A Crimson Frost (7 page)

She closed her eyes a moment, trying to dispel the vision in her mind of Anais wrapped in Sir Fredrick’s arms. Instead she allowed the vision of the Crimson Knight to wash over her—his appearance outside the knight encampment, her own scarlet veil billowing behind him. She swallowed the excess moisture filling her mouth. Was it the anticipation of delicious tarts to taste causing her to thirst? Or was it the vision of the Crimson Knight—armor glinting in the sun, the sapphire of his eyes piercing her soul?

Monet opened her eyes, gazing out at the arena. In less than one hour’s time, Ivan’s tournament would be ended. In less than one hour’s time, two fates would be decided—her own and Anais’s. One conclusion would find Sir Broderick Dougray named tournament champion, Monet’s lips pressed to his in grateful thanks. The other would find Anais in ruination. Oh, how she hoped—nay, prayed—for Sir Broderick’s triumph.

Inhaling a deep breath of resolve, Monet rallied her courage and faith. He would win. Indeed, the Crimson Knight would prevail. For he had promised to win, and was not the Crimson Knight of Karvana renowned for honoring his promise?



The horns sounded, heralding that the final joust of King Ivan’s tournament would begin forthwith. A breeze ruffled the two banners yet hanging on the scoring wall. One belonged to the Crimson Knight of Karvana, the other to Sir Fredrick Esmund of Rothbain.

King Rudolph and Anais had returned to their seats in the stands. Yet though her father was cordial in allowing some conversation betwixt him and King Rudolph, Monet could not bring herself to look at Anais. She knew the spite that would burn in her eyes—the triumphant, knowing smile that would don her lovely lips. Monet would wait—wait until the Crimson Knight had defeated Sir Fredrick. Only then would she look to Anais.

The crowd cheered as Sir Fredrick entered the arena. He spurred his charger to ride fast past the stands. Turning his mount, he approached slowly, halting before King Rudolph and Anais. Lifting his helmet visor, Sir Fredrick gazed at Anais.

“I will bear your favour to victory, Princess,” he said.

Monet did not look to Anais. Still, she could well imagine the expression of pride—of arrogance and triumph—plain on her face.

“Thank you, Sir Fredrick,” Anais said. “Do so and the reward promised to the tournament champion shall be yours!”

Monet felt her stomach churn at Anais’s meaningful assurance.

The crowed cheered as Sir Fredrick’s herald stepped up onto the heralding stage. Sir Fredrick was heralded, and Monet’s body began to quiver with trepidation—nervous apprehension.

Following Sir Fredrick’s introduction, Sir Broderick’s herald took the stage. The crowd in the stands roared with delight. A slight smile found its way to Monet’s lips, for it was obvious the people favored Sir Broderick.

“To all those in attendance!” Sir Broderick’s herald began. The crowd was silent, and the herald continued, “Good people! My lord, my ladies! Kings and queens! Sir Broderick Dougray…Son of Kendrick Nathair…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of King Dacian…Commander of the First Legion…Commander of the Second Legion…Slayer of a Thousand Enemies…Blood Warrior of Ballist…Protector of the Kingdom…Guardian of the Scarlet Princess. For your favor I offer…the Crimson Knight!”

Monet’s heart leapt as Sir Broderick’s charger pranced into the arena. The charger reared thrice, powerful hooves beating the ground with each stance. Monet watched as the charger performed a side-stepping prance toward the stands, the crowd roaring with approval as it did so.

She could not help but smile, for it was in that moment she realized the profound wisdom of Sir Broderick. In entering the arena in such a dramatic manner, he not only won the love of the crowd but likewise used the fact to heap intimidation on his opponents.

His black charger reared once more as he paused before the stands—before Monet and her father.

“Your Majesty,” came the low echo of Sir Broderick Dougray’s voice as he addressed Monet’s father.

“Sir Broderick?” King Dacian asked.

“I beg permission to address Princess Monet,” Sir Broderick said. The low intonation of his voice sent gooseflesh rippling over Monet’s arms and legs.

“Of course, sir,” King Dacian said.

Monet felt her bosom might burst, so breathless was she as he raised his visor—his blue eyes boring through her.

“How would you have me conquer this opponent, Princess?” the Crimson Knight asked.

Monet was immediately out of countenance!

He seemed to sense her uncertainty as to how to answer. Thus he added, “Three lances? Two?” His eyes narrowed, and though she knew not how, somehow she read his thoughts—knew what answer he required of her.

“One,” she stated. The crowd roared as the Crimson Knight nodded.

“One?” King Rudolph exclaimed. “Your arrogance is matched only by your absurdity, Sir Broderick! It must needs be you unhorse Sir Fredrick to win with one lance! Unhorse him or kill him. Ha! He has never been unhorsed. It cannot be done!”

“I will unhorse him or kill him,” Sir Broderick growled. “And though your daughter may have cause to thank me for doing so, it is not for her, nor in defense of her virtue, that I will do this…but for my king, for the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
…and for the Scarlet Princess Monet.”

“My daughter’s virtue?” King Rudolph growled. King Rudolph’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Crimson Knight for a moment. King Rudolph’s chest rose as he drew a deep breath. It seemed, for a moment, he would unleash his tongue at the Crimson Knight. Instead, he slowly looked to Anais.

As King Rudolph glared at his daughter, Monet could not keep herself from looking to Anais.

“Anais?” King Rudolph inquired.

Yet Anais only straightened her posture, looking away from her father and to Sir Fredrick waiting at one end of the arena.

“One lance,” King Dacian said.

Monet looked to the Crimson Knight. His eyes narrowed a moment before he reached up, pulling his visor down over his face.

“Unhorse him or kill him. I leave the choice to you, Crimson Knight,” King Dacian said.

The Crimson Knight nodded. His charger reared, beating the ground several times with powerful hooves. The Crimson Knight rode to the far end of the arena, and the banner bearer stepped to the center of it.

The crowd was silent. It seemed no person drew breath, apprehension hanging thick as porridge.

Monet watched the bearer drop the banner. The Crimson Knight charged forward, leveling his lance. The thunder of hooves coupled the strain of leather. As the two knights bore down in assured devastation, Monet did not draw breath. Sir Fredrick’s lance was leveled and steady—as was the Crimson Knight’s. And then, the brutal crash as the Crimson Knight’s lance struck armor—shattered—echoed through the arena. Monet gasped, awed as Sir Fredrick Esmund reeled back at the blow—reeled and fell—entirely unhorsed.

The roar of the crowd was deafening! Monet collapsed onto her seat, struggling for breath, her entire body trembling—tears escaping her eyes to trickle in great abundance over her heated cheeks.

“Well done, Dacian,” King Rudolph said.

Monet looked up to King Rudolph, then to Anais. Arrogant irritation in being bested owned King Rudolph’s expression, yet Anais’s countenance shone only fury and loathing as she glared at Monet.

“You may thank your Crimson Knight for my two best chargers joining your stables, Dacian,” King Rudolph said.

“And you may thank him for the assurance of your daughter’s virtue!” Monet cried.

Monet was somewhat surprised when her father did not scold her. Rather he simply placed a comforting hand at her shoulder.

King Rudolph offered no immediate response either—simply stood, eyes wide, mouth open, as if someone had delivered a slap to his bearded jaw.

“King James will conquer Karvana, Monet!” Anais growled.

“Anais!” King Rudolph scolded, rattled from his silence by his daughter’s traitorous threat.

Anais was undaunted, however. “He will conquer it…and you will be left no better than a pitiful peasant in the field!” Anais added, hatefully.

Taking the hand of one of her ladies-in-waiting, Anais stormed away, even as her father called after her.

“Anais!” King Rudolph roared. When his daughter did not cease in her retreat, he turned to Monet.

“What goes on here?” he growled.

“The Crimson Knight has won the tournament, Rudolph,” King Dacian said. He offered a hand to Monet, and she took it. He helped her to rise. “And my daughter must away…for the ceremony to honor him will begin shortly. A man named Damon will ride to Alvar to collect your two best chargers and bring them to Karvana.”

Monet’s father linked her arm with his own—an offer of strength and support. He paused, however, looking to Rudolph once more.

“I wish you well, Rudolph. When next we meet, I hope it is to know a wiser, less arrogant King of Alvar.”

King Rudolph said nothing, though his eyes narrowed with indignation.

Monet yet trembled. Dacian could feel her weakness, her lingering fear. It yet held her captive.

“You must recover quickly, Monet,” he said. “I know the strength is bled from you…too much empathy spent in Sir Broderick’s behalf. Yet you must find courage, for he is victorious. And victorious though he may be…he is yet bruised, bloodied, and broken for it. You must meet him. Gift him his prize, that he may know he has triumphed in our hearts as well as in tournament.”

“Yes, Father,” Monet whispered. She yet wept, overcome with emotion, worn through with empathy for the Crimson Knight’s weariness and pain—frightened by Anais’s horrid behavior and declaration.

“King James will not cease in endeavoring to capture Karvana…will he, Father?” she asked.

“I fear not, Monet,” her father said. He had never been one to hide the truth from her for long—no matter how terrifying it may be. “Yet we have right on our side, dove,” he continued, “and many good soldiers who love their kingdom.”

“And will their king lead them into battle, Father?” Monet asked, though she already knew the answer to her question. King Dacian of Karvana was renowned for accompanying his soldiers into battle. He would send no man into territory he himself was not willing to go.

“Yes, dove. Their king will lead them.”

Monet fought to withhold the tears welling in her eyes.

“But, Father—” she began, terror striking her tender heart.

“Their king will lead them…with the Crimson Knight of Karvana at his side,” her father interrupted. He paused, taking Monet’s shoulders between strong hands. His brow furrowed, his voice low and commanding as he spoke next. “Listen to me now, Monet,” he said. “I will see you stand strong before Sir Broderick as he takes the champion’s stage. I would have you thank him for his sacrifice and tribute to Karvana—to me…and to you. There is no doubt in my mind of this tournament being the least of his battles and sacrifices where our kingdom is concerned, Monet. He will yet continue to prove himself only further heroic. Therefore, meet him with strength in your carriage even if it is feigned…for I know well your fears. Meet him with gratitude in your whole countenance, and let your lips meet his with the lingering kiss of a humble and indebted princess…one deserving of his continued allegiance and protection.”

Monet brushed the tears from her cheeks. The brutal pounding of her heart was madness!

“But, Father,” she cried in a whisper, “so many eyes upon me. Every set of eyes in the arena will…and…and I have never before kissed a man…let alone one the like of Sir Broderick Dougray! What if I cannot find the courage to…to…”

“You will find it, Monet,” King Dacian interrupted. “You will find it.”

“Yet how, Father? How?” Monet could feel her entire being quaking. Her limbs felt heavy; her innards churned near to retching.

“You will find it because you must. You have no choice but to find it.”

Monet shook her head, brushing tears from her cheeks. “Father…I…I do not think—”

“He bore favour, Monet,” King Dacian interrupted. “Though I have heard him vow many times never to bear favour in tournament, he bore yours…and triumphed. He well knew he would triumph, as he well knew of Ivan’s promised prize to the tournament champion…as I suspect you did not at first.”

Monet blushed. Her father laughed and drew her into his arms.

“What valiant knight would not battle in hope of a tender kiss bestowed by a pretty princess, eh? Such a thing is so rarely obtainable.”

Monet lingered in her father’s loving embrace. She smiled—laughed a little. “Even the Blood Warrior of Ballist? Even the Crimson Knight?” she asked.

“Even he, Monet,” King Dacian said. “Thus, kiss him well…for he much deserves to be well kissed. Does he not?”

“Kissed well? Then perhaps he should’ve borne favour given him by one of cook’s kitchen maids,” Monet giggled. She felt her terror beginning to subside.

King Dacian chuckled. “The one with the flaming red hair? The one cook caught indiscreetly trifling with Sir March’s squire?”

“The very one, Father,” Monet said. “Perhaps she would know best of kissing well.”