A Crimson Frost (29 page)

Broderick nodded. “We will meet you at the square for the celebration, Bronson. Yet first I would counsel with Monet for a time.”

“All will be well, kitten,” Sarah said. The lovely woman forced an encouraging smile. “You are in Broderick’s care. All will be well.” Sarah tenderly kissed Monet on one cheek, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Thank you for the gift, Sarah,” Monet said, “and for your friendship.” A strange and discomfiting sense of foreboding pinched Monet’s heart. Surely it was only her imagination. Thus, she endeavored to ignore it—even as it grew within her bosom.

“You are not alone in this, Broderick,” Bronson said. He patted Broderick sound on the back as he opened the cottage door. “There are swords here that will aid you in keeping your charge if you need them.”

Broderick nodded, placing one grateful hand on Bronson’s broad shoulder. “Thank you, my friend.”

Monet followed Broderick out of the blacksmith’s cottage—followed as he led her not toward their own cottage but toward the woods nearby.

The air was crisp and cool with the scent of burning pine as its breath.

“I thought you were angry with me,” Broderick said as they walked. He yet held her hand, and Monet yet savored the bliss of his touch.

“Angry with you?” she asked.

“Yes. I thought perhaps you were angry with me for my weakness last evening…that you had set out for Sarah’s and been waylaid by one of these travelers.”

Monet was washed with guilt. What his worry must have been when he had returned at midday to find the cottage empty, no midday meal prepared. She felt sore responsible for causing him worry.

“I am sorry, Broderick,” she said. “I did not think to tell you I meant to visit Sarah.”

He stopped then, midst a grove of pines, near a large cropping of wild holly.

“This is where I want you to come,” he said. He had never let go of her hand—not since they had left the Blacksmiths’. He now took her other hand, glaring at her with firm command. “If something happens…if you are separated from me in some way…I want you to come here. We have the false woodpile, yes. But if you cannot go there, I want you to come here. There is a hollowed out space behind the holly. I would have you wait there until Bronson would come for you. Do you understand, Monet?”

Monet began to tremble. “What do you mean? How would we become separated?”

“Just tell me you will come here if we are separated.”

“You frighten me, Broderick,” she whispered, for she well understood him, and it entombed her in fear. He was giving her instruction—instruction on what measures to take should he be injured or killed—no longer able to protect her.

“I do not wish to frighten you,” he said. “Only to prepare you. Do you understand me?”

Monet nodded. Yet frightened, she would appear strong before him.

He smiled a bit, raising one strong hand to her face. His palm was warm against her cool cheek, and she returned his smile.

“A minstrel lingers with the travelers, Monet,” he said.

“Does he bring word to you? Does he bring word of Karvana?” she asked in a whisper.

“We will not know until the celebration…for no minstrel will speak a message to us. We must listen to the ballads and songs he gifts the people of Ballain at the celebration,” Broderick explained. “Only then will we discern whether he bears a message from the king.”

“But there is hope that he will bring a message…is there not?” she asked.

He smiled, and Monet near melted at the handsome sight of him.

“Yes,” he said. “There is always hope.”

Monet smiled—breathed a sigh. “I slept warmer last night,” she told him. “The warming pan was far preferred to stones.”

“You slept warmer, perhaps,” he began, “but not so sound, I think.”

Monet frowned a little. “And how would you know how sound I slept…or not?”

“You tossed about in your bed as a bucket tossed to the waves of the sea,” he chuckled. “I near rose and tied you down…for I did not sleep any better for sake of it.”

“I am sorry,” Monet said. “I was somewhat restless in the night.”

“Somewhat?”

Monet smiled. “Very well…I was sore restless. I am sorry you did not rest for the sake of me.”

“Kiss me here in the wood…and I will forgive you my stolen respite,” he said.

Monet was breathless at the low and alluring flavor of his voice. Something had changed in him. Where she had feared he would withdraw for guilt of their shared kisses, he had not. Nor had he named her by the loathsome name of Prissy. Not once since he arrived at Bronson and Sarah’s cottage had he termed her so.

“With pleasure, my pretty knight,” Monet said. “I will glad kiss you here in the wood…but I would have you kiss me first.”

“Very well,” Broderick said.

He did not pause but gathered her into his arms, against the powerful strength and warmth of his body. His mouth knew hers at once—and without timidity. Full he kissed her—full he endeavored to draw from her lips some sweet nectar to sustain him. Her hands lost in the soft bliss of his raven hair, Monet met his wanting—her own craved passion for him ripe and ravenous.

She would linger in kissing him thus forever! For all eternity she would stay in his arms, press lips with him, mouths blending in this delicious exchange of affection! If it could be so—she would!

His whiskers chaffed the tender flesh about her mouth, but she cared not! The strength of his arms so tightly bound her as to near crush the breath from her, but she cared not! In those moments Monet cared for naught else—not the crisp air, not the strange travelers in the village. Held in the powerful arms of her love, Monet did not think of Karvana or her peril. She did not worry for her father or his subjects. In those moments there was no Crimson Knight charged with preserving the Scarlet Princess: there was only Broderick, and she was only Monet who loved him.

For hours they lingered in the wood—now kissing, now conversing, then kissing once more—till the noises of the village celebration traveled upon the wind to the place where they tarried.

“We must away,” Broderick said, caressing Monet’s tender cheek with the back of his hand. “We cannot be missed.”

“And we cannot miss the minstrel’s songs,” Monet said, smiling at him.

“No…we cannot,” he whispered. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at her; a frown slight furrowed his brow. He tender kissed her lips once more and then took her hand and started toward the village.

The
village
of
Ballain
fair sang with merriment in celebration. Some of the strange travelers were merchants and had set up market stalls with all manner of wares for purchase. Jugglers and musicians abounded. Even there was a man with a small black bear trained to dance. Monet thought never had a fair or celebration at the castle seemed so merry!

It seemed the face of every villager of Ballain was alight with joy and laughter. Children ran and played in the margins of the square. Couples danced to the music played by three brightly dressed musicians. Hard labor and care were forgotten, as was the approach of cold winter. All in the village seemed to rejoice in hope, and Monet thought perhaps it was not so bad to have the day of her birth remembered, if Ballain’s delight were result of it.

At last, the minstrel appeared. Monet had been impatient, even knowing minstrels the like of Marius and others preferred to wait until a celebration was nearly over before appearing with ballads to entertain.

“Do you know him?” Monet asked Broderick. Broderick had insisted upon wandering through the village—seeing each face of each stranger that had come to Ballain—before allowing Monet to join him. He was fearful some might recognize the Scarlet Princess. Yet he saw no face familiar, nor had Monet since joining him. Broderick had not been able to find the minstrel, however. Even he had worried the minstrel had gone. Still, he appeared now, dressed in crimson and black.

“No. He is a stranger to me,” Broderick whispered. “Yet do you see the color of his cloak?”

“Crimson,” Monet breathed.

“Or scarlet,” Broderick said, smiling at her. “And black woolens. Also two scarlet feathers, as well as one black, adorn his hat.”

“Does his attire speak to you?” she asked.

“It does. He is come of Marius,” he whispered.

Monet’s heart began to pound fierce within her bosom. Marius! Perhaps there would be word of her father and Karvana!

“Welcome, minstrel!” Bronson called. All the villagers hushed at the sound of Bronson’s voice. “Welcome to Ballain!” Clapping rose forth, and the minstrel bowed.

“I thank you for your welcome, good people of Ballain,” the minstrel said. Monet watched as each villager gathered nearer the fire—nearer the minstrel. “I am the Minstrel Reynard, and I come with songs and ballads with which to charm you. Some old, some new…but all are true.”

Monet smiled as she saw the children of Ballain settle themselves on the ground just before the minstrel. It seemed the excitement of the children bled into her own bosom, and she looked to see Broderick smiling as he watched them as well.

“A song then, minstrel! We beg you!” the Miller Aldrich called.

The minstrel bowed and began to pluck the strings of the lute he carried.

“Good people of Ballain, I give to you the ballad of…‘A Crimson Frost’!”

The people of the
village
of
Ballain
cheered. Monet well knew how these people would favor a ballad preserving the tale of their own delivery from tyranny. Yet as she clapped and ventured to Broderick, she knew he was somewhat discomposed.

“Does it pain you…to hear the tale retold?” she asked in a whisper.

“It does not pain me so much as it discomfits me to hear it sung in my presence,” he mumbled.

Monet took his arm, linking her own with it and moving nearer to him where they sat on a fallen tree used as bench in the square.

“You and your men saved these people from oppression and shame, Broderick,” she whispered. “You near gave your life in defense of a threat to the kingdom. Do not be discomfited in it tonight…for they would thank you if they knew the Crimson Knight lingered among them.”

“Once Ballist was a battle stage,” sang the Minstrel Reynard, “where soldiers fought and war was wage, to keep Karvana for an age, and poets yet put ink to page…of a crimson frost upon him.”

The villagers listened to the minstrel—made not a sound—as he wove the ballad of “A Crimson Frost.” When he had finished, there was such a noise of cheering, Monet wondered if Broderick thought himself at tournament once more.

“Thank you, Minstrel Reynard!” Bronson called. “Pray…another ballad, please!”

The minstrel did perform again—then thrice more—each song or ballad earning him cheers, gifts of cheese, pastry, and even coin. He sang first an aged ballad, of Karvana Far and the young prince Dacian’s rise to the throne. He played “The Visitor in Willows,” and even Monet’s neck prickled with gooseflesh as she imagined the ghost of a long-dead lady wandering in search of her murdered lover. The Minstrel Reynard sang “The Lost Princess of the Realm,” and even he sang “Bold Knights of Seward”—a ballad praising the great Exemplar Knights, a ballad Monet had not heard since she was a very small child.

Following each song or ballad, Monet would look to Broderick. Had the minstrel’s tales held a message? Words and meanings only the Crimson Knight could discern? Yet with each ending Broderick would shake his head. Monet began to fear there would be no message from her father—no word of Karvana. Perhaps Reynard was only just a minstrel, traveling the kingdom to earn his living.

“Would the good people of Ballain…would all enjoy a new tale in song?” Reynard asked.

Cheers of encouragement were heard. Monet glanced to Broderick—saw his eyes narrow with suspicion and interest. Her own breath quickened as her heart began to pound within her bosom.

“What tale is this?” the Miller Aldrich called.

“Oh, this is a tale most divine,” Reynard said. As he began to pluck at his lute, he said, “A tale of romance…of secreted love…and of lips pressed in bliss.” The crowd of villagers clapped—called out their encouragements. “This, good people, is a tale of a princess and her knight lover. I give to you, people of Ballain…‘The Champion’s Prize’…the ballad of the Scarlet Princess and the Crimson Knight.”

Monet was rendered breathless! As all of Ballain cheered and clapped, begging Reynard to hasten in commencing his performance, Monet could not draw breath! She looked to Broderick, and he gazed at her for a moment. Monet still clung to his arm, and his hand moved to rest on her leg. Pressing her knee with reassurance, he returned his attention to the minstrel. He would listen—Broderick would listen to the same words sung as Monet would hear. Yet he would hear what Monet knew not how to hear. Thus, she tightened her embrace of his arm—and waited.

In the heavens the gilt sun guarded—as a gold piece swathed in blue—

Brave knights mid Ivan’s tournament, who battled as champions do.

For the Champion’s Prize Ivan promised could not be measured its cost…