair play—had intentionally plunged his fingers into Sir Broderick’s wound during their wrestling, inflicting great pain to the Crimson Knight, thus managing to best him—but only just.

Now the crowd roared as but three banners remained on the scoring wall of the jousting arena. If the Crimson Knight managed to best Sir Terrence and Sir Fredrick, he would, no doubt, be named tournament champion. However, he was wounded, and Sir Fredrick and Sir Terrence were not.

Still, enough strength was left in him to have unhorsed Sir Ostler. Thus Monet hoped the tournament would end with no further injury to Sir Broderick—whether or not he were crowned champion.

Monet had hardly eaten in near three days, her appetite cast off for worry over Sir Broderick and the other knights. It was why she was not in regular attendance at tournaments. She found them brutal, frightening, and difficult to endure. Nevertheless, she knew a weary knight often drew strength from the presence of those he protected or competed for. Therefore, she had attended every event in which Sir Broderick Dougray had competed.

“Let us partake refreshment, Anais,” King Rudolph said, rising from his seat. “Sir Broderick will accept his earned respite before facing Sir Terrence.”

“Sir Broderick will face Sir Terrence at once,” Monet’s father said. She watched as her father folded strong arms across his chest.

“Surely not,” King Rudolph argued. “He will want rest…restoration of his strength before facing another joust.”

“He fell Ostler with one lance,” King Dacian said. “He will not be worn yet and will face Sir Terrence at once.”

“My kings and queens…lords and ladies…and to all others within the sound of my voice…I present to you Sir Terrence Langford!” Sir Terrence’s herald began. Sir Terrence’s sapphire and roaring bear coat of arms blazoned on his gold tunic, the herald continued, “Son of Dimitrie Dumitru…Earl of Luestin…First Knight of Norvola…Defender of
Queens
…Rescuer of the Ninth Legion!”

Sir Terrence appeared at the far end of the arena, bearing lance, his dark armor ominous beneath the clouded sky.

“As I said,” King Dacian began, “Sir Broderick will joust once more before taking his respite.”

“You hold too much faith in this man…own too much intimate knowledge of this Crimson Knight, Dacian,” King Rudolph grumbled. “It can come to no good…to trust a soldier so entirely.”

Dacian’s smile faded. Monet watched as her father’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Who then would you have me trust, Rudolph?” he asked. “James of Rothbain? Ah…there is a man worthy of trust indeed.”

King Rudolph straightened his posture.

“Do
you
place your trust in James, Rudolph? Your allegiance?”

King Rudolph said nothing—only took his seat once more as the Crimson Knight’s herald entered the arena.

Monet’s heart was pounding, both with angst borne of the conversation between her father and King Rudolph and for worry over the Crimson Knight.

A youngish man was the Crimson Knight’s herald. Robed in white, the familiar crimson shield and rearing dragon coat of arms on his tunic, he raised a hand, and the crowd fell silent.

“To all those royal, noble, and common in attendance…and in special respect to King Ivan, our host…I present to you Sir Broderick Dougray…Son of Kendrick Nathair…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of King Dacian…Commander of the First Legion…Commander of the Second Legion…Slayer of a Thousand Enemies…Blood Warrior of Ballist…Protector of the Kingdom…Guardian of the Scarlet Princess…the Crimson Knight!”

As the crowd cheered, Monet looked to her father.

“Father!” she breathed.

“Guardian of the Scarlet Princess?” King Rudolph asked. “You hold too fast to the dramatic, Dacian.”

Nevertheless, Monet saw the smile of pure contentment in triumph on her father’s face.

“Father?” she asked.

“Do you not think Sir Broderick has warriored well at this tournament, Monet?” he asked.

“Of course, Father…but—” she began.

“Further,” her father interrupted, “with my cousin James’s veiled threats against myself and Karvana…I thought it appropriate he understood the depth of my regard for your safety. Thus, Sir Broderick has accepted this title of honor—Guardian of the Scarlet Princess—at my bidding.”

“They are dropping the banner!” Anais exclaimed.

Monet looked to the arena. The Crimson Knight allowed his horse to rear a moment before charging Sir Terrence. Wood splintered, and the crowd erupted.

“Well done! Well done!” King Dacian shouted.

“Broderick shatters his lance against the tip of Sir Terrence’s,” Monet heard King Rudolph tell Anais. “Skilled…a masterful trick and highly scored.”

Monet watched as Sir Broderick turned his horse. She felt a frown pucker her brow as his squire offered him another lance. It seemed he did not accept it as comfortably as he might have. She could see the blood on his right hand—blood draining from a wound at his upper arm.

“He is too wounded, Father!” Monet whispered. “He should not continue.”

“He will continue, Monet,” King Dacian said. “This is battle to our Sir Broderick.”

Monet again clenched her hands into fists—held her breath as the bearer raised the banner. She was paralyzed, unable to draw breath, as she watched the banner drop—watched the Crimson Knight’s lance level as his horse charged forward—watched Sir Terrence’s charger lurch.

The splintering shards of lances breaking erupted into the air.

“Sir Terrence is given point!” King Rudolph exclaimed, applauding and showing obvious delight in the Crimson Knight’s failure to gain point.

Monet looked to her father. Her brow puckered as she saw he only smiled—as if owning some secret delight.

“Father?” she whispered. “He was bested, was he not? Why then do you smile?”