A Crimson Frost (5 page)

King Dacian offered a quite chuckle. “You have not attended as many tournaments as I, Monet,” he answered in a whisper. “Nor have you watched our Sir Broderick in battle or competition as I have.” Winking at her, he added, “What manner of excitement would there be to all these who look on…if the Crimson Knight did not cause their hearts to hammer with the possibility of his not triumphing?”

“Your man is worn, Dacian,” King Rudolph noted.

“And he must yet face Sir Fredrick Esmund,” Anais added. “See the blood at the Crimson Knight’s arm?” she asked. “He is wounded and weakened…and Sir Fredrick is not.”

“He would not be titled the Crimson Knight if there were not someone’s blood about him—either from his own wounds…or those of his enemies,” King Dacian said. “He will triumph, Princess Anais. He may not unhorse Sir Terrence…for he owns great respect for the man. Yet on this third opportunity, Sir Broderick will triumph.”

King Rudolph laughed. “Such faith in one man…it will serve to condemn you, Dacian.”

“A wager then, Rudolph,” King Dacian said. “My Crimson Knight against Sir Terrence
and
Sir Fredrick. He will best them both today…or my white charger is yours.”

“Surely you jest, Dacian,” Rudolph chuckled. “You would wager your infamous white charger in this?”

“Of course,” Dacian said.

Monet watched King Rudolph’s eyes narrow. She looked to the arena—saw the banner bearer raising the banner.

“Done,” King Rudolph said. “For if Sir Terrence does not prevail, Sir Fredrick will…undoubtedly.”

“And when the Crimson Knight is named champion of the joust…I will accept the two best chargers in your stables as compensation.” King Dacian smiled as King Rudolph frowned, “as a reward to my Crimson Knight for so honoring me.”

“Agreed,” King Rudolph said.

“The banner, Father,” Monet whispered as the banner dropped.

Charging hooves beat the ground. Sir Broderick’s lance leveled—as did the lance of Sir Terrence. Monet gasped as the lance of the Crimson Knight broke across the armored breastplate of Sir Terrence. Sir Terrence’s lance fell, his body arching over his charger’s back. Sir Terrence was not unhorsed, but he was bested. The crowd cheered and applauded as the Crimson Knight’s banner was placed over that of Sir Terrence’s on the scoring walls.

Monet looked to her father, smiling as he winked at her.

“Sir Terrence is old. It was not unexpected he should be bested by Sir Broderick,” Anais said.

“Sir Terrence is a powerful knight, Princess Anais,” King Dacian said. “He would not have triumphed thus far in the tournament if he were otherwise.”

As her father stood, Monet rose as well.

“And now, pardon us, if you will, Rudolph—Anais,” King Dacian said, “for Monet and I must seek refreshment while the Crimson Knight takes his respite before facing Sir Fredrick.”

Anais glared at Monet as she followed her father down the stairs leading from the stands. Monet could not keep from smiling at Anais in return. The Crimson Knight would triumph—she knew he would—and she could not help but to revel in the prideful feelings batting about in her bosom. Pride was not a virtue, this she knew. Yet how could she deny it? For Anais’s spiteful nature did nothing if not provoke.

“He will triumph, Father, will he not?” Monet asked as she followed her father to the refreshment pavilion.

King Dacian of Karvana chuckled. “He will, my love. And you will lend him your lips for doing so.”

Monet stopped midstep. The truth of it—the fact she must bestow a kiss to the Crimson Knight if he prevailed—had ever lingered in her mind. Yet the brutality of the tournament, the near constant pricking of King Rudolph to her father, had served well in distracting her from the fact.

“Oh, Father!” she breathed.

King Dacian paused, turned, and looked at his daughter. A worried frown puckered his noble brow.

“Monet?” he whispered. “Are you indeed well? You look quite pallid of a sudden.”

Dacian was indeed momentarily anxious over his daughter. Her face was ashen, her violet eyes glowing amethyst with what appeared as fear. Tiny beads of perspiration lingered on her forehead.

“Monet?” he asked, reaching forth and taking one of her hands in his own. “What is it, my angel?”

Monet’s hand rested at her throat, clutching her neck as if she were choking. Dacian could see the fabric of her scarlet dress quivering as her slight form trembled beneath it.

“T-to kiss the Crimson Knight,” she breathed, “to press lips with Sir Broderick Dougray…I do not think…how will I find the courage, Father?”

“The courage?” Dacian asked. “What courage must it take, Monet? You have known Broderick near to six years…since he was squire to Sir Alum.” Monet continued to tremble as he smiled with sudden understanding. “It is simple enough, Monet. You must kiss him with the thankfulness of your heart—as a thankful princess, one who knows the glory her father’s first knight has brought to the kingdom.”

“Yet it is not so simple for me as you say, Father,” Monet whispered.

“Do you fear bestowing the kiss in front of so many? Is that what finds you trembling in your slippers?”

“He is the Crimson Knight, Father!” Monet exclaimed, still whispering. “Blood Warrior of Ballist! What need has such a man of a platonic kiss from an insipid princess? He has none. He will simply endure it as another consequence to tournament…no different than the wound at his arm.”

Dacian smiled. He knew well the tender feelings Monet secreted in regard to Sir Broderick.

“Blood Warrior of Ballist he is,” Dacian said. Taking both of Monet’s hands in his, he smiled at her—the loving smile of an understanding father. “And far too few are the moments of respite and beauty in his life. To taste the sweet kiss of his princess—to own the first sweet kiss she has ever bestowed to a man’s lips—there is no greater prize could be gifted him. Even for the Crimson Knight, Slayer of a Thousand Enemies…even for the Blood Warrior.” He shook his head, still smiling at her. “No…not even the heavy purse Ivan will bestow him can measure against the lingering touch of your tender lips to his, Monet.”

“Lingering?” Monet exclaimed. “What mean you in
lingering
, Father?”

King Dacian laughed. “He has fought and bled and bruised his body in winning this tournament for us, Monet…for Karvana. He deserves no less than that.” Dacian placed a loving kiss on his daughter’s brow. “Now, yon approach your comrades, my darling—those young ladies whose knights did not best Sir Broderick. Well you should honor him by addressing their excitement for you.”

Monet glanced over one shoulder to see Portia and Lenore fast approaching, two timid ladies-in-waiting at their heels.

Frantic, she looked back to her father. “What women have known his lips before, Father? Yet I…an untried…an obviously inexpert princess…how can I hope to—”

“And
that
, my darling, is exactly why your kiss will taste so sweet to him,” her father said. “Now…away to your silly little friends. They have, no doubt, much to twitter over.” He released her hands and leveled his broad shoulders, smiling. “And I will away to prepare someone to collect Rudolph’s best two chargers.”

“Monet!” Portia exclaimed.

“Hush, Portia!” Lenore scolded. “We are about secret business, and you draw too much attention.”

Swallowing the fear hanging thick in her throat, Monet turned to face Portia and Lenore.

Upon seeing them, she frowned. They were so marked with excitement they appeared near to apoplexy.

“You must accompany us, Monet,” Portia said in a whisper. She reached out and took hold of Monet’s hand, tugging at it in gesture she should go with them. Monet looked to Lenore, who nodded, as did the two ladies-in-waiting.

“What? Accompany you where?” Monet asked. Her body yet trembled with the uncertain anticipation of what she must do when the Crimson Knight triumphed.

“It is Anais! She is making for Sir Fredrick’s pavilion!” Lenore whispered.

“Why?” Monet asked.

“Why would you suppose, Monet?” Portia said, leading Monet by one hand, forcing her to follow.

“She intends to lend further encouragement to him…further incentive that he should be more driven to win the joust against Sir Broderick,” Lenore explained.

“What further incentive could she possibly offer?” Monet asked. “Already he would win a large purse, possessions, and her kiss. What more could she promise to him that would—” Monet felt her mouth fall agape as understanding washed over her.

“What more indeed?” Portia whispered.

“It is often I wonder she is not King James’s daughter, instead of King Rudolph’s,” Lenore said.

“Even so, I have little wish to see Anais prove herself less virtuous than I already know her to be,” Monet said. Still, she followed as Portia and Lenore hurried toward the knight encampment. A part of her could not believe Anais would so lower herself as to attempt to spur a man to greater feats by bestowing favors of affection upon him. Yet her curiosity was far too ignited to deny. “Still, I admit to being too weak to refuse the opportunity to have my own eyes witness my long-held suspicions of Anais’s true character.”

Portia smiled. “I too know I should not lower myself. Yet temptation has beguiled me.”

“How came you by this knowledge?” Monet asked as they approached the outer pavilions of the encampment.

“Hush! We must be quiet,” Lenore whispered. “This way.”

Monet followed as Lenore turned, heading in the direction of a small grove of trees aside the encampment.

“My ladies-in-waiting, Dianth and Matild—you know them both,” Portia whispered, nodding to the two ladies-in-waiting at her heels. “They were told of the tryst by one of Anais’s own ladies,” she said. Indeed, Monet was familiar with Portia’s ladies. Monet glanced back to see the younger, Matild, blush with obvious guilt. “She informed her ladies of her intention…in case she should be missed by her father.”

Lenore glanced back, frowning. “You have no lady to accompany you, Monet?”

“I did not wish to burden them with the demands of the tournament,” Monet said. “Father is company enough for me.”

“Hush, ladies!” Lenore exclaimed. “We are near.”

“Surely we will be seen…discovered!” Monet whispered. Yet the pounding of her heart—the odd thrill of facing danger rising in her bosom—spurred her onward.

“We will simply say we were taking a turn about the encampment together,” Portia said.

“There, your highness!” Dianth exclaimed. “Princess Portia! There…just beyond that first tree!”

“Yes, I see them—two figures…just there!” Portia said.

Monet’s eyes narrowed, straining to see into the grove of trees. She felt her eyebrows arch in surprise, a quiet gasp filling her lungs as she saw Anais and Sir Fredrick. Sir Fredrick’s arms bound Anais tightly against his body.

“H-he is terribly bare,” Lenore whispered.

“He has removed his armor and shirt in order to cool his flesh before the next joust,” Portia explained.

“Hush! Their lips are meet!” Matild exclaimed in a whisper.

Monet glanced back to the woman, smiling in the knowledge that no princess took offense at Matild’s disrespect, their attention entirely enraptured by the display before them.

Monet gasped soft as she looked to see Anais and Sir Fredrick indeed involved in an indiscreet exchange of affection.

Portia shook her head. “How easily she gives over her allegiance.”

“As well as her innocence,” Lenore said.

“And for what?” Portia asked, of a sudden quite vexed. She turned from the scene. “For what, I ask you?”

“Triumph,” Monet answered. She turned from the sight as well. It did her no good to be witness to the great lengths Anais had taken to ensure her knight’s victory.

“Triumph?” Lenore asked.

“Yes. Her father has struck a wager with mine—his two best chargers against my father’s great white one,” Monet explained. “Should Sir Broderick triumph, not only will Anais’s pride be bested…but also that of her father.”

Portia shook her head. “It is not worth the price she is paying. Sir Fredrick is a monster! A heinous, merciless monster! To align herself with him to such a degree…”

“And he is King James’s knight,” Lenore reminded. “See how easily Anais chooses the side in opposition to your father, Monet.”

Monet frowned. It was true! Always she had known Anais despised her—though she knew not why. She did know, however, that any royal willing to set themselves so low in the hopes of a tournament victory—how much easier would it be for the same to set themselves against her father and all of Karvana? Had Anais held some affection toward Sir Fredrick—had she cared for him in the least—then perhaps Monet could not fault her for her indiscretions. Yet Monet was certain Anais did not secret any tender feelings toward the brutal Sir Fredrick. Her alliance with King James’s first knight was purely for gain—Monet was certain of it.

A deep, throbbing fear began to knot Monet’s innards, for it seemed here was another enemy to her father—another ally to King James and his threats against Karvana. Anais of Alvar had joined the enemy’s ranks.