A Crimson Frost
Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
Copyright
©
20
12
A Crimson Frost
by Marcia Lynn McClure
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.
Published by Distractions Ink
P.O. Box
15971
Rio
Rancho
,
NM
87174
Published by Distractions Ink
©Copyright 2009, 2012 by M. Meyers
A.K.A. Marcia Lynn
McClure
Cover Photography by ©
Nicholas Rjabow
and
Curaphotography/Dreamstime.com
and ©Sheri Brady/MightPhoenixDesignStudio.com
Cover Design
and Interior Graphics
by
Sheri Brady/MightPhoenixDesignStudio.com
2nd Printed Edition: January 2012
All character names and personalities in this work of fiction are entirely fictional,
created solely in the imagination of the author.
Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—
A Crimson Frost
: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.
ISBN: 978-0-9852740-5-4
Library of Congress Control Number:
2012931783
Printed in the
United States of America
To
Lord Alfred Tennyson,
Alfred Noyes,
and Brian Crain…
For gifting the world such resplendent and unparalleled beauty!
An Inquiry of
Favour
“And yet no knight has ever carried Monet’s favour,” Anais began, “not even in one of her own father’s tournaments.”
“Perhaps she simply does not fancy any knight in particular and, in owning no partiality, does not wish to proffer her favour,” Portia spoke in defense of Monet.
Hidden behind one of the heavy tapestries hanging in the Hall of Ancestors at
Ivar
Castle
, Monet smiled, grateful for at least one ally in Portia. She stood motionless—continued to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place in the room beyond the great hanging drapery.
“Every living creature owns a partiality where knights are concerned. Some simply offer no declaration,” Anais said. “I hold no fear of declaring my partiality. Thus, my favour has been carried in many a grand tournament.”
Though she could not see her face for the tapestry, Monet noted the thick vanity in Anais’s voice. It was true: many a renowned knight had carried Anais’s favour of color in tournaments past. Greatly sought after was the favour, and hand, of Anais of Alvar. It seemed a familiar length of lavender silk or satin—her preferred color of ribbon, veil, or ornament—adorned some strong arm at each tournament—ever the arm of a celebrated or distinguished knight of a king’s round table.
However, Monet’s favour, a scarlet veil or length of silk worn as embellishment to her gowns, had never known the joust—never ridden into battle—for she did not hold favours with lighthearted dalliance the way Anais of Alvar did. Thus, Monet had never lent her scarlet favour to any knight, nor had she requested any knight carry it.
Nevertheless, on this day, the whispered gossip of the young royals beyond the tapestry vexed her exceedingly. She knew the speculation concerning her father and his kingdom—the hushed inferences regarding his only daughter and only heir. Many were they in whose opinion the widower King Dacian—reigning monarch of the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
—should again take a wife in attempt to produce a male heir. Many were they who worried King Dacian’s daughter, Monet, would not prove a strong enough monarch to hold at bay King James of the neighboring
Kingdom
of
Rothbain
. James was Dacian’s distant cousin, and it was truth James coveted Karvana to near madness. Many were they who whispered Monet—as one day queen—could not stay Karvana from falling to James.
Moreover—and further vexing to Monet—was the gossip concerning her troth. King Dacian refused to proclaim her intended—even to Monet herself. Her marriage would be arranged, there was no doubt. Still, Dacian would not name the man to whom he intended to wed his daughter—the man who would one day rule beside her. This caused a great unrest in Dacian’s kingdom and to other kingdoms whose rulers sensed James of Rothbain’s thirst for conquering—fearing one weak kingdom would find theirs also vulnerable.
“And who has asked to carry your favour in King Ivan’s tournament, Anais?” It was Lenore’s voice questioning now. “Who will you choose to bear it tomorrow?”
“Oh, many have begged a token of me…I assure you that,” Anais answered. Monet’s teeth clenched as Anais giggled with triumph. “Nevertheless, I will not grant my favour to any of those brave knights who have thus far requested it.”
“What?” went up the common exclamation among the young women beyond the tapestry.
“You are in jest…surely,” Lenore offered.
“Nay,” Anais said, giggling once again.
“Then your favour will not be represented in the tournament?” Portia inquired.
“Unquestionably it shall be!” There was a pause. In a lowered voice, Anais spoke, “For I intend to appeal to one knight in particular. I intend to ask the Crimson Knight to bear my favour in tomorrow’s tournament.”
As Monet’s hand covered her mouth, she was grateful for the harmonious gasps of the young women in the Hall of Ancestors—a chorus of quickly inhaled breaths, which masked her own. Thus, she was not found to be hiding.
“You cannot be in earnest, Anais!” Portia exclaimed. “The Crimson Knight? Sir Broderick Dougray? He has never borne any woman’s favour in tournament or battle.”
“Perhaps merely for the fact no woman has ever mustered the courage to request it of him,” Anais said.
“He is King Dacian’s first knight,” Lenore began, “celebrated beyond any other knight in the five kingdoms!”
“Yes,” Anais said. “And he shall bear my favour in the tournament tomorrow.”
“What if he declines, Anais?” Portia asked.
“He will not,” Anais answered, her vanity secure. “I assure you, Sir Broderick will bear my favour…and I have no doubt he will be crowned champion.”
“If only I had been born with a thread of your daring countenance, Anais,” Lenore sighed. “Then I might have the courage to beg Sir Broderick to bear my favour in some future tournament…for he is the handsomest of any knight living!”
“Oh, but you are not daring, Lenore,” Anais sighed, feigning compassion. “Still, take heart…for there are many good knights who would be honored to carry your favour tomorrow. Sir Terrence, for example.”
“He is near as old as my father, Anais!” Lenore exclaimed.
“He is a valiant man,” Portia said, “and my father’s first knight.”
“I meant no offense, Portia,” Lenore said, “only that I wish to have a younger knight carry my favour tomorrow.”
“A younger knight might not have such a superior chance of besting the others,” Portia offered. “Sir Terrence, with his experience and tried strength, is the only knight entered tomorrow who may well best them all…including Sir Broderick Dougray.”
“If it is a champion you seek to bear your favour, Lenore,” Anais began, “you may as well not lend your favour to any knight…for Sir Broderick will be champion. And he will bear a length of my lavender ribbon.”
“Perhaps he will bear Monet’s favour,” Portia suggested.
Monet frowned and clenched her teeth tightly as she heard Anais’s amused laughter echo through the room.
“Monet? Now who is in jest, Portia?” Anais asked.
“He is her father’s first knight, Anais,” Portia reminded. “Further, it would serve King Dacian well to have his first knight crowned champion tomorrow…and it would serve the people of Karvana.”
“Serve King Dacian and Karvana it may…but if the Crimson Knight is named champion, it will be my favour he bears when he is presented,” Anais said.
Monet placed one dainty hand to her bosom. Her heart was mad with pounding—mad with angst and apprehension! She could not endure to see her father’s first knight carry Anais of Alvar’s favour in the tournament. She could not! If Sir Broderick Dougray did win the tournament, the glory should be showered over King Dacian, not over Anais of Alvar—nor her father, King Rudolph. The Crimson Knight’s triumph would be the triumph of Karvana as well—Karvana’s strength displayed before all, including King James. Nothing must distract from King Dacian’s first knight—from Karvana’s first knight. A lavender favour at Sir Broderick’s arm would distract, drawing attention to Alvar and its king—and away from Karvana and her king.
Monet closed her eyes and silently prayed Sir Broderick would refuse Anais’s request to bear her lavender favour. There was more, of course—more to Monet’s sudden sense of desperation, her loathing of the thought of Sir Broderick bearing Anais’s favour—more than merely her father’s triumph and her kingdom’s approval. Yet she would not whisper of it. She would endeavor even not to think of it—her jealousy—her own secreted partiality toward Sir Broderick Dougray. Shaking her head to dispel all thoughts other than those of her father and her kingdom, Monet held her breath and listened as the sound of hastening footsteps met her ears.
“When will you ask Sir Broderick, Anais?” Lenore asked.
“Eventide…after King Ivan’s feast.”
They were gone. Monet stepped from behind the tapestry into the now empty Hall of Ancestors. Her eyes were moist with emotion. Sir Broderick could not bear Anais’s favour! She must find the courage to approach the Crimson Knight—the courage to ask him to refuse a princess, the daughter of one of the most powerful kings of the five kingdoms. She must!
The sun hung exactly overhead, round and bright as a golden coin resting against a swath of sky-blue silk. Monet pulled the hood of her cloak over her head as she made her way through the knight encampment. The black cloak well hid her gown and face. Nevertheless, she worried it was yet too fine a garment—that its black velvet sheen might lure attention. And Monet did not want to lure attention on such an errand.
Monet worried Sir Broderick would be away from his pavilion. Nevertheless, she would endeavor to find him—to ask for his loyalty to her father and Karvana. She already knew the profound depth of his loyalty to both. Yet she must be certain—and so she would solicit.
She saw it then—just ahead—the refuge of the Crimson Knight, the white pavilion with crimson flag unfurled atop its center. The crimson flag—its black dragon reared on hind legs, flaming eyes boring through her—threatened Monet with immediate intimidation. Monet paused, wary of being recognized, frightened of facing Sir Broderick Dougray. She clasped her hands together, attempting to steady their sudden trembling. She drew a calming breath, for she was Karvana’s princess, and the royals of Karvana were known for their courage. Were they not?
The two front flaps of the pavilion were tied back, allowing Monet to see within. A lone man lay stretched out on the ground. His hands tucked beneath his head, he appeared to be resting. It was Sir Broderick—she knew it was. Even though he lay in repose facing away from her, his form was unmistakable. The Crimson Knight was known as a man satisfied in his isolation. Save for his squire and the men he commanded in battle, he squandered little of his time in casual mingling with others. Thus, Monet’s emotions alternated between fear, uncertainty, and determination.
Straightening her posture in an effort to appear more courageous than she felt, Monet glanced about. Where was Sir Broderick’s squire? She surely could not approach without some manner of chaperone, could she? Yet time was waning; Anais of Alvar was well known for her impatience. Monet knew Anais would not wait until after King Ivan’s feast to approach the Crimson Knight. If she wished to ensure her father’s first knight would compete only for his king and kingdom, Monet knew she must act without hesitation.
She approached the pavilion—looked within. Sir Broderick’s eyes were closed. It seemed he slept. Still, time was too valuable to stand on propriety.
“May I beg audience with you, Sir Broderick?” Monet asked. She stood just without the pavilion and was pleased when the great knight did not startle—did not even open his eyes.
Simply he asked, “Who is begging audience, young woman?” The deep intonation of his voice sent gooseflesh prickling over Monet’s arms.
“Monet, Sir Broderick,” she answered. Lowering her voice, she added, “King Dacian’s daughter.”
At this, the Crimson Knight’s eyes opened, his brow furrowing with an inquisitive scowl.
He looked up, and Monet was rendered breathless. Ever the appearance of Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight, had flustered her. Even as a young girl, the acute blue of his eyes had discomposed her nature. There was such a manner of brooding in their remarkable blue, of daring, and of something akin to danger. The Crimson Knight was renowned for his steel gaze—his piercing, dominate gaze—a gaze to set fear into the hearts of men one moment, to infuse desire to the hearts of women the next.
“Princess?” he mumbled. He raised himself and stood. His bewitching gaze caused Monet to tremble further. Sir Broderick glanced beyond her a moment—to one side of the knight encampment and then to the other. “You are not escorted?” he asked.
The Crimson Knight was of great height, and Monet held her cloak hood near her cheek to ensure it would not slip from her head as she looked up at him.
“I am not,” Monet answered.
Sir Broderick’s scowl changed to a frown of inquisition. “Princess, you should not be here…without escort…without—” he began.
“I know, sir,” Monet stammered. “However, I must beg audience with you, Sir Broderick…for I own a request…a request of a personal nature…a request I wish to remain unheard by any but you.”
“Are you threatened in some way?” he asked, one powerful hand grasping the hilt of the sword sheathed at his hip. “Is your father well?”
“My father is well,” Monet answered, “as am I.” Monet swallowed, flustered by the odd warmth bathing her limbs as she looked at him.
Sir Broderick’s raven hair gave prominence to the severe blue of his eyes, the perfect angles of his face. Her attention rested for a moment on the small cleft marking his squared chin. Indeed, his features of face were far beyond merely remarkable, as was the breadth of his chest and shoulders. The length of his muscular limbs also lent to his exceptional appearance.
“Then why came you here without escort, Princess?” Sir Broderick inquired.
“To beg your benevolence, sir,” Monet answered.
She watched as the handsome knight’s piercing eyes narrowed. “My benevolence?” he asked. “What benevolence could a princess beg of me?”
Monet glanced away, his striking appearance yet disturbing her. She fixed her gaze to his broad chest before her—to the white tunic with red shield and black dragon coat of arms emblazoned upon it.