A Crimson Frost (23 page)

“Yet that king is dead, and another now sits on Karvana’s throne…one who would vindicate the great Exemplar Knights…one who would gladly right the wrong done them. Do not you think then…could not one of these lost Knights Exemplar…could not he be counted an ally?”

Monet felt an odd quiver travel through her body. As was often the truth, the Crimson Knight owned a knowledge she did not. Of this she was certain.

“You are feeding me fodder of preparation for something else, Broderick. Are you not?” she asked. “Pray tell me what you are thinking.”

Broderick paused, inhaling deeply as if in coarse contemplation. “The blacksmith,” he began.

“Bronson?” she asked. “What of him?”

“He bears two marks—one beneath each arm…just here,” he said, motioning to the place under his strong arm—a hand’s width above the bend in it. “A circled brand. Do you know this mark?”

Monet felt her own eyes widen. “You have seen this? He bears the mark on each arm…on both? Are you certain?”

“I am.”

“The mark of the Knights Exemplar! The symbol of their eternal brotherhood!”

“Hush!” Broderick scolded, reaching out and placing a hand over Monet’s mouth a moment to quiet her excitement. She wondered if he were in suspect they were not alone in the cottage—though she knew well they were.

Tugging his hand from her lips, she whispered, “An Exemplar Knight! Here in our village? Bronson?”

“I am not sure certain,” Broderick said, lowering his voice. “But there is much about him that gives me cause to believe that he is one of them. What man would endure the pain of branding if it were not so? What reason would a man own for playing at being an Exemplar when they are no longer banded?”

“He appears in age to be one who could have been an Exemplar,” Monet offered.

“And he is yet strong…keeps himself fit for hard work…and perhaps battle.”

“And you are thinking his sons are far too skilled with a blade,” Monet whispered. Broderick frowned with inquisition, and she blushed. “I have watched you play at battle with them on occasion. Stroud and Wallace…even Kenley and Birch are wielders well of wooden sparring swords.”

“And do you remember, the first night we supped with them…young Kenley, when we were speaking of Ballist, he said the family hid…for they feared their father being taken by Morven to battle against the king.”

Monet nodded; she did remember it.

“Further…what need has a blacksmith of so many horses?” he said. “He owns four…asks me to sell him two more…near one for each son. This is a knight’s method, not a blacksmith’s.”

“You tell me you are not certain…yet I can see that you are,” Monet said. “Is it only to share curiosity that you tell me this now?”

Broderick paused—seemed to consider. “It would be good to know…if a fight came to us here…it would be good to know there was one we could trust,” Broderick mumbled.

“And we well could trust a true Exemplar Knight!”

“I believe we could,” he said.

Monet could feel her own eyes bright with excitement. An ally! One living in exile as she and Broderick lived. Surely he could be trusted. Surely he was still loyal to Karvana and her king.

“Yet which one could he be? His name, I mean?” Monet asked, of a sudden overcome with curiosity of her own.

Broderick shook his head. “How could we know? And what would the need be of knowing which he is?”

Monet smiled. “Among other reasons…to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Broderick chuckled. “Well, as much as I wish to settle your fevered mind, there is no way of knowing…other than his choosing to reveal to us.”

She giggled. “I learned a song once, as a child. My grandmother taught it to me before her death. I remember hearing Marius sing it as well—the names of the Knights Exemplar, put to melody.”

Broderick smiled. “Then sing it to me, Prissy…that we may endeavor to discern the Exemplar here.”

“Very well,” she said. “Only remember…it is a song meant for children. It is very simple.”

“As it should be,” he said.

Monet patted her cheeks, silently pleading that their blush would fade. Inhaling a breath of courage, she then sang the song of the Knights Exemplar.

Twelve knights to marvel…twelve knights of fame,

Twelve Knights Exemplar…twelve knights of name.

Thus name them now, each Exemplar bold,

The Knights Exemplar…their legend told!

Sir Ogden Mather sits at the round,

With a wild steed and a milk-white hound.

Sir Hunter Kenley born of
Devon
,

With brothers five and sisters seven.

Sir Alum Willham, knight young and brave,

Fair of hair and a handsome knave.

The wisest of all Sir Leland Knox,

Strength of a wolf and wit of a fox.

Sir Ackley Carrington, strong and tall,

Will crush the enemy—bones and all.

Sir Garrick Jarvis, with gauntlet strong

And a jeweled blade, saves right from wrong.

Sir Stanley Sheppard guards the flock,

With force of iron and might of rock.

Sir Fairfax Ewing, first son of Roan,

Cousin to King of Karvana’s throne.

Sir Richard Hamilton, Exemplar nine,

Is partial to game and wench’s wine.

Sir Payton Ransley bears one green eye.

Blue is the other—as blue as sky.

Sir Wakefield Denton, with fingers eight,

Lost one in battle and one to fate.

Last, brave First Knight is Sir Elton Kent.

He serves the kingdom—wherever sent.

Twelve are these at King Seward’s table,

Twelve with horses in Seward’s stable,

Twelve who fight for Karvana’s sake,

Twelve knights with trembling in their wake.

Monet finished her song and said, “And that, my pretty Crimson Knight…is the song of the Knights Exemplar.”

Broderick smiled, drawing his hands together in pleased applause. “Well done!” he said, chuckling. “Well done!”

Monet nodded and said, “I thank you for your approval, good sir. And I bid you use it to your aid in our quest to determine which Exemplar our Bronson may once have been.”

“Very well,” Broderick said, lowering his voice once more. “There
are
pieces of description in it.”

Monet smiled. “Pieces I never fathomed as owning consequence before. As a child, it was merely a song to sing in passing the time. Yet in this moment…I do see!”

“Thus, we can reason…Sir Alum Willham is in your father’s service at this moment. In service…or dead of battle in the north. Therefore, the blacksmith is not Sir Alum.”

“Dead?” Monet breathed. A vision of Sir Alum, kneeling before her as she wished him well in riding to battle, lingered in her mind.

Broderick shook his head, placing one strong hand of comfort over hers where it lay on the table. “No…not our Sir Alum. He battles still…I am sure of it. Remember…I squired…he taught me. ” He meant to comfort her a little, and he did.

He smiled and asked, “Which Exemplar owned but eight fingers?”

Leaning forward, Monet smiled and whispered, “Sir Wakefield
Denton
…and Bronson owns all ten fingers. Therefore he cannot be Sir Wakefield Denton.”

“Precisely.” Broderick exclaimed. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Monet’s cheek. The gesture caused the delicious delight of gooseflesh to swathe her arms.

“And you—you, a woman who regards such things—what color are our blacksmith’s eyes?” he asked.

“Brown,” Monet breathed. “Then he cannot be Sir Payton Ransley…for he had one green eye and one blue.”

“Thus we have cast off three of the twelve as possibilities.”

Monet felt her own eyes narrow as she studied him. “You have determined, without doubt, that it is so?” She said. “You have determined Bronson the blacksmith is indeed one of the banished and lost Knights Exemplar?”

“There is more than the brands on the underflesh of his arms that whispers to me,” he said. “The swords he fashions with his bellows and hammer—swords of such perfection, with such the detail of a true craftsman—no ordinary blacksmith expends his strength forging weapons afforded only by knights and kings.”

Monet nodded in agreement.

“And it is true what you say,” Broderick continued. “Always I have wondered over Bronson’s sons. They are far too skilled in brandishing blades…both swords and daggers. It is in my mind they are accomplished with maces and bows as well. These are not mere peasant boys gifted of God with the apt wielding of weapons. These are young men who have been trained to battle. Their skill, their form…it is distinct. Sir Alum taught me in like manner. For one who knows the ways of the great Exemplar Knights, it is easy to discern that Bronson’s sons have been knightly trained.”

“How long have you been suspect of this, Broderick?” Monet asked.

He paused. “You will not be angry with me?”

Monet smiled. “Of course not. Why ever would I be angry with you for being so foxish in your wit and wisdom…in your skill of discernment?”

He nodded. “Then I confess to knowing something surrounding him the moment we arrived in Ballain. He is a profound leader. It is pure obvious he has experience in leading men…for he leads the village with the wisdom and manner a knight might lead his men. Further, he watched over each person and family…as if they were his own kin.”

“Perhaps he is then Sir Stanley Sheppard,” Monet offered.

“Why say you he is Sir Stanley?”

“For the reason I know the song far better than you,” she giggled. “Sir Stanley Sheppard…who guards the flock?”

Broderick nodded. “I see the wisdom in that.”

“And in the rest of Sir Stanley’s verse…with the force of iron and might of rock,” she said.

“Hmm. It does indeed put one in mind of a blacksmith,” he mumbled.

“Yet there is Kenley to consider,” Monet said.

“His son?”

Monet nodded. “Is young Kenley so named for his father’s true name…the Exemplar Sir Hunter Kenley? Or is he named for his father’s friend?”

Broderick laughed. The Scarlet Princess was full possessed by curiosity! Her eyes were bright with wonder. She was beautiful!

“Or perhaps,” Monet began, “perhaps he is Sir Richard Hamilton…the gambling wencher!” Her mouth dropped in wonder as her mind continued to conjure. “Perhaps then Sarah was once a wine wench at the Emerald Crown…and Sir Richard spirited her away into banishment with him!”

Again he laughed, wholly amused by her speculative chatter—wholly delighted by her company.

“Sarah does not seem the wenching sort,” Broderick offered.

Monet arched one brow. “Are you so familiar with the wenching sort as to recognize them at first sight?”

“No,” he said, smiling. She knew he was amused by her, though she knew not whether it was her appearance, her words, or her ways that amused him. “And though you know even less about the wenching sort…you do not truly think Sarah was once a wine wench…do you?”

Monet shook her head. “No. She does not seem anything akin to cook’s red-haired maid.”

Broderick chuckled.

“Oh, you must discover it, Broderick!” she exclaimed. “Else I am gnawed to death with curiosity!”

“I will endeavor to discover if he would, in truth, be counted our ally. Beyond that I cannot promise you, Princess…for there is a reason he is named Bronson Blacksmith here. I would not risk revealing his secrets, for they are his for his reason…and for the protection of his family, no doubt.” He smiled at her, and she nodded.

“You are right…as always it seems you are,” Monet said. She leaned forward. “Yet you must promise to share any knowledge you may gain as to which Exemplar Bronson is. Do you promise?”

He smiled and nodded. “I will tell you what I discover.” His eyes narrowed, and he leveled a forefinger at her. “But you must not press Sarah. We must remain in secret here, Monet. If she is the wife of one of Karvana’s banished Exemplar Knights, she will be wary of too many questions asked…as would we.”

“I will not press her,” Monet said. She leaned forward, till her face was only a breath from his. “But I will press you.” Quickly she kissed him on one unshaven cheek. Pushing her chair from the table, she near leapt to her feet. She could not linger so close to him, for his nearness was causing such a flutter in her bosom as she could not breathe calm.

“Tripp is at the fence,” she said, opening the shutters to gaze out the cottage window. “You are tardy with feeding him, and he is sore vexed with you.”