A Crimson Frost (36 page)

The horse bearing the great Knight Exemplar reared, stomping the ground before King James.

He lifted his helmet shield, and Monet gasped in a whisper, “Bronson!”

King James sneered as he said, “Ackley Carrington! Defiler of princesses!”

“James of Rothbain,” Bronson growled. “Coward!”

“My helmet! At once,” James shouted. He was full armored, save his helmet. A small squire stepped forward, handing King James his helmet. King James put on his helmet, drawing its shield over his face. “Men of Rothbain! Now you shall see how worthy your king is of your loyalty…and your lives!”

Bronson dismounted and drew his sword. Holding the blade before his face as Broderick had done, he tipped his head to one side and light kissed the glinting steel. Bronson dropped his helmet shield and attacked.

James shouted and Bronson roared as steel clashed! King James was known as a fierce king—a battle-ready beast. Yet Bronson fought strong and sure. All eyes were upon the battle before them—the battle of king against banished knight. And though she was fearful for Bronson—though tears moistened her cheeks at realizing then that Sarah was indeed King Dacian’s sister and her own aunt—still, she slowly crept aside. She would not linger within reach of any Rothbainian.

Blade met armor, blade met blade, and the battle between King James and the great Exemplar Knight Sir Ackley Carrington raged on.

Monet drew near to Anais. She took hold of her arm, capturing her attention—for even Anais was overcome with the battle. Slowly, she led Anais to the margin of King James’s encampment.

“Anais, you must run!” Monet said. “Run to the wood…there…near the crest of the hill! There stand the Exemplars…and your father.”

Anais started to run, yet paused.

“What of you?” Anais asked.

“I will not leave without my husband,” Monet said.

Anais nodded and started toward the wood.

Monet looked to the encampment—the place where Bronson battled King James—as, of a sudden, there was no noise upon the air. The battle had ceased—but who was champion?

“Broderick!” Monet breathed. If James was victor, he would sure order his men to murder Broderick. She owned no thought of herself then—only Broderick. Thus, she hastened to the place where soldiers stood in silence.

Monet slowed as she approached. Broderick was there, well and unharmed. No archers readied to let fly arrows; no soldiers drew swords. She moved closer still—glanced to see the great Knights Exemplar riding down the hill toward her.

King James lay upon the ground, the tip of Bronson’s sword pressed to his throat above his breastplate. King James reached up, removing his helmet.

“You have bested me, Ackley,” James panted. “Once again…it would seem.”

“I should run my blade through your coward’s throat!” Bronson growled.

“Perhaps,” King James said.

“You will cease this battle, James,” Bronson said.

Broderick looked up, catching sight of Monet. She started toward him, but he held up a hand to stay her. All was not safe as yet.

“The white flag!” someone shouted. “Dacian approaches!”

Monet felt tears leave her eyes to moisten her cheeks as her father approached, mounted on his white charger. Next to him rode Sarah. As understanding washed over her, Monet gazed at the lost Princess Eden—Bronson’s Sarah.

“Father!” Monet whispered as he neared.

Channing was there too, mounted behind Wallace. The castle guards were heavily armed and surrounded the royal party. The great Knights Exemplar also surrounded the king and the Princess Eden.

“Sir Ackley Carrington,” King Dacian said.

Bronson straightened his posture. “My king!” Sir Ackley answered.

“You have bested King James?” Dacian asked.

“I have.”

“Then the war is ended.” Dacian said.

“Ended?” King James said, struggling to his feet. “Ended?” Turning to his soldiers, King James shouted, “I have proven my honor! I have proven myself a king! You would turn so quickly on the king who only endeavors to ensure your prosperity? Have I not led you to valiance? Many times to victory?”

Monet could see the Rothbainian soldiers’ countenances. Their doubt in their king was fast fading.

“Would you have a knight humble you? Would you see a knight of Karvana slay your own first knight—the First Knight of Rothbain—without consequence? Would you see your king threatened? I ask you…would you see a Karvanian sit on the throne of Rothbain?”

The soldiers’ hearts were turned back to their king, but Broderick’s wit was quick!

“Knights of Karvana—attack!” he shouted.

At once, there was the clash of steel as the Exemplar Knights rode toward the place where Sir Ackley and the Crimson Knight stood, backs together, fighting Rothbainian soldiers.

“Monet!” King Dacian shouted.

Monet looked to her father as he rode to her.

“Up the hill! At once!” he told her as he drew his sword and rode toward the battle.

Of a sudden, Tripp was at her side—as if Broderick had sent the horse to her. She clung to his mane and mounted—rode up the hill with Sarah and Channing and Wallace at her side.

A great roar commenced, and she looked to see not only villagers from Ballain but also Alvarian soldiers charging down the hill toward the battlefield. Anais stood on the hill’s crest—with her father.

As Monet and the others reached them, King Rudolph said, “King James will not live to threaten Karvana…or Pershtera! He will die for taking Anais!”

Monet turned Tripp, searching the battle below for Broderick. He was there, his raven hair a beacon to her heart.

“He is not armored!” Monet cried.

“He is the Crimson Knight,” Sarah said. “And he has Sir Ackley Carrington at his back.”

“Aunt!” Monet whispered as Sarah reached forth and clasped her hand. “And Channing.” She wept for joy at seeing them safe, yet she wept for fear as the battle raged below. “Broderick…my love!” she breathed.

The Crimson Knight felt steel graze his arm. He turned, plunging the Crimson Frost into a Rothbainian who endeavored to kill him. He fell another enemy—another. Yet he was not armored, and there were twenty men to his one—to Bronson’s one—to each Knight Exemplar’s one! He could hear the pounding hooves. He hoped it was approach of the villagers Stroud led. Still, they were villagers, and these were Rothbainian soldiers.

He looked to Bronson—turned to see his friend catch hold of his arm, blood flowing from a deep wound. They would not survive long at twenty to one. He defended a blow and glanced about.

He looked up and saw King Dacian mounted on his white charger and slaying the enemy to his left and right. This was a good king before him! This was his king—the king who had chosen him, Sir Broderick Dougray, as his successor! This king could not fall!

“Where is James?” he shouted to Bronson.

“There! Just there!” Bronson pointed through the battle to King James, standing behind a line of soldiers shouting orders.

He looked to Bronson. “I would not leave you,” he said.

“Go!” Bronson shouted. “Sever the head of the serpent, and it dies! Go!”

He went then—the Crimson Knight of Karvana advanced upon Rothbain’s king. Three men he fell—four more. A vision of the bloody fields of Ballist was upon him—a vision of the Reaper and the crimson frost. He pressed one hand to his belly as he fell another soldier with the blade of the Crimson Frost. He felt it there—against his body—the leather pouch with his treasured token it in.

“Monet!” he breathed as he ran the soldier through. He advanced, the token at his chest burning—spurring him on with consummate power!

“James of Rothbain!” he shouted. James looked up, anger pure on his face—and Broderick charged forth. There were but three men between him and the wicked king who endeavored to crush Karvana—three men between him and the man who had taken Monet from him—three men who fell by the Crimson Frost wielded well in the hand of the Crimson Knight.

“She is my wife!” Broderick shouted as he stood before James. “And this is my kingdom!”

“Knights are not meant to have princesses! And this kingdom shall be mine!” James shouted as he attacked. Broderick blocked the blow—and another. Near mad with fury, roaring his strength, the Crimson Knight of Karvana wielded the Crimson Frost wide and strong—severed the head of the serpent.

Sir Broderick Dougray stood over the beheaded King of Rothbain. The Reaper was reaping at his feet, yet the sound of battle began to hush at his back. King James was dead.

“Broderick!”

It was Dacian’s voice.

Broderick turned. His king was there—and eight great Knights Exemplar.

“Behold, Sir Broderick Dougray!” King Dacian shouted. “Son of Kendrick Nathair! First Knight of Karvana! Favored Warrior of King Dacian! Commander of the First Legion! Commander of the Second Legion! Slayer of a Thousand Enemies! Blood Warrior of Ballist! Protector of the Kingdom! Guardian and husband of the Scarlet Princess! The Crimson Knight…Karvana’s successor king!”

Such a roar Broderick had never before heard. The Rothbainians began to retreat as Ballainians, Ballistians, and Karvanians from the nearby village cheered. Broderick looked to see Alvarian soldiers as well. All hailed the Crimson Knight, heralded of the king—he who had severed the serpent’s head and ended the war with Rothbain!

Still, for all the glory that they would heap upon him—king and subject alike—Broderick thought not of it. In that moment his heart was glad with living—living for one purpose.

“Monet?” the Crimson Knight whispered as he looked to the hill crest beyond. There stood Tripp—the Scarlet Princess on his back.

“Broderick!” Monet breathed. She saw his raven hair—saw her father, the King of Karvana, dismount—saw Broderick take his place on the white charger—saw the great Crimson Knight of Karvana spur the charger toward her.

As tears streamed over her cheeks—as her heart beat so wild and mad as to cause her pain—Monet whispered, “On, Tripp! Carry me to your master. Carry me to my love.”

It seemed an eternity! Though Tripp was as swift as the wind—though it was mere moments—it seemed an eternity before Monet felt the strength of Broderick’s arms about her, the moist heat of his mouth crushed to hers. She cared not that the multitude of peasants, soldiers, knights, and royalty looked on. She only cared for him—for her Broderick—her beloved.

“Forgive me, Monet,” Broderick breathed when he had kissed her long. “I should never have let you leave the smithy without—”

His words were silenced by her fingers pressed to his lips.

“Hush,” she breathed. She reached up, combing trembling fingers through his hair, gazing into the pure sapphire of his eyes. “It was no fault of yours,” she whispered. “No fault of yours. Yet look what you have done.”

Broderick frowned. “I…I killed the warring king?” he mumbled. Monet smiled, for his humility was only further proof of his greatness.

“You preserved me in exile,” she said. “You hailed forth the great Exemplar Knights from their hiding…and you gathered the people of the kingdom in unity.”

He pressed a bloodied hand to her cheek, yet she did not draw back from it.

“I care only that I have you, Monet,” he said. “All I did…I did to hold you…to taste your kiss…to hear your voice.” He smiled, though she saw the excess moisture lingering in his sapphire eyes. “All I did…I did for the champion’s prize.”

Monet smiled. “Then claim it, my pretty knight,” she whispered, weeping with joy. “Claim your prize. Claim me as your token of favour…for I has ever been yours, Broderick.” She trailed soft fingers over his handsome brow, whispering, “Thus, ever can Karvana trust…no enemy will ever thrust…his blood or bones of flesh to dust…for my pretty knight is strong and just…and no crimson frost will bind him.”

There he kissed her. As all Karvana cheered, the Scarlet Princess Monet bathed in the bliss of the Crimson Knight’s kiss.

After

The herald stepped to the stage. Dressed in the sapphire tunic with black shield and fisted gauntlet of his lord, he raised one hand.

“Good people!” the herald began. The crowd hushed—waited. “It is honored I am to herald my lord to the final joust of King Broderick’s great tournament of knights!” A deafening roar burst forth as the people of Karvana and all others attending King Broderick’s tournament cheered the young herald. The herald raised a hand, and the crowd settled once more.

“It is well you know my lord…and well you know he bears the favour of the Sapphire Princess of Karvana, Princess Afton, in this, her father’s tournament!” The crowd roared their approval, and the herald again waited for the noise to settle.

“Thus, I herald to my King Broderick, to my Queen Monet…to all kings, queens, knights, and nobles who here attend…and to you good people of the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
…to those of all other realms,” the herald began, “I offer my lord for your approval! Sir Channing Snow…Son of Drake Elmar…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of the Crimson King…Commander of the Fourth Legion…Vanquisher of Enemies…Beloved of the Scarlet Queen…Protector of the Kingdom!”

Queen Monet rose from her seat, cheering as Channing’s charger entered the jousting arena. The white charger, robed in mail and sapphire robes, reared once—twice—thrice. The gathering of subjects, nobles, and royals cheered as Sir Channing Snow—First Knight of Karvana—raised his lance in honor of his king and queen. Tears brimmed in the queen’s eyes as she looked at the brave young knight—to the man who had once been a boy—a boy who had saved the kingdom for his infinite courage and loyalty. Channing’s shield of black with white-fisted gauntlet shone bright, as did his armor.

“He will unhorse this Sir Fulton of Avaron,” King Broderick said aside to Lord Ackley Carrington.

Lord Ackley laughed. “Even Stroud could not unhorse Sir Fulton,” he said. “Nor Wallace, nor Kenley. If my sons cannot unhorse this knight, then your Sir Channing will not…even at three lances.”

Monet smiled at her Aunt Eden.
Eden
smiled as well.

“Our Stroud did not hope to win the hand of Karvana’s princess,”
Eden
said to her husband.

“Will you grant Channing the hand of
Afton
if he triumphs as champion, Broderick?” Ackley asked.

“Yes,” Broderick said, “though I will grant
Afton
’s hand to Channing whether or not he wins the tournament. However, I do not know if Channing full believes my assurance of this.”

Broderick chuckled, and Monet smiled at her husband—the Crimson King of Karvana. Gazing lovingly at him, she thought it did not seem so many years before that he had reared his own charger in King Ivan’s arena—that he had triumphed and won the great champion’s prize. He was as handsome as ever he had been; Monet fancied he was more handsome. She smiled, thinking the white at his temples well served to embellish his comely countenance—only accented the smoldering sapphire of his eyes. How
Afton
did resemble him! Monet glanced to her children, seated in the stands nearby. As her sons, the Princes Bronson, Marius, and Dacian, owned Monet’s amethyst eyes and ebony hair, so Princess Afton owned her father’s raven locks and eyes of flaming sapphire. Monet smiled as she watched
Afton
’s gaze affixed to Channing, her countenance beaming with admiration and immeasurable love.

Ackley laughed, saying, “Then I will not wager! For if the hand of
Afton
is Sir Channing’s inducement to unhorse Sir Fulton…only a fool would wager against him!” The familiar, beloved, and boisterous laughter of Lord Ackley Carrington echoed through the roaring of the crowd.

“Age is sore upon my love,”
Eden
said, gazing at her husband, one of only three Exemplar Knights still living. “Yet his laughter is still strong…and warms my heart as ever it has.”

“As it warms mine,” Monet said. She was, of a sudden, somewhat saddened at the thought of only three Knights Exemplar still owning breath. After the long-passed battle that found King James beheaded at the hand of the Crimson Knight, Monet’s father, King Dacian, had bestowed great wealth, title, and honor on those brave and loyal once-banished knights who rode to Karvana’s aid. All the long-lost Exemplars had returned to Karvana. Each Exemplar was honored to sit at Dacian’s table round of conferring, and each remained at the table until he was heralded to paradise or was stricken too aged or ill to rise and confer. One by one the great aged Knights Exemplar faded to heaven, till only three remained. Lord Ackley was one—and Lord Alum. Lord Aldrich yet lived, though too weak to attend the conferring table or tournament. Thus he lingered in Karvana Far with the aged King Dacian, who had abdicated his throne to his daughter, the Scarlet Princess, and her successor king husband near ten years before.

The crowd fell silent of a sudden. Monet looked to the arena as the banner bearer dropped the starting banner. Sir Channing’s mount reared; the First Knight of Karvana leveled his lance. The thunder of hooves beat the ground as the two knights bore down. Monet did not draw breath. Sir Channing’s lance was leveled and steady, as was the lance of his challenger. A brutal crash echoed then as Sir Channing’s lance struck armor—shattered—unhorsing Sir Fulton.

The cheering roar of the crowd was deafening! Monet clapped, calling out her delight at Sir Channing’s well-won victory. Broderick turned to her, smiling. He took her face between powerful hands and kissed her firm on the mouth. Blissful in his kiss, Monet pressed her hand to his chest—felt the leather pouch yet hidden beneath his kingly robes.

Breaking the seal of their lips, Broderick smiled and said, “Our Channing has triumphed!” Yet his smile faded, and Monet’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of the moisture full in her husband’s. “Still, I have lost my daughter this day,” he whispered.

Monet tenderly caressed his strong jaw with the back of her soft hand. “No,” she said. “You have only gained another son.”

Broderick nodded and coughed once as Lord Ackley pounded him hard on the back with approval.

“I have not seen such strength in jousting since the Crimson Knight of Karvana endeavored to win the champion’s prize at Avaron many years ago,” Lord Ackley chuckled.

“I would yet face any challenge or enemy for hope of winning that prize again,” Broderick said, and Monet could not resist. Taking hold of the front of Broderick’s kingly robe, she raised herself to press lips with his. As the king’s arms bound his queen against his body as he endeavored to drink nectar from her lips, the crowd cheered once more—for never was there a kingdom so happy in the love of their king and queen as was the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
.

“Father!”

Broderick sighed as he ended their kiss, and Monet giggled at the excitement in her daughter’s voice.

“Father! Sir Channing has won your tournament! He has won!”
Afton
cried with delight.

Broderick yet lingered in gazing at Monet.

“How I love you, my pretty knight,” Monet said.

“And I love you, my Scarlet Princess,” he mumbled.

“Father!”
Afton
whispered, tugging at her father’s ermine-trimmed crimson cloak.

Inhaling deep, King Broderick turned as Sir Channing Snow approached the stands yet mounted on his charger. Sir Channing stepped down from his horse, stepped onto the heralding stage, and took a knee before the Crimson King of Karvana.

“My honor is for you, my king,” Sir Channing said. He raised his shattered lance and offered it to the king. Broderick chuckled and accepted the lance.

Tossing it into the arena, however, King Broderick heralded, “Behold the tournament champion…Sir Channing Snow! Rise, Sir Channing, and claim your champion’s prize…the hand of the Sapphire Princess Afton!”

The crowd roared near to thundering all the earth! Monet laughed as Broderick then lifted
Afton
in strong arms.
Afton
giggled as her father lowered her into the waiting arms of Sir Channing Snow.

“Are you in earnest, my king?” Sir Channing asked, yet cradling
Afton
in strong arms.

“I am!” King Broderick said.

“My queen?” Sir Channing asked, looking to Monet.

Again Monet’s eyes filled with tears. Could this gallant knight standing before her—this champion, this man with such broad shoulders and comely countenance—could this truly be the brave young page who once stood so brave in defense of his princess and kingdom?

“Your king is most earnest, Sir Channing,” she said, “as is your queen.”

“Thus, kiss him well, daughter!” Broderick chuckled. “For he well deserves the champion’s prize!”

All of Karvana cheered! Laugher and merriment were heavy on the air—joy and hope and all things good and happy.

Long was the day in celebration of the betrothal of the Sapphire Princess Afton to Sir Channing Snow. Feasting at banquet, honor bestowed, dancing, and all manner of friendly conversation ensued. Many royals were there—King Martin of Avaron and his queen, Lenore. Lord Terrence Langford was there—Lord Terrence Langford, who had won the hand of his lady, the Princess Portia of Norvola. It was even the Queen of Alvar was there—Queen Anais, who had taken the Alvarian throne upon her father’s death and never married. The young princes of Karvana reveled in the banquet—in talking of the tournament and the honors earned. Still, it was Sir Channing Snow and his betrothed, the Sapphire Princess Afton, who knew most their zenith, for they loved as deep and as true as the Crimson Knight and the Scarlet Princess had loved—and still loved.

And when the cheering had ceased—when the stands of King Broderick’s arena had emptied and the banquet hall of Karvana Castle was quiet—there lingered near the royal mausoleum a man and a woman—a husband and wife—a horseman and peasant girl.

“Do you remember when we came here, after you fell King James,” Monet began, “when Father insisted we take the secreted instructions from the place in my mother’s tomb and break the seal?”

Broderick placed powerful hands at his wife’s waist, pressing her back against the outer wall of the mausoleum. Monet felt gooseflesh prickling her limbs as the smoldering sapphires of his eyes flamed love as he gazed at her.

“I do,” he said. His voice was low and alluring, and Monet smiled. “King Dacian bade me break the seal myself—read what he had penned upon the parchments full four years before.”

“That I would marry only Sir Broderick Dougray,” Monet whispered as Broderick pressed his strong body against her own. “That my true betrothed had ever been Sir Broderick, the Crimson Knight of Karvana—that it was he who was charged with one day ruling Karvana with me.”

“I yet cannot fathom he would entrust me with his kingdom. I cannot fathom he would entrust me with his daughter,” Broderick said. He bent, placing a lingering kiss on Monet’s neck.

“He knew who best would rule the kingdom,” Monet said. She reached up, combing her fingers through the raven hair of his head—the snow at his temples. “He knew the people of Karvana loved their great Crimson Knight…that you were, and are, the greatest ruler they could know. And he knew I loved you.”

“He knew
I
loved
you
,” Broderick said. He kissed her light once—twice—thrice.

In the distance, Monet could hear music. She knew Marius lingered atop the keep as he often did, plucking his lute and singing ballads to cheer or soothe any who may hear him. She smiled as she heard—ever light on the air—the ballad of the Scarlet Princess and the Crimson Knight.

“It is yet ever his favorite,” Monet said, warming in her lover’s embrace.

“As it is Reynard’s,” Broderick chuckled. “You would think the people would grow weary of it.”

“I never grow weary of it,” she said.

“Would you grow weary of me, Monet?” he asked.

Monet giggled. “I only grow weary that you endeavor to tease me…instead of kissing me as I desire my pretty knight should.”

Lips pressed then—blended in passion—in promise and love eternal. As the Crimson King of Karvana and his Scarlet Queen lingered in loving, the voice of the Minstrel Marius floated soft on the air…

Oh, he holds her still in his power—safe in love—boundless-embraced.

As the fragrant wind whispers to them, they blend kisses, sweet nectar-laced.

And she knows he will hold her always…that he loved before ever she knew,

For he carries her braid at his bosom,

He yet carries her braid at his bosom,

Still he carries her braid at his bosom…o’er his heart…his love ever in view.



The Crimson King Broderick and the Scarlet Queen Monet of Karvana…

begat the Sapphire Princess Afton.

The Sapphire Princess Afton wed Sir Channing Snow…

who did inherit the taken
Kingdom
of
Rothbain
upon the death of his wife’s brother.