A Crimson Frost (32 page)

Certain it was true, Monet knew boundless bliss and happiness in knowing Broderick loved her. Certain it was true, Broderick owned the same in knowing she loved him. Still, for all their long conversations in attempting to convince one another otherwise, they worried for their kingdom, their king, and his subjects.

Early winter had slowed King James’s attack. Though his legions camped just without Karvana village, he did not attempt to lay siege to the town and castle. It was a foolish king who endeavored to battle winter as well as conquest a kingdom. James was greed-driven, not foolish.

This Monet discerned as she and Sarah sat in the blacksmith’s cottage after supping.

“Rudolph yet pauses,” Bronson said. “He is a coward, and it may serve Karvana well.”

“He
is
a coward,” Broderick began, “and therefore weak…pliable of mind. James has but to find a method of convincing, or a means to control him, and Rudolph will falter.”

“I am weary of this war talk, Prissy,” Sarah sighed. “Let us, you and I, away to the next room…where we may speak of happy things.”

Sarah rose from the table, as did Monet, but Bronson caught her hand, staying her.

“We will cease this speak of war, Broderick,” Bronson laughed, “for we are driving away our wenches…and we certain do not want to be without our wenches!”

“Indeed!” Broderick chuckled, taking Monet’s waist between his hands and pulling her to sitting on his lap. Monet giggled, took Broderick’s handsome face between her palms, and quick kissed him on the mouth.

“You are a bad man, Bronson the blacksmith,” Sarah giggled, though she promptly sat on her husband’s lap, caressing his smooth-shaved head with one gentle hand.

“I am!” Bronson said. “For I wish to hear a song.”

Monet bit her lip with delight, for it was Sarah knew many songs, most of which were mirthful.

“And which song is it you wish to hear, blacksmith of Ballain?” she asked.

“My favorite,” Bronson laughed, “‘The Merry Ale Wench’!”

Broderick laughed, and Monet could not help but caress his face. How she loved him! How entirely and wholly, utterly, and deliciously she loved him.

“Very well, Blacksmith,” Sarah said.

Monet giggled as Sarah left her comfortable seat on Bronson’s lap, stepping up onto the table.

Broderick smiled, cupped Monet’s chin, and drew her lips to his in a moist, warm, and lingering kiss.

“‘The Merry Ale Wench,’” Sarah said, bowing. Monet clapped her hands softly in rhythm as Sarah danced light on the table and sang.

Oh, there was a merry ale wench…with cheeks of rosy pink,

And she did serve all manner of amber ale drinks!

Oh, how the patrons loved her…the men who met her there,

For she was young and pretty…with ale-amber hair!

Monet laughed, delighted by both Sarah’s song and light dance and the look of love and admiration on her blacksmith husband’s face as he gazed at her.

Oh, the ale wench was Fanny…her mother’s name was too.

And she bewitched the patrons with the ale her father brewed.

Yes, many men wished Fanny would bless them with her kiss,

But they dared not to touch her, for she owned a fatal fist!

Of a sudden, the door to the blacksmith’s cottage flew wide—a breathless Stroud at the threshold startling all within.

“Father!” Stroud shouted. He was wild with distress—yet paused, frowning as his gaze fell to his mother. “Mother?” he asked, pure perplexed as he studied her a moment. “Why stand you on the table?”

“Stroud,” Bronson said, tearing his son’s attention from his mother. “What is it?”

“The minstrel…Reynard…the one who was here only weeks past,” Stroud began, “he has been brought to Ballain…bloodied and beaten and arrow-wounded. He yet lives, but he is in a bad way. The miller does not know if he will survive. It seems he has been robbed.”

Monet rose from Broderick’s lap as he stood.

“Has the minstrel spoken, Stroud?” Broderick asked.

“No, Sir Broderick…but he is awake,” Stroud answered.

“We must speak with him,” Broderick said to Bronson.

“Yes…at once,” Bronson agreed.

Broderick looked to Monet, gripping tight her hand. “You will come with us. This cannot be mere chance. You will stay close to me.”

Monet nodded. “Of course,” she said. She trembled as she and Broderick followed Stroud to the mill. Bronson was at their backs—ever wary.

Indeed, the Minstrel Reynard was badly beaten. Monet winced at the sight of him, for her soul whispered it was he found himself harmed for sake of Karvana—for sake of her.

The Miller Aldrich and his wife tended the beaten man.

“Will he live?” Broderick asked.

The miller shrugged, combing strong fingers through silvered hair. “I cannot yet tell you,” Aldrich said. “He is badly beaten…though I did remove the arrow. It was at him through the back.”

“Did you yet have it?” Broderick asked.

“Yes,” Aldrich said. He reached beneath the table on which the Minstrel Reynard was laid out, producing an arrow and handing it to Broderick.

As Broderick studied the arrow, so too did Bronson and Aldrich.

“Rothbainian,” Bronson mumbled.

The minstrel moaned, and Monet could not keep from placing a comforting hand at his brow.

“Minstrel Reynard?” she whispered.

“Swift break the seal,” the minstrel mumbled. “The Crimson Knight must break the seal…swift he must break it.”

“Where were you attacked?” Broderick asked. “From whence came you to return to Ballain?”

“Ballist,” Reynard breathed.

“He is fevered,” the miller said. “He is speaking ballad words of Ballist and the Crimson Knight.”

“Yet he…he holds brave…” the minstrel whispered. “In Ballist he holds brave.”

“Who?” Bronson asked.

But Reynard fell unconscious and spoke no more.

“But who would endeavor to beat and kill a minstrel? Why not rob him and cast him aside?” Aldrich asked.

Monet felt tears fill her eyes. She looked to Broderick, fury plain on his face.

“Bronson,” Broderick began, “you must set the village at the ready. A Rothbainian arrow though a minstrel’s back…a minstrel who claims he was at Ballist so near Ballain…”

“King James is stretching his arms,” Bronson said.

Broderick nodded. He looked from Bronson to Monet.

“Forgive my Prissy, Aldrich,” he said. “She is weary and must retire.”

“Take her then, Broderick,” Sarah said. “Bronson and I will linger to help here.”

“I am so sorry,” Monet whispered, yet caressing the bruised and bloody brow of the minstrel.

“I know it is frightening, Prissy,” the miller said, “but it is no fault of yours.”

Monet forced herself to nod at the miller—though she well knew Reynard’s condition was full her fault.

“Ballist is too close,” Broderick said as they hastened to the cottage. “If there are Rothbainians lurking there…then they will soon seek out Ballain.”

“Who do you think holds brave in Ballist, Broderick?” Monet asked. Fear was full in her soul. Of whom had the minstrel spoken? Who held brave in Ballist?

Broderick shook his head. “It is not the king. He would not be so easily captured…and what reason would James have for taking him to Ballist? If that is what you are thinking…that it is somehow your father…it is not.”

Still, Monet breathed yet with little ease.

“Will we flee Ballain?” she whispered as they entered the cottage.

Broderick closed the door and drew the bolt across it.

“Ballain is one of the farthest townships from Karvana,” Broderick said. “If King James’s reach finds Ballain…it will find any village.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “We will be watchful of strangers. We will hide ourselves in the woods.” He frowned, his eyes moist with emotion. “But know this. Whatever comes…I would die in preserving you, Monet.”

“Do not talk of death, Broderick! Please do not speak such things,” she said.

At once he gathered her into his arms, warm against the strength of him. Monet let her arms embrace him tight—wept against his strong chest.

“Very well,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “We will linger through the night. On the morrow we must plan. But for now, I will keep you warm in our bed…safe in my arms.”

Monet pressed to him, desperation coursing through her being. She would hold him—for he was hers! Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight—the horseman of Ballain—he belonged to her full body and heart, and she to him.

The noises of the night seemed loud and strange to Broderick. As his beloved lay restless in his arms, he listened. He would not sleep; he had known he would not. Yet there had been no manner other in which to lead Monet into bed and sleeping. His mind told him to run—that they should not linger in Ballain. Yet to flee in winter’s cold—without preparation—he was uncertain as to the wisdom in that too. In truth, his heart had surrendered—to his love for Monet. For the weeks past he had bathed in the beauty of her love for him—pushed thoughts of war and knighthood to the far corners of his mind. Yet he remembered now, he was a knight—First Knight of Karvana, Guardian of the Scarlet Princess, Blood Warrior of Ballist—and a fight was coming to him. Of this he was certain.

The Crimson Knight drew his wife tight to his chest—buried his face in the sweet fragrance of her soft hair. Gently, he kissed the back of her neck, tasting her flesh. He well knew he could be killed in preserving her. Yet he cared only for her—her life and love.

Of a sudden, Monet turned in his arms. Though he could not see her eyes for the dark in the cottage, he knew she looked for him, for he felt her soft hand at his cheek.

“My pretty knight is plagued with worry and planning,” she whispered.

Her fingers caressed his lips as he said, “Yes.” He felt her mouth press warm and inviting to his own, and he returned her kiss once—twice—took her mouth with his own as his passionate love for the Scarlet Princess consumed him.



“Yet why did they choose to beat a minstrel?” Bronson asked. “It is sure they were searching for any who might own information. But a minstrel?”

“Oh, it is true they are often weak of body and light-minded,” Broderick said. “When in truth…who hears more than a minstrel? Are they not often present in banquet halls, throne rooms, and village squares? Sitting silent, save for when they are plucking lutes and singing ballads…who would have better opportunity to hear ill-guarded secrets?”

Monet glanced up to Sarah, who nodded in agreement with her husband.

It was long Broderick and Bronson were conversing in the forge. Broderick was helping Bronson to ready weapons—for the men in the village—and for himself.

Monet rose, for the forge was stifling and the talk of weapons and battle frightening.

“Monet?” Broderick asked, however.

“I only mean to breathe a breath without, Broderick,” she said. He had not let her from his sight since the night before, and she was well glad of it. Yet the forge was so dark and close.

“I will go with her,” Sarah said. “Just without…for only a short time.”

Broderick opened his mouth to forbid it, but Bronson’s hand on his shoulder calmed him.

“If they keep to smithy wall?” Bronson asked.

Broderick nodded. “Keep to the wall,” he said.

“Yes,” Monet agreed.

Sarah pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders as they stepped from the smithy into the cool air of winter’s morning.

“We shall be needing furs soon,” Sarah said.

“It is colder,” Monet said. She followed Sarah to the side wall of the smithy, where sat a small bench. The two sat down upon the bench, and Monet laid her head back against the wall.

The village seemed so still. She could hear the distant lapping of the mill wheel still lifting water from the pond. In the distance, children laughed, and a breeze whispered through her hair.

“Princess Monet?”

Was it the whisper of the breeze she heard—a whisper so soft as to own the timidity of a child’s voice? Yet when she felt Sarah’s hand at her arm, Monet opened her eyes. She could not draw breath—not even gasp. Her lips parted as horror fair entombed her—yet she could not speak—she dared not—for the sharp blade of a dagger pressed the tender flesh of the boy’s throat. He was dirty—dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the deep purple of painful bruising at one swollen cheek. His page’s cloak was torn, his dark hair matted and disheveled.

“Channing?” Monet whispered as tears left her eyes to rain over her cheeks.

“Do not speak,” Sir Fredrick Esmund commanded in a whisper, “lest I slit his throat and bleed him out before you.”

The Bravest Page

“Do not cry out, Princess,” Channing whispered, tears brimming in his frightened eyes. “All will be well.”

“Release the boy,” Sarah demanded.

“Hush, woman!” Sir Fredrick growled. Monet did not breathe as Sir Fredrick’s dagger blade hard pressed Channing’s throat, the tip of it drawing blood just beneath Channing’s left ear. “I
will
kill him.”

“Sarah,” Monet said in a whisper. “Pray do not press Sir Fredrick. Make no sound.”

“Come with me, Princess,” Sir Fredrick growled. “Come with me. Bring your friend…and we will discuss the boy’s life.”

“You are dead if you go with him,” Sarah whispered.

Monet looked to her beloved friend—wept for the tears brimming in Sarah’s eyes.

“Channing is dead if I do not,” she whispered.

“Make haste,” Sir Fredrick breathed. “If you summon the blacksmiths in any way, I will open the boy’s neck.”

Monet rose, as did Sarah.

Oh, how Monet wanted to cry out—call for Broderick! Yet Channing’s frightened eyes, the bruising about him, his disheveled appearance—Sir Fredrick would kill Channing if Monet cried out. Of this she was certain.

Monet and Sarah kept to the backs of the cottages, as Sir Fredrick instructed. No one saw them, for the village was yet quiet, the cold of morning still lingering upon it. He led them into the wood—near to the cropping of holly Broderick had once led her to—once kissed her before. Monet wondered then—would she ever know his kiss again? Was her beloved lost to her, as perhaps her own life may be?

“Far enough,” Sir Fredrick said. As he paused to look about—to ensure their privacy—Monet acted. Lunging toward him, she drew a second dagger from a sheath at his waist. Holding the dagger firm with two hands, she pressed the tip of the blade to her bosom.

“Release him!” she cried out. “Release the boy and Sarah…or King James will have you executed for failing in your charge!”

“Princess!” Channing cried. Sarah gasped but stood firm.

Sir Fredrick’s eyes widened. He was unsettled—yet held fast to Channing.

“I will kill the boy,” Sir Fredrick growled. “Do you doubt I will do it?”

“I do not,” Monet said, “for you are a filthy coward! Yet kill him…and you will not bring me back to King James alive. And he does want me alive…does he not? Else you would have killed me at first sight.”

In truth, Monet knew she could not plunge the blade into her bosom—she would never and could never take her own life or any others. Yet she hoped Sir Fredrick were not so certain of her incapability.

Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. “The boy has told us of your father’s forced marriage.” Monet looked to Channing. Tears were streaming over his young cheeks, and Monet wondered what abuse he had endured—what harm had come to him that would cause him to reveal her marriage. Yet she did not fault one so young of revealing while being beaten and tortured. Ever she had adored young Channing, just as her father favored him. She felt only love and compassion for Channing—loathing and anger for those who had harmed and pressed him.

“Yes…the boy told us of your father’s valiant attempt to preserve the royal bloodline of Karvana. If I release the boy, he will no doubt hasten to the village to inform your decrepit old husband that you have been taken. Elderly or not, Lord Shelley is still able enough to raise an alarm that you have been taken.”

Monet frowned. She did not speak, though perplexed. She must think. Lord Shelley? Lord Robert Shelley was an ancient noble of Karvana, steward of the
village
of
Neville
beyond Karvana Far. Monet looked to Channing. The frightened blue eyes of her father’s favored page seemed to plead with her—and she understood. Though Channing had been captured, beaten, and threatened into revealing King Dacian’s charge of exile where Monet was concerned, the young boy had somehow been able to keep the name of Monet’s true husband as secret. Channing was Lord Shelley’s grandson, and he—knowing Lord Shelley was of a branch of near-extinct royalty—had been sharp of wit—known such a marriage would have seemed plausible enough to King James to be believed.

“Lord Shelley will indeed raise the alarm,” Monet said. “Yet the alarm will be raised in like manner when it is discovered I am gone. Thus release the boy to Sarah…with instruction to linger…and I will go with you. Willing I will go if you release them. If you do not…I will die, and King James will be thwarted.” Monet brushed tears from her cheek. “Release him! You are causing him pain and fear! If you do not release him, I swear I will not return with you…not alive.”

“Hush, woman! Lest you raise the alarm yourself and watch the boy bleed out before you!” Sir Fredrick growled.

Monet tried to calm her trembling. Oh, why had they left the forge? For the sake of fresh air? She was self-loathing at her own weakness. Broderick had not wanted her to leave his side—yet she had pressed him, and he had allowed it. Her mind silently shouted his name—cried out for him—
Broderick!

Monet inhaled a deep breath of courage—pressed the dagger tip near painful to her bosom.

“You are not alone. I am sure you are not, Sir Fredrick,” Monet said. “Then release the boy. Order that he should linger here with this woman until we are well away…even there is a small clearing behind the crop of holly…there,” she said, nodding toward the holly. “Let them shelter there till nightfall. Even leave a man to watch them from afar to ensure they do as you have commanded. They may go to the village after sunset…if Lord Shelley does not miss me first. It will be impossible for the villagers to track us at night. Do this…or you will not return me living to King James.”

Monet watched as Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. “You will come of your own accord?”

“You have my word,” she said.

“Swear it!” Sir Fredrick growled. “On this boy’s life…swear you will not struggle…that you will accompany me willingly.”

“I swear it!” Monet cried. “Now release them, or I will sure pluck out my own heart!”

Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. He studied her for a moment, no doubt uncertain in trusting her word. Trembling, Monet stood firm. He must believe she meant to die before letting him kill Channing. Though she would not take her own life, she would fright Sir Fredrick to her death at his hand before she would see Channing killed.

Channing cried out as Sir Fredrick pushed him forward and into Sarah’s arms. Sarah embraced Channing, smoothing his disheveled hair, kissing his tear-stained cheeks.

“Come to me, Princess Monet,” Sir Fredrick growled. “I have your word…and I may yet throw the dagger through his heart!”

“Princess!” Channing cried.

“Silence!” Sir Fredrick barked.

Monet lowered the dagger she held, offering it to Sir Fredrick as she walked to him.

Instantly, he took her arm—brutal gripped in his hand.

“It is I think King James would see me delivered unharmed…as well as alive, Sir Fredrick,” she said.

He glared at her, eyes narrowed with loathing.

“You! Woman!” Sir Fredrick barked, looking to Sarah. “Do not speak to this boy. And, boy…if you speak one word to this woman before sunset…my men will tell me if you do, and it will not bode well for Karvana’s princess. Do you understand?”

Channing brushed tears from his cheeks, nodding.

“Woman?”

Sarah nodded as well—held Channing tight and protected against her body.

“Then come, Scarlet Princess of Karvana,” Sir Fredrick said. He smiled, a triumphant smile of arrogance. “King James awaits.”

Monet looked to Channing. “You are a brave boy, love,” she began, “and a very wise friend.”  She looked then to Sarah. “Tell Lord Shelley of my love for him.”

Sarah nodded, brushing at her tears.

Monet brushed more tears from her face—paused, saying, “Do as you are told, Channing…Sarah,” she said. “Wait until sunset. Then seek out my husband. It is well you know he will care for you. He will come for me. You know that he will. Your quick wit has saved us, love.”

“Lord Shelley, indeed,” Sir Fredrick chuckled. “Dacian assured knew pure desperation in preserving his line…to wed you to a relic the likes of Shelley. Come then, Princess,” Sir Fredrick said, tugging her arm, “for you have given your word.”

Monet gasped as Sir Fredrick took hold of the back of her dress, pulling her away from the frightened boy—from her beloved friend—from Broderick’s protective reach.

“See that they do not speak…nor leave the grove till sunset. If they attempt any conversation or escape, bring them to me,” Sir Fredrick ordered as a Rothbainian soldier approached. Monet breathed a quiet sigh. She had hoped Sir Fredrick owned a breath of chivalry. As a knight—even as a knight of Rothbain—he was bound to honor his word.

Sarah and Channing would be well. Further, they would be found—and soon. Monet knew Broderick would miss her. Ever watchful as he was, perhaps he had already missed her. He would find Channing and Sarah, and he would come for Monet. Of a sudden, Monet was not so frightened as she had been a moment before—for she knew Broderick loved her and would come for her.

She looked at Sir Fredrick as he led her through the wood. Even she stared at him.

“Why do you study me so, Princess?” he asked. “Are you wishing your father had wed you to one so handsome as I…and not some relic of the kingdom past?” He chuckled.

“I was only just imagining how you will look without your head,” she began, “for my husband will surely see you bled out by his own hand if you harm me.”

Sir Fredrick sneered. “Lord Shelley bleed me out? And I am the fairy king, Princess.”

“I hope the man you left to guard my friend and the boy…I hope he did not mean so much to you,” Monet said as she yet walked beside him. “For if my husband should come upon him…if your man should engage my husband…he will not be returning to you. Not alive.”

Sir Fredrick laughed. “Do not tell me…do not tell me you have found feelings for this man your father wed you to!”

“Do not endeavor in arrogance over my husband, Sir Fredrick. It may well cost you your life,” Monet said.

Sir Fredrick continued to chuckle, however. “Ah, Princess,” he sighed. “In the least the return to Karvana may be amusing in your company.”

Monet said no more. She would keep her secret—the true identity of her husband. And when the Crimson Knight came for her—when he bested Sir Fredrick at war as easily as he had in lances at Ivan’s tournament—full she would relish the expression on the villain’s face then. Broderick would come for her. She must know patience and keep her wits about her till he did.

“They are not at the cottage,” Broderick growled. “The false woodpile has not been touched.”

“Sarah would not allow the princess to leave,” Bronson said. He ran one trembling hand over the smoothness of his head.

“They have been taken,” Broderick said. “My soul tells me it is true.”

Bronson hurried to the wall of the smithy. Quickly, he took down several swords—including the Crimson Frost he had once shown to Broderick.

Handing the Crimson Frost to Broderick, Bronson shouted, “Stroud! Wallace!” A moment later, as Bronson secured his own to his waist, Stroud and Wallace entered.

“Father?” Stroud asked.

Broderick could see by the manner in which the boys stood at the ready—their father had trained them for battle.

“Wallace,” Bronson began. “Bring Kenley. Tell Birch to stay with Carver and Dane. Your mother and the princess have been taken.”

“Mother?” Wallace exclaimed.

“The Gauntlet is yours, Stroud,” Bronson said, handing the longsword to his son. Stroud nodded and strapped the sheathed sword at his waist. “You may choose your weapon, Wallace,” Bronson said. “You and Kenley may choose…and then you will go to the miller. Tell him the village is in danger. We must arm ourselves…all of us.”

“Yes, Father,” Wallace said, taking his leave at once.

Bronson gathered daggers then, handed two to Broderick, and placed two in his own belt.

“We will find them, my friend,” Broderick said. He could feel his knightly strength returned—and with it his rage.

Bronson nodded. “We will.”

Broderick had never known such fear. When he had left the smithy in search of Monet—when he had not found her near—he had been fearful near to madness. Calm and rational thinking had been lost to him for a time. Yet he had breathed deep a moment—stood pensive for a time. He knew King James would not order Monet killed—that he would want her delivered to him alive and well, to serve whatever villainous purpose he owned. In his heart Broderick knew his beloved wife lived—though he was not so certain of Bronson’s. Still, he thought Sarah might be used as a pawn—a tool of convincing Monet to do as she was commanded. In this, Broderick hoped Bronson’s beloved was yet well.

In striding from the cottage back to the smithy, his strength had been renewed. The strength of the First Knight of Karvana had returned—as well as his wisdom and wit.

“We will track them,” Broderick said.

Bronson nodded. “Then let us do so.”

“There were no tracks near the cottage,” Broderick said as they stepped from the smithy into the cold of winter. “And Monet would not have gone far for the breath of air she begged.” He shook his head. “I should not have lost sight of her…not for even a breath.”