A Crimson Frost (24 page)

“Then I best tend him,” Broderick said, studying her as she looked through the window at his impatient horse.

He rose from his seat at the table, retrieving his shirt and doublet. She had kissed him sweet upon one cheek—as a wife would kiss her true husband. Of a sudden, Broderick wished he owned more secrets to be shared with her, for the Scarlet Princess was delighted by mystery—and he enjoyed delighting her.

“I will return at midday,” Broderick said.

“I will be here,” Monet said, smiling at him. How handsome he was! How delicious to look upon, dressed in his brown doublet and peasant’s trousers. Further, how wise was he! To have discerned the presence of an Exemplar—the Crimson Knight was as wily as he was handsome!

She watched him leave the cottage—watched him through the window as he tended Tripp and the other horses. It was full sure Broderick favored Tripp, as it was full certain Tripp loved his master. Monet frowned, curious as she watched Broderick stroke Tripp’s rather disheveled mane. She could hear the Crimson Knight speaking to the animal in a low, soothing voice, and she wondered why they favored each other so.

At length, Monet busied herself in the cottage. She could not stand at the window and gaze out at Broderick all the day long—though she would savor doing so.

As she tidied, placing the now cold stones from her bed near the hearth to begin warming for the night to come, she first hummed the melody. Yet soon she whispered the song as she labored, singing, “Twelve knights to marvel…twelve knights of fame…twelve Knights Exemplar…twelve knights of name. Thus name them now, each Exemplar bold. The Knights Exemplar…their legend told.”



Sir Broderick Dougray tied the horse to the post without the smithy. He could feel the heat of the forge—hear the breath of the bellows as Bronson labored within.

Stepping into the darkness, he called, “Bronson.” The clatter of the hammer against iron and anvil echoed a moment longer. Bronson turned and nodded to Broderick and gestured his attention would be free soon.

Broderick smiled and nodded. He watched Bronson labor for a moment more. Then he turned to the wall at the back of the smithy. There were the swords of which he had told Monet. He had seen them—discerned their worth and pure master-made quality when first he had entered the smithy when the first six horses had arrived near three weeks past. Hidden in shadow, some sheathed and others not, the swords in Bronson’s smithy beckoned to Broderick as a fairy whisper. Row upon row of swords there were—ornate hilts of some, simple hilts of others. Yet to one who knew weapons, these were crafted of a man who not only knew swords but used them well.

“Have you come for trifling or service, Broderick my friend?”

Broderick turned to face the blacksmith—a once-great and respected Knight Exemplar of Karvana.

“Perhaps both,” he said, “for Tripp must be shod anew…and I am weary of work today.”

Bronson’s smile broadened. He chuckled. “Weary? You? Yet we were both of us at the Miller Aldrich’s till near sunrise…were we not?’

“Indeed,” Broderick said. He looked to the swords once more. “You are craftsman as well as blacksmith, it would seem.”

“I am,” Bronson said, “for iron work is necessary…but laborious and dull.” His eyes narrowed as he seemed to study Broderick. “Would you like to better know my work?”

“If you can spare the time, yes.”

Bronson’s smile broadened. “Very well, Broderick. Approach.” The blacksmith held out a hand to the wall of swords—a gesture to Broderick that he may look upon the swords more closely. Yet his command of approach stirred Broderick’s mind and senses, for it was the same command Sir Alum had used in sparring with Broderick Dougray, his squire—the same Sir Broderick Dougray had used in sparring with his squire, Eann.

“These are fine swords,” Broderick said. “At least…they are fine to my horseman’s eye.”

Bronson chuckled. “Indeed…I am a fine crafter of swords. Here is one you will like.” Broderick watched as Bronson reached forth, lifting a sword from the wall and handing it to him. As Broderick gripped the hilt, he inhaled deep. The feel of the hilt in his hand stirred him. The weight and balance of the weapon was perfect. Of a sudden, he wished he could spar with the sword he now held instead of with the wooden ones Bronson’s sons provided.

“It is called Gauntlet,” Bronson said. “I crafted it as tribute to a fallen knight of Karvana…one who fell long ago.”

Broderick studied the sword—the gleaming blade and ornate hilt. “A fine weapon is this, Bronson…and a fine tribute.”

Bronson held a hand toward Broderick, and Broderick surrendered the sword to Bronson’s hold.

“Here is one of interest,” Bronson said. Reaching up to the wall, he pulled a longsword from its sheath. Broderick gripped the hilt of the long, double-edged slashing sword Bronson offered. He smiled, both for the beauty of the weapon and the knowledge it affirmed of Bronson’s identity. This was a weapon most difficult to forge—and forged at great expense. No mere blacksmith could afford the forging of such a magnificent weapon—not without commission. Broderick marveled the pommel’s perfect fit to his hand. He nodded approval.

“Magnificent!” he mumbled.

“I am glad you are pleased, Broderick,” Bronson said.

Broderick was startled, yet quick in his defense, as the blade Bronson wielded cut the air—met with his own blade wielded.

“My sons say you wield a blade well,” Bronson said. “Are you fearful of sparring with steel?”

“What do you think?” Broderick chuckled.

Broderick’s heart hammered with the thrill of the sound of the blades crashing—the strength his body so long had held hidden. As Bronson cut and thrust, Broderick countered—knowing he was at spar with one of the great Knights Exemplar.

“You are well trained—exquisitely skilled with a sword—for a horseman,” Bronson laughed, strengthening his stance.

Broderick smiled. “And you…you are strong and skilled…well trained…for a blacksmith.”

With a roar of laughter, the blacksmith attacked, yet Broderick met his attack with the dexterity and strength of Karvana’s great Crimson Knight.

The blacksmith was masterful in his wielding of the blade! Broderick thought even Sir Alum was not so skilled and strong. Blow for blow they sparred—Bronson chuckling, Broderick enthralled and proud of knowing such a worthy challenge.

With one final thrust ably defended, Bronson laughed, his breath rising and falling with the labor of mock battle.

“You would fell me hard and easy, Broderick,” Bronson said.

“Nay…neither hard nor easy would you be felled, blacksmith,” Broderick said. He owned only infinite respect and admiration of the great and nameless knight before him.

“And do you like the blade?” Bronson asked. “Does it meet with your approbation?”

“I am none worthy to approve or otherwise, friend,” Broderick said. “But it is a fine weapon…a very fine weapon.

Bronson chuckled. “Then read its name, Broderick…and know it.”

Broderick’s brow furrowed with inquisition. Still, he held the sword straight, that the sun may glint on the blade.

Sir Broderick Dougray smiled—chuckled. There, eloquently engravened on the burnished steel, were the words.

“The Crimson Frost,” he read aloud.

“This blade I forged in your honor, Sir Broderick Dougray,” Bronson said, “when the Crimson Knight confounded both the Reaper and Lord Morven at Ballist.” Broderick nodded, and Bronson said, “This…swords are my manner of offering tribute to those who protect the kingdom when I am bound and unable to do so.”

“Am I so incompetent at disguise?” Broderick asked, yet studying the fine weapon in his hands. Of a sudden, he wondered—if Bronson so easily saw his knighthood, could the villagers discern it as well?

Yet Bronson chuckled, his eyes merry with mirth as he shook his head. “No more than I, it would seem.” He paused, still smiling. “I was at Ivan’s tournament. I saw the tournament champion battle to victory,” Bronson said. “Stroud and Wallace were with me…for they do so enjoy witnessing tournament.”

Broderick laughed. “Then you knew me. You knew me the moment we struck hands when first we arrived.” He felt his smile fade a little. “And if you were at Ivan’s tournament…then you know Prissy’s truth as well.”

Bronson nodded. “I do. And yes. The day you arrived in Ballain, when first we struck hands in greeting…I knew.” He paused, chuckling once more. “Tell me…does Karvana’s Scarlet Princess wholly approve of being named Prissy?”

Broderick smiled and shook his head. “In truth, she is loath of it. Yet I have named it her penance.”

“Penance?” Bronson asked. “Who is a knight to order penance of a princess?”

“A knight she in constant terms
pretty
.”

Bronson scowled, yet laughed. “
Pretty
? Ooo! Then she well deserves such penance.”

“Thank you,” Broderick said. “It is good to have a comrade near to agree with me.”

“Yet…you are pretty, I suppose…in particular for a knight,” Bronson teased.

“No more pretty than you,” Broderick countered.

Still, Bronson only laughed—for it seemed laughter was in him always. “Far more pretty than I, Sir Broderick. Far and away more pretty! It is why the ladies and princesses at Ivan’s tournament were all so delighted in your presence. It was such at every tournament where you and I were both in attendance.”

Broderick smiled. “So it was not just Ivan’s tournament that caused me to be familiar to you in Ballain?”

Bronson shook his head. “No. I have seen you compete many times…but it was at Ivan’s tournament that I was first aware of your passion for the Scarlet Princess…and hers for you.”

“You speak of the champion’s prize,” Broderick said.

“I do. She was full frightened near to death to bestow a kiss upon you…and all for the fact that she loved you already. And you…you were not one to stand rigid and proper whilst she bestowed your prize.” Bronson laughed as he said, “No, indeed not! Only the Crimson Knight of Karvana could be brave enough to sip nectar from the lips of a princess with her king father looking on.”

“She took pity on me…that is all,” Broderick said. He endeavored to oppress the racing of his heart. Always thoughts of Monet sent his heart racing—his blood burning. “She was grateful I won Ivan’s tournament…for the honor of the kingdom.”

“Rubbish!” Bronson exclaimed. He returned the sword, Gauntlet, to its place on the wall—took the Crimson Frost when Broderick offered and replaced it as well. He took seat in a chair nearby, tucking his hands behind his head, displaying strong arms—and the brands of a Knight Exemplar.

Broderick frowned a moment. “You say Stroud and Wallace were with you at Ivan’s tournament?”

“Yes.”

“Then they too own the truth.”

“And Sarah…for I keep nothing from her,” Bronson said.

“And they are as trusted as you?” Broderick asked. He did not wish to offend Bronson, but he wondered at secrets being kept. The past had taught him that very few who walked the earth could pure keep silent when owning a secret.

“They are,” Bronson said, smiling. “The secret of your Scarlet Princess lover is safe with us, Broderick.”

Broderick nodded. “You are full well observant. I would not doubt you know all there is in the world to know.”

“I know that you have led Karvana’s princess into hiding…and I can well imagine why the king has charged you to do so. Yet one thing I do not know,” Bronson began. “Are you indeed wed? Or do you only play at it?”

“You—with the powers of a seer it seems—yet you do not know if we are wed?” Broderick asked.

Bronson’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot discern if you are wed, for you have the look of frustration…in truth, of anger at times. And she…she does not hold confident in your affection for her. Thus, I cannot discern whether you are truly wed…or simply play the farce. Yet I cannot believe Dacian would send her into exile with you—a man—and not see you wed first.”

“We are wed,” Broderick said.

Bronson arched a brow. “Ahh. I see. Wed…in name only.” He chuckled. “I see now why you labor to such brutal fatigue in fashioning fence and keeping battle-ready.”

“I am charged with protecting her…with preserving the heart and hope of the kingdom.”

“Which would hold no power over you if she were an ugly old crone with a bad temperament,” Bronson mumbled. “Yet she is not. And it is full evident she cares for you…and you for her. This charge…is it infallible? Or is there hope you may have her yet?”

Broderick shrugged broad shoulders. “If the king is killed, she belongs full to me as wife. Or…if Karvana’s gates are threatened and the king sends word, in this also will I wholly have her. Yet if Karvana triumphs, as we all pray she will…I will not know the princess as wife.”

Bronson shook his head. “How good it is you and not I that was given this charge, brother. For were I married to a woman the like…I could not resist her.”

“She would not esteem me otherwise, and in that I would be thwarted as well. Therefore, even if I were able to betray her father and my kingdom…I could not betray her.”