A Crimson Frost (14 page)

“That is wise, Monet. Very wise.”

“There. In the least I have made one wise decision these past days…though it is painfully difficult not to wonder over such things.”

Her father chuckled and gathered Monet into a warm embrace.

“I-I am so glad to see you, Father,” she whispered as tears escaped her eyes and trickled over her cheeks, “though I find somehow that I am weaker with you near…weaker even than I felt when you were away.”

King Dacian kissed Monet’s cheek and said, “When I was away, it was needs be you were strong for the people. You could not let them see you frightened or hopeless…and your princess’s spirit knew this. Now that I am returned, I can help bear this weight with you…full take it from you in this moment or that. And there is no shame or weakness in sharing a burden. This you must remember always. Hardship is better endured when shared, my dove.”

Monet smiled—sighed with momentary contentment.

“You will never know how glad my heart is in your presence, Father,” she said. “These past months, when you were at battle…I feel I have not slept sound since you first rode from the castle with your knights and legions about you.”

“War does not bode well for sound sleeping…that is certain,” King Dacian chuckled.

“Perhaps it too is as simple as that,” Monet said, moving from her father’s embrace to better gaze into his smiling face.

“Perhaps what is so simple, dove?”

“The Crimson Knight’s pure vexed appearance. Perhaps he is only weary from battle…war-worried and fatigued.”

“Perhaps,” Dacian said—though he well knew Broderick’s countenance bore far deeper concerns. He forced a smile, lovingly caressing Monet’s cheek with the back of his hand. How desperately he loved her! How sweetly her people loved her! As he continued to gaze at her, Dacian knew—once again he knew he had acted with wisdom. Karvana’s hope must be protected—spirited away to preservation. How he would miss her, his beloved Monet, the beautiful Scarlet Princess—the Heart of Karvana.



“How handsome you are in your fine wine-colored tunic, Sir Eann!” Monet exclaimed. She smiled as a soft vermilion blush rose to the cheeks of young knight, Sir Eann Beacher. Indeed, Eann did look magnificent in his new finery. His sanguine tunic with golden shield and fierce-tusked boar seemed perfectly befitting—a distinct contrast to his fair hair and brown eyes.

“Thank you, Princess,” Eann said. “And does not Richard look quite dashing as well?”

Monet nodded, placing a hand on Richard’s shoulder. “And do you think you will enjoy being squire to Sir Eann, Richard Tailor?” she asked.

Young Richard smiled. “Yes, your highness.”

Monet giggled. She was purely delighted—momentarily overcome with the obvious joy displayed on the faces of the young men she attended.

She thought of the day before. The ceremony of Eann’s knighting had been quite affecting! Her father had knighted Eann with great dignity and respect, heralding a speech to all in attendance as to the profound honor and expectations of knighthood. The ceremony had given the people renewed hope—to see a young knight so willing to serve Karvana and its people.

Furthermore, all had cheered with pride and joy when Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight, presented Eann a sword. The Crimson Knight’s presentation of such a valuable weapon, its hilt bejeweled of rubies, displayed his faith and trust in his once squire, now fellow protector of the kingdom. Eann bore the entirety of the ceremony humbly and well, with demeanor befitting a true knight of Karvana.

Young Richard Tailor had been quite overjoyed to learn he had been selected as squire to Karvana’s newest knight. Squiring was difficult, yes, but also very lucrative. Likewise it held the potential of knighthood. With a simple request of favor, the Crimson Knight’s generosity had enriched two lives—pure given hope to one who had owned little before.

“Yet what will Sir Broderick do without you, Eann?” Monet asked.

Sir Eann’s broad shoulders lifted in an unknowing shrug. “I do not know. He has not told me who he intends to take as his squire now.”

“Your father begs audience, Princess Monet.”

Monet turned to see one of her father’s pages standing just behind her.

“Thank you, Channing,” she told the small, dark-haired messenger.

Yet Channing gave no nod—made no move to depart. “He asked me to escort you to your bower at once, Princess,” he said instead.

“Very well,” Monet said. She felt a slight frown pucker her brow. Her father must own severe news or instruction indeed.

She nodded to Sir Eann—to Richard. “Forgive me my leaving you so abruptly, gentlemen.”

“Good day, Princess,” Sir Eann said. Richard bowed, and Monet took her leave.

As she followed Channing into the castle, a strange and discomforting warmth began to bathe her limbs. She could not remember a time her father had commanded a page to escort her to him. Had something occurred with the battle to the north? Was King James gathering troops nearer to Karvana?

Somehow, in those moments, as fear began to overtake her, Monet was soothed by the knowledge that the Crimson Knight had not yet returned to the battles of the north. He was yet well, as was her father. Still, she wondered if her father summoned her to inform her they would be returning to the northern battles. Perhaps he had altered his consideration that Karvana’s king should linger at the castle. Perhaps he planned to return to the battle with the Crimson Knight.

This thought did not comfort her, and though she knew it pointless, she inquired of Channing, “Does Sir Broderick mean to take his leave, Channing? Do you know…is he planning to return to battle? Will my father accompany him?”

Channing merely shrugged his slight shoulders.

“I know nothing of why you are being summoned, Princess,” he said. He paused then, turning to look at Monet. Glancing about as to ensure their privacy, he whispered, “Yet I do know he has been in counsel with Sir Broderick all this long morning!”

“Truly?” Monet asked in a whisper.

Channing nodded. “I even heard raised voices…often…especially Sir Broderick’s…though I could not discern the subject of their conversation.”

“Sir Broderick? Raise his voice to the king?” Monet was astonished!

Channing nodded. “And Friar Fleming was with your father this morning…as was the Minstrel Marius.”

“Friar Fleming? From the village?”

Channing nodded. “Yet I heard no music when Marius was in audience, Princess.”

“We must be failing in the north, Channing,” Monet whispered. “Father has, no doubt, asked the friar to accompany him on his return. Too many men are dying. Friar Fleming will give their spirits hope.” She paused and frowned, pensive. “Perhaps he has asked Marius to join them as well…that they may be entertained or—”

“We must hurry, Princess,” Channing said, taking her hand, thus leading her on toward her bower.

Channing must be unsettled indeed to take such liberties as to touch her. Monet smiled, delighted by his lack of propriety. Yet the feeling of imminent doom advanced upon her all the more—for what need would her father have to meet with these men in her bower chambers? Was King James’s reach so near to Karvana that her father felt no shield to danger—even in his own throne room?

As they approached her bower door, Monet was rendered breathless, for the Crimson Knight stood conversing with the Minstrel Marius and Friar Fleming. The three men looked to her as she approached. Marius nodded a greeting and bowed. Monet nodded to him—to Friar Fleming—to the Crimson Knight.

Dressed in full armor, save his helmet, the Crimson Knight was fierce to look upon. His raven hair was swept back, save one dark strand rebelling to caress his forehead, and his eyes smoldered with indistinct emotion.

“You are to wait here, Channing,” Sir Broderick said, yet glaring at Monet all the while.

“Yes, Sir Broderick,” Channing said. The boy glanced at Monet—forced a smile of friendly reassurance.

“Your father would speak to you, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet watched as he placed his hand on the latch of her bower door. He seemed to pause—drew a deep breath. At last he pushed at the latch and stepped into the room, standing aside that she may pass.

Her father sat upon her bed, his head bowed, his shoulders drooped in a like manner of defeat. In his hand he held parchments—soiled and bloodied. Monet knew that it was a list of the dead. She had seen the death cart approach at sunrise and knew that seven soldiers of Karvana had been returned to their kingdom, never to draw breath again.

Monet startled as she heard the door close and latch behind her. Turning, she saw the Crimson Knight take stance, feet apart, armored arms folded across his broad chest. It was odd he should remain while she would be in counsel with her father.

“Father?” Monet whispered. “What has happened?”

She watched as her father paused a moment before rising.

“It is many hours I have spent in contemplation of how you would be told of this, Monet,” he said. He tried to force a smile but could not. At once, Monet began to tremble. Something had transpired. Had James of Rothbain truly won victory in the north?

“It is best to simply say what must be said, Father,” Monet said, though the sense of dread welling in her bosom near overwhelmed her.

“Yes,” he agreed. He turned to her, his eyes narrowed, a deep frown puckering his brow. “Then let it be said. King James’s men—the few that were brought to the castle still breathing, after having endeavored to overtake you at the Emerald Crown—cowards that they are, they have confirmed what we have long suspected. They have revealed James’s intentions where you are concerned, Monet. ”

“Where I am concerned?” Monet whispered.

“King James would have you brought to Rothbain…held for ransom or forced to his marriage bed…that my resolve to defend Karvana against him might be weakened.”

“But, Father—” Monet began as terror swept over her anew.

“We knew this would be his strategy, of course,” her father interrupted. “Even I have spoken of it to you. Yet I tell you now…this will not be. Karvana must not live in constant fear that its heart may be taken from it.”

“Father…I am sorry for my disobedience of two nights past,” Monet began. He did not yet trust her. Her disobedience on the night Sir Broderick had rescued her had not left his mind—nor his heart. Of a sudden, desperate to own his trust, she pleaded, “I will not go out among the people. This I have promised you, Father. I have sworn my obedience. What fear of King James have I if I remain—”

“Swear it now, Monet,” King Dacian growled. “Swear your obedience to your father and king…here…now…that James of Rothbain may be thwarted in one evil strategy in the least.”

“I swear it, Father!” Monet cried. She thought of Sir Broderick—of his sworn allegiance and loyalty to her father and the kingdom. “I swear no less obedience than one of your knights! Think you I less obedient than they?”

She watched as her father inhaled—expelled the breath slowly.

“You are Karvana’s very heart, Monet,” he began, “the true hope of her people. In me, their king, they see power…battle…protection. In you they see hope. In you they look to their future. For this reason, and others, you must be preserved. Certainly I would have you preserved simply because I love you more than any thing or person in this world. Yet the people must know you are safe as well. They must know that Karvana will live on in you. Even if James of Rothbain should conquer Karvana’s body…the people will live with hope in knowing their royal line survives.”

A comprehension nearly painful to endure wove through her mind and body. Monet knew then: her father feared siege of
Karvana
Castle
—defeat. The enemy was at the very gate, and King Dacian knew it.

“You are sending me into exile,” she said, her understanding complete.

“Yes,” King Dacian answered. “And you will go. You will go…for you have promised obedience.”

Of a sudden, Monet’s strength abandoned her. As tears left her eyes to travel in profusion over her cheeks, she said, “You would put me away from you and my people…ask me to do nothing in defense or to lend comfort to the kingdom?”

“In this you will defend and comfort her, Monet. Defend and comfort her with hope.”

Monet brushed moisture from her cheeks. How weak he must think her—Sir Broderick, the Crimson Knight who stood behind her barring the door, the Crimson Knight who stood ever at the ready to lay down his life for Karvana—as she stood before him bathing her face in tears of fear and doubt.

She had given her father, her king, sworn obedience. She would not let the Crimson Knight think her weak, nor her father.

“Where then do you send me, Father?” she asked.

“I know not,” he answered.

“What?” Monet exclaimed in a whisper. How could he not know where she was to be sent?

“You will hear the strategy now…and you will obey your part in it, Monet.”

“But where—”

“You will be taken…and I will not know where you dwell. Nor will any other who remains in Karvana or the castle.”

“Taken? By whom? And why will you not know where I am?” Panic was fast rising in her. To be taken from Karvana was loathsome enough. Yet to dwell alone, in a strange place?