“Thank you, Bronson,” Broderick said. “It was good to be welcomed to Ballain in such a friendly manner as this.”
Bronson nodded to Broderick. “Good eventide, Prissy,” he said to Monet.
“And to you, sir,” Monet said, smiling at him as Broderick slapped the lines at the cart horse’s back.
As they rounded the bend to see the Sleepy Fox, Monet said, “You truly expect me to answer to Prissy?” She did not like the name. It was silly, and it was not hers.
Sir Broderick smiled. “It is your penance…for terming me pretty the night past.”
“I did not mean to give offense, Sir Broderick,” she told him.
“Broderick,” he said. “I am Broderick to you now. And you are Prissy.” His smile of pure mirth was so delightful to gaze upon that she could not bring herself to scold him further. Perhaps he would only name her Prissy when in the presence of others. Further, she mused it was a playful sort of name. Though the great Crimson Knight of Karvana was known for his battle strength and oft severe nature, his naming her Prissy had revealed his softer temperament.
She thought then of the night before—of being held against his body as he endeavored to warm her. By the first rays of sunlight that morning, she awoke to find him readying the cart for their departure. Yet the sense of being in his arms had lingered in her dreams all through the night. She silently scolded herself for finding pleasure in exile—in thinking on dreams when Karvana’s walls were being threatened. Still, what woman could keep from dreaming of the handsome, powerful Crimson Knight?
“I will see the blacksmith’s property at first light,” Broderick said as he closed and bolted the door. The room was small but warm and welcoming. “I would hope it is sufficient, for we should not linger long at the inn. Dwelling at the inn would draw attention…mark us as strangers here.”
Monet’s eyes widened as Broderick removed his doublet and linen shirt.
“I asked the innkeeper to draw a bath,” he said, nodding toward the wooden tub filled with steaming water in one corner of the room near the fire. “You may bathe first.”
“Bathe? I-in your company?” Monet gasped.
Sir Broderick sighed. He was weary. Indeed Monet knew great weariness owned him, for he had not slept in two days. “I cannot leave you alone, Princess. Not in this unfamiliar place. I will give you my back as privacy…and you may trust it. Still, I am in need of rest, and I would have you bathed so that I may do likewise and find respite in sleep.” He turned to her, a frown of inquisition furrowing his brow. “Yet if you do not desire to bathe—”
“Oh, no! I greatly desire it, Sir Broderick,” she said. It was true! Never could she remember having felt so soiled and in need of bathing.
“Then make haste…if you please, Princess,” he said. She watched as he took a chair that sat near the bed and turned its back to her. Seating himself in the chair to gaze out through the open shutters into the black of night, he sighed—poor weary.
Monet did make haste and bathed as quickly as her efforts allowed. Wrapping herself in a bathing robe hanging near the hearth, she hastened to the satchel Sir Broderick had informed her held other garments meant for her. Quickly she dressed in a fresh kirtle, for there was no other more comfortable garment in the satchel.
“Shall I summon the innkeeper to draw a fresh bath for you, Sir Broderick?” she said.
He stood, stretching his arms at his sides. “No. Common folk do not afford such luxury,” he said. “And we are now common folk.” He paused, his eyebrows arched. “May I have the courtesy of your back, Princess?”
“Oh! Of course,” Monet exclaimed. At once she turned from him and took his abandoned seat in the chair facing the shutters. There was no breeze, and thus she was not chilled in gazing through the opening in the wall looking out into the night.
Monet combed her long, wet hair with her fingers. How glad she was to feel clean once again. She had not enjoyed the dust and dirt of traveling in the cart. Further, her body ached from the rough and rutted road they had ridden. Such a weariness in body Monet had never known. She wished only to rest—to find respite in sweet slumber. Still, she must wait—wait until Sir Broderick was finished bathing.
“Sir Broderick?” she began.
“Broderick,” he mumbled.
“I have heard you are skilled with horses,” she said. “Father says your stables at Karvana Far keep the best stock in the five kingdoms. Will not the people here recognize your horses as the sort only the wealthy may afford?”
“The horses being brought are not the finest in my stables. By far they are not,” he answered. Monet could hear the soft sounds of the water lapping in the tub as Sir Broderick bathed. “Yet they are of strong stock. Villagers who labor hard are in need of them. They are animals a man will find pride in owning.”
Monet continued to comb her hair with her fingers. She was silent of a moment, thoughtful.
“How long before we left Karvana…how long had it been since Father charged you with taking me into exile?” she asked.
“Two days,” he said.
Monet shook her head, astonished. “You had but two days given you to plan? All this you devised in but two days?”
“Yes.”
“The morning following the night you brought me back to the castle from the Emerald Crown,” she began, “Father charged you that morning. Did he not?”
“He did.”
“It was why you were pure vexed with me…that morning when I met you just without my father’s chamber.”
“I was not vexed with you, Princess,” he said. “Only I was angry with…with…”
“With having to play watchman to a princess when your men are battling for their lives to the north,” she finished.
“It is not all as you imagine,” he mumbled. “There are many…intricate pieces…parts and consequences to this strategy to protect you that you cannot fully understand. And I will confess…a certain amount of frustration overcomes me regarding this charge at times. I fear it will yet prick my temperament on occasion. Perhaps I should offer a sequence of apology to you beforehand.”
Monet smiled, amused by his honesty.
“What do you make of this man Bronson?” she asked.
“He is watcher for the village…protects it with more loyalty than any lord would,” he said. “Since Ballist’s battlefield and the end of Lord Morven’s stewardship, your father has not chosen a steward to oversee Ballain. Thus, it seems the blacksmith is wary—as he should be…as all who dwell here should be.”
Of a sudden, he appeared at her side, clothed in naught but trousers. She watched as he closed and latched the shutters.
“I would put you to bed now, Princess,” he said. Monet felt her eyes widen for a moment, yet he continued. “You will sleep on the upper and I on the truckle.” She watched as he reached beneath the bed and pulled out the truckle bed.
“I do not think it will fit you,” she said as she studied the small truckle bed. “Far better I should rest there and you in the upper.”
“No,” he said. Yet as he strode to the door to ensure the bolt was well laid, Monet quickly lay down upon the small truckle bed. It was large enough for her to sleep whole comfortable—yet she did not doubt Sir Broderick would find little comfort on so small a sleeping place.
When he turned and saw what she had done, he frowned. “This is not acceptable, Princess,” he said.
“It is full well acceptable…for I fit here and you there,” she said, gesturing he should take the larger bed. “I could not sleep otherwise. For you have been without rest for far too long, and I would see you sleep sound.”
“I could remove you,” he threatened, although wearily.
“Yes. You could…but you will not…for we are both weary and in need of rest,” she said as she quickly plaited her hair. “This is not a battle to win or lose, pretty Crimson Knight. This is only logic and wisdom.” Monet did not know why the night always brought with it her silly nature—a
deep desire to tease him. Yet it did.
He heaved a sigh of great fatigue and forfeit. “I am well worn…far too worn to argue,” he said as he stretched out on the upper bed.
“Good night then, Sir Broderick,” she sighed.
“Good night, Prissy,” he mumbled.
Monet smiled, delighted with the playful nature that arose in him now and again. In her teasing him pretty once more, he had countered with the loathsome Prissy. Yet in her own state of worn and weary fatigue, she was not vexed—simply amused.
It was only moments till his breath breathed slow and measured—only moments till he sound slept. Monet lifted her head on one hand and elbow, studying him by the light of the dying embers in the hearth. She was not frightened—not in that moment—and she knew it was for the sake of the Crimson Knight at her side. He was ever as handsome in reposed slumber as he was awake, and she shook her head, full admiring the face and form of Sir Broderick Dougray. She wondered then, had her father charged Sir Broderick with the means of her exile because he was the most capable to bear the charge? Or had he charged the Crimson Knight because the king understood it was he in whom his daughter was most confident? Monet knew well her own thoughts and fears. She knew that were it any other knight in the bed next to her in the small room, she would not have slept—would not have trusted so certain that all would be well—as well as it could be when enduring exile.
A wave of deep loneliness washed over her—a wave of missing her father, of sudden fear for the kingdom, and of dread of the unknown path stretched out before her. Yet she endeavored to calm herself. All would be well—of certain it would. She would not think of the requisites of her marriage to Sir Broderick—tried not to think of the truth of it all, of how bitterly woven the web was. It was often following the moments Friar Fleming had pronounced Monet as wife to Sir Broderick Dougray and as she had traveled with Sir Broderick to Ballain that she had considered her father’s terms. She could not endure Karvana’s fall or the loss of her father. Further, she knew Sir Broderick did not wish to rule as king. Still, to suffer annulment, followed by marriage to an unnamed man—she could not think on it! Her heart began to beat with worry and fearful anticipation. She felt as a fox, desperately fleeing the hunt, all the while owning knowledge that to endeavor further was futile. She could not see Karvana saved and keep the Crimson Knight for herself: she could not own both.
Closing her eyes, Monet struggled to calm her breathing. All will be well—all will be well, she thought. She looked again to Sir Broderick in slumber so deep and so near to her. She would think on the future no more. She would live one day and then the next. Further, she would savor being near him. One day he may not be near her—her beloved Crimson Knight—but this day, this night, he was.
“All will be well. All will be well,” she whispered—whispered until the soothing words lulled her to slumber.
Monet wiggled her nose—rubbed at it with one dainty finger. The dust in the cottage was profound, having known years of gathering. Monet paused in her efforts to tidy the small dwelling. Glancing out the window, she smiled as she watched Sir Broderick laboring to extend the fences just beyond the path. It was no wonder the blacksmith boasted strong arms and a pleasant nature. Hard work and good company did nurture such good things. It was often in the past Monet had noted the pleasant faces of the villagers of Karvana, in stark contrast to the often severe or frowning brows of the nobles and royals. It had always seemed to Monet that the common folk knew more laughter and mirth than did those of noble or royal birth. Already her arms ached with the unfamiliar work of readying the cottage for comfortable dwelling. Yet she had never known such a sense of satisfaction in tasks accomplished.
As she watched Sir Broderick, perspiration beading on his brow and chest, she knew he must be glad to have a task to set himself to. Having been at battle for three months previous—having been stripped of his comrades and knightly life—it was no doubt he was glad to be no longer idle.
There came a knock upon the cottage door, and Monet startled.
“Who is there?” she asked. Her heart was pounding mad in her bosom, for fear had washed over her of a sudden. Had someone followed? Had someone discovered the place of their exile?
“It is Sarah. I am wife to the blacksmith, Bronson,” came the pleasant voice of a woman.
Monet exhaled the breath she had been holding. She opened the door to see a lovely woman and six strapping boys standing at the threshold.
“Hello,” the woman said. She smiled a beautiful smile and nodded a friendly greeting. Monet returned her smile, delighted by her enchanting countenance. She was near in height to Monet, brown-haired, and brown-eyed. “I am Sarah,” she said. “And these are our boys.”
“I welcome you,” Monet said. “I am…um…Prissy.” Naming herself Prissy was far worse even than hearing Sir Broderick so name her. Yet she continued to smile and stepped aside, that Sarah and her sons might enter.
“We have brought chestnuts…from the tree near the wood,” Sarah said, offering a basket to Monet.
“Thank you,” Monet said. “It is very thoughtful of you.”
“We are not so kind as you may think,” Sarah said, smiling. “In truth, my boys could not wait till the evening to see you…their father having told them of your beauty. They were determined to see you at once.”
Monet felt her cheeks pink as a tall, broad-shouldered young man with dark hair nodded to her and said, “I am Stroud…eldest son of Bronson Blacksmith and Sarah.”
“I am glad to meet you, Stroud,” Monet said.
“And I am Wallace,” a second young man said. He was similar in appearance to the first, yet owned his own countenance of mischief. “The second son.”
Monet nodded, and a third boy approached. “I am Kenley,” he said. His manner and appearance were that of his brothers. Monet deemed him to be perhaps fifteen years, Wallace and Stroud perhaps one and two years his elder.
“I am Birch,” the fourth son offered. Birch appeared perhaps twelve years, and he stepped aside to reveal two more brothers, appearing to be one and two years younger than he. “These are the youngest of the Blacksmiths,” Birch said, “Carver and Dane.”
Monet smiled, pure delighted at the sight of Sarah and her six brawny sons.
“You are very pretty,” the youngest said. “Father said that you were.”
“Thank you, Dane,” Monet said. “And thank you for coming to welcome us.”
“May we meet your husband?” the eldest, Stroud, inquired.
“Of course. He is out at the fences just now.”
All six boys turned and hurried out of the cottage. Monet giggled as she watched them go.
“They are quite headstrong,” Sarah said as she too watched the boys approach Sir Broderick, “like their father.”
“I thank you for coming,” Monet said, “and for the chestnuts. It is so difficult to be in a new place.”
“Indeed,” Sarah said. “But you will find Ballain to be a good place to dwell. There are good people here.”
“It is good to know,” Monet said.
Sarah glanced about the cottage. “It is such a sweet home, is it not? I hold such fond memories of the place. I hope it will one day hold such memories for you and your handsome husband.”
“I am certain it will.” Monet sighed as she gazed for a moment through the open door to where Sir Broderick stood in conversation with Sarah’s sons. She thought for a moment that she would like to have six sons that resembled the Crimson Knight in the manner in which the blacksmith’s sons resembled him.
“May I help you with your tidying?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, I could not press upon you in such a manner,” Monet said.
“It would be my pleasure,” Sarah said, smiling. “We are going to be fast friends, Prissy. This I know already. Thus, why not converse as we work? It will seem less taxing in that…do you not think?”
Monet smiled. “I am certain you are right.”<
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“Though I cannot say your husband will accomplish his task more quickly with my sons about him. They would endeavor to tempt him into playing with them,” Sarah said.
“Playing?” Monet asked.
Sarah nodded and smiled. “Oh, it is always their way with their father. In one moment, he will be at work, laboring at the smithy as he should…and in the next he is gone, out in the woods or by the stream, wrestling about with his sons…pretending at swords and daggers instead of shoeing the horses needing to be shod.”
Monet giggled. “He is a good father then?”
“The very best of fathers,” Sarah said. She smiled, and Monet felt comforted. The bright resplendence of Sarah’s countenance was testament of her true happiness. This was a woman true in love with her husband, proud and loving of her sons, content in her village life. Monet envied her happiness—her peace and safety. Sarah’s cheeks were pink with her joyful countenance; her smile and offer of friendship were earnest.
“And what of your man?” Sarah asked. “He is heavenly handsome and appears to own no fear of labor. Bronson says he is a horseman.”
“He is a fine horseman,” Monet said, “and a great man…a selfless man.”
Sarah smiled. “Then he is the best of men. I am glad you are come to Ballain, Prissy. I feel in my heart that you and I will be glad of knowing one another.”
“I am certain of it,” Monet said—for she was.
The day had passed quickly. Monet found herself grateful in Sarah’s company, as well as her help in tidying the cottage. Sir Broderick had accomplished much as well—though not so much as he had hoped, having spent the better part of the afternoon in sparring at wooden swords with Bronson and Sarah’s sons.
At eventide, as they supped with the blacksmith and his family, Monet learned much concerning the village of Ballain as she sat in conversation. It seemed the miller and his wife were friendly of Bronson and Sarah. Young Stroud found the miller’s daughter to be the most beautiful in the village—both in face and spirit. The tanner had eight daughters—one of whom Wallace fancied—and was a kind widower. The young thatcher had wed a pretty weaver the year before, and their first child was expected to arrive within a fortnight.
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