A Crimson Frost (2 page)

“I would have your honor shared with my father…with our kingdom…with these and none other. This I would beg you, though temptation would endeavor to lead you otherwise,” she confessed.

“My honor?” he asked. “My honor already belongs to your father…and our kingdom.”

“It is tomorrow’s honor I speak of,” she began, venturing to raise her gaze to meet his once more. “It is said you will easily win King Ivan’s tournament, and I would beg you…please share the honor with my father and all of Karvana.”

Still he frowned; still the severe blue of his eyes lingered on her.

“Your appeal near confounds me, Princess,” he said. “Do I not ever bring honor to my king and kingdom? Should I
live
through the trials of the tournament—let alone prevail as champion—what thing could possibly divert the honor from resting on my king and Karvana?”

Monet glanced away—cast her gaze to the ground. Oh, why did he disquiet her so? It seemed she was ever out of countenance in his presence.

“Anais intends to beg you bear her favour in the tournament,” she explained.

“Anais?” he asked. “Who is Anais?”

Monet looked back to him, delighted to see the sincere, unknowing expression on his face.

“Anais of Alvar.” Sir Broderick’s frown deepened. Thus Monet offered, “Alvar’s princess? King Rudolph’s daughter?”

His frown softened, yet disdain seemed to flame in his eyes. “I never beg tokens or carry favour,” he grumbled.

“Yes…I know,” Monet said. “But how will you refuse without offending?”

“I will simply decline.” The loathing in his eyes was growing, yet Monet knew the depth of consequence should her father’s first knight provoke a wounded countenance in Anais of Alvar. Anais’s father, King Rudolph, saw no fault in his daughter—no matter her behavior or another’s testimony. King Rudolph would demand recompense for his daughter’s spurned request.

“But you must not simply decline,” Monet began, “not a request of Anais of Alvar. I am certain you have heard of King Rudolph’s prejudicial concerns for his daughter’s sake. Your refusal would not bode well for you or my father. No doubt King Rudolph would demand compensation…of some sort.”

Sir Broderick inhaled a deep breath, his massive chest rising with indignation and near-spent patience.

“Again you confound me, Princess,” he said. “You ask that I share the honor of triumph with only your father and our kingdom…yet inform me I may not refuse this princess her request. I beg you then, Princess Monet…offer me a path of safe conduct wherein I can remain honorable in your eyes, loyal to my king and kingdom, and yet avoid provoking King Rudolph.”

Monet shook her head. “I-I know none. It is why I have sought you out. To refuse Anais’s request would certainly bring discomfort to my father. But to accept it…for were King Dacian’s first knight to wear—”

“Hush!” he interrupted. He closed his eyes a moment—seemed to strain his hearing. He looked to Monet then, demanding, “Step into the pavilion, Princess.”

“What? I cannot!” Monet argued. She wondered why her voice had instantly dropped to a whisper.

“I hear an approach,” he said. “A company…and not of knights. Therefore, unless you wish to be found out—”

Monet stepped into the pavilion as the Crimson Knight demanded. He, however, immediately stepped without, quickly unleashing the ties of the two front flaps, concealing her within.

“Sir Broderick?”

It was Anais! Monet held her breath, fearful both of being found out and of the Crimson Knight’s response to Anais’s request.

“Yes?” Sir Broderick’s deep voice boomed.

“I am Anais…Princess of Alvar,” Anais said.

“I am your servant, Princess,” Sir Broderick greeted.

Of a sudden, feelings of vexation leapt in Monet’s bosom. She loathed Anais of Alvar! Ever she had loathed her—even as a child. She wondered what manner of assembly accompanied Anais. Ladies-in-waiting? Servants?

Curiosity triumphed, and Monet knelt, pressing a hand to the ground in the endeavor of peering through the small opening at the bottom of the pavilion. She could discern the hems of three gowns—ladies-in-waiting—and further the boots of two guards.

“I have come to offer a great honor to you, Sir Broderick,” Anais said. “I believe you are one who is worthy of such an honor.”

“I am worthy of nothing, your highness,” Sir Broderick began, “let alone the honor of basking in your lovely presence.”

Anais and her ladies giggled with vain delight.

“You are humble…as well as handsome, Sir Broderick!”

Monet frowned, jealousy, resentment, and anger coursing through her limbs. She watched as Anais’s hem moved toward Sir Broderick—advanced upon the Crimson Knight.

“And I believe you are he—the only knight at King Ivan’s tournament worthy of this honor,” Anais said.

“Pray, Princess…may I ask what honor you intend to bestow?”

“I would have you bear my favour in this tournament, Sir Broderick,” Anais stated. “I do wish you to know that it would be my honor as well as yours…for I have heard you have never carried favour into a tournament or battle.”

“None visible, your highness,” Sir Broderick said.

Monet frowned. None visible? Had Sir Broderick Dougray carried a hidden favour? Again jealousy rose within her bosom—a diverse jealousy—a competitor to the jealousy Anais wrought.

“Do you accept my offer, Sir Broderick?” Anais asked. “Do you accept the honor I am willing to bestow upon you?”

Monet could not breathe! How would he answer? Would King Dacian’s first knight prove himself wholly loyal? Furthermore, would he prove to be clever—clever enough to circumvent offense to Alvar, its princess, and its king?

“I fear it is with heavy heart that I must decline, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet still did not draw breath. Instead, she waited—waited for Anais’s emotional eruption—the eruption of angry indignation Monet knew was forthcoming.

“You refuse?” Anais asked, anger rising in her voice.

“No, your highness,” Sir Broderick answered. “Rather, I must decline…wretchedly decline.”

“Decline? And why?” Anais demanded. “When I offer such an honor to you, Sir Broderick…what reason would you have of declination?”

Monet still did not breathe—waited for his response.

“I already carry favour, your highness,” Sir Broderick said. “Only this morning I begged a token of another…and she has only just granted me the honor to bear
her
favour in King Ivan’s tournament.”

At last Monet drew breath, sighing reprieve. Sir Broderick Dougray had declined! The Crimson Knight had gallantly offered declination and without contributing malicious offense. He had proffered a lie, it was true, yet in protection of his king. Who would not allow it? For a moment, Monet frowned.
Had
Sir Broderick offered a lie to Anais? Or had he hidden the truth from Monet? Perhaps he had begged token from another—before she had entered his pavilion, before Anais had sought him out. She closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly to dispel the unhappy thought. No. The Crimson Knight was known for his loyalty. Monet was certain he would have informed her had he already begged a token or accepted favour.

There was silence for a moment. Monet knew Anais well; the Princess of Alvar was reigning in her temper. Anais was infuriated—there could be no doubt of it. Nevertheless, even Anais, daughter of Alvar’s King Rudolph, could not find fault with a knight who would honor his own word and previous commitment.

“Your loyalty and honor are praiseworthy, Sir Broderick.” Anais began, “To keep your pledge and bear another’s favour when Anais of Alvar has offered hers? Noble, indeed.”

Monet clenched her teeth. It seemed Anais’s vanity knew no bounds. Of what greater worth was Anais’s favour than that of any other maiden upon the earth?

Monet rose from her knees, frowning with the familiar inflammation of temper provoked by Anais.

“I bid you good day, Sir Broderick,” Anais said. “May you fare well in the tournament tomorrow.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Sir Broderick said.

Monet heard Anais’s amused giggle. “Pray not as well as whichever knight bears my favour, however.”

“Yes, your highness.” Monet noted Sir Broderick’s response sounded somewhat forced—thick with impatience.

The sound of retreating footsteps was soon followed by a low, angry growl.

Monet gasped as the pavilion flaps burst apart to reveal the infuriated countenance of the Crimson Knight. The enraged expression of indignation on Sir Broderick’s face indeed caused Monet to step back and away from him.

“I have done your bidding, Princess, and declined Anais of Alvar’s offer…and without striking great offense,” he grumbled, his frown deepening still.

“I-I thank you, Sir Broderick,” Monet stammered. As the Crimson Knight advanced into his pavilion and toward her, Monet took another step in retreat. “I am in your debt.”

“You owe no debt to me, Princess,” he said, glaring at her as if she were some threat or enemy he would at any moment strike from existence.

Monet shook her head as despair began to overtake her then. “Yet tomorrow, when Anais sees you bear no favour…what then?”

The Crimson Knight’s frown softened from that of fury to one of inquisitiveness.

“Are you in earnest, Princess?” he asked.

“Concerning what, sir?” Monet asked in return.

“Do you truly think I would claim to bear a lady’s favour and then appear in the tournament without one?” he asked.

Of a sudden, comprehension pierced Monet’s awareness.

“Y-you would bear
my
favour, Sir Broderick?” she asked in an astonished whisper. “You would carry my scarlet into tournament?” Surely he was in jest! Yet the thought of the Crimson Knight entering the jousting arena, the scarlet veil of Princess Monet of Karvana knotted at his arm, sent gooseflesh rippling over Monet’s limbs.

“Is not your father my king?” he asked. “Is not your kingdom the same I defend? And are not you also representative of Karvana and King Dacian?”

“Yes, sir,” Monet answered.

“Then what more appropriate favour could I carry?”

“B-but the Crimson Knight of Karvana never carries favour…in tournament or battle.”

“Then you have charged a maneuver against me no other foe ever has, Princess,” he said, “and triumphed.”

“I do not act against you, Sir Broderick,” Monet defended. “I only sought to gain you as my ally.”

He exhaled a heavy breath, shaking his head.

“I am your father’s first knight, Princess,” he said. The intenseness of his narrowed eyes increased. “I have ever been your ally…from the moment I pledged allegiance to Karvana and its king.”

“And it is the reason I came to you,” Monet said. “Imagine the people of Karvana—imagine their faces—had their first knight, their most beloved protector…imagine had he ridden into tournament with the Princess of Alvar’s favour at his arm.”

“I would not have accepted her favour, Princess,” Sir Broderick nearly growled, his frown deep across his handsome brow.

“And King Rudolph’s fury would have—”

“It is done, Princess,” he interrupted, raking strong fingers through raven hair. “Whether or not you trusted my loyalty to my king and kingdom…I did decline, and I will bring honor to your father and all of Karvana…by carrying the favour of their princess into tournament.”

“Please do not be angry with me, Sir Broderick,” Monet ventured. She did not wish to own his vexation. In truth, she wished to own…

“I am not angry, Princess…not with you,” he mumbled. “Believe what I tell you. I do understand the concerns that drove you to approach me…no matter my appearance of fickle temperament.”

He did. She knew he did. For all his frowns and menacing glaring, Monet knew Sir Broderick Dougray understood why she had come.

His eyes narrowed as he studied her for a moment. “Do you know the prize King Ivan has named for the tournament champion, Princess?”

“Of course,” Monet answered. In truth, she did not know precisely what prize King Ivan had named. Nevertheless, she did not wish to appear ignorant before one so seasoned in battle and tournament. Therefore, having attended many tournaments, Monet assumed the prize would be a golden statue, a finely crafted sword, a high-bred charger, or a thing of worth the like. No doubt a heavy purse would accompany whatever symbol of victory was bestowed as well.

Monet experienced a slight unsettling of her stomach as the Crimson Knight’s frown vanished, something akin to a mischievous grin owning his lips.

“And do you still wish to grant me the honor of bearing your favour in the tournament?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, still attempting to appear to own knowledge she did not.

She forced herself to a facade of calm when Sir Broderick’s dark brows arched with seeming slight surprise.

“Good. Then you further know the tournament will begin with the Ceremony of Colors…each lady presenting her chosen knight with her favour—a length of silk, a ribbon, or the like in the color significant to only her,” he explained.