A Crimson Frost (18 page)

Broderick had been astonished to silence. It was not until the king laughed—bade him rise from his knees—that he found his wits about him once more. He thought certain the king was in jest, and he had thought such until the moment Friar Fleming commanded the marriage between Sir Broderick and Princess Monet be sealed with a kiss. He had glanced up at the king to see him nod with absolute assurance. Thus, he had kissed her—the Scarlet Princess, the heart of Karvana, his wife in task only.

Broderick brushed away the silken ebony tresses the breeze had caused to caress his face. He could linger no more. Thus he was careful and lay the princess down upon the bearskin. She did not stir but a little, and he covered her with the second fur.

He paused in leaving her—studied her for a long moment. Here lay the heart of Karvana—the very hope of the people. The king of the most beloved of kingdoms had trusted her preserving to him. He would not fail his king; he would not fail the Princess Monet; he would not fail and lose the respect of the king and the people he had won—the hard-fought honor he owned.

Broderick Dougray determined then, in that moment, to hold the princess as such of what she was—the kingdom’s greatest treasure. Each time he looked at her, he would see not the pretty Princess Monet—not the graceful creature that any and all knights of Karvana delighted in seeing. No. He would see only a treasure—a jewel. He would gaze on her as if she were a gemstone—a diamond worth more gold than even a king possessed. He would not see a soft, tender-fleshed young woman—a young woman with lips sweet as berries and a smile like the sun. No. She was, absolute, a treasure—and he was the knight charged with guarding it.
             

Exhaling a deep breath of great fatigue, Broderick stood and strode to the cart. Tomorrow they would travel to Ballain. He would set himself up as a horseman, for though the king had given him wealth aplenty to live out his entire life without the need of hard labor, it would draw suspicion from the townspeople if he had no manner of living. Further, idleness would drive him to madness. Therefore, he had determined himself to be a horseman in Ballain. Broderick Dougray knew horses—their breeding, their training, their worth. He hoped the man he had paid to bring six of his horses from his estate at Karvana Far to Ballain would make haste about it.

He gazed up into the black of the midnight sky—to the silver half-moon and the twinkling shimmer of the stars. His mind wandered to Princess Monet, for he did own deep compassion for her. To be stript of all she knew—it was a harsh charge indeed.

Of a sudden, however, he frowned. “The Crimson Knight…
pretty
?” he growled, as if the word were bitter meat. “Hmmph.”

In Ballain

Monet glanced about. The cottages and other buildings of the
village
of
Ballain
were well cared for. Autumn flowers yet bloomed in the meadows beyond, and the reapers reaping in tawny fields did not appear so unlike those in Karvana. A delightful array of happy and laughing children played on the road margin. Several older boys were in practice as archers near a sturdy mill whose wheel traveled round and round, carrying water from a lovely pond.

As Broderick drove the horse and cart through the village, many villagers stopped to stare at the unfamiliar faces only just arrived at Ballain. Still, others smiled and waved welcome. Monet met each smile with one of her own—each wave with a nod in grateful greeting. The day was light and bright, and so seemed the people of Ballain.

“They seem friendly,” Monet said.

“Yes. They do,” Broderick mumbled.

As they neared the smithy, a large man stepped from the shelter of it. Monet felt her brows arch in astonishment. The man was near the largest she had ever seen! He wore only trousers, his arms and chest caked with dust and perspiration. His skin was baked bronze by the sun—even his head, for it was bald and as smooth as marble. He appeared to be near as old as her father, yet bodily more powerful.

“Good eventide, stranger,” the enormous man greeted. His voice was deep and booming, reminding Monet of distant thunder. “Welcome to Ballain.”

“Thank you, sir,” Broderick said. “I am Broderick, and this is Prissy…my wife. We are come to Ballain in search of a new life.”

“I am Bronson…and welcome again,” the man said. “Might I ask what drives you from your old life?”

Broderick had warned Monet that the people of Ballain might be suspect of strangers. Karvana was at war, and though Ballain was a distant township in the kingdom, it was part of Karvana still and would be on guard.

“We are come from Alvar…pure vexed and weary of King Rudolph’s arrogance and weak rule,” Broderick explained. “Karvana knows a good king…or so we are told.”

“A good king indeed,” Bronson said, “yet a king and a kingdom threatened by war.”

“Indeed,” Broderick said. “Yet Karvana is known for her strength…and I would rather a strong kingdom held threatened than a weak one.”

“I am a blacksmith,” Bronson said. “And what trade do you offer Ballain?”

Monet endeavored to keep from trembling. The blacksmith was deep wary. What if they were not welcomed at Ballain? Where would Sir Broderick take them to exile then?

“I am a horseman,” Broderick answered. “Would Ballain have need of a man of horses? The fair best it has ever seen?”

Bronson laughed. He was full amused and nodded approval.

“Indeed! Indeed we do have need of a horseman,” he said. “Welcome to Ballain, Broderick…and to your lovely young wife.”

“Thank you, sir,” Monet said.

Bronson approached the cart and offered a hand of welcome to Broderick. Broderick accepted his hand in a firm grip.

“There is a small inn…just around the bend there,” Bronson said, pointing to the road ahead. “The Sleepy Fox will put you up fine enough ’til you secure a shelter of your own.” He paused a moment, pensive. “I myself own a small dwelling close by. It stands empty and has fences sufficient for two horses. I would sell it to you for a good price.”

“Is there room for more fence?” Broderick asked, “for I will have six more horses to shelter in another day or two.”

Bronson nodded. “Indeed! Full enough room for more fence.”

“Then I shall consider it if you have the time to take me there on the morrow,” Broderick said.

“I have the time,” the blacksmith said. “Therefore, take your Prissy to the Sleepy Fox for the night. I am certain she is weary with travel…are you not, lass?”

“A bit,” Monet said. He was a charming man, this Bronson the blacksmith. Monet had favored him near at once. There was something commendable in the manner in which he rather guarded the village—a protective nature she found comforting.

“And might I sway you to joining us for our evening meal on the morrow…as a gesture of welcoming?”

Broderick glanced to Monet. She could see the suspect in his eyes—the wariness. It seemed he was awaiting her response.

“How kind,” she said.

“We accept,” Broderick told the blacksmith then.

“Good! I will tell Sarah and our young lads that we will sup with Broderick the horseman and his beautiful wife Prissy at sunset on the morrow,” he said, a broad smile on his weathered face. “I will meet you in the morning, Broderick…that you may see the dwelling I offer.”

“Thank you, Bronson,” Broderick said. “It was good to be welcomed to Ballain in such a friendly manner as this.”

Bronson nodded to Broderick. “Good eventide, Prissy,” he said to Monet.

“And to you, sir,” Monet said, smiling at him as Broderick slapped the lines at the cart horse’s back.

As they rounded the bend to see the Sleepy Fox, Monet said, “You truly expect me to answer to Prissy?” She did not like the name. It was silly, and it was not hers.

Sir Broderick smiled. “It is your penance…for terming me pretty the night past.”

“I did not mean to give offense, Sir Broderick,” she told him.

“Broderick,” he said. “I am Broderick to you now. And you are Prissy.” His smile of pure mirth was so delightful to gaze upon that she could not bring herself to scold him further. Perhaps he would only name her Prissy when in the presence of others. Further, she mused it was a playful sort of name. Though the great Crimson Knight of Karvana was known for his battle strength and oft severe nature, his naming her Prissy had revealed his softer temperament.

She thought then of the night before—of being held against his body as he endeavored to warm her. By the first rays of sunlight that morning, she awoke to find him readying the cart for their departure. Yet the sense of being in his arms had lingered in her dreams all through the night. She silently scolded herself for finding pleasure in exile—in thinking on dreams when Karvana’s walls were being threatened. Still, what woman could keep from dreaming of the handsome, powerful Crimson Knight?



“I will see the blacksmith’s property at first light,” Broderick said as he closed and bolted the door. The room was small but warm and welcoming. “I would hope it is sufficient, for we should not linger long at the inn. Dwelling at the inn would draw attention…mark us as strangers here.”

Monet’s eyes widened as Broderick removed his doublet and linen shirt.

“I asked the innkeeper to draw a bath,” he said, nodding toward the wooden tub filled with steaming water in one corner of the room near the fire. “You may bathe first.”

“Bathe? I-in your company?” Monet gasped.

Sir Broderick sighed. He was weary. Indeed Monet knew great weariness owned him, for he had not slept in two days. “I cannot leave you alone, Princess. Not in this unfamiliar place. I will give you my back as privacy…and you may trust it. Still, I am in need of rest, and I would have you bathed so that I may do likewise and find respite in sleep.” He turned to her, a frown of inquisition furrowing his brow. “Yet if you do not desire to bathe—”

“Oh, no! I greatly desire it, Sir Broderick,” she said. It was true! Never could she remember having felt so soiled and in need of bathing.

“Then make haste…if you please, Princess,” he said. She watched as he took a chair that sat near the bed and turned its back to her. Seating himself in the chair to gaze out through the open shutters into the black of night, he sighed—poor weary.

Monet did make haste and bathed as quickly as her efforts allowed. Wrapping herself in a bathing robe hanging near the hearth, she hastened to the satchel Sir Broderick had informed her held other garments meant for her. Quickly she dressed in a fresh kirtle, for there was no other more comfortable garment in the satchel.

“Shall I summon the innkeeper to draw a fresh bath for you, Sir Broderick?” she said.

He stood, stretching his arms at his sides. “No. Common folk do not afford such luxury,” he said. “And we are now common folk.” He paused, his eyebrows arched. “May I have the courtesy of your back, Princess?”

“Oh! Of course,” Monet exclaimed. At once she turned from him and took his abandoned seat in the chair facing the shutters. There was no breeze, and thus she was not chilled in gazing through the opening in the wall looking out into the night.

Monet combed her long, wet hair with her fingers. How glad she was to feel clean once again. She had not enjoyed the dust and dirt of traveling in the cart. Further, her body ached from the rough and rutted road they had ridden. Such a weariness in body Monet had never known. She wished only to rest—to find respite in sweet slumber. Still, she must wait—wait until Sir Broderick was finished bathing.

“Sir Broderick?” she began.

“Broderick,” he mumbled.

“I have heard you are skilled with horses,” she said. “Father says your stables at Karvana Far keep the best stock in the five kingdoms. Will not the people here recognize your horses as the sort only the wealthy may afford?”

“The horses being brought are not the finest in my stables. By far they are not,” he answered. Monet could hear the soft sounds of the water lapping in the tub as Sir Broderick bathed. “Yet they are of strong stock. Villagers who labor hard are in need of them. They are animals a man will find pride in owning.”

Monet continued to comb her hair with her fingers. She was silent of a moment, thoughtful.

“How long before we left Karvana…how long had it been since Father charged you with taking me into exile?” she asked.

“Two days,” he said.

Monet shook her head, astonished. “You had but two days given you to plan? All this you devised in but two days?”

“Yes.”

“The morning following the night you brought me back to the castle from the Emerald Crown,” she began, “Father charged you that morning. Did he not?”

“He did.”

“It was why you were pure vexed with me…that morning when I met you just without my father’s chamber.”

“I was not vexed with you, Princess,” he said. “Only I was angry with…with…”

“With having to play watchman to a princess when your men are battling for their lives to the north,” she finished.

“It is not all as you imagine,” he mumbled. “There are many…intricate pieces…parts and consequences to this strategy to protect you that you cannot fully understand. And I will confess…a certain amount of frustration overcomes me regarding this charge at times. I fear it will yet prick my temperament on occasion. Perhaps I should offer a sequence of apology to you beforehand.”

Monet smiled, amused by his honesty.

“What do you make of this man Bronson?” she asked.

“He is watcher for the village…protects it with more loyalty than any lord would,” he said. “Since Ballist’s battlefield and the end of Lord Morven’s stewardship, your father has not chosen a steward to oversee Ballain. Thus, it seems the blacksmith is wary—as he should be…as all who dwell here should be.”

Of a sudden, he appeared at her side, clothed in naught but trousers. She watched as he closed and latched the shutters.

“I would put you to bed now, Princess,” he said. Monet felt her eyes widen for a moment, yet he continued. “You will sleep on the upper and I on the truckle.” She watched as he reached beneath the bed and pulled out the truckle bed.

“I do not think it will fit you,” she said as she studied the small truckle bed. “Far better I should rest there and you in the upper.”

“No,” he said. Yet as he strode to the door to ensure the bolt was well laid, Monet quickly lay down upon the small truckle bed. It was large enough for her to sleep whole comfortable—yet she did not doubt Sir Broderick would find little comfort on so small a sleeping place.

When he turned and saw what she had done, he frowned. “This is not acceptable, Princess,” he said.

“It is full well acceptable…for I fit here and you there,” she said, gesturing he should take the larger bed. “I could not sleep otherwise. For you have been without rest for far too long, and I would see you sleep sound.”

“I could remove you,” he threatened, although wearily.

“Yes. You could…but you will not…for we are both weary and in need of rest,” she said as she quickly plaited her hair. “This is not a battle to win or lose, pretty Crimson Knight. This is only logic and wisdom.” Monet did not know why the night always brought with it her silly nature—a deep desire to tease him. Yet it did.

He heaved a sigh of great fatigue and forfeit. “I am well worn…far too worn to argue,” he said as he stretched out on the upper bed.

“Good night then, Sir Broderick,” she sighed.

“Good night, Prissy,” he mumbled.

Monet smiled, delighted with the playful nature that arose in him now and again. In her teasing him
pretty
once more, he had countered with the loathsome
Prissy
. Yet in her own state of worn and weary fatigue, she was not vexed—simply amused.

It was only moments till his breath breathed slow and measured—only moments till he sound slept. Monet lifted her head on one hand and elbow, studying him by the light of the dying embers in the hearth. She was not frightened—not in that moment—and she knew it was for the sake of the Crimson Knight at her side. He was ever as handsome in reposed slumber as he was awake, and she shook her head, full admiring the face and form of Sir Broderick Dougray. She wondered then, had her father charged Sir Broderick with the means of her exile because he was the most capable to bear the charge? Or had he charged the Crimson Knight because the king understood it was he in whom his daughter was most confident? Monet knew well her own thoughts and fears. She knew that were it any other knight in the bed next to her in the small room, she would not have slept—would not have trusted so certain that all would be well—as well as it could be when enduring exile.