A Crimson Frost (6 page)

A Champion Proved

“I can linger here no longer,” Monet said. Lifting the hem of her dress, she hurried away from the grove of trees—away from those who would see the Crimson Knight conquered—away from those who would endeavor against her father and her kingdom in any manner.

“I know your thoughts, Monet,” Portia said, hurrying to match stride with Monet. “Yet I remind you that your Crimson Knight will prevail…and thus vanquish any endeavor against your father Anais or Sir Fredrick may conceive.”

Fighting to restrain tears of fear and vexation, Monet nodded.

“He will prevail…I know he will,” she said. “For I believe Sir Broderick understands there is far more to be gained by his triumph at this tournament than merely a heavy purse.” Silently she prayed—prayed for Sir Broderick’s triumph—that the sovereigns of the five kingdoms and beyond would see her father’s strength manifest in the strength of his favored knight.

“Look!” Matild gasped. “It is he! The Crimson Knight! Just there…between those yon pavilions.”

“Where, Matild?” Lenore asked.

“Just there,” Dianth said, pointing. Monet looked in the direction her gesture indicated.

Instantly her heart swelled. She felt breathless at the sight of him! Save his helmet and gauntlets, he yet wore full armor. Blood from the wound at his right arm had dried on the vambrace covering his forearm.

“He is magnificent to look upon!” Portia said. She smiled at Monet. “What woman would not covet his winning the tournament, simply that she may press her lips to his?”

Monet watched as his squire approached. It was well Monet knew Sir Broderick’s squire, Eann. He had been squire to Sir Broderick for near two years. Whispers among those laboring in her father’s castle were that Sir Broderick would soon ask King Dacian to knight Eann.

“Sir Broderick,” Eann began.

“Listen,” Lenore whispered. “Perhaps the squire has seen Sir Fredrick and Anais and comes to tell his master.”

“You must take respite,” Eann said. “I beg you, remove your armor and cool your flesh. Allow me to fetch fresh pads and shine the blood from your vambrace.”

“I will cool my flesh when the deed is done, Eann,” the Crimson Knight grumbled. “And let the blood remain. It will lend itself to finding Sir Fredrick overconfident, into thinking I am battle-weary and bled…too wounded to best him.”

“Can it be Sir Fredrick really believes he will be able to best you at the joust, Sir Broderick?” Eann asked.

“He has the promise of a princess…the promise she will share his bed if he does, Eann,” Sir Broderick said. “And for that, he believes he can joust against me and win. It is a powerful reason to triumph. Such a reason has mustered triumph in many a man.”

Monet looked to see Portia’s face drain of its blush entirely. Lenore as well was pallid.

“Your highness!” Dianth exclaimed in a whisper.

“Hush, Dianth,” Portia scolded.

“Sh-she would not go to such an extreme…simply to see her knight as champion,” Lenore whispered, shaking her head. “Surely she would not.”

Monet shook her head, certain she had not understood the true meaning of Sir Broderick’s words.

“W-will Sir Broderick triumph, Monet?” Portia asked. “When Sir Fredrick’s prize…when Sir Fredrick’s promised prize is of such…such magnitude?”

“You mean to ask if my kiss as prize is as spurring to the Crimson Knight as Anais’s sacrificed virtue is to Sir Fredrick?” Monet said.

“Yes,” Portia breathed.

“I am certain it is not, Portia,” Monet whispered. “As certain as I am that the loyalty of my father’s first knight to his king and kingdom is far more spurring.”

“He has seen us!” Dianth exclaimed.

Monet looked to the Crimson Knight and his squire. Sir Broderick’s gaze held hers a moment. As she stepped backward, he advanced.

“Sh-should we run?” Lenore asked.

“Run?” Portia asked. “From one such as he? We are simply out in the fresh air. That is all.”

As Sir Broderick and his squire advanced upon them, Monet thought her heart might cease in its rhythm, so rapidly did it pound. The mere sight of him in advance—his raven hair caught in the breeze, the piercing indigo of his eyes as his powerful body moved toward her—left her breathless and fearful somehow.

“Princess Monet,” Sir Broderick said, stopping just before her. He glared down at her, and she trembled under his smoldering gaze. “It is not wise for you and your companions to be near the encampments.”

“We were just walking, Sir Broderick,” Portia explained. “The seats in the arena are so very hard and uncomfortable. Our limbs were simply aching for reprieve.”

“Yes,” Monet added as he continued to glare at her. “We’ve been walking…near that wooded grove.”

Sir Broderick glanced toward the grove of trees only a short distance off.

“As I said, your highness…it is not wise for you to walk too near here…nor is it wise for you to venture near to that grove.”

He knew! He must know! Monet was certain the Crimson Knight knew of Anais’s tryst with Sir Fredrick. Something about the smoldering state of his gaze told her he was aware of what was transpiring.

“Thank you for your good judgment on our behalf, Sir Broderick,” Monet said. “We will linger closer to the arena henceforth.”

He nodded, his searing gaze still holding her uncertain one.

“You jousted bravely today, Sir Broderick,” Portia said. “Please know that our hearts are with you as you soon meet Sir Fredrick.”

“Thank you, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. He bowed his head, a gesture of respect to Portia’s title. As he did so, a gentle breeze breathed, lifting a length of the scarlet veil Sir
 
Broderick wore around his neck.

Some strange and delicious thrill traveled through Monet’s being at the sight of the embellishment. It was hers! Her own veil that he wore! The reminded knowledge caused renewed hope to rise in her. He would triumph! The Crimson Knight of Karvana would best Sir Fredrick. He would win the tournament, and in doing so, not only would he heap honor upon her father and his kingdom, he would likewise heave intimidation into the bosom of any who dared to ponder any action against a king whose first knight was so thoroughly dominating.

“Eann,” Sir Broderick said, rattling Monet from her reverie, “pray accompany Princess Monet in returning to the arena. See that she is delivered to her father forthwith.”

“Of course, Sir Broderick,” Eann said. He smiled and nodded at Monet. “Princess?”

“Sir Broderick,” Monet said, offering a thankful nod.

The Crimson Knight nodded and then turned and strode back into the encampment, Monet’s scarlet veil billowing from beneath his armor—trailing after him as a scarlet banner.

“Is it a great wound he suffers, Eann?” Monet asked as they walked. “The wound at his arm?”

“It is a deep laceration, at his upper arm…beneath his rerebrace,” Eann answered. “It is in serious need of stitching, but he will not allow it to be attended to until he has finished the tournament.”

Monet struggled to keep the tears filling her eyes from escaping. The thought of Sir Broderick’s wound caused a stabbing pain to pierce her heart.

“But what of infection?” Portia asked.

“I have washed it well—scrubbed torn flesh and rinsed away the dirt. It yet bleeds, and that should keep it fresh enough until he will allow the surgeon to attend him,” Eann answered. As Monet’s stomach churned at the thought, she glanced at Eann. He seemed entirely unaffected, as if scrubbing wounded flesh and rinsing blood were the most natural of tasks.

“Will he best Sir Fredrick, do you think, squire?” Lenore asked.

“Of course, your highness!” Eann answered. He frowned at Lenore, as if her question were the most foolish his ears had ever heard. “The Crimson Knight will be champion of King Ivan’s tournament. There is no doubt.”

“Eann!” King Dacian greeted. “Eann, my lad! What brings you to the stands?”

“Sir Broderick bid I see her highness safely delivered to you, your majesty,” Eann answered.

“Sir Broderick?” King Dacian asked. He arched an inquisitive brow as he looked to Monet. “And where have you been that Sir Broderick would have cause to see you escorted here? I thought you were in company with Portia and Lenore.”

“I was indeed, Father,” Monet said, taking a seat beside her father. She was grateful few had returned to the stands—especially King Rudolph and Anais. “Yet we drew too near the knight encampment, and Sir Broderick wished to see our return escorted.”

Portia and Lenore had chosen to return to the refreshment pavilions. Yet Eann had insisted upon finding Monet’s father, as he had agreed to do. Monet’s hands began to wring where they lay in her lap.

“I see,” King Dacian said. Monet knew he sensed her unrest. She knew he would inquire concerning it.

Dacian’s eyes narrowed as he studied his daughter. He should have insisted she bring one of her attendants with her to Ivan’s tournament. He silently scolded himself for not insisting she do so. Yet Monet was of strong character, and she had convinced him otherwise. Dacian determined, in that moment, however, he must not bow to her convictions of independence and self-protection any longer—not with circumstances building the way they were.

“Thank you, Eann,” he said, still studying Monet. “Tell Sir Broderick I thank him for his wisdom in sending you as escort.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Eann said.

When Eann had gone, Dacian placed a protective hand over his daughter’s trembling ones.

“What has happened to put you ill at ease, Monet?” he asked.

Monet shook her head. He could see the tears moist in her eyes.

“You would not believe me if I told it to you, Father,” she whispered, “for had I not seen it myself…I would not believe me.”

“I will ever believe anything you confide in me, daughter,” Dacian said. He was truly concerned. She seemed so entirely distressed.

“W-we were walking…we went to the wooded grove near the knight encampment,” she began. Dacian determined not to inquire as to why the young women had ventured so far in the first of it. He would not interrupt, for he would hear her tale—discover the source of her restlessness.

“There we saw Anais…Anais and Sir Fredrick. They…they were embracing…among other things.”

Dacian’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he urged.

“It-it is said she has promised far more than her kiss to Sir Fredrick if he would but defeat Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. She looked to him then, fear and trepidation full in her lovely eyes. “I overhead Sir Broderick himself say that such a thing can muster triumph in many a man.”

“And he is right, Monet,” Dacian said. “However, the defense of a woman’s virtue has been the cause of far more triumphs than has the sacrifice of it.” He sighed, a slight grin of compassion donning his lips. Gathering his daughter into his arms, he chuckled. “You worry for your Crimson Knight,” he said.

“Yes,” Monet confessed. Tears escaped her eyes, traveling over her lovely cheeks.

“Well, fear not, my dove,” Dacian said. “Fear not. He will rule this day, as champion of the tournament…and of virtue.”

“But he is wounded, Father!” Monet exclaimed. “A terrible wound at his arm! It yet bleeds and weakens him, I am certain!”

Dacian smiled. Never had he seen such a look of fear and worry in his daughter’s countenance. Her eyes—her lovely violet eyes—were the mark, the mark of assurance he needed. Yes. He was assured then. The entire tale assured him, even so far as Broderick sending Eann to see Monet delivered safely. War was coming, and Dacian of Karvana knew what must be done.

“He will strike Fredrick down, Monet,” her father said. “If you wish it…I will instruct Sir Broderick to waste not a moment in doing so.”

Monet frowned. “What do you mean, Father?”

“I will not watch you suffer through witnessing another brutal round of jousting when it is not necessary,” he said. He smiled and chuckled. “Quiet your fears, my darling. Sir Broderick will triumph! Within the hour, your fears for his safety will be put to bed…and Anais of Alvar will not.”

Monet gasped, “Father!” She could not believe his bold remarks.

“The Crimson Knight will champion you both. I give you my solemn promise of that,” he said.

“But, Father—” Monet began.

“Here,” he interrupted, “we have yet half the hour before the joust. And I saw the most delicious-looking tarts at the refreshment pavilion. Shall we have some brought to us?”

Monet smiled, brushing the tears from her cheeks with the back of one dainty hand. Her heart yet hammered with fear for Sir Broderick’s safety—with disquiet over what she had witnessed of Anais near the knight encampment. Yet her father’s assurance rallied her hope. Sir Broderick would triumph! He would triumph, and the surgeon would mend his wounded arm. All would be well.

“Yes, Father,” she said. “You’ve always said a good tart makes for a good day.”

“Precisely!” King Dacian laughed.

As her father pressed a gold coin into the hand of a young peasant boy, Monet smiled. She knew the boy would receive not only the coin for his errand to retrieve tarts from the refreshment pavilion but also a sweet, delicious tart to enjoy. It was well Monet knew her father—knew his tender heart.