A Crimson Frost (20 page)

“Thank you, Sarah,” Monet said as she and Sir Broderick passed the threshold. “You have all shown more kindness to us than I could ever have imagined.”

Sarah smiled, her eyes bright with gladness. “You may call on us for any needful thing. And at any moment.”

“Thank you,” Monet said.

Friendly waves were exchanged, and soon Monet was beside Sir Broderick as they walked toward the cottage Sir Broderick had secured from the blacksmith.

“You do not like to linger on memories of Ballist,” she said. “It is understandable.”

He said nothing, and Monet shivered for the chill in the air.

“I am sorry for speaking without thought,” she said. “Do you think I harmed our charge in any way?”

“No,” he flatly answered.

“Do you truly think your horses will arrive tomorrow?” she asked. She would not have his thoughts linger on the pain raised in him for the talk of Ballist—at the memories no doubt torturing his mind. “How many did you say the man was bringing?”

“He will bring six,” he answered. “We will keep the cart horse…and Tripp, of course. Yet I will endeavor to sell the others to any villagers who may have need of them.”

“Tripp? He is the horse that followed us so grave in countenance when tied to the cart…yes?”

Sir Broderick looked to her, a slight smile touching his lips.

“Grave in countenance?” he asked. “And how did you come by his countenance being grave?”

Monet shrugged. “He seemed in low spirits…as if he would rather be put to pulling the cart than led behind it. As if he would rather keep from being idle.” She smiled. “In that he reminds me of you somewhat, for you do not meet well with idleness.”

“In that you know me…I will not deny it,” he said. His mood had lightened, his frown softened. Monet smiled, for she had succeeded in turning his thoughts from Ballist.

Again she shivered as the cool autumn breeze chilled her. “I think it is colder here than in Karvana,” she said.

Sir Broderick nodded. “It is. We will heat some stones by the fire to warm your bed.”

“Do you think there are many, many spiders in the straw we laid in the beds today?” Monet asked. Sarah had helped her to lay new straw beneath the tick in the bed. It had been three spiders Sarah had counted falling from the straw as they worked—and Monet did not delight in spiders.

Sir Broderick chuckled. “Would you have me test your bed for spiders before you retire?”

“Do not stand in feigning spiders do not worry you, Sir Broderick,” she began, “for every person in all the world full loathes them.”

“I will test your bed for spiders, Prissy…and I will heat several stones for you as well. Yet I beg you to allow me to find my bear’s skin soon…for I am well worn this night.”

Sir Broderick had previously declared his intention to sleep upon the bearskin laid before the door. The windows of the cottage were small; thus, the door would be an intruder’s first choice of entering. Monet had offered argument, reminding Sir Broderick that she was smaller, her body not so heavy—thus the bearskin would serve her well. Yet Sir Broderick had stood firm and commanding. She was a woman, and women should have the advantage of comfort. He had allowed her to take the smaller bed in the inn simply because he had been too worn for argument, but he would not hold with her being in more discomfort than he another night. Further, there was the guarding position at the door, and Sir Broderick meant to guard it well.

He had called her Prissy, and she would not bow to his teasing.

“Very well, pretty knight,” Monet said as she crossed the threshold into the cottage. “If you will battle my spiders for me…I will heat stones and prepare your bearskin.”

Sir Broderick smiled and nodded. The great fatigue in his countenance near caused Monet to reach forth and caress his brow again, but she stayed her hand and simply returned his smile.

As she lay upon her bed, no canopy or curtains to help defend her of the cold, she thought of the blacksmith and his lovely wife—of their six brawny sons. She wondered if all those who dwelt in Ballain were as welcoming. She hoped that they were.

Drawing her legs to her chest in an effort to warm herself, she frowned. She could well hear the Crimson Knight’s breath, slow and sound. It seemed he slept warm—in the least warm enough to find sleep. Monet, however, wondered if the heated rocks in her bed had already cooled, for she was chilled and stiff. She touched one of the rocks Sir Broderick had wrapped in cloth and placed in her bed. It was warm on her fingers, but she thought it did not warm her bed so well.

She glanced to the door. The fire yet burned in the hearth, and she could see Sir Broderick stretched out upon his bearskin. His hands were tucked beneath his head; his arms and chest were not covered by the fur spread over him. Yet he appeared to sleep sound. Monet shivered, so thoroughly chilled she feared she would never be warm again. She thought, were she nearer to him, it would warm her—he would warm her. She thought Sarah was not so cold in her bed, for Bronson would be with her there.

Monet closed her eyes tight. She would not think on it. The Crimson Knight was her protector—with her simply for her father’s charge. Further, if he could find respite in sleep with nothing but a bearskin and fur for comfort, then she would find it in her fresh straw bed and heated stones.

She bade memories of Karvana to linger in her mind. Her father’s face was there—and oddly, that of young Channing. Tawny fields and tree branches heavy with fruit lingered in her thoughts—as did the Crimson Knight—and King Ivan’s tournament. Of a sudden, Monet felt her mouth warm with the memory of pressing lips with the Crimson Knight. She saw him there in his pavilion, having won his final joust, his arm still bleeding from his wound, the leather strap hanging from his neck, the pouch it held. How his eyes had smoldered when she had entered—how soft his raven hair had appeared.

Monet sighed, her shivering having ceased. Sleep would find her. She was at last warm, and she was safe, for the Crimson Knight of Karvana was there at her door—and in her mind.

The Cottage Kiss

The nights in Ballain continued to grow cooler. As the days passed, Sir Broderick labored hard to prepare for winter’s coming, as did Monet. It was often Sarah, and one or two of her sons, would help Monet in gathering nuts and late berries while Sir Broderick and Bronson fortified shelters for Bronson’s pigs and sheep. Bronson had agreed to give Sir Broderick a share in the meat of any animals he slaughtered—payment for his help in fortifying their pens and for a fine horse of Sir Broderick’s he wished to own.

Monet had never known such hard labor. Each night, as she lay in her bed, endeavoring to warm herself with heated stones from the hearth, she would think on the day—on the profound labor required to survive in the village. Though she knew how to wash and beat clothing, cook, mend, build fires, and reap, she had never before performed such tasks at so constant a pace. Still, she was grateful for the great fatigue that would send her to sleep each night, for her bed grew colder and colder, even for the warming stones.

She wondered how Sir Broderick had not caught his death of the cold and hard labor. Rising well before the sun, he would tend the horses and labor at splitting wood till light broke the horizon. He would then labor with horses or alongside Bronson through near the entire day, pausing only briefly to take nourishment and drink. Monet marveled at his diligence and unmarked endurance. She knew he labored hard to keep his mind and body at the ready. Certainly he played at wooden swords and wrestling with Bronson’s sons, but play did not keep a knight fit for battle, and Monet knew his thoughts were ever of battle. Sir Broderick was ever wary. Rarely did he appear to be off guard—neither in body nor mind. As Monet settled somewhat into village life, Sir Broderick did not. Though he lived the life of a horseman of labor in Ballain, yet Monet knew his mind was that of a knight—ever watchful of the enemy’s approach.

It was for this reason—his ever readiness—that Sir Broderick had fashioned a hiding place. In the dark of early morning he had indeed split wood for winter fires. Yet Monet knew something of his work that others did not—the false front of the woodpile. Sir Broderick had dug into the side of a small hill near the cottage, burrowing a hole—a space large enough in which both he and Monet could fit. Using iron nails, he then built a false wall of fire logs—a wall that for all eyes, save Monet’s, appeared to be nothing more than a neatly stacked pile of wood. Near the false wooden wall lay several piles of split logs, strewn with intention to look as if they stood ready to be added to the larger, neater pile. In truth, the false woodpile was a master work of deception—further proof of Sir Broderick’s wit and knowledge.

For all this—for all his taxing labor and preparation in readiness—Sir Broderick still slept on the cottage floor, against the door with not but a bearskin beneath him and one fur with which to cover his body. Monet wondered at his powerful endurance; yet he had, more than once, assured her of his comfort and health. He had explained the life of a soldier—that to sleep beneath a thatched roof surrounded by walls was far more desirable to sleeping mid-autumn and winter in the open.

Thus, three weeks were passed—three weeks in which Monet endeavored not to worry to near madness over her father and her people—three weeks in which Monet grew to know and love the villagers of Ballain. Yet there was more—more to cause the Scarlet Princess of Karvana to oft feel frightened and hopeless in the secret depths of her heart—the Crimson Knight.

It was true. Never had Monet denied to herself the love she secreted for Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight. Ever had she known she loved him. She had known she had loved him when she was only a young girl, when he had first been squire to Sir Alum Willham, as when he was knighted. She had loved him at Ivan’s tournament and every moment since. Even standing in her bower—as Friar Fleming performed their marriage ceremony—even then she had not denied to her heart and mind that she loved him. Yet with each passing day spent in Ballain at playing his wife, with each moment in his company within the cottage, with each conversation shared, Monet began to fear she could not endure life without him.

The battle raged in her—her desire to see Karvana triumph and be saved from King James was ever warring with her desperation to remain Sir Broderick’s wife—to become his true wife and remain so. Before Ballain—before war with Rothbain and her father’s charge that the Crimson Knight spirit the Scarlet Princess to exile—Monet had never known reason for hope. Always it was told her—and always she understood—that her marriage would be arranged. In this she had spent many hours—nay, many years—in persuading herself to the knowledge and acceptance of the fact she could never belong to the man she truly loved. Yet as they lingered—as weeks passed with no word from her father—Monet could sense hope and despair battling in her. She could not lose her pretty Crimson Knight! She could not see Karvana fall to James of Rothbain! Yet only one could be, and it oft sickened her that the path she truly wished for in silence was the path that led her and kept her in Ballain with Sir Broderick.

Thus Monet busied herself all the long day—as Sir Broderick did—and the weeks passed with no word from her father.

“Prissy!” Sarah called as she hurried toward Monet. Monet looked up from her place near the stream. Her hands were sore, chilled from washing in the cold water of the stream. Sarah’s cheeks were pinked, as ever they were. The resplendent smile upon her lovely face caused Monet to smile as well, even for having no reason.

“What is it?” Monet asked.

“The baby has come!” Sarah exclaimed. “Grayson and Wilona have had their baby!”

Monet giggled as utter delight washed over her. The young thatcher, Grayson, and his lovely young wife, Wilona, had long been awaiting the arrival of their firstborn child. There was much worry in the village, for Wilona was quite young.

“All is well then?” Monet asked, drying her hands on her apron and hurrying to meet Sarah.

“All is well! Though it is near the largest baby I have ever in my life seen,” Sarah giggled. “And you will not guess what they have named him!”

“What?”

“Dacian!” Sarah exclaimed. “For the king…for Grayson says King Dacian will not let Karvana fall, and perhaps a babe named for him will give the angels cause to aid the king further.”

“And Wilona is well?” Monet asked, honored by the tribute to her father the king.

“Very well…yet strong and pleased in her baby!”

“When may I see him?” Of a sudden, Monet longed to see Wilona’s baby—to hold him and feel of his tiny fingers and toes.

“There will be a feast tonight. All the village will be there! And then, on the morrow, Wilona will welcome visitors,” Sarah explained. “Stroud and Wallace have already begun to build the fire in the village. We must make haste…for Bronson will roast a pig, and I must make bread. You should bring your turnip stew, Prissy! It is far the best I have ever tasted!”

“You are only being kind, Sarah,” Monet giggled. “Still, I will bring the stew.”

“Oh, Prissy!” Sarah sighed, taking Monet’s hands in her own. “There is nothing so wonderful as new baby! You will know this one day. I hope it is soon.”

“As do I,” Monet said. Her heart felt as if it had been pierced by a dagger of a sudden. Would she ever know the joy of bearing children? If she did know such a joy, would her joy be complete if the babes she bore were not Sir Broderick’s? Still, she would be happy for Wilona and her Grayson. She would not linger in misery and pity for herself and what may or may not be.

“Away now, Prissy,” Sarah said. “We must prepare.”

“Very well,” Monet said. “I shall tell Broderick. Surely he will be glad of respite from his labors that he may help Bronson with the pig.”

Sarah smiled, brushing a strand of hair from Monet’s cheek.

“You are so sweet, Prissy,” Sarah said. “How glad I am that Broderick brought you to Ballain.”

“And I,” Monet said. She smiled as Sarah turned and hastened toward the village.

At once, Monet was nearly overcome with distress. Always Monet had loved the people of the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
. Ever she had felt empathy and cared for them. Yet in living among her father’s subjects as she now did—to call them friends, to love them as she had begun to love them—she feared it would only heap more pain upon her somehow.

Shaking her head to dispel the foreboding raining over her, Monet set off in search of Sir Broderick. Sir Broderick would calm her worries—without a knowledge he had done so. Yet he would calm her. In Sir Broderick, Monet would find her strength once more.



Monet clapped her hands, laughing as she watched the miller dancing with his wife. The Miller Aldrich had purchased three horses from Sir Broderick. Sir Broderick had assured Monet that in horse trade the miller was far more skilled than he had expected. The miller’s wife was Claire, and she was as plump as she was jolly. Monet laughed as they danced, near as clever and nimble as jesters! Monet giggled as she looked to Stroud—to the way he fawned over the miller’s daughter, Winifred.

“He will wait one year more before asking for her hand,” Bronson said, having noticed Monet’s attention to his son. “For then he will no longer be my apprentice and may away to build his own forge in another place.”

“They complement one another in appearance,” Monet said. “And it is clear his feelings for her are far beyond merely her beauty.”

Bronson chuckled. “Yes! He has favored her since he was a boy and she just a small little thing.” He paused and then asked, “And how long did you favor your Broderick before he took you to wife?”

“Near as long as I can remember,” Monet said.

“He is a fine man,” Bronson said. “A rare man.”

Monet nodded. “He keeps me safe,” she said.

“And warm through these cold nights,” he said, offering a teasing wink.

“Yes,” Monet said—for it was true enough. Did not Broderick place the stones by the fire each morning that they would be well warmed for Monet’s bed when darkness fell?

Broderick had been in conversation with Grayson, whose eyes twinkled as the stars in the sky for his joy at his son and well wife. He stepped closer to Monet as he watched the miller and his wife. Monet heard him laugh, and gooseflesh covered her arms at the delightful sound.

“I do like Aldrich,” he chuckled. “He is such a merry fellow…and his wife is clear as merry.”

Monet glanced to Sir Broderick, smiling as the sight of him stole her breath.

“Yes,” she said. “They are charming.”

“I have sent word for more horses,” Broderick whispered, leaning to speak into Monet’s ear, “for Tripp is in want of more company.”

“I have never known such a spoiled horse,” Monet whispered. “Would that I knew your favor so well as Tripp.” She smiled at him, and his own smile broadened.

“Do you wish me to feed you oats and curry you at eventide?” Sir Broderick asked.

Monet giggled, delighted by his teasing. She reached up, twisting a lock of his hair around her finger. “It seems you are the one in need of currying. Your hair is quite disheveled tonight…and nearly as long as my own.”

Sir Broderick arched one dark brow and leaned back to study the length of the dark braid trailing down Monet’s back—near to her waist.

He reached back, tugging at her braid. “I think not,” he said.

The music ceased, and everyone clapped in delighted approval of Aldrich, the miller, and his wife, Claire.

The Crimson Knight raised a hand to his mouth to hide a great yawn of fatigue. Monet could not keep from placing a palm to his cheek.

“You labor too hard, pretty Broderick,” she whispered.

“I labor as I should, pretty Prissy,” he said. Yet his eyes were dark beneath, his shoulders held not so broad as they were before the feast.

“Let us go,” Monet said, “for I cannot endure to see you so worn.”

“The longer I linger in fatigue…the deeper sleep will I know,” he said.

Of a sudden, Monet gasped as several young girls surrounded them, giggling and wrapping all manner of garlands woven of bittersweet, grapevine, and leaves about her and Sir Broderick.

Bronson laughed as all those present clapped and cheered.

“What is the meaning of this?” Sir Broderick asked.

Monet smiled, delighted by the manner in which the garlands bound her to Sir Broderick. She pressed her hands to his chest, gazing up at him as the girls continued to wrap them together. She cared not why it was happening. She cared only that she was drawn close to him—that the warmth of his body warmed her as no hearth-heated stones ever could.

“When one babe is birthed…the children of the village wish for another!” Sarah explained. “They would beg the angels that the next babe be born to you and Prissy!”

Instantly, Monet’s delight was vanquished. She felt her eyes well with tears, the deep ache in her heart and body so complete she feared she might cry out for the pain of it. He was not her own! His children would not be hers! Of a sudden, the loathsome truth flooded her being, and she was drowned in deep despairing.

Yet, as ever, Sir Broderick stood stalwart and quick-witted.

He said nothing—simply he smiled at her, took hold her chin in one strong hand, and drew her face to his. Monet did breathe as he kissed her light—did not gasp as he kissed her firm. Visions of Ivan’s tournament, of the white pavilion of the Crimson Knight, and of Friar Fleming in her bower burst forth in her mind as the crowd of villagers surrounding them cheered with approval.