A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  The horns sounded, and the inner gates were lifted, the inner drawbridge lowered. A sudden breeze freshened the air. It caught the gossamer scarlet veil draped over Monet’s shoulders, whisking it away—carrying it out over the parapets. The rumble of horses shook the earth as the knights and their king charged toward their legions in await.

  Squires followed, cooks, blacksmiths—and Monet trembled.

  She could see her father’s white charger in the distance. She could see Sir Broderick’s armor glinting in the morning sun.

  “God protect you, Father,” she whispered. “God love and preserve you, Sir Broderick,” she breathed.

  She could hear it then—the lute of a minstrel and a familiar tune. Glancing over, she saw him, there in one corner of the keep—the Minstrel Marius. She well knew Marius and the melody he plucked.

  “At your bidding, your highness,” Marius said with a nod.

  Monet nodded. Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she returned her attention to Karvana’s soldiers amassing to the north as the minstrel began his ballad—the ballad of “A Crimson Frost.”

  Once Ballist was a battle stage

  Where soldiers fought and war was wage

  To keep Karvana for an age,

  And poets yet put ink to page

  Of a Crimson Frost upon him.

  As blade met blade ’mid winter snow

  And legions battled row on row,

  The North Wind did begin to blow

  And bid the Reaper then to sow

  With a Crimson Frost behind him.

  Up-mounted on his demon stud

  The Reaper reaped amidst the flood

  Of dying men strewn in the mud

  As Ballist’s field ran red with blood

  With a Crimson Frost beside him.

  As Winter and the North Wind roared

  Ten men would fall to cold and sword.

  Ten more and then the Dark Death Lord

  Would reap them up into his hoard

  With a Crimson Frost to aid him.

  Then midst the brutal, bloody fight

  The Reaper spied a comely knight,

  His hilt and sword a flame of light,

  Battling for his kingdom’s might

  And no Crimson Frost upon him.

  This knight so comely, brave, and strong,

  Who fought for right instead of wrong

  Amidst the battle’s bloodied throng

  Pure vexed the Reaper’s reaping song,

  For no Crimson Frost adorned him.

  And this, the Reaper’s fury fanned—

  To see this knight stay Lord Death’s hand

  And triumph at the battle stand

  When Death should rule the blood-stained land

  And a Crimson Frost consume him.

  “What Knight is this?” the Reaper growled.

  His sickle stilled—his death brow scowled.

  The Reaper saw his reaping fouled.

  “Sir Broderick!” the North Wind howled,

  “With no Crimson Frost upon him.”

  Thus, on the battlefield that day

  Broderick was the Reaper’s prey

  Beneath the clouds of winter’s gray

  Lord Death, this knight, would surely slay

  And cast Crimson Frost upon him.

  Then drew the Reaper his death blade,

  For Broderick’s life must be paid

  To see Karvana’s glory fade

  And spur the Reaper’s bloody trade

  With a Crimson Frost to aid him.

  With sickle and a blade for ware,

  The Reaper rode his stud to where

  The battle raged, that he may bear

  The comely knight to Lord Death’s lair

  With a Crimson Frost upon him.

  Yet Broderick, of noble heart,

  Knew well the Reaper’s ghastly art

  And would not let his soul depart

  Upon the Reaper’s black death cart

  With a Crimson Frost upon him.

  Thus for his people and their crown,

  Broderick turned to face Death down

  And with his sword and skill renown

  Feared not of Death’s dark heinous frown

  And the Crimson Frost beside him.

  The comely knight met Death each stride.

  They battled raw till eventide,

  Till Death was weary from the ride

  And with his sickle reaping wide

  Cast a Crimson Frost upon him.

  Sir Broderick then knew the cost

  Of fighting Death, though Death had lost,

  As, of a sudden, he was crossed

  And lay in darkness in the frost

  With a Crimson Frost upon him.

  Red blood caressed his raven hair.

  Red blood was at his brow so fair.

  Red blood adorned his breastplate there.

  Red blood did stain the very air,

  And a Crimson Frost entombed him.

  Still, worth he more than measured gold,

  Broderick, bound by winter’s cold,

  Was brave and strong and ever bold,

  Drew breath and fought the red frost’s hold.

  Thus the Crimson Frost released him.

  This knight, with Death, in battle brushed,

  Yet battle-bruised and broken—crushed

  Broderick rose and forward rushed

  And, with his blade, an army hushed

  With a Crimson Frost behind him.

  Thus Ballist fell, and bells did ring

  For Broderick had spurned Death’s sting

  And warriored well for his great king.

  Hence poets pen and minstrels sing

  Of a Crimson Frost upon him.

  A lion’s heart beats in his breast

  Beneath his rearing dragon crest,

  This knight, the one who battled best,

  Who from his task did not take rest,

  Nor let Crimson Frost o’ercome him.

  Monet watched her father, the knights, and the soldiers as the Minstrel Marius sang of “A Crimson Frost.” She thought of the battle of Ballist three years previous, of the enemies slain at Sir Broderick Dougray’s hand, of his own wounds—wounds that caused him to suffer in unconscious darkness long enough for winter’s frost to form over his blood-drenched armor and blade. Yet he awoke—struggled to his feet to defeat ten more foes before the renewed warmth of his body had melted the crimson frost from his armor.

  Sir Broderick and his legion had defeated a common enemy of the five kingdoms. He had battled hard—kept evil and harm from finding its way to Karvana’s door. Bruised, broken, and bloodied, Sir Broderick Dougray had returned from Ballist triumphant. Monet would never forget the fear that stabbed her soul as she saw him ride over the drawbridge following the Battle of Ballist, covered in not only the blood of his enemies but in his own as well.

  For his triumph at Ballist, King Dacian had bestowed upon Sir Broderick Dougray the title of Blood Warrior of Ballist. Soon thereafter, the people of the Kingdom of Karvana began telling stories of the Blood Warrior of Ballist—the “Crimson Knight,” they had christened him. Thus, Monet’s father had likewise christened Sir Broderick the Crimson Knight.

  Lost in her reverie, it was Marius’s voice—the final verse of “A Crimson Frost”—that whispered hope to her mind.

  Thus, ever can Karvana trust

  No enemy will ever thrust

  His blood or bones of flesh to dust

  For her first knight is strong and just

  And no Crimson Frost will bind him.

  Monet turned to Marius and smiled. Hope had returned to her—somehow. The war would be won, Karvana would be saved, and the Crimson Knight would return—as would her father.

  Monet stood atop the keep, long after her father’s white charger and the Crimson Knight’s flag had disappeared over the horizon—long after the legions and knights were gone to battle.

  “God protect you,” she whispered on th
e wind. Monet, the Scarlet Princess of Karvana, turned and made her way into the castle keep.

  The Gates of Karvana

  One month passed; two more followed. Summer was spent—breathed out as a weary sigh—and without a king at Karvana Castle. No knights sat at King Dacian’s round table of conferring, and the only soldiers to return to Karvana were either dreadfully wounded—or dead. Autumn was yet youthful, but the air owned a change—a cooling of the breezes whispering of harvest nigh and the impending misery of soldiers battling in bitter weather.

  As the days continued to wane—the days of war, of not knowing which man had survived battle and which had not—sleep did not come easy nor linger long for Monet of Karvana. Each morning, weary and worn with worry, Monet would hasten to the castle gate. There she would wait for the messenger—for whatever wounded soldier, yet well enough to ride, to arrive with news of the battle. Each day brought sorrow mingled with sinful relief, for with each herald that King Dacian and the Crimson Knight yet lived and lived well, Monet knew a measure of consolation. Heartbroken though she was for the dead soldiers who would soon follow in the death cart—for their families—the sweet balm of knowing the Crimson Knight and her father were well renewed her hope and fortitude of enduring.

  Hope and endurance were cached precious to Monet. As she stood on the castle parapet each midday to address the people of Karvana—to herald tidings of the measure of the war with Rothbain—she drew her own courage from the hope given her at her father’s survival, at the formidable stamina and strength of the Crimson Knight. Karvana would be victorious! This she told the people; this she whispered to herself again and again and again. Karvana would be victorious—and soon! The king would return, to rule with wisdom and compassion as he ever had—and with him the Crimson Knight.

  Yet eventide thinned Monet’s resolve, for this was when Monet visited the families of whatever soldiers had returned to Karvana in the death cart. As the sun began its setting, veiling the earth in the solicitude borne of dusk, Monet would make her way to the homes of the fallen soldiers of Karvana. Ever her father’s counselors would beg she not go out among the people—beg she dare not venture beyond the castle walls. Still, go she did, for she was driven to them, that the wives and children of Karvana’s fallen heroes might know her heart ached for, and with, their own. Still, the dark heartache of loss—the tears of each wife and child whose beloved protector would no longer hold them warm and safe in his arms—caused a great fear and crushing sorrow to seize Monet’s mind, body, and heart. Thus, sleep did not come easy—nor linger—for Monet of Karvana.

  There was no breeze the morning the king was returned. As Monet stood atop the parapet, gazing out toward the north, the flags of Karvana Castle hung listless and still. They would have traveled under the cover of night, as ever they did—the wounded and the dead, and those who carried them.

  The sun had risen, a great orange orb bathing the earth in the warmth of early autumn, and Monet had witnessed its waking. Reapers were already harvesting in the fields beyond the village. Monet watched them—and waited. She wondered why the death cart and messengers seemed to tarry, for it was their established habit to break the horizon in the brief moments following the first apricot blush of sunrise. Yet the sun had begun its ascension near an hour before. Thus Monet was discomfited and worrisome.

  Yet, of a sudden, in the distance she saw then the approach—a messenger mounted and carrying Karvana’s emerald flag. Her heart was next pierced with anguish as she saw not one but two carts crest the hill north of the village. One cart bore Karvana’s battle banner—an emerald flag with a white wolf bearing teeth. Yet the other cart bore not only Karvana’s flag but also another: the banner of the king, white with King Dacian’s amethyst shield and white stag rearing.

  “Father!” Monet gasped as understanding speared her heart.

  Monet fled down the steps leading from the parapet. The shouts of her father’s counselors did not slow her, and she ordered the guards at the gate to bid her pass. The outer drawbridge had been lowered in anticipation of the arrival of the death cart and wounded. As Monet rushed its length and ran through the village, even the astonished gasps and exclamations of the people did not diminish her advance.

  Breathless and worn, she met the caravan of wounded and dead, tears already streaming plentiful over her cheeks.

  “Father!” she cried. “Father!”

  “He lives, Princess,” a wounded yet mounted soldier told her as she reached the first cart. “The king lives. He is wounded…but not mortally.”

  A whisper of thankful prayer escaped her lips as she reached the second cart to see her father sitting upright—and alive.

  “Father!” she sobbed as he smiled at her. He was weary—disturbingly disheveled in appearance. His face, arms, and armor were well marked with the soil and blood of battle, his left leg wrapped with blood-sodden wound dressings.

  Careless of propriety or harm to herself, Monet clambered into the wagon. Wary of her father’s wounded leg, she yet threw herself into his welcoming embrace.

  “Oh, Father!” she sobbed. “Are you well? Are you indeed well?”

  His arms were strong about her, his loving embrace warm and comforting.

  “I am well, my dove,” King Dacian said, chuckling, “though somewhat humiliated to have found myself mortal and subject to such a wound as to keep me from battle.”

  “I feared Death had claimed you, Father!” Monet cried against her father’s broad shoulder. “I saw the death carts approaching…one with your banner, and I…I thought…” She could not speak for a moment, besieged with relief in her father’s return—his living return.

  “I am sorry to have frightened you, Monet,” Dacian said, caressing her tender cheeks. “Yet I am well. I am well.”

  Monet shook her head, however. The wound at his leg appeared severe, and she yet feared for his health.

  “This looks to be no brier scrape, Father,” she said.

  “No. No indeed. Still, it has been well tended. Sir Broderick himself scrubbed the dirt and blood away…stitched the flesh.”

  Of a sudden, Monet’s heart swelled. “Sir Broderick is well then?”

  King Dacian smiled. “Sir Broderick is well. And I am well for his efforts. Nay…I am alive for his efforts.”

  Monet’s lovely brow puckered with inquisition.

  “If not for Broderick’s sword…I would surely have returned to you heaped upon the death cart with those who gave their last breath for Karvana,” he said, gesturing to the death cart afore them.

  “Then I am thankful your Crimson Knight is so skilled with wounds and stitching.”

  King Dacian shook his head. “No. Skilled in seaming flesh though he may be…it was his skill in battle, his master’s wield of a blade, that first delivered my life.”

  I will not let Death claim your father, Princess. The Crimson Knight’s promise echoed through Monet’s mind. Her heart beat mad in her bosom at the very thought of him—at knowing he had kept his promise.

  “Tell me of it, Father,” Monet whispered. “Tell me.”

  Dacian smiled. The bright resplendence in his daughter’s eyes spoke to his heart, and he caressed her cheek with the back of one hand.

  “We were midst battle,” he began. “So many of James’s soldiers were there—seemed to rise from the very mists of morning—and we battled. An enemy fell my horse and I beneath him. One never understands the true measure and weight of a horse till one lies beneath his flank.” He smiled as Monet nodded. “The enemy was upon me—three soldiers of Rothbain…and me trapped beneath my horse. It was certain I was that I would be lost…that I would never again lay eyes on my daughter—the beautiful Scarlet Princess of Karvana.”

  Monet took her father’s hand, desperate to feel its warm, to know that life was yet in it—in him.

  “And then?” she prompted, for she must hear the whole of it.

  “And then he was there—Sir Broderick Dougray…the Crimson Knight of Karv
ana,” her father continued. “He drew his sword…drew even a second sword from a fallen soldier near where my horse and I were fell. And there he battled o’er me…defending my life…keeping Death at bay. Three Rothbainians he slay there. Wielding two swords, he slay them with seeming ease. Thus I was preserved.”

  I will not let Death claim your father, Princess. Sir Broderick’s words lingered in her heart. She could well see him. In her mind she could see him battling to protect her father’s life—a true and valiant First Knight of Karvana.

  “The wound at my leg…as my men endeavored to pull me from beneath my dead mount, another enemy fell upon us, striking hard his blade into my flesh before Sir Broderick fell him beside the others he had slain,” King Dacian explained. “Broderick’s guilt was severe…and it was only my constant assurance he had not failed me that eased his mind somewhat at long last. He then scrubbed my wound, stitched and dressed it. I felt able enough…and I did not want to return to Karvana, Monet.”

  “You did not wish to leave your men,” Monet said, for it was well she knew her father’s heart.

  King Dacian nodded. “To leave them to battle alone…it is not meet with my nature or conscience. Yet my knights were in agreement. James may well think the kingdom weak without a king in the castle. We are battling hard…yet we are not pronouncing victory, Monet. Neither is James. Thus in counsel with the knights of Karvana…it seems sure James of Rothbain will look to more deceitful methods of battle. He may well look to lay siege to Karvana itself. Thus, it is wise to have her king at hand to wage battle for her on her own lands if needs be.”

  “You think King James will endeavor to beset the heart of Karvana, Father?” Monet whispered, a wicked fear rising within her.

  “James is as low as the serpent slithering through the grasses. He is cowardly. He owns no honor…and he will slink from the battlefields if he cannot easily prove himself victor there. He will endeavor to keep our attention thus fixed upon soldiers crashing blades to the north…while he conjures methods of destruction poised above Karvana’s core. Thus I have returned…to prepare…to send watchmen…to protect our kingdom, Monet.”