A Crimson Frost (8 page)

“Perhaps.” Another low laugh. “Though I do not think Sir Broderick Dougray would have been willing to ride into tournament to battle against so many worthy opponents for the sake of cook’s red-haired maid, do you?”

Monet smiled, gently pushing herself from her father’s protective arms. Brushing tears from her cheeks, she gazed up at him. How she loved him! At times she could not believe she had been so blessed in him as a father. What had she done to deserve such a loving and noble parent?

“I will meet him with strength in carriage,” she began, “though it will, indeed, be feigned.”

Her smile broadened as her father lovingly caressed her cheek with the back of one strong hand.

“And I will meet him with gratitude in my whole countenance…for I owe him more gratitude than even you are aware, Father.”

“And?” he prodded.

Monet inhaled a deep breath of courage.

“And I will kiss him…the kiss of a grateful, indebted princess, humbled by his gallant sacrifice and service…endeavoring to be one deserving of his continued allegiance and protection.”

King Dacian smiled. The unreserved love warm in his eyes caused hope and courage to rise in Monet.

“Kiss him for the sake of the handsome and virile man that he is, as well, daughter.”

“Father!” Monet exclaimed, a crimson blush rising to her cheeks. “Think you now that I am cook’s red-haired maid?”

Monet giggled as her father shrugged. “It is said the Crimson Knight can make conquest of any woman by the mere bestowing of his glance,” he said.

“And there are those who believe you were bred of fairies, Father,” Monet reminded.

Monet startled as the horns sounded.

“Thus the festivities begin,” King Dacian said. “We must hurry to the stage. They will begin by presenting prizes for champions in individual events—maces, swords, and the like. Your Sir Broderick has won much wealth in these alone.”

“Do I yet own the appearance of having been weeping, Father?” Monet asked.

King Dacian grinned. “You have the look and beauty of your mother,” he answered. “The Crimson Knight will be utterly bewitched by you.”

Monet smiled. Oh, how desperately she wished it were true! To bewitch the Crimson Knight—to own the smallest part of his heart—what could measure its worth?

The Champion’s Prize

Monet sat, her back aching with faultless posture, her trembling hands folded with deceptive calm in her lap. As she watched Sir Terrence Langford accept his prize as archery champion of King Ivan’s tournament, she tried to appear composed. Yet with each twittered whisper—with each pointed finger in her direction—she feared her courage would fail her. Every person present, every soul gathered in Ivan’s arena, was waiting—waiting for the moment the Scarlet Princess of Karvana would bless the lips of the tournament champion with his champion’s prize—a kiss.

“In wrestling…Sir Fredrick Esmund,” the herald announced.

The crowd cheered as Anais presented Sir Fredrick with an ornate dagger embellished with gold and emeralds. Such was the tradition at tournaments—for she who had bestowed favour to present the prize to her champion. Monet had presented a similar ruby-jeweled dagger to the Crimson Knight for his triumph at maces and a small golden statue of a peacock for his victory in swords. Monet’s legs trembled with such nervous violence upon twice presenting Sir Broderick with prizes, she feared she might simply drop at his feet. Furthermore, the cool blue of his gaze each time their eyes met robbed her of breath, weakening her further.

Now, as she sat watching Sir Fredrick accept his prize from Anais’s calm, graceful hands, she wondered whether she would yet find the courage to bestow the kiss promised the tournament champion. She nearly ventured a glance at Sir Broderick. He stood no more than a measure from her. Yet she could not bring herself to look at him, fearing that if she found his eyes already upon her, she might fade—no matter how strong her resolve to remain courageous.

Sir Fredrick nodded to King Ivan in acceptance of the dagger—though Monet noted he glared at Anais before bowing and taking his leave.

The crowd applauded, and King Ivan’s herald raised a hand to silence.

“And now, good people…I present King Ivan’s champion! Sir Broderick Dougray…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 of the Scarlet Princess…the Crimson Knight…Champion of the Tournament of King Ivan of Avaron!”

The crowd roared with cheering and applause as Sir Broderick again approached the stage platform. He removed his helmet, turned, and bowed to the crowd, displaying gratitude for such profound approval.

Monet’s legs somehow managed to find their strength. As Sir Broderick bowed to King Ivan, she stood.

“Bravo!” King Ivan called, applauding as he nodded to the Crimson Knight. “Well done, Sir Broderick! A well-fought battle indeed!” Monet held her breath as King Ivan added, “Now away to collect your prize, sir! And collect it well, my man!”

Monet wondered if every man, woman, and child present could determine the state of her nerves simply by the quiver of her gown as she trembled beneath it. In that moment, she wished she were not swathed in scarlet. How less seen she would feel dressed in black or copper.

She heard his footsteps, his boots heavy on the platform, yet she could not raise her gaze to face him. He stood directly before her—Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight.

Knowing it would not be acceptable to continue to stare at his breastplate, Monet slowly lifted her eyes to meet his. He was there—just before her—the bewitching blue of his gaze full upon her. The noise of the crowd cheering was near deafening and only served to further frighten Monet.

“I am…your champion, Princess,” Sir Broderick said, offering a respectful nod.

Monet swallowed—prayed that when she spoke, her voice would indeed sound.

“You have battled well, Sir Broderick,” she said, thankful she had been able to speak. “You have brought great honor to Karvana, to its king…and to me.”

“Thank you, your highness,” he said. The deep, alluring sound of his voice caused Monet’s trembling to increase, and again she wondered if the crowd—if Sir Broderick Dougray—were aware of her fearful condition.

“A kiss, Princess!” King Ivan called. “To your champion, a kiss!”

The crowd roared, and Monet looked up into the handsome face of the Crimson Knight. She felt her brow pucker as, of a sudden, her nerves gave way to intense empathy. The Crimson Knight was indeed worn! Great fatigue lingered about his beautiful eyes; his handsome face was streaked where perspiration had cut through the dust and dirt accumulated of battle.

It besieged her then—the desire to comfort, soothe, and offer gratitude to such a champion, to such a heroic man. At that moment, the roar of the crowd fell silent to Monet’s ears, the many sets of eyes upon her forgotten as she gazed at her beloved Crimson Knight.

“Thank you, Sir Broderick,” she whispered, her hands going to his face. The warmth of his flesh—the sense of his roughly shaven face against her palms—somehow caused a great heated moisture to collect in her mouth. She gazed at his lips—raised herself on toe, pulling his face toward her own. She saw his eyes narrow, as if he doubted she could muster the courage necessary to award him his champion’s prize.

“You are most welcome,” he mumbled. Once he had again fallen silent, his lips remained ever so slightly parted.

Parted lips?
Monet thought. Her mind had only a breath of a moment to determine her course. If his lips were thus parted, then so must her lips be similarly parted if she wished the kiss she bestowed to be in measure.

“Lingering,” she breathed. Her father’s instruction echoed through her mind a moment before every other thought was banished by the ethereal sense of pressing her lips to those of Sir Broderick Dougray.

His lips were softer than she had imagined they would be—warm and moist. Of a sudden, a new and delicious trembling owned her body, for she realized she was no longer simply bestowing a kiss to Sir Broderick; rather, he was kissing her in return! Somehow their lips were not simply pressed: they were meet—a shared kiss born! The pressure of his kiss lessened just long enough for Monet to gasp against his lips a moment before he kissed her once more—his lips further parted—her own matching their parting. She was rendered breathless by the sudden awareness that the Crimson Knight was kissing her! In that instant, she thought she might literally expire from the rapture his kiss evoked within her.

She swayed backward, her knees having weakened beneath her. The Crimson Knight broke the seal of their lips, his vise grip taking hold of her arm to ensure she did not crumple to the platform.

As the crowd roared with approval, the Crimson Knight’s gaze captured Monet’s. A slight grin donned his lips—his delicious, masterful lips—and Monet was entirely bewitched. It was true! She knew then the very legends of the Crimson Knight’s power over women must indeed be nothing if not pure truth—for she was entirely undone!

Monet struggled to straighten her posture—to subdue the violent trembling of her body borne of his intoxicating kiss.

“Well done, Princess Monet! Well done, indeed!” King Ivan cheered.

“Indeed,” the Crimson Knight mumbled, releasing his hold of her arm. Monet fancied that, as he released her, an odd chill of vulnerability washed over her. She suddenly wished he would not have released her—that he would hold her or, at the very least, touch her somehow—forever.

“My good people!” King Ivan called. “I give you your tournament champion…Sir Broderick Dougray…the Crimson Knight!”

Sir Broderick turned, bowing to King Ivan.

“And now, Sir Broderick,” King Ivan began, “who shall reign as the Queen of Love and Beauty of my tournament?”

Still trembling, Monet stepped back, away from the Crimson Knight, that he may endeavor to collect his final champion’s prize—the crowning of the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty.

She watched as King Ivan handed Sir Broderick a delicate golden crown. Adorned with flowers and trailing ribbons, Monet smiled as the Crimson Knight accepted the offered crown from King Ivan. The contrast of the pretty crown against his battered armor and bloodied hand was profound.

“What ties bind me, your majesty?” the Crimson Knight asked. It was a wise inquiry. Many a battle had begun with a tournament champion paying honor or displaying courtly love to the wrong woman—the wife or intended of some royal or noble. Perhaps King Ivan would prefer his own queen be crowned. The Crimson Knight would not risk offense by choosing without direction.

“None!” King Ivan chuckled. “The choice is yours…as champion, Sir Broderick. Thus name the queen.”

“Then I name the Scarlet Princess, Monet of Karvana, as tournament queen, your majesty.”

Again Monet was rendered unable to draw breath. As the cheering rose to a deafening roar, she watched the Crimson Knight turn and advance upon her. She could not move—could only watch, gaze at him, as he reached forth, placing the crown on her head.

“The Scarlet Princess…Monet of Karvana!” King Ivan called. “Our Queen of Love and Beauty!”

“Pray smile, Princess,” Sir Broderick said in a lowered voice, “else the people and their king will think you are not grateful for the honor bestowed you.”

Instantly, Monet smiled, forced an accepting nod to King Ivan, and offered a grateful wave to the crowd.

King Ivan approached, taking Monet’s arm and placing it on his own. Monet sighed with aching disappointment as she watched the Crimson Knight bow to King Ivan once more, turn, and take his leave.

“He will away to a much-needed respite, Princess,” King Ivan said. Instantly, Monet forced her gaze from the retreating Crimson Knight to King Ivan. He laughed in his throat and said, “You will sit next to me at the banquet tonight, Monet. And though I know your Crimson Knight does not often appear at banquet, I will beg him to do so this time…that he may offer his strength to your delightfully humble countenance.” He laughed again. “Queen of Love and Beauty…at such a tender age as yours. You must feel greatly honored, Princess…for Karvana’s Crimson Knight is not one to relinquish an opportunity to dominate in every regard, is he?”

“Apparently not, your majesty,” Monet said.

“That…or your lips are far sweeter even than they appear, and with one kiss, you have managed to entirely bewitch him,” King Ivan said.

Monet sensed her cheeks blush vermilion.

“I assure you it is his skill in dominance of any circumstance…not my kiss,” Monet said.

“Either thing is a joy to me! I have never seen the people so thoroughly amused,” King Ivan said. “You and your Crimson Knight have won the day!”

Yet as King Ivan escorted her back to her father, Monet sighed. This day, this triumph, belonged to one man—to Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight. It struck her then how entirely iniquitous it was that Sir Broderick should battle with such brutal valiance, only to have the glory heaped on those who little deserved the glory. What glory should Monet own for his sacrifices? What glory should her father or her kingdom own? She wondered then from whence such a man drew his reason for such an undertaking as was King Ivan’s tournament. For the glory and honor of others? It seemed incomprehensible, and yet did not
she
love her king and kingdom so well as to sacrifice her own well-being for their sakes? Yes—indeed—she did.

“Bravo, my dove! Bravo!” Dacian called as Monet approached, escorted by Ivan himself.

Dacian fancied the roses were still too abloom on his daughter’s cheeks—the lingering result of Broderick Dougray’s attentions—and it well pleased him. How lovely Monet appeared then, face bright with delight, her lovely head adorned with a crown of flowers and ribbon. Mirth rained over him, knowing the depth of courage it had taken for her to bestow the champion’s prize in front of such a gathering.

“Your daughter has proven herself worthy of this crown, Dacian…and of her own,” King Ivan said.

Dacian nodded, understanding Ivan’s veiled implication. His gaze lingered on his daughter—his lovely daughter—so entirely unaware of the strength she and the Crimson Knight of Karvana had lent its king. Ivan’s tournament would be the subject of much talk and speculation. Tales of the Crimson Knight’s victory would spread as a wild flame, fanned by the account of Karvana’s Scarlet Princess and the kiss bestowed her champion. A tale of chivalry and triumph would reach King James’s arrogant ears, perhaps plant doubt in his mind—doubt of any easy victory over Dacian, King of Karvana. Further, Karvana’s people would hear of the strength and bravery of their princess—their princess, who would one day be their queen.

“Yes, Ivan,” Dacian said as Monet embraced him. “She has indeed.”

Still trembling from the Crimson Knight’s kiss—the sense of it still warm upon her lips—Monet continued to bathe in the security of her father’s embrace. Her knees seemed weak, her arms prickled with gooseflesh, at the memory of Sir Broderick’s lips pressed to her own.

Closing her eyes, his face appeared in her mind—awash with great fatigue, dust-streaked, and battered. Monet wondered in that moment, if the look of battle was so obvious on his face, what must the body beneath the armor have endured?

“He will be well, Father…will he not?” she asked.

Her father offered a quiet chuckle as he lovingly stroked her hair. “He will be well, pigeon,” he said. “He will be well.”

“I would speak to you privately, Dacian,” King Ivan said. “If you please.”