Monet frowned. “But if this is true, Father…should not the Crimson—should not the knights of Karvana return? Would not he know more shelter…would not they be needed here?”
Monet was trembling now—trembling at the thought of enemies at Karvana’s gate, at the thought of the villagers being subject to harm. It was sufficiently heinous to have soldiers battling and dying to protect Karvana, but if its people too were to die…
Dacian felt his eyes narrow. He wondered then—was his daughter conscious of her deep reverencing of Sir Broderick? He thought she was not. He thought she was not fully aware that, in each message she had sent to him at the battle encampment, she had inquired after the Crimson Knight’s well-being. He smiled, gratified in the knowledge Karvana’s princess—Karvana’s subsequent queen—would own such respect for a warrior of the kingdom. In this he knew she would rule Karvana well, with esteem for her protectors, wisdom and strength in her decisions, and infinite love and compassion for her citizens.
Dacian, King of Karvana, was assured—assured the demon James of Rothbain would attempt to strike at Karvana’s heart. Further was his assurance strong that the documents of instruction concerning Monet’s ascension to Karvana’s throne—the documents cached to his breast and likewise in the secret compartment in his queen’s tomb—would serve his Karvana well were James to succeed in killing him.
“There are yet legions here, Monet,” her father began, “strong men…strong leaders to lead them. The knights and their legions must defend our northern border, lest a wave of battle far greater spill into Karvana. We must have time to prepare Karvana for battle…or siege.”
Fear filled Monet as it never had before. Battle? Siege? Would King James truly battle against Karvana herself? Was he truly so evil as to lay siege to such a great and good kingdom, to cause its people to die of injury, starvation, or disease? What then would be left to rule?
Monet brushed the tears from her cheeks, glancing past her father to the death cart before them.
“How many brave men traveled home in the death cart this day, Father?” she asked.
“One would be too many,” King Dacian said. “And yet today there are ten.”
“I must have the list,” Monet said. “Rider!”
The mounted soldier accompanying the death cart turned his horse—rode to the cart bearing the king.
“Yes, Princess?” he said.
“Pray entrust me with the list of the fallen,” she bade him.
The mounted soldier reached into his tunic and retrieved a parchment. He nodded as he handed it to Monet, and she said, “I thank you, sir.”
“I know you are in habit of consoling the families of the fallen,” King Dacian said. “But you must no longer venture from the safety of the castle, Monet.”
“We cannot let the families of these good men linger in thinking we do not share their pain, Father,” Monet said.
“Of course not. Thus we will send a penned message to each family.”
“A penned message?” Monet exclaimed. “Father! A penned message will not suffice! They must be meet with us…see that we share in their loss. Though we cannot begin to measure their pain, we must offer our gratitude and—”
“Heretoforth you will not venture from the castle, Monet!”
Monet was confounded by the commanding tone of her father’s voice. His imperial demeanor was not foreign to her, for it was often as ruling King of Karvana he had displayed such strength and impenetrable fortitude. Yet to be the subject of his warrant—it was discomposing.
“Yes, Father,” Monet said.
They had reached the village, and the people were come out to see the king returned. Monet watched as the king smiled, hailed his people, and assured them of his health.
“It is but a scratch,” he told them.
Monet watched as the death cart ambled through the village behind the king’s cart. All who looked upon it grew silent. Though but ten soldiers lay beneath the heavy canvas covering the cart, the faces of near sixty citizens of Karvana were ashen—bled out of color for wondering who would be told their husband, father, brother, or son had returned to Karvana, never to draw breath again.
Monet brushed more tears from her cheeks. She would mourn with her people! She would! King James was not at Karvana’s gates yet, and she would not let her people conceive she did not weep for the fallen with them.
It had been no simple task to leave the castle unseen. The bridges had been drawn once the king was safely within the castle walls. Thus Monet had been driven to the secret passage leading underground from the castle to the royal mausoleum, some distance beyond the outer castle walls. Indeed, the main door to the mausoleum was guarded from without, yet the smaller side doors were not. Once she had slipped through one of the smaller doors, Monet found a stone and tossed it into the brier patch some distance away. The guard at the main entrance to her mother’s place of rest was distracted and set off toward the briers.
Robed in a black cloak and hood, Monet made her way around the castle walls and to the village beyond. The families of the fallen soldiers of Karvana, returned to their kingdom in the death cart that morning, must know her gratitude. She would see their wives and children, mothers and fathers. As she hastened across the small wooden bridge spanning the brook, a wave of foreboding washed over her. Perhaps her father had been right to demand she stay within the shelter of the castle. Yet the majority of the citizens of Karvana were not sheltered there. Thus, Monet continued on her way.
“Yes?” came a voice from within the cottage.
As an elderly woman opened the door, Monet swept her cloak hood back.
“I have come in mourning, good mother,” Monet greeted as the elder woman’s eyes widened. “I have come to offer my heart to those who have lost so much this day. Is this the family of Richard Tailor?”
“The Scarlet Princess!” the old woman gasped. “Princess Monet? At this very door?”
“Yes, good lady,” Monet said. “Are…are you kin to Richard Tailor?”
“I am no kin…though I am pledged to care for his son, now that the father has…has gone,” the woman said.
“I see,” Monet whispered. Orphaned! Another child of Karvana orphaned at King James’s wicked hand. “Is…is his son within…that I may offer my heart at his father’s loss…that I may express my king’s gratitude for such a sacrifice as this?”
The old woman smiled. “You are a good and kind princess, your highness,” she said. “But young Richard has gone to the inn—to the Emerald Crown—to find solace in the company of friends. Yet I will tell him of your visit, Princess. It will mean more to him than you can know.”
Monet smiled and shook her head. “No. I will meet him myself to offer him my heart at his great loss. I thank you, good mother.”
“Pray…is it…is it wise, Princess? Is it safe for you to be about on such business alone…and at night?”
Monet smiled. “Far safer than wielding a blade with our brave men to the north.”
The woman smiled and nodded. “God bless and keep you, Princess.”
“God bless and keep you, good mother,” Monet said, drawing her cloak hood over her head once more.
Monet sighed. Though the Emerald Crown was one of the more respected and tamed establishments in Karvana, dusk was descending. Thus the Emerald Crown would be filled with more men than women. Still, Monet would thank young Richard Tailor, son of Karvana’s fallen soldier.
The Minstrel Marius sat amid a table in the center of the room. The melody of his lute was familiar to Monet, yet she lingered not on naming it. She must find young Richard Tailor, offer her heart at his great loss, and visit the family of the next fallen soldier whose name was penned on the parchment tucked inside her corselet.
Marius caught sight of her and offered a respectful nod. Monet nodded in return and crossed the room to him.
“Good minstrel,” she began in a quiet voice, “I am come to see
a boy…young Richard Tailor. Do you know him?”
“Has his father fallen to the battle in the north?” Marius asked.
“He has,” Monet whispered.
“A good man was Richard Tailor,” the minstrel said. “It was well I knew him.”
“And do you well know his son?”
“I do.” The minstrel pointed to a fair-haired young man seated at a table nearby. “The young one there.” Marius shook his head. “He is a good lad.”
“Thank you, minstrel,” Monet said.
Monet inhaled a breath of courage. It near broke her heart to gaze into the faces of those enduring loss such as young Richard Tailor surely was. Yet she felt it was the blessing, and curse, of owning empathy—and she was glad she did own it. She thought a moment of Anais: Anais of Alvar owned no empathy. Better it was to suffer with those who suffered than know nothing of their suffering as Anais.
“I beg audience, sir,” Monet said to the fair-haired young man seated before her.
The young man looked up and frowned as he studied her cloaked form head to foot. Monet fancied the young man was not so much less in age than she. He was handsome—strong in appearance.
“Who are you?” he growled. The young man’s comely countenance was marred with the reddened eyes of weeping.
“One who would speak to you concerning your father,” Monet said.
It seemed understanding washed over the youth, for his eyes widened, and he stood to meet Monet.
“I have come to offer my heart’s aching to join with yours, Richard Tailor,” Monet whispered.
“I have heard you come to visit the families of the fallen,” Richard whispered. “Yet I did not think you would come to me.”
“Your father gave his life in protection of me, of my king, of you, and of our kingdom,” Monet whispered. “I stand before you humbled…honored to know the son of such a great warrior…such a selfless man of valor as was Richard Tailor the elder.”
Monet reached within her corselet once more, withdrew a small kerchief, and offered it to young Richard Tailor.
“I can offer you no solace, Richard Tailor…son of Richard Tailor, fallen soldier of Karvana. Yet I would bid you accept this token—the kerchief bearing tears I shed as I saw your father taken from the death cart and prepared for his burial of honor.” Monet trembled slightly—a trembling of shared grief as the young man accepted her token. “His dagger will rest in Karvana Castle’s Hall of Valor…with tokens of remembrance paying tribute to all those who have fallen to defend our lands and people. His name will be carved into one of the castle stones. Your father, and his sacrifice, will not be forgotten, Richard Tailor.”
Monet brushed a tear from her cheek as she watched Richard Tailor draw the kerchief to his face, seeming to inhale its scent.
“We are blessed in our king…and our princess,” he said. Monet thought the sadness in his blue eyes lessened just a little. “Yet you should not be here, Princess,” he said, a frown puckering his brow of a sudden.
Monet shook her head, took his hand between hers, and smiled. “Nor should you,” she said, “for we are both of us too young for such sadness and loss.”
“It is different for me than for you, your highness,” the young man said, lowering his voice. Something about the sudden look of fearfulness in Richard Tailor’s countenance caused Monet to shiver with sudden trepidation. “For no one means me harm here.”
“What do you mean?” Monet asked in a whisper. “Who of Karvana would mean me harm?”
“No one, your highness,” he said. “Yet my father was certain that King James made plans well before this war…that a number of men appearing to be Karvanians are indeed in King James’s service.”
An odd chill pricked the back of Monet’s neck. Surely any of the villagers would have recognized a stranger to Karvana—especially in time of war.
“Are there strangers among us?” she asked. “Strangers the village and castle guards are not aware of?”
“Not since months before the battles began,” he said. “Yet there are several men who came to Karvana more than half the year past. My father was always suspect of them.”
“Does my father know of this?” Monet asked.
“It is certain he does. It is why there are guards in the village.” Richard Tailor paused, seeming to glance at something behind Monet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“There is a man in the corner beyond you, your highness,” he answered. “He is cloaked and hooded…and it seems he has been watching us since your approach.”
“And you…you do not recognize him?” Monet stammered.
“I cannot clearly see his face, Princess,” he said. “It may be he is merely a farmer…sitting in silent pondering. Yet I feel this is not why he watches you in such absolute observation.”
Fear gripped her of a sudden. She had been foolish! Her father had forbidden her to leave the castle this night, and yet she had disobeyed him. Just cause or no, she had disobeyed him. Only now did she wonder at the consequence. Was the man behind her a servant of King James? Were there enemies among the villagers—unseen adversaries lying in wait for just such an opportunity to strike?
“He advances, your highness!” Richard growled. “He has risen from his chair and strides this way. Make haste and flee!”
Yet time was not an ally of Monet in that moment, for no sooner had she turned to flee than she felt powerful hands take hold of her arms.
“You should not be here, Princess!”
Monet nearly fainted at the familiar growl forthcoming from within the black hood before her. Sir Broderick!
“You will not take our Scarlet Princess!” Richard shouted.
Sir Broderick released Monet, sweeping the hood from his head.
“I will take her!” he growled. “And I will return her to the castle where she can be protected.”
“The Crimson Knight!” Richard Tailor breathed in astonishment.
“Cover!” Sir Broderick shouted of a sudden. Monet gasped as the Crimson Knight released her—drew a dagger from a sheath at his waist, hurling it past her head. Several women cried out, and Monet heard a low moan exhale from someone behind her.
Shouting, screams, and confusion followed as Sir Broderick pushed her to the floor, drawing his sword. Stricken with terror, Monet covered her head as the brutal crash of blade meeting blade rang through the inn. Yet the clamor of battle ceased near as quick as it began. Monet felt the powerful grasp of the Crimson Knight at the back of her neck—as he clutched the fabric of her cloak in a strong fist, pulling her to her feet.
“Bind these men and bring them to the castle gates,” he ordered.
Monet glanced about, aghast as Richard Tailor—son of a fallen soldier of Karvana—drew the Crimson Knight’s dagger from the forehead of a man lying across a nearby table. Bowing with respect, he offered the weapon to Sir Broderick, who accepted it, sheathing it at his waist.
Richard nodded to Monet—a nodding of gratitude and renewed strength. “Thank you, Princess,” he said—though no sound escaped his mouth.
“The boy was right. You should not be here, Princess,” the Crimson Knight growled. Monet looked up into the infuriated scowl of Sir Broderick Dougray. His handsome face was dirt-streaked and weary, yet as comely as ever it had been. Her heart beat mad within her bosom as she stared at him in astonished disbelief.
“Long live Rothbain!” a man lying at her feet shouted. Monet looked to him—to the enemy of Karvana there in her midst. The villain grimaced and pressed a hand to a wound at his side—a wound running blood out upon the floor. “Long live King James and—”
The miscreant’s cry was silenced by the Crimson Knight’s boot crushing his villainous breast—by the tip of Sir Broderick’s sword at his traitorous throat.
“I would as soon carve out your gullet as see you brought to Karvana Castle!” the Crimson Knight growled. “Yet King Dacian will want to face the man who dared threaten his daughter’s safety.”<
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Taking Monet by the arm, Sir Broderick began fairly dragging her toward the door leading from the inn.
Monet glanced back—to the villagers of Karvana surrounding the dead man and the wounded one, to Richard Tailor, who nodded his assurance. The Crimson Knight’s demand that the men be brought to the castle gates would be obeyed. It had not been necessary for him to have chosen one or two particular men to carry out the deed; his commanding voice had called every man in the inn to hasten to his order.
Monet wondered at Sir Broderick’s presence in the inn. How long had he been returned to Karvana? Had he simply been lingering at the Emerald Crown? Or had he known she would find her way there?
As Sir Broderick conducted her toward the door, a man stepped into their path, barring their way. Yet the Crimson Knight did not pause. Monet stood confounded as, releasing his grip on her arm, the Crimson Knight drove one powerful fist to the man’s face—then another. Again his fist met with the man’s jaw, rendering him benumbed. Like a felled tree, the man crashed to the inn floor senseless and bleeding.
“Bind this one as well and bring him to the gates with the others!” Sir Broderick growled. Taking hold of Monet’s arm once more, he pulled her through the door and out into the lavender of eventide.
Monet did not speak—did not dare to offer any utterance. The Crimson Knight pushed her forward, placed his hands at her waist, and lifted her onto the back of a horse bearing no saddle. At once he was mounted behind her, wrapped one powerful hand in the horse’s mane, and spurred the animal into a wild gallop. Certain she would slide from the slick beast’s back, Monet leaned back against the strong, brawny body of the Crimson Knight, desperately clutching at the soft leather of his trouser thighs in an effort to steady herself.
She closed her eyes—an effort to fortify her courage and strength. Yet her mind began to present a procession of memories, a gallery of images past—of King Ivan’s tournament, of the Crimson Knight’s victory in swords, maces, and the joust! What mild events were tournaments and banquets when weighed against battles in the fields and spies lying in wait in Karvana’s inns?
A Crimson Frost Page 10
