A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “No, no, no! I-I can do it for myself,” she said.

  The Crimson Knight nodded. “I will give you my back for your privacy,” he said. He turned away from her and continued to remove his armor.

  Slowly Monet slipped her gown from one shoulder. She endeavored to remain conscious—to fend off the black sleep of a faint as she traded her lovely scarlet frock for the simple brown of a peasant woman’s kirtle.

  Once her finery had been exchanged for the clothes of a commoner, Monet looked to see the Crimson Knight’s appearance had also been altered. As he finished tying the points at the front of a brown doublet, she thought for a moment he seemed all the more handsome dressed in the plain white of a linen shirt and doe-brown doublet.

  She felt a blush rise to her cheeks, for his eyes traveled the length of her—from toe to head and back.

  He frowned, and she was assured that any beauty she may have owned theretofore was vanished without her lovely scarlet gown. She watched as the Crimson Knight strode to the hearth. He bent, placing his fingers in the ashes. Rising, he returned to her, and Monet gasped as he touched her cheek, her chin, one temple. Running his sooty fingers along his own jaw, he then reached out and tugged at several strands of her hair, gently coaxing them from her long, loose braid, to hang unruly about her face.

  “Are you ready then?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Monet said. He frowned with disapproval, and she sighed. “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Then let us away to exile, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said, “for I will not let Karvana’s people lose hope.”

  As she followed the Crimson Knight from the warm safety of her bower, Monet paused—glanced back to see her beautiful scarlet gown abandoned on her bed midst the litter of armor strewn next to it.

  Into Exile

  The Crimson Knight took hold of Monet’s hand, leading her through the most secluded parts of the castle. It was true enough that his very touch—the feel of his bare hand clasping hers—was, in itself, sufficient sense to affect her. Yet coupled with fear birthed of the knowledge she was being led into exile, Monet wondered would her body ever cease its violent trembling.

  The Crimson Knight led her into the east mezzanine, through the secreted doorway hidden behind the tapestry there, and down a narrow spiral of stone steps.

  “But…but I have brought nothing,” Monet whispered. And it was true! Only in that moment did she recognize she had nothing about her, save the garments she wore.

  “I have prepared every needful thing,” Sir Broderick said.

  “Every needful thing?” Monet asked, endeavoring to match his swift pace.

  He halted, turning abruptly and causing that she stumbled into him. Placing a hand on one of the broad shoulders before her, Monet steadied herself to find the Crimson Knight glaring at her with severe indignation.

  “The king deems me pure competent, Princess,” he said. “And I am.” Even for the dark of the corridor, his eyes burned. Monet wondered—was it simply the fire of the torch he carried reflected in the bewitching blue of his eyes? Yet it was not; his eyes held their own flame, and she nodded her submission to the faith her father owned in him.

  They continued, the stone steps winding downward to a tunnel. It was well Monet knew this tunnel, for it had been her escape from the castle on occasions before. It would lead to the royal mausoleum.

  The length of the Crimson Knight’s stride gave cause that Monet near had to run to match it. Yet he hurried onward, through the dark tunnel, his torch lighting their way.

  “Hush,” he whispered as they stepped out of the tunnel and into the mausoleum. At once, Monet heard it—music, laughter, the sounds of merriment.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  The Crimson Knight snuffed the torch flame. “A fair,” he whispered, leading her to the front of the mausoleum, toward the door. “A distraction,” he explained. “Your father has had minstrels, jugglers, jesters, and the like gather within the castle walls to entertain the people…to distract them that we might make our way from Karvana unseen. The people will cheer…refresh themselves in knowing their king is ever mindful of them even for war approaching the gates. And we will escape without notice.”

  Monet nodded. The Crimson Knight raised a finger to his lips, a gesture she should speak no more. Without a sound, he moved to the door leading from the mausoleum. She began to move toward him, but he held up one hand to stay her.

  Still trembling with fear and uncertainty, Monet glanced about—to the tombs of her ancestors. Her eyes rested for a long moment on that of her mother’s. How bitterly she missed her mother! She was loath to think of her mother entombed in the dark, musty confines of the mausoleum. Yet she knew only her mother’s dust rested there; she knew her mother’s soul delighted in the flowered meadows of heaven. Tears filled her eyes, for, of a sudden, the renewed ache of loss in her was profound. She thought of the king’s instructions—the sealed parchments she knew to be hidden in the secret space in the angel monument of her mother’s tomb. At once, a deep curiosity clasped her—a bitter sense to rebel—to take the king’s instructions from their hiding place, break her father’s seal, and know who her father had set down as her betrothed before King James had brought war to Karvana. With strategies so altered because of the war—for she knew her father’s decision to send her to exile with the Crimson Knight to guard her had been of recent planning—her curiosity as to who her father would have required her to wed otherwise or in some future time near caused her to seek out the hidden instructions. Yet she had promised obedience, and breaking her father’s seal for curiosity’s sake would be far and yon from obedient.

  Monet’s attention was arrested by voices—one seeming very familiar. Quietly moving to stand behind Sir Broderick, Monet listened. The Minstrel Marius was at the door, speaking to the mausoleum guard.

  “Pray, let us assist the young friar yon…for he has stumbled into a rabbit’s burrow and injured himself.”

  “I cannot leave sight of my post,” the guard said.

  “Nay, and you will not…for he is just there. See him?” Marius said. “There, writhing upon the ground. His pain must be great indeed.”

  “I will help him to stand with you…but you must bear him away,” the guard grumbled.

  “Thank you, brave soldier,” Marius said.

  The Crimson Knight paused a moment. Monet gasped as he reached back, fisting the cloth at the neck of her kirtle in one hand, pulling her from the mausoleum as he stepped through the door.

  “Be quick!” he whispered, releasing her dress and taking hold of her arm.

  Monet glanced aside—to the mausoleum guard helping Marius to pull Friar Fleming from his position of sitting in the grass. With their backs to the mausoleum, they did not see the Crimson Knight leading Monet across the grassy space between the mausoleum and the outer castle wall.

  Monet was breathless by the time they reached the wall—breathless from the mad pounding of her heart. She wondered how often in his life the Crimson Knight had found necessity in skulking about in like manner, for he was as wily and quick as a fox.

  “I have a cart and horses waiting just beyond the village,” he said, drawing a brown hood up over his head. Reaching over, he pulled Monet’s hood over her head as well. In truth, Monet had not noticed her garment had a hood attached—having changed her princess’s clothes for those of a common woman in such haste. “It is not a long walk…and the people should be well enough distracted by now.”

  Monet nodded and followed as he strode out across the meadow margin of the castle. The wildflowers of autumn were yet bright on the meadows, and as she walked she allowed her gaze to linger on the fields of tawny grains beyond. She looked to the orchards—smiled at the baskets of apples abandoned beneath trees yet heavy laden. Harvesting had paused, for there was a fair at Karvana Castle, and fairs were rare delights. How wise and cunning her father was! The fair had drawn near everyone to the castle and away from the path she and Sir
Broderick now trod.

  As they walked, Monet looked all about and around, promising her heart she would never forget the visions her mind owned of Karvana at harvest. She wondered if she would ever see her beloved Karvana again. Or if she did, would it live happily under the same reign?

  The comforting scent of wood smoke rising from hearths in the village hung light in the air as Monet followed the Crimson Knight past the cottages and buildings of Karvana. She was full astonished at the manner in which they went on unnoticed. Several children, trailing after their parents on their way to the castle, waved as they passed, and an elderly woman, sitting in repose upon a weathered chair near the Emerald Crown, nodded to them.

  “Good day, young lovers,” the elderly woman said.

  “Good day, kind mother,” the Crimson Knight said, bowing to her in slight.

  The old woman smiled a toothless smile and laughed.

  “Ah! There are much merrier things than fairs for young lovers to be about on such a fine day…are there not?”

  “Indeed, there are,” the Crimson Knight said.

  Monet blushed in spite of her determination not to do so.

  “Then you best be about them,” the woman said.

  “Indeed, we will,” he said. Taking Monet’s hand, he drew her from just behind him to his side.

  “Do not linger in being shy, sweet girl,” the old woman called to Monet. “No woman ever died from letting as handsome a lad as that one steal a kiss or two ’neath the willows.” Monet felt her blush swell, yet managed to offer the old woman a kind nod as the Crimson Knight led her onward.

  Soon they came to a grove of willow trees standing just beyond the village. There stood one horse, another harnessed to a large cart heaped with supplies and other goods.

  “How far will we travel?” Monet asked as the Crimson Knight helped her to the cart seat.

  “Not far,” he said. “The remainder of this day and all of the morrow. It is not so far…only slow travel with a cart.”

  Not far? Near a full day’s travel and another? She wondered what great distances the Crimson Knight had traveled in his life that would deem two days’ travel as not far.

  “Where are we bound?” she asked.

  He sat beside her and took hold of the lines. As the Crimson Knight snapped the leather at the back of the cart horse, the cart heaved forward. The second horse, tied to the back of the cart, followed with head hanging, as if disappointed to be merely walking.

  When he did not answer her inquiry, Monet said, “I will know it when we arrive, Sir Broderick. Why keep our destination from me now?”

  “Ballain,” the Crimson Knight answered at last.

  “Ballain?” she asked. “Near Ballist?” Of a sudden, Monet’s fear increased twofold. Ballain?

  Monet had heard of Ballain—in tales of Ballist and Karvana’s battle there years before. Ballain had been a wild and willful township near Ballist, ruled by the corrupt Lord Morven. Once a wealthy and respected noble, Lord Morven had altered in his years of maturity. Having served Monet’s grandfather, King Seward, as a worthy and honorable knight, Lord Morven had been corrupted by wealth and power. Upon King Seward’s death, Lord Morven had begun to conspire against King Dacian in secret, raising two small legions of troops comprising murderers and thieves and banished soldiers from distant kingdoms. When whispers of Lord Morven’s treachery had reached King Dacian’s ears, he sent the Crimson Knight and a legion of Karvanian cavalry and soldiers to Ballain to prove or disprove the rumors of treason. But the Crimson Knight and his legion did not reach Ballain, for Lord Morven and his treasonous followers lay in wait in Ballist before it. Thus, the bloody Battle of Ballist was fought. Though the Crimson Knight and his men were victorious, a heavy price was paid. Over half the men who had left Karvana for Ballain were lost on Ballist’s fields. Lord Morven was vanquished—run through by the Crimson Knight’s own blade. Still, the ambush at Ballist was infamous, and Monet wondered if the people of Ballain had truly forsaken their willful and wild ways.

  “Yes…Ballain,” the Crimson Knight mumbled.

  “Will they be welcoming to Karvanians?” she asked.

  The Crimson Knight looked to her, his eyes narrow, his countenance quite perfectly cheerless.

  “We will not know…for they will not discern us to be Karvanians.”

  She remembered then—this was exile in all secret.

  “Who will we be?” she asked.

  The Crimson Knight drew a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

  “We will be Alvarians…weary of King Rudolph’s arrogance and weak rule,” he said.

  Even for the fear residing in her bosom, Monet could not keep a pleased smile from her lips. “Oh, I quite like that,” she said. “For I despise Anais of Alvar…as well as her father.”

  Monet quickly glanced to the Crimson Knight when she heard him chuckle. She was fair astonished at the sudden softening of his countenance. The slight smile he wore, the absence of a frown to furrow his brow, together with his peasant’s attire caused that he looked very nearly affable.

  “I spoke unkindly,” she began. “Still…am I wrong in thinking you do not fault me for it?”

  “You are not wrong,” he admitted. “It is only that I am amused at hearing you speak so plain.”

  Monet inhaled deep, attempting to draw courage that she may speak even more plainly.

  “I…I am sorry my father condemned you to this charge, Sir Broderick,” she said. “I know you are a soldier above all else…that you must be loath to abandon your men to play watcher to me. The whole of it is absurd in the least. I am well able to keep from harm.”

  “Yes,” he mumbled, “as you well proved two nights past at the Emerald Crown.”

  Monet blushed at his intimation she had shown herself quite unable.

  “Admittedly, I did not realize the true danger the night I left the castle,” she said. She dropped her gaze, studying her hands for a moment—the silver band on her left ring finger. “And I thank you for my rescue. Still, I am full aware now.” She sighed. Somehow the desperate fear that had fisted her in its hateful grip only half the hour before was giving way to acceptance—and resolve to endure. “Yet I am sorry it is you who has been yoked with me in exile.”

  “I am a soldier first,” he said. “And I do own a measure of animosity at leaving my men to battle without me. Still, to be charged with the preservation of the heart of the kingdom…with secreting the king’s only child? I am in constant bethinking of the great honor it is…to be so trusted by my king.”

  Monet sighed once more and looked ahead to the road before them—the lovely willows near its margin. How she loved to see the graceful sway of the leaf-laden branches. Soon the leaves would fall, and the trees would slumber till spring.

  “I am only a girl…like any other,” she said. “My worth is not above that of the other girls in Karvana…or the world. In truth, it is not so unlike to chess. My father’s chess pieces, all carved from the same marble…mix them up in the world, toss them to the ground, and one is worth no more than the other. Yet place them in a fixed position on a chessboard, and they are valued differently. In truth, I do not think it is decent or right—neither for the maid who must labor in the fields…nor for the princess who must leave behind the only one who loves her to hide with strangers.”

  “Yet you might own no proficiency for harvest…and she may own none for compassion of the people,” the Crimson Knight said. “I battle well, but were I to endeavor to compose a ballad the like Marius is able…” He shook his head. “Right or not, it is often our talent and character as much or more than our inherited station that determine where we are led in life…as well as what trials we may face.”

  Monet felt her eyes narrow as she looked at him. She smiled, delighted by both his comely appearance and his wisdom.

  “So you are wise as well as battle ready,” she said.

  “And you are humble as well as selfless,” he said. “This is why I have chosen that w
e should hale from Alvar…for its princess is in exact opposition to Karvana’s. Therefore, who would think to suspect of two Alvarians in Ballain?”

  He smiled at her then, and Monet thought sure her heart would take to flight as a bird and escape her bosom by way of her throat.

  “Still, I am sorry for you in this, Sir Broderick,” she said.

  “Broderick,” the Crimson Knight said. “Broderick is a common enough name. You will call me Broderick.”

  “And I shall be Monet?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “Monet is not a common name…and Princess Monet is far too known through all the five kingdoms. I will name you…Prissy.”

  “Prissy?” Monet exclaimed. “You cannot be in earnest!”

  Monet did not miss the delicious grin of mischief tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “As the king told me just two days past…I am in full earnest,” he said.

  “But I do not like that name,” Monet said. “It is not mine.”

  “Yet it does put me in mind of you somehow. Prissy you shall be.” His eyes fair twinkled with mirth. She imagined for a moment that he was teasing her. Yet this was Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight. Surely she was mistaken.

  “I will not speak to you if you call me Prissy, Sir Broderick,” she said.

  “Broderick,” he corrected.

  Monet shook her head, attempting to dispel the sudden fear rising in her again—the renewed awareness she was being taken into exile, away from her father and all she knew. And she could not even keep own her name.

  “I-I cannot name you simply Broderick,” she said. “It is far too familiar. It is not appropriate.”

  “I am your husband,” he growled, his temperament altered of a sudden. “How more familiar must I make myself?”

  He was vexed with her. It seemed he was easily vexed when she was near him. She understood then that, no matter his reassurance that he did not feel tortured by her father’s charge to take her into exile—to protect her—yet he did.