A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Very well,” she said. “You will be Broderick, and I will be—”

  “Prissy,” he finished for her.

  “As you wish, Sir Broderick,” she mumbled. When he scowled at her, she said, “Broderick.”

  He spoke no more. Monet sensed he did not wish to converse with her any longer, and so they rode on. For hours and hours they traveled—until Karvana was far behind them and dusk descended.

  

  Monet’s eyes opened a little. Her body ached—in particular her neck. She gasped—sat upright as she realized the cart had stopped—that her head had been resting against the Crimson Knight’s strong shoulder. When she had fallen asleep she did not know, but darkness was upon them now, and she was chilled.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  Sir Broderick said nothing as he climbed down from the cart. “We will pause here,” he said.

  Monet glanced about. The moonlight revealed they were halted in a small recess of rock among a thick grove of trees. She realized then he meant her to sleep in the open. She had never in her life done such a thing.

  “Are we to have a fire?” she asked, for the night air was already frightfully chilled.

  “No,” he said, “for we must not risk discovery.”

  She opened her mouth to argue. Yet as she watched him pull a fur from the cart, she knew she should not. This was a man well skilled at battle—all manner of battle. If he deemed no fire should light the night as a beacon to their encampment, then no fire should light it.

  There was certainly no room in the cart in which to lay down to rest. Thus, Monet assumed they would sleep on the cold ground. Tears filled her eyes at the thought of such cold discomfort, for she was painfully weary of a sudden.

  “You will rest here,” Sir Broderick said. She watched as he spread the large bearskin on the ground near the rocks. “The rocks should keep the breezes from you.”

  “And where will you rest?” she asked, for he did not spread another skin on the ground. Rather he returned to the cart, drawing the harness from the cart horse.

  “I will stand watch,” he said. He led the cart horse and the other to a nearby tree. Tying their bridle reins to a low branch, he patted the soft neck of each animal, speaking in a soothing voice to them as they began to nibble grass.

  “Stand watch?” she asked. “Through the entire of the night?”

  “Of course,” he said, taking her hand and helping her down from the cart. Of a sudden, she shivered, her body thoroughly chilled in the night air.

  “You cannot stand watch all the night,” she said. “When will you take your rest?”

  “When we reach Ballain,” he answered, leading her to the place near the rocks where the bearskin lay upon the ground. “I will rest tomorrow night.”

  “I will not rest if you are not at rest as well,” she told him. “How can I?”

  “It is of no consequence, Princess,” he said. “It is many a night a soldier does not rest.”

  A sudden gust of wind blew about them, and Monet shivered, her teeth fair knocking together. Wrapping her arms about her, she trembled with the terrible discomfort of the cold night.

  “You are too chilled,” Sir Broderick said, a frown of deep concern furrowing his brow. “In falling asleep as we traveled, your body cooled.”

  “I fear I am not so sturdy in the wind and cold as your comrades of battle might be,” she admitted. Her teeth so chattered it was near hurtful.

  “Do not worry over it,” he said. “A bit of chafing and a heavy fur about your shoulders and you will rest warm enough.”

  Monet nodded—watched as he returned to the cart and retrieved another fur.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to sit on the bearskin. He sat down before her, taking her hands in his and blowing warm air on them.

  The sense of his heated breath on her hands caused her body to rush with gooseflesh. He rubbed her hands between his own—blew breath on them again. His strong hands next rubbed at her shoulders and upper arms as he endeavored to chafe her to warmth. Yet still she trembled with being chilled.

  “Forgive me my weakness, Sir Broderick,” she began. “I fear I am not as immune to weather as a knight.”

  “You would not be a princess if you were,” he said. He smiled a slight smile, and she knew he was not vexed with her—in the least, not at that moment. “Here,” he said, leaning back against the rocks. “I will warm you a moment.”

  Drawing his legs up, he drew her between his knees, and Monet was breathless with delight as he pulled her back against his body. He spread the fur around them, his arms encircling her body beneath it. She felt his heated breath on her neck as he endeavored to warm her flesh with it.

  “Forgive me, Princess,” he said. “I did not think to recognize you might be more vulnerable to the elements than I. And the night is not so warm as I hoped.”

  “D-do not concern yourself, Sir Broderick,” she said, teeth still clattering in her head. “I must learn not to be so weak.”

  Again he blew his warm breath on her neck, chafing her arms with strong hands beneath the fur.

  “It is not a weak young woman who finds the courage to leave her kingdom…her home…and those who know her…to dwell in exile with only a rough and disagreeable soldier for company,” he said.

  “You do not need to endeavor to flatter me, Sir Broderick,” she said. “I know I am not so strong as you…but how could I be? Further, it takes no courage to leave one’s kingdom and home when one has been commanded by the king to do so. Further, you are not always rough and disagreeable. You must not be…for women fawn after you for far more reason than just your pretty face.”

  His chafing of her arms ceased at once, as did his breath upon her neck.

  “Pretty?” he near growled.

  Monet smiled—as warmth and fatigue began to overtake her. “You do not think you are pretty, Sir Broderick?”

  “Pretty is termed when describing women, not men…and certainly not knights and soldiers,” he mumbled.

  Monet giggled. His pride was wounded, though she had meant to compliment him. An unfamiliar sense of liberty began to wander through her bosom. Even for the cold of the night—and the fear of the unknown path down which the Crimson Knight was leading her—Monet found that, in the open solitude of the wilderness, her mind and soul—even her body—felt free, unbound by expectation and propriety.

  “I think that I am not so thoroughly terrified of you as I was a day ago, Sir Broderick,” she said as his strong hands began to chafe her arms once more.

  “First you term me pretty…and then dub me terrifying in the next breath,” he said. “I do not know what to make of it.”

  “Make of it that you are…pretty terrifying, Sir Broderick Dougray,” Monet said, smiling at the warmth of his breath in her hair.

  She heard him chuckle. “And you possess a wit I was not so thoroughly aware of before this day,” he said. “Do you intend to be ever so forthright in speech during this period of exile?” he asked.

  “I am only tired, Sir Broderick,” she answered. “Therefore, fear not. I am certain that on the morrow I shall be as frightened and as doubtful as ever.”

  “And I suppose I shall be as terrifying as ever,” he mumbled.

  “There is no doubt,” she whispered—warm—safe held—in the powerful arms of the Crimson Knight. “And far as pretty,” she mumbled to herself, smiling as her eyes then closed.

  Broderick sensed Karvana’s princess drifting into heavy slumber. It was certain the Princess Monet was more tired than ever in her life she had been. He felt the gooseflesh leave her arms as she warmed—felt her body relax against his as she surrendered to fatigue. He scolded himself for having let her become so thoroughly chilled. He might have known better, for a princess was not as familiar with bodily hardship as was a soldier. What good would there be in spiriting the Scarlet Princess to exile to save Karvana’s hope if the Reaper were to steal her instead?

  A b
reeze lifted a strand of her hair to his cheek—the scent of her skin to his nostrils—and he ground his teeth with resistance of desire. His hands ceased in their smooth chafing of her arms—light gripped them instead as he attempted to contain his thoughts—thoughts of her beauty—of their remote isolation and solitude.

  As he bent his head, allowing himself the simple pleasure of the warm flesh of her neck so near to his chin, he frowned, pained by the sudden memory of having raised his voice to the king. In the moments that morning before young Channing had been sent to summon Princess Monet, he had spoken harsh to the king. It was true; he had near shouted, demanding to know why King Dacian had chosen him, Broderick Dougray, to carry the Scarlet Princess into exile. He had demanded to know what purpose the king had in the marriage, one that would cause the princess to loathe the Crimson Knight and one that might well find the Crimson Knight reigning as King of Karvana one day—an honor and burden Broderick did not wish to own. He had demanded of the king as to what foul sin Karvana’s first knight had committed to deserve being placed in such a torturous circumstance as that of being wed to a woman he could not wholly have as wife.

  King Dacian—ever wise and compassionate—had not rebuked, nor even scolded. “I love you as I would love my own son, Broderick,” he had said. “And I ask that you know this. I know you are the only man I may entrust with my daughter’s care and safety…the only man worthy of protecting the heart of this kingdom…the only man who loves this kingdom enough to take up this charge and to honor it.”

  Broderick had knelt before the king near instantly, his anger reined, his mind and heart humbled by the king’s incomparable trust and faith—by owning his favor and love.

  “Forgive me, my king,” Broderick had said. “I am but a soldier, greatly fatigued and worried for my kingdom…and in truth…again questioning my own strength and resistance.”

  “You will not falter, Sir Broderick,” the king began, “and, in proving your valiance, shall one day be rewarded with such a measure of prize you cannot fathom at this moment.”

  “I will bear this charge, my king,” Broderick said. “I will keep my oath to protect the Scarlet Princess of Karvana…though it cost me my life.”

  “I know the truth of it, Broderick,” King Dacian said. “And know that your anger, fear, doubt, and frustration…they are not simply cast off by your king.”

  Broderick grinned, amused by the memory of King Dacian’s own smile—the smile of mischief he had worn upon his face in the next moment when King Dacian had said, “Thus, to you, in all this burden of charge you carry…I will allot to you a small margin of pleasure in that you may kiss the Scarlet Princess whenever opportunity is ripe…on condition that you kiss her well when you do.”

  Broderick had been astonished to silence. It was not until the king laughed—bade him rise from his knees—that he found his wits about him once more. He thought certain the king was in jest, and he had thought such until the moment Friar Fleming commanded the marriage between Sir Broderick and Princess Monet be sealed with a kiss. He had glanced up at the king to see him nod with absolute assurance. Thus, he had kissed her—the Scarlet Princess, the heart of Karvana, his wife in task only.

  Broderick brushed away the silken ebony tresses the breeze had caused to caress his face. He could linger no more. Thus he was careful and lay the princess down upon the bearskin. She did not stir but a little, and he covered her with the second fur.

  He paused in leaving her—studied her for a long moment. Here lay the heart of Karvana—the very hope of the people. The king of the most beloved of kingdoms had trusted her preserving to him. He would not fail his king; he would not fail the Princess Monet; he would not fail and lose the respect of the king and the people he had won—the hard-fought honor he owned.

  Broderick Dougray determined then, in that moment, to hold the princess as such of what she was—the kingdom’s greatest treasure. Each time he looked at her, he would see not the pretty Princess Monet—not the graceful creature that any and all knights of Karvana delighted in seeing. No. He would see only a treasure—a jewel. He would gaze on her as if she were a gemstone—a diamond worth more gold than even a king possessed. He would not see a soft, tender-fleshed young woman—a young woman with lips sweet as berries and a smile like the sun. No. She was, absolute, a treasure—and he was the knight charged with guarding it.

  Exhaling a deep breath of great fatigue, Broderick stood and strode to the cart. Tomorrow they would travel to Ballain. He would set himself up as a horseman, for though the king had given him wealth aplenty to live out his entire life without the need of hard labor, it would draw suspicion from the townspeople if he had no manner of living. Further, idleness would drive him to madness. Therefore, he had determined himself to be a horseman in Ballain. Broderick Dougray knew horses—their breeding, their training, their worth. He hoped the man he had paid to bring six of his horses from his estate at Karvana Far to Ballain would make haste about it.

  He gazed up into the black of the midnight sky—to the silver half-moon and the twinkling shimmer of the stars. His mind wandered to Princess Monet, for he did own deep compassion for her. To be stript of all she knew—it was a harsh charge indeed.

  Of a sudden, however, he frowned. “The Crimson Knight…pretty?” he growled, as if the word were bitter meat. “Hmmph.”

  In Ballain

  Monet glanced about. The cottages and other buildings of the village of Ballain were well cared for. Autumn flowers yet bloomed in the meadows beyond, and the reapers reaping in tawny fields did not appear so unlike those in Karvana. A delightful array of happy and laughing children played on the road margin. Several older boys were in practice as archers near a sturdy mill whose wheel traveled round and round, carrying water from a lovely pond.

  As Broderick drove the horse and cart through the village, many villagers stopped to stare at the unfamiliar faces only just arrived at Ballain. Still, others smiled and waved welcome. Monet met each smile with one of her own—each wave with a nod in grateful greeting. The day was light and bright, and so seemed the people of Ballain.

  “They seem friendly,” Monet said.

  “Yes. They do,” Broderick mumbled.

  As they neared the smithy, a large man stepped from the shelter of it. Monet felt her brows arch in astonishment. The man was near the largest she had ever seen! He wore only trousers, his arms and chest caked with dust and perspiration. His skin was baked bronze by the sun—even his head, for it was bald and as smooth as marble. He appeared to be near as old as her father, yet bodily more powerful.

  “Good eventide, stranger,” the enormous man greeted. His voice was deep and booming, reminding Monet of distant thunder. “Welcome to Ballain.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Broderick said. “I am Broderick, and this is Prissy…my wife. We are come to Ballain in search of a new life.”

  “I am Bronson…and welcome again,” the man said. “Might I ask what drives you from your old life?”

  Broderick had warned Monet that the people of Ballain might be suspect of strangers. Karvana was at war, and though Ballain was a distant township in the kingdom, it was part of Karvana still and would be on guard.

  “We are come from Alvar…pure vexed and weary of King Rudolph’s arrogance and weak rule,” Broderick explained. “Karvana knows a good king…or so we are told.”

  “A good king indeed,” Bronson said, “yet a king and a kingdom threatened by war.”

  “Indeed,” Broderick said. “Yet Karvana is known for her strength…and I would rather a strong kingdom held threatened than a weak one.”

  “I am a blacksmith,” Bronson said. “And what trade do you offer Ballain?”

  Monet endeavored to keep from trembling. The blacksmith was deep wary. What if they were not welcomed at Ballain? Where would Sir Broderick take them to exile then?

  “I am a horseman,” Broderick answered. “Would Ballain have need of a man of horses? The fair best it has ever seen?”

&
nbsp; Bronson laughed. He was full amused and nodded approval.

  “Indeed! Indeed we do have need of a horseman,” he said. “Welcome to Ballain, Broderick…and to your lovely young wife.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Monet said.

  Bronson approached the cart and offered a hand of welcome to Broderick. Broderick accepted his hand in a firm grip.

  “There is a small inn…just around the bend there,” Bronson said, pointing to the road ahead. “The Sleepy Fox will put you up fine enough ’til you secure a shelter of your own.” He paused a moment, pensive. “I myself own a small dwelling close by. It stands empty and has fences sufficient for two horses. I would sell it to you for a good price.”

  “Is there room for more fence?” Broderick asked, “for I will have six more horses to shelter in another day or two.”

  Bronson nodded. “Indeed! Full enough room for more fence.”

  “Then I shall consider it if you have the time to take me there on the morrow,” Broderick said.

  “I have the time,” the blacksmith said. “Therefore, take your Prissy to the Sleepy Fox for the night. I am certain she is weary with travel…are you not, lass?”

  “A bit,” Monet said. He was a charming man, this Bronson the blacksmith. Monet had favored him near at once. There was something commendable in the manner in which he rather guarded the village—a protective nature she found comforting.

  “And might I sway you to joining us for our evening meal on the morrow…as a gesture of welcoming?”

  Broderick glanced to Monet. She could see the suspect in his eyes—the wariness. It seemed he was awaiting her response.

  “How kind,” she said.

  “We accept,” Broderick told the blacksmith then.

  “Good! I will tell Sarah and our young lads that we will sup with Broderick the horseman and his beautiful wife Prissy at sunset on the morrow,” he said, a broad smile on his weathered face. “I will meet you in the morning, Broderick…that you may see the dwelling I offer.”