Still trembling, Monet stepped back, away from the Crimson Knight, that he may endeavor to collect his final champion’s prize—the crowning of the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty.
She watched as King Ivan handed Sir Broderick a delicate golden crown. Adorned with flowers and trailing ribbons, Monet smiled as the Crimson Knight accepted the offered crown from King Ivan. The contrast of the pretty crown against his battered armor and bloodied hand was profound.
“What ties bind me, your majesty?” the Crimson Knight asked. It was a wise inquiry. Many a battle had begun with a tournament champion paying honor or displaying courtly love to the wrong woman—the wife or intended of some royal or noble. Perhaps King Ivan would prefer his own queen be crowned. The Crimson Knight would not risk offense by choosing without direction.
“None!” King Ivan chuckled. “The choice is yours…as champion, Sir Broderick. Thus name the queen.”
“Then I name the Scarlet Princess, Monet of Karvana, as tournament queen, your majesty.”
Again Monet was rendered unable to draw breath. As the cheering rose to a deafening roar, she watched the Crimson Knight turn and advance upon her. She could not move—could only watch, gaze at him, as he reached forth, placing the crown on her head.
“The Scarlet Princess…Monet of Karvana!” King Ivan called. “Our Queen of Love and Beauty!”
“Pray smile, Princess,” Sir Broderick said in a lowered voice, “else the people and their king will think you are not grateful for the honor bestowed you.”
Instantly, Monet smiled, forced an accepting nod to King Ivan, and offered a grateful wave to the crowd.
King Ivan approached, taking Monet’s arm and placing it on his own. Monet sighed with aching disappointment as she watched the Crimson Knight bow to King Ivan once more, turn, and take his leave.
“He will away to a much-needed respite, Princess,” King Ivan said. Instantly, Monet forced her gaze from the retreating Crimson Knight to King Ivan. He laughed in his throat and said, “You will sit next to me at the banquet tonight, Monet. And though I know your Crimson Knight does not often appear at banquet, I will beg him to do so this time…that he may offer his strength to your delightfully humble countenance.” He laughed again. “Queen of Love and Beauty…at such a tender age as yours. You must feel greatly honored, Princess…for Karvana’s Crimson Knight is not one to relinquish an opportunity to dominate in every regard, is he?”
“Apparently not, your majesty,” Monet said.
“That…or your lips are far sweeter even than they appear, and with one kiss, you have managed to entirely bewitch him,” King Ivan said.
Monet sensed her cheeks blush vermilion.
“I assure you it is his skill in dominance of any circumstance…not my kiss,” Monet said.
“Either thing is a joy to me! I have never seen the people so thoroughly amused,” King Ivan said. “You and your Crimson Knight have won the day!”
Yet as King Ivan escorted her back to her father, Monet sighed. This day, this triumph, belonged to one man—to Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight. It struck her then how entirely iniquitous it was that Sir Broderick should battle with such brutal valiance, only to have the glory heaped on those who little deserved the glory. What glory should Monet own for his sacrifices? What glory should her father or her kingdom own? She wondered then from whence such a man drew his reason for such an undertaking as was King Ivan’s tournament. For the glory and honor of others? It seemed incomprehensible, and yet did not she love her king and kingdom so well as to sacrifice her own well-being for their sakes? Yes—indeed—she did.
“Bravo, my dove! Bravo!” Dacian called as Monet approached, escorted by Ivan himself.
Dacian fancied the roses were still too abloom on his daughter’s cheeks—the lingering result of Broderick Dougray’s attentions—and it well pleased him. How lovely Monet appeared then, face bright with delight, her lovely head adorned with a crown of flowers and ribbon. Mirth rained over him, knowing the depth of courage it had taken for her to bestow the champion’s prize in front of such a gathering.
“Your daughter has proven herself worthy of this crown, Dacian…and of her own,” King Ivan said.
Dacian nodded, understanding Ivan’s veiled implication. His gaze lingered on his daughter—his lovely daughter—so entirely unaware of the strength she and the Crimson Knight of Karvana had lent its king. Ivan’s tournament would be the subject of much talk and speculation. Tales of the Crimson Knight’s victory would spread as a wild flame, fanned by the account of Karvana’s Scarlet Princess and the kiss bestowed her champion. A tale of chivalry and triumph would reach King James’s arrogant ears, perhaps plant doubt in his mind—doubt of any easy victory over Dacian, King of Karvana. Further, Karvana’s people would hear of the strength and bravery of their princess—their princess, who would one day be their queen.
“Yes, Ivan,” Dacian said as Monet embraced him. “She has indeed.”
Still trembling from the Crimson Knight’s kiss—the sense of it still warm upon her lips—Monet continued to bathe in the security of her father’s embrace. Her knees seemed weak, her arms prickled with gooseflesh, at the memory of Sir Broderick’s lips pressed to her own.
Closing her eyes, his face appeared in her mind—awash with great fatigue, dust-streaked, and battered. Monet wondered in that moment, if the look of battle was so obvious on his face, what must the body beneath the armor have endured?
“He will be well, Father…will he not?” she asked.
Her father offered a quiet chuckle as he lovingly stroked her hair. “He will be well, pigeon,” he said. “He will be well.”
“I would speak to you privately, Dacian,” King Ivan said. “If you please.”
“Of course,” Dacian said.
Taking Monet’s face between strong hands, King Dacian said, “I would speak to Ivan a moment, Monet. Pray settle the enthusiasm and curiosity threatening to tear your friends to shreds while I do, eh?”
Monet smiled, heard giggling, and saw Portia and Lenore approaching.
“Of course, Father,” she said.
“Thank you,” Dacian said, releasing his daughter.
His attention turned at once to Ivan, and Monet could not help but giggle at the delight emblazoned on the faces of Lenore and Portia.
“You must tell us!” Lenore exclaimed in a whisper.
Taking hold of Monet’s arm, Portia added, “Yes! We must know everything of his kiss! Everything!”
The tournament was over. The Crimson Knight had prevailed, showering honor and strength over Karvana and its king. Thus, Monet felt a sudden giddiness well within her. It seemed her concerns—her heretofore serious nature—had all but dissolved! Monet enjoyed a sense of liberation of sorts—a freedom—a venue allowing lightheartedness.
Glancing behind her to ensure her father and King Ivan were at a distance, she said, “I was certain I would faint, consumed by bliss and ecstasy!”
Portia and Lenore sighed and smiled, delighted with her answer.
“Tell us all of it, Monet! Do tell!” Lenore giggled.
“What was it like?” Portia asked.
Monet smiled. “Moist and warm…intoxicating as to weaken the whole of my body!”
Monet smiled as Portia and Lenore sighed in perfect unison.
“To press lips with the Crimson Knight!” Portia whispered. “What ever else can measure it?”
Monet expired her own sigh. “I think…nothing,” she said.
Near an hour had waned since the tournament had ended. Near three hours remained before King Ivan’s celebratory banquet would begin. It seemed to Monet enough time following and an adequate time before—and he must be told. She must ease her conscience; he must understand the depth of her gratitude.
The knight encampment was quiet. No doubt all the knights and squires were well steeped in much-deserved and needed respite. Still, Monet was wary as she made for the pavilion of the Crimson
Knight of Karvana.
Quickly, the thought of her father—his perpetual warnings of taking care—tickled her mind. Yet Monet did not enjoy constant escort. Further, what true harm could befall her there? Thus, she hurried on, her black cloak clutched tightly about her, its black hood concealing her features of face.
The sight of the white pavilion of the Crimson Knight—crimson flag with black rearing dragon unfurled atop—caused Monet’s heart to leap. He must be thanked. She would not rest until he knew her profound gratefulness. Yet the thought of facing him—the memory of his kiss still lingering on her lips—gave her pause.
Monet closed her eyes—struggled to muster courage. Inhaling deeply, she reminded herself she was Princess Monet of Karvana, whose father and kingdom and self owed a great debt to their Crimson Knight.
Quickly, before her courage could fail her again, Monet pulled back one flap of the Crimson Knight’s pavilion and stepped within. Instantly, she bit her lip, stifling an astonished gasp, for the Crimson Knight stood before her—bare from the waist up—binding the ties of a pair of trousers at his waist.
The astonishment and discomfiture of having intruded to find him so inappropriately attired vanished as Monet’s attention was drawn to the deep purple bruising across his chest, at his stomach, and over his arms. Blood still trickled from a large lesion at his upper right arm. Monet felt tears welling in her eyes at such a vision of brutality and pain.
“Your highness!” Eann exclaimed as Monet brushed the hood back to reveal her face.
“What means this?” Monet demanded. The Crimson Knight frowned as she advanced upon him. Eann handed him a length of leather attached to a small leather pouch, and he drew it over his head as a necklace, the pouch resting just above his navel.
“It means I am only just finished bathing and have not yet fully clothed myself once again,” Sir Broderick grumbled.
“I meant this,” she said. Monet pressed her fingers near the wound at his arm to see that, although well-cleaned, it still had not been stitched. “You’re bleeding, Sir Broderick!”
“Usually…yes,” he mumbled.
“Why has a physician not attended you?”
“There are others in the encampment with far worse wounds than mine, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. He was scowling at her, yet she cared not—for the wound was far more serious than she had imagined.
“You bore this wound yesterday, and it has been bleeding all of today! Infection will settle here,” Monet said.
“Eann has well cared for me, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said. “He will acquire the necessaries to stitch it himself, and it will be of no consequence.”
“Stitch it himself?” Monet gasped.
“It is many times I have stitched him, your highness,” Eann said. “He is strong as a horse and vastly more resilient when wounded than most men.”
“Even so—” Monet began.
“Eann will stitch it, Princess,” Sir Broderick interrupted. She looked up to find his steel gaze boring through her.
“Then I pray you send him for the necessaries, Sir Broderick…before your arm rots off.”
The Crimson Knight’s brows arched in astonishment. A slight grin softened his lips, and he said, “Pray fetch the necessaries, Eann…before her highness has at me with the surgeon’s dismembering saw.”
“At once, Sir Broderick,” Eann said. Monet blushed at the expression of amusement plain on the squire’s face.
“You mock my concern for your well-being,” Monet said as Eann left the pavilion. She was angry, humiliated, and yet entirely frightened that the Crimson Knight might yet suffer pain and infection.
“No, your highness,” he said. He placed a hand at his chest and bowed his head. “I am touched and honored by your distress on my account.” He was in earnest—it was obvious—and Monet settled her indignation.
Sir Broderick straightened, glanced beyond her a moment, and frowned. “Are you again unaccompanied, Princess?” he asked.
“Yes,” she admitted.
The Crimson Knight’s brow furrowed once more. “It is not wise…not safe for you to wander about—”
“I loathe being in constant escort,” Monet interrupted. “And I wanted to offer my thanks to you…in private…where I may say what I mean to say without unwanted ears to intrude.”
“Very well,” he said.
Monet turned from him, wringing her hands as her mind struggled to recall what she had meant to tell him. His appearance, his lack of attire, and his yet-bleeding wound had sent all organized thought scattering to the wind.
“There is no manner in which to repay you, Sir Broderick,” she began, “no thing of value that will offer recompense for what you have achieved today…for the honor and strength you lend to Karvana, its king…and me.”
“I have received recompense aplenty, Princess,” he said, “a far better prize than many a knight has received for besting more men than I in tournament.”
Monet blushed. Though she knew his flattery was but obligatory, it caused her body to bathe in honeyed warmth all the same.
“I am in earnest, Sir Broderick!” she said, at last turning to look at him. “Pray do not condescend.” His eyes narrowed as she continued. “I suppose…I suppose that I did hope to realize the value of your triumph when I came to you, begging you not carry Anais’s favour…yet I wonder that I did not comprehend its full worth, in truth.”
“Your highness?” he asked.
“Your triumph, shared with my father and Karvana, has strengthened the kingdom and the power of the monarchy,” she explained. “King James did not attend King Ivan’s tournament. In his arrogance…in his desire to prove himself above the other kings of the five kingdoms…as ever, he lingers in Rothbain. Tales of your triumph will resound in his court, and it may lend doubt to his ambitions. I know you are formidably aware of this, yet I wish you to know that I am also conscious of these things. I do not wish you to think I am ignorant or light-minded in this. Further, I wish to comfort myself that you are in reassurance of my gratitude.” She looked up into the lucent indigo of his eyes—let her gaze linger on the whole of his countenance and striking appearance. She wondered for a moment what marvelous sensation his soft, raven hair woven between her fingers would awaken.
“You, and only you, have fought the harsh battle of this tournament. You and none other…not my father…nor any citizen of our kingdom…and undoubtedly not I. I wish you to know that, in my mind and heart, the glory of this victory belongs to none but you…and I am in your debt that you should so willingly share your triumph with king and kingdom.”
He was silent for a moment. Monet frowned as a slight smile curved his lips.
“Are you thinking I am not sincere in my gratitude?” she asked.
“I am thinking you are more your father’s daughter than anyone yet realizes,” he said, “for Karvana’s king said near as much to me only moments after the final joust. Such humility in a king is rare…and profoundly honorable. It is why I own such abiding respect and loyalty to your father. He is a great man among others who only claim greatness.”
Monet smiled, delighted by her father’s humility in thanking the Crimson Knight—appreciative of being his daughter.
“My father is the best of men, Sir Broderick,” she said. “As are you.” She studied him for a moment, wincing as empathy for his obvious pain washed over her. “How may I show my thanks, Sir Broderick?” she asked. “How may I prove the depth of my gratitude to you?”
Monet felt gooseflesh prickling her arms as his eyes narrowed—as he studied her from slipper to brow. For a moment, a vision of Sir Fredrick and Anais visited her imagination. Was the Crimson Knight in thought of such a prize as Sir Fredrick would have demanded? Surely not!
“You have already proved it, Princess,” he said, his gaze resting on her face once more. “The champion’s prize…I know it was difficult for you to bestow.”
“I was glad to offer it,” Monet said. She was irritated at th
e warm blush she felt pink her cheeks of a sudden. “Yet I would now offer a token of real value…something you might truly feel is a worthy prize. I would have you name this thing…whether a heavy purse, horses—for I know you delight in horses—or some other valuable item I may bestow as further witness of my gratitude.”
Again his brow puckered. “You do not think your kiss is of great enough worth to suffice?” he asked.
Monet smiled. “To the Crimson Knight of Karvana?” She shook her head. “I told you, sir…I am no fool. Ask me a thing you truly crave, and I will endeavor to bestow it.”
“I tell you, Princess—for a knight to receive the lips of his princess…is a far greater reward than you imagine,” he said. Monet blushed—shook her head in knowing he was skilled at flattery. “Yet if you are to offer another prize…who am I do deny it?”
“What then?” she prompted. “What token may I bestow as thanks to you, Sir Broderick?”
“I beg only…a truthful answer,” he said.
“A truthful answer?” she asked. “To what question?”
“To a question of my choosing. Any question,” he said. “If I ask it of you…will you answer…truthfully?”
“Of course,” Monet said.
“I have your vow…that you will answer my question in earnest truth?”
She straightened her posture. What question could he possibly ask that she would be tempted not to answer truthfully?
“Yes. You have my word,” she said.
She trembled slightly as the piercing blue of his eyes lingered on her. Moisture flooded her mouth as he advanced closer to her. She could well feel the heat of his flesh as he stood before her.
“When first I asked you if you knew the champion’s prize for this tournament,” he began.
Monet swallowed—attempted to appear unaffected. He knew! He knew she had lied.
“Yes?” she urged.
He grinned, and it was near her undoing! He was so handsome; something about him so entirely disconcerted her.
“You did not know the champion’s prize was a kiss…did you, Princess?” He arched one eyebrow and added, “You’ve vowed to tell the truth of it…remember.”
A Crimson Frost Page 7
