A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Good morning, Sir Broderick.”

  The melodic lilt of her voice near caused him to tumble from his chair, so unexpected was it.

  “Princess,” Broderick greeted, forcing himself to rise and bow to Monet. She smiled at him, so innocent to the true demands and destruction of war.

  “H-have you been in counsel with my father?” she asked.

  “I have,” he said. She frowned a little, and he knew she thought him vexed with her.

  “Oh, I see,” she whispered. Her countenance seemed to change, fear and worry arresting her features. “Is it hopeless, Sir Broderick?” she asked. “The war to keep King James from conquering Karvana? Is it so very hopeless? I beg the truth from you…please.”

  With purpose he allowed his gaze to narrow to a glare. He must strengthen himself for battle. No soft or tender emotions must caress his heart or mind. If King James were to be bested—if Karvana’s heart were to be protected—then it must be a soldier, a knight of Karvana, who protected it—not a weakened, fearful boy!

  “No,” he said. “It is not hopeless. But if Karvana is to survive…if she is to be victorious and James of Rothbain vanquished, great sacrifices are yet to be made…by all who love and defend her.”

  “I am one willing to make any sacrifice for her, Sir Broderick,” the princess told him. He almost smiled at the sudden straightening of her posture—the indignant rise of her pretty chin.

  “Good,” he growled, “for it may needs be you sacrifice near all you know…as others of us have covenanted to do.”

  He watched as her lovely amethyst eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Have I vexed you somehow, Sir Broderick?” she asked. “Have I done something to offend you? Or perhaps you are still angry with me for…for disobeying my father…for the incident last evening that began at the Emerald Crown.”

  Broderick studied her for a moment and wondered—would the Princess Monet appear so becoming if she stood before him in a peasant girl’s frock and not the fine scarlet gown she wore? If her ebony hair were windblown instead of perfectly braided, if a smudge of dirt marred her face, would she be as beautiful? She would—he knew it. Further, he feared she would be more so.

  “I am only weary, Princess,” he said. “Forgive me.”

  “I would forgive you anything, Sir Broderick,” she said, smiling at him.

  “Would you?” he mumbled. Her soft brow puckered with perplexity, yet he offered her no time to inquire further. “I am certain your father is desirous of your company this morning,” he said. “I therefore take my leave. Good day, Princess.”

  He did not look at her again, nor wait for her to bid him farewell. Two days—it was all the time allotted him to prepare, and he must prepare—as best he could.

  “God help me,” he breathed as he strode down the corridor.

  “Good day, Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. The great Crimson Knight was quite out of countenance. In truth, Monet had never seen Sir Broderick so out of countenance. Nor had she missed seeing the gathering of parchment he held fisted in one powerful hand. Her father’s seal was upon it: charges—battle strategies. Monet swallowed the thick fear in her throat as she watched the Crimson Knight stride away. Her father was sending him back into battle! The thought near tore her tender heart.

  Thus Monet did not beg audience by knocking on the great door to her father’s chambers. Simply she burst in upon him—so startling him he gasped.

  “Monet!” he exclaimed. “You fair caused the Reaper to ghost me! What are you about, rupturing the privacy of an old man?”

  “You are not an old man, Father,” Monet scolded. “By far you are not. But what task have you set upon the Crimson Knight? I thought he would behead me as soon as speak to me just now?”

  Her father sighed. This only increased her concern.

  “He was in possession of parchments, Father,” she began, “parchments with your seal. What strategies are you sending to the legions in the north? Or have you sent him on a singular errand?” The pounding in her bosom increased—the deep fear for Sir Broderick’s safety. Three months she had worried for the Crimson Knight in battle—each sunrise wondered if he would be among the dead returned to Karvana in the death carts. Yet since the night before, since the moment he had revealed himself at the inn, she had known a measure of comfort. Even for the Rothbainians who had attempted to capture or murder her, even for the mad ride to the castle, the archers poised above, even for all of it she had been blessed with the knowledge that Sir Broderick Dougray was well—that he lingered in safety at Karvana Castle.

  Further, Monet yet wondered why the Crimson Knight had questioned her when she had told him she would forgive him anything. Was he sent on such an errand of horror as to strip him of his honor somehow? Had he been sent as assassin, to cut off the enemy’s head?

  “Perhaps you have sent him to behead King James,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.

  Monet frowned when her father chuckled, drawing her from her reverie. “No. I have not. Yet it is a valid suggestion. And I have no doubt Sir Broderick Dougray could accomplish such an incomprehensible task were it given him. But, no, I have not sent him to execute King James…as much as the thought tempts me now.”

  “In any regard, he seemed pure vexed…with me, I am sure,” Monet said.

  “You are thinking he is vexed over the events of last evening…the events begun at the Emerald Crown and ended in your bower.”

  “What else could put him in such state of discountenance toward me?”

  “War, my dove. Vexation, frustration, foul temperament…these are what war heaps upon a soldier,” her father said. “In truth, I thought he might not be quite so vexed still…for I have agreed to knight Eann on the morrow at his request.”

  “Father! That is wonderful!” Monet exclaimed, still wondering what charge her father had given Sir Broderick. “Eann has labored hard to prove himself worthy.”

  “That he has, and though he is young, I believe he is deserving…and ready,” King Dacian said. “Young Richard Tailor is to be Eann’s squire. This was also Broderick’s request.”

  Monet thought it odd—the manner in which her heart fluttered with delight and pride in the knowledge Sir Broderick would be so thoughtful of his squire and others.

  “It is so very admirable that he would request this of you, Father…of all the things you must have offered as honor for whatever charge you gave him. Eann will be a great knight…and someday so may Richard Tailor be,” she said. “Yet what could you have asked of him that he would endeavor to secure Eann’s knighthood?”

  “Curiosity is well a part of war, Monet,” he said. “Yet secrecy is the larger part.”

  “Forgive me, Father,” Monet said, humbled. “I would not endanger Sir Broderick by pressing you to reveal strategies you should not.”

  “That is wise, Monet. Very wise.”

  “There. In the least I have made one wise decision these past days…though it is painfully difficult not to wonder over such things.”

  Her father chuckled and gathered Monet into a warm embrace.

  “I-I am so glad to see you, Father,” she whispered as tears escaped her eyes and trickled over her cheeks, “though I find somehow that I am weaker with you near…weaker even than I felt when you were away.”

  King Dacian kissed Monet’s cheek and said, “When I was away, it was needs be you were strong for the people. You could not let them see you frightened or hopeless…and your princess’s spirit knew this. Now that I am returned, I can help bear this weight with you…full take it from you in this moment or that. And there is no shame or weakness in sharing a burden. This you must remember always. Hardship is better endured when shared, my dove.”

  Monet smiled—sighed with momentary contentment.

  “You will never know how glad my heart is in your presence, Father,” she said. “These past months, when you were at battle…I feel I have not slept sound since you first rode from the castle with your knight
s and legions about you.”

  “War does not bode well for sound sleeping…that is certain,” King Dacian chuckled.

  “Perhaps it too is as simple as that,” Monet said, moving from her father’s embrace to better gaze into his smiling face.

  “Perhaps what is so simple, dove?”

  “The Crimson Knight’s pure vexed appearance. Perhaps he is only weary from battle…war-worried and fatigued.”

  “Perhaps,” Dacian said—though he well knew Broderick’s countenance bore far deeper concerns. He forced a smile, lovingly caressing Monet’s cheek with the back of his hand. How desperately he loved her! How sweetly her people loved her! As he continued to gaze at her, Dacian knew—once again he knew he had acted with wisdom. Karvana’s hope must be protected—spirited away to preservation. How he would miss her, his beloved Monet, the beautiful Scarlet Princess—the Heart of Karvana.

  

  “How handsome you are in your fine wine-colored tunic, Sir Eann!” Monet exclaimed. She smiled as a soft vermilion blush rose to the cheeks of young knight, Sir Eann Beacher. Indeed, Eann did look magnificent in his new finery. His sanguine tunic with golden shield and fierce-tusked boar seemed perfectly befitting—a distinct contrast to his fair hair and brown eyes.

  “Thank you, Princess,” Eann said. “And does not Richard look quite dashing as well?”

  Monet nodded, placing a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “And do you think you will enjoy being squire to Sir Eann, Richard Tailor?” she asked.

  Young Richard smiled. “Yes, your highness.”

  Monet giggled. She was purely delighted—momentarily overcome with the obvious joy displayed on the faces of the young men she attended.

  She thought of the day before. The ceremony of Eann’s knighting had been quite affecting! Her father had knighted Eann with great dignity and respect, heralding a speech to all in attendance as to the profound honor and expectations of knighthood. The ceremony had given the people renewed hope—to see a young knight so willing to serve Karvana and its people.

  Furthermore, all had cheered with pride and joy when Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight, presented Eann a sword. The Crimson Knight’s presentation of such a valuable weapon, its hilt bejeweled of rubies, displayed his faith and trust in his once squire, now fellow protector of the kingdom. Eann bore the entirety of the ceremony humbly and well, with demeanor befitting a true knight of Karvana.

  Young Richard Tailor had been quite overjoyed to learn he had been selected as squire to Karvana’s newest knight. Squiring was difficult, yes, but also very lucrative. Likewise it held the potential of knighthood. With a simple request of favor, the Crimson Knight’s generosity had enriched two lives—pure given hope to one who had owned little before.

  “Yet what will Sir Broderick do without you, Eann?” Monet asked.

  Sir Eann’s broad shoulders lifted in an unknowing shrug. “I do not know. He has not told me who he intends to take as his squire now.”

  “Your father begs audience, Princess Monet.”

  Monet turned to see one of her father’s pages standing just behind her.

  “Thank you, Channing,” she told the small, dark-haired messenger.

  Yet Channing gave no nod—made no move to depart. “He asked me to escort you to your bower at once, Princess,” he said instead.

  “Very well,” Monet said. She felt a slight frown pucker her brow. Her father must own severe news or instruction indeed.

  She nodded to Sir Eann—to Richard. “Forgive me my leaving you so abruptly, gentlemen.”

  “Good day, Princess,” Sir Eann said. Richard bowed, and Monet took her leave.

  As she followed Channing into the castle, a strange and discomforting warmth began to bathe her limbs. She could not remember a time her father had commanded a page to escort her to him. Had something occurred with the battle to the north? Was King James gathering troops nearer to Karvana?

  Somehow, in those moments, as fear began to overtake her, Monet was soothed by the knowledge that the Crimson Knight had not yet returned to the battles of the north. He was yet well, as was her father. Still, she wondered if her father summoned her to inform her they would be returning to the northern battles. Perhaps he had altered his consideration that Karvana’s king should linger at the castle. Perhaps he planned to return to the battle with the Crimson Knight.

  This thought did not comfort her, and though she knew it pointless, she inquired of Channing, “Does Sir Broderick mean to take his leave, Channing? Do you know…is he planning to return to battle? Will my father accompany him?”

  Channing merely shrugged his slight shoulders.

  “I know nothing of why you are being summoned, Princess,” he said. He paused then, turning to look at Monet. Glancing about as to ensure their privacy, he whispered, “Yet I do know he has been in counsel with Sir Broderick all this long morning!”

  “Truly?” Monet asked in a whisper.

  Channing nodded. “I even heard raised voices…often…especially Sir Broderick’s…though I could not discern the subject of their conversation.”

  “Sir Broderick? Raise his voice to the king?” Monet was astonished!

  Channing nodded. “And Friar Fleming was with your father this morning…as was the Minstrel Marius.”

  “Friar Fleming? From the village?”

  Channing nodded. “Yet I heard no music when Marius was in audience, Princess.”

  “We must be failing in the north, Channing,” Monet whispered. “Father has, no doubt, asked the friar to accompany him on his return. Too many men are dying. Friar Fleming will give their spirits hope.” She paused and frowned, pensive. “Perhaps he has asked Marius to join them as well…that they may be entertained or—”

  “We must hurry, Princess,” Channing said, taking her hand, thus leading her on toward her bower.

  Channing must be unsettled indeed to take such liberties as to touch her. Monet smiled, delighted by his lack of propriety. Yet the feeling of imminent doom advanced upon her all the more—for what need would her father have to meet with these men in her bower chambers? Was King James’s reach so near to Karvana that her father felt no shield to danger—even in his own throne room?

  As they approached her bower door, Monet was rendered breathless, for the Crimson Knight stood conversing with the Minstrel Marius and Friar Fleming. The three men looked to her as she approached. Marius nodded a greeting and bowed. Monet nodded to him—to Friar Fleming—to the Crimson Knight.

  Dressed in full armor, save his helmet, the Crimson Knight was fierce to look upon. His raven hair was swept back, save one dark strand rebelling to caress his forehead, and his eyes smoldered with indistinct emotion.

  “You are to wait here, Channing,” Sir Broderick said, yet glaring at Monet all the while.

  “Yes, Sir Broderick,” Channing said. The boy glanced at Monet—forced a smile of friendly reassurance.

  “Your father would speak to you, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet watched as he placed his hand on the latch of her bower door. He seemed to pause—drew a deep breath. At last he pushed at the latch and stepped into the room, standing aside that she may pass.

  Her father sat upon her bed, his head bowed, his shoulders drooped in a like manner of defeat. In his hand he held parchments—soiled and bloodied. Monet knew that it was a list of the dead. She had seen the death cart approach at sunrise and knew that seven soldiers of Karvana had been returned to their kingdom, never to draw breath again.

  Monet startled as she heard the door close and latch behind her. Turning, she saw the Crimson Knight take stance, feet apart, armored arms folded across his broad chest. It was odd he should remain while she would be in counsel with her father.

  “Father?” Monet whispered. “What has happened?”

  She watched as her father paused a moment before rising.

  “It is many hours I have spent in contemplation of how you would be told of this, Monet,” he said. He tried to force a smile but c
ould not. At once, Monet began to tremble. Something had transpired. Had James of Rothbain truly won victory in the north?

  “It is best to simply say what must be said, Father,” Monet said, though the sense of dread welling in her bosom near overwhelmed her.

  “Yes,” he agreed. He turned to her, his eyes narrowed, a deep frown puckering his brow. “Then let it be said. King James’s men—the few that were brought to the castle still breathing, after having endeavored to overtake you at the Emerald Crown—cowards that they are, they have confirmed what we have long suspected. They have revealed James’s intentions where you are concerned, Monet. ”

  “Where I am concerned?” Monet whispered.

  “King James would have you brought to Rothbain…held for ransom or forced to his marriage bed…that my resolve to defend Karvana against him might be weakened.”

  “But, Father—” Monet began as terror swept over her anew.

  “We knew this would be his strategy, of course,” her father interrupted. “Even I have spoken of it to you. Yet I tell you now…this will not be. Karvana must not live in constant fear that its heart may be taken from it.”

  “Father…I am sorry for my disobedience of two nights past,” Monet began. He did not yet trust her. Her disobedience on the night Sir Broderick had rescued her had not left his mind—nor his heart. Of a sudden, desperate to own his trust, she pleaded, “I will not go out among the people. This I have promised you, Father. I have sworn my obedience. What fear of King James have I if I remain—”

  “Swear it now, Monet,” King Dacian growled. “Swear your obedience to your father and king…here…now…that James of Rothbain may be thwarted in one evil strategy in the least.”

  “I swear it, Father!” Monet cried. She thought of Sir Broderick—of his sworn allegiance and loyalty to her father and the kingdom. “I swear no less obedience than one of your knights! Think you I less obedient than they?”