As Monet listened to the descriptions of the people of Ballain, she was further assured of Sir Broderick’s wisdom. Ballain was remote, yet its people worked well together—seemed to live well together. Further, there seemed to be a sense of privacy, mingled well with good-fellowship. Still, it had not always been so.
“Lord Morven was a beast,” Sarah said. “I am not saddened to know he is gone.”
“Lord Morven was lord over Ballain…steward of the village before his death,” Bronson explained. Certainly it was well Monet knew the story of Lord Morven; better still did Sir Broderick know the tale. Yet she was far curious to hear Bronson and Sarah’s telling, for they had lived it all.
“He seemed merely greedy at first,” Bronson said. “But then King Seward died. Morven was not fond of King Dacian. Morven thought Dacian too tender in heart…too loving of the people.”
“Too loving of the people?” Monet exclaimed. “What would Lord Morven have a king be of his people?”
She felt Sir Broderick’s hand clasp her own beneath the table around which they sat. She had said too much and determined to remain silent for the rest of the evening. Had she threatened their safety in exile already?
“It is as we all thought,” Bronson said. “Seward had been no good king for some years. It was glad we all were of Dacian’s taking the throne. Yet Morven was not glad…for Dacian would see the people happy and the lord stewards less wealthy. Thus, Morven began to gather men.”
“We went into hiding for some time,” young Kenley said. “I remember being frightened of Lord Morven’s taking Father from us to battle against our own king.”
“We began to fear Morven would indeed lay some sort of attack to the castle at Karvana,” Bronson said, “that he would endeavor to harm Dacian.”
Sir Broderick still held Monet’s hand in his own beneath the table. She felt his grasp tighten a moment and looked to him. His expression was stern. No doubt the memories of Ballist’s battlefields were raining over him. Yet what path could he take? There would be no good reason to ask Bronson to cease in telling of Ballain’s trials.
“Still, our king is wise and not so blind as was his father,” Stroud said. “You have heard of Ballist’s battlefields, have you not? Even in Alvar you would have heard of it.”
“We know the story well, yes,” Sir Broderick said.
“Then you know…if not for King Dacian and his Crimson Knight, Ballain might well have been lost,” Wallace said.
“Ballain did not hold with Morven’s dislike of Dacian,” Bronson said. “Yet we were all of us at the mercy of a corrupt steward. I do not like to think what may have happened to this village and its good people had the Crimson Knight and his legion not battled triumphant in Ballist.”
“It is good the battle did not come to Ballain,” Sir Broderick said.
Monet thought him suddenly paler than before. She desired to reach up—to smooth the slight frown from his brow with a kind caress. She had moved before even she had realized it, trailing soft fingers over his handsome brow and over his cheek.
He looked at her, his alluring blue eyes saddened somehow, even for the slight smile he offered her.
“You seem weary, Broderick,” Sarah said. “No doubt you labored longer than you needed today for having taken from your task to play with my boys.”
“Yes. Travel and fences are wearing, indeed,” Bronson said. “Why not retire early and find respite in the arms of your pretty wife, horseman? Tomorrow you may labor again. It is one certainty in life, is it not?”
“Indeed, it is,” Sir Broderick said. “I hope it will not offend if I thank you for such a fine meal, Sarah, and you men for such fine conversation, and take my leave. The horses I await may be here on the morrow, and the fence is not ready. I must rise early in that I may complete it.”
“Of course, dear,” Sarah said. “And Prissy must be greatly fatigued as well. The cottage was in great need of tidying.”
Bronson stood, offering his hand to Sir Broderick as he stood as well.
“I will have the thatcher visit you as soon as possible, for I know the cottage thatch is in need of repair,” he said as Sir Broderick took his offered hand of friendship.
“Thank you, Bronson,” Sir Broderick said. “And to you, Sarah…and to you young lads for your youthful vigor today. It has been far too long since I played at swords.”
Monet smiled, thinking no doubt it had been long since Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight, had played at swords.
“Thank you, Sarah,” Monet said as she and Sir Broderick passed the threshold. “You have all shown more kindness to us than I could ever have imagined.”
Sarah smiled, her eyes bright with gladness. “You may call on us for any needful thing. And at any moment.”
“Thank you,” Monet said.
Friendly waves were exchanged, and soon Monet was beside Sir Broderick as they walked toward the cottage Sir Broderick had secured from the blacksmith.
“You do not like to linger on memories of Ballist,” she said. “It is understandable.”
He said nothing, and Monet shivered for the chill in the air.
“I am sorry for speaking without thought,” she said. “Do you think I harmed our charge in any way?”
“No,” he flatly answered.
“Do you truly think your horses will arrive tomorrow?” she asked. She would not have his thoughts linger on the pain raised in him for the talk of Ballist—at the memories no doubt torturing his mind. “How many did you say the man was bringing?”
“He will bring six,” he answered. “We will keep the cart horse…and Tripp, of course. Yet I will endeavor to sell the others to any villagers who may have need of them.”
“Tripp? He is the horse that followed us so grave in countenance when tied to the cart…yes?”
Sir Broderick looked to her, a slight smile touching his lips.
“Grave in countenance?” he asked. “And how did you come by his countenance being grave?”
Monet shrugged. “He seemed in low spirits…as if he would rather be put to pulling the cart than led behind it. As if he would rather keep from being idle.” She smiled. “In that he reminds me of you somewhat, for you do not meet well with idleness.”
“In that you know me…I will not deny it,” he said. His mood had lightened, his frown softened. Monet smiled, for she had succeeded in turning his thoughts from Ballist.
Again she shivered as the cool autumn breeze chilled her. “I think it is colder here than in Karvana,” she said.
Sir Broderick nodded. “It is. We will heat some stones by the fire to warm your bed.”
“Do you think there are many, many spiders in the straw we laid in the beds today?” Monet asked. Sarah had helped her to lay new straw beneath the tick in the bed. It had been three spiders Sarah had counted falling from the straw as they worked—and Monet did not delight in spiders.
Sir Broderick chuckled. “Would you have me test your bed for spiders before you retire?”
“Do not stand in feigning spiders do not worry you, Sir Broderick,” she began, “for every person in all the world full loathes them.”
“I will test your bed for spiders, Prissy…and I will heat several stones for you as well. Yet I beg you to allow me to find my bear’s skin soon…for I am well worn this night.”
Sir Broderick had previously declared his intention to sleep upon the bearskin laid before the door. The windows of the cottage were small; thus, the door would be an intruder’s first choice of entering. Monet had offered argument, reminding Sir Broderick that she was smaller, her body not so heavy—thus the bearskin would serve her well. Yet Sir Broderick had stood firm and commanding. She was a woman, and women should have the advantage of comfort. He had allowed her to take the smaller bed in the inn simply because he had been too worn for argument, but he would not hold with her being in more discomfort than he another night. Further, there was the guarding position at the door, and Sir Broderick meant to guard
it well.
He had called her Prissy, and she would not bow to his teasing.
“Very well, pretty knight,” Monet said as she crossed the threshold into the cottage. “If you will battle my spiders for me…I will heat stones and prepare your bearskin.”
Sir Broderick smiled and nodded. The great fatigue in his countenance near caused Monet to reach forth and caress his brow again, but she stayed her hand and simply returned his smile.
As she lay upon her bed, no canopy or curtains to help defend her of the cold, she thought of the blacksmith and his lovely wife—of their six brawny sons. She wondered if all those who dwelt in Ballain were as welcoming. She hoped that they were.
Drawing her legs to her chest in an effort to warm herself, she frowned. She could well hear the Crimson Knight’s breath, slow and sound. It seemed he slept warm—in the least warm enough to find sleep. Monet, however, wondered if the heated rocks in her bed had already cooled, for she was chilled and stiff. She touched one of the rocks Sir Broderick had wrapped in cloth and placed in her bed. It was warm on her fingers, but she thought it did not warm her bed so well.
She glanced to the door. The fire yet burned in the hearth, and she could see Sir Broderick stretched out upon his bearskin. His hands were tucked beneath his head; his arms and chest were not covered by the fur spread over him. Yet he appeared to sleep sound. Monet shivered, so thoroughly chilled she feared she would never be warm again. She thought, were she nearer to him, it would warm her—he would warm her. She thought Sarah was not so cold in her bed, for Bronson would be with her there.
Monet closed her eyes tight. She would not think on it. The Crimson Knight was her protector—with her simply for her father’s charge. Further, if he could find respite in sleep with nothing but a bearskin and fur for comfort, then she would find it in her fresh straw bed and heated stones.
She bade memories of Karvana to linger in her mind. Her father’s face was there—and oddly, that of young Channing. Tawny fields and tree branches heavy with fruit lingered in her thoughts—as did the Crimson Knight—and King Ivan’s tournament. Of a sudden, Monet felt her mouth warm with the memory of pressing lips with the Crimson Knight. She saw him there in his pavilion, having won his final joust, his arm still bleeding from his wound, the leather strap hanging from his neck, the pouch it held. How his eyes had smoldered when she had entered—how soft his raven hair had appeared.
Monet sighed, her shivering having ceased. Sleep would find her. She was at last warm, and she was safe, for the Crimson Knight of Karvana was there at her door—and in her mind.
The Cottage Kiss
The nights in Ballain continued to grow cooler. As the days passed, Sir Broderick labored hard to prepare for winter’s coming, as did Monet. It was often Sarah, and one or two of her sons, would help Monet in gathering nuts and late berries while Sir Broderick and Bronson fortified shelters for Bronson’s pigs and sheep. Bronson had agreed to give Sir Broderick a share in the meat of any animals he slaughtered—payment for his help in fortifying their pens and for a fine horse of Sir Broderick’s he wished to own.
Monet had never known such hard labor. Each night, as she lay in her bed, endeavoring to warm herself with heated stones from the hearth, she would think on the day—on the profound labor required to survive in the village. Though she knew how to wash and beat clothing, cook, mend, build fires, and reap, she had never before performed such tasks at so constant a pace. Still, she was grateful for the great fatigue that would send her to sleep each night, for her bed grew colder and colder, even for the warming stones.
She wondered how Sir Broderick had not caught his death of the cold and hard labor. Rising well before the sun, he would tend the horses and labor at splitting wood till light broke the horizon. He would then labor with horses or alongside Bronson through near the entire day, pausing only briefly to take nourishment and drink. Monet marveled at his diligence and unmarked endurance. She knew he labored hard to keep his mind and body at the ready. Certainly he played at wooden swords and wrestling with Bronson’s sons, but play did not keep a knight fit for battle, and Monet knew his thoughts were ever of battle. Sir Broderick was ever wary. Rarely did he appear to be off guard—neither in body nor mind. As Monet settled somewhat into village life, Sir Broderick did not. Though he lived the life of a horseman of labor in Ballain, yet Monet knew his mind was that of a knight—ever watchful of the enemy’s approach.
It was for this reason—his ever readiness—that Sir Broderick had fashioned a hiding place. In the dark of early morning he had indeed split wood for winter fires. Yet Monet knew something of his work that others did not—the false front of the woodpile. Sir Broderick had dug into the side of a small hill near the cottage, burrowing a hole—a space large enough in which both he and Monet could fit. Using iron nails, he then built a false wall of fire logs—a wall that for all eyes, save Monet’s, appeared to be nothing more than a neatly stacked pile of wood. Near the false wooden wall lay several piles of split logs, strewn with intention to look as if they stood ready to be added to the larger, neater pile. In truth, the false woodpile was a master work of deception—further proof of Sir Broderick’s wit and knowledge.
For all this—for all his taxing labor and preparation in readiness—Sir Broderick still slept on the cottage floor, against the door with not but a bearskin beneath him and one fur with which to cover his body. Monet wondered at his powerful endurance; yet he had, more than once, assured her of his comfort and health. He had explained the life of a soldier—that to sleep beneath a thatched roof surrounded by walls was far more desirable to sleeping mid-autumn and winter in the open.
Thus, three weeks were passed—three weeks in which Monet endeavored not to worry to near madness over her father and her people—three weeks in which Monet grew to know and love the villagers of Ballain. Yet there was more—more to cause the Scarlet Princess of Karvana to oft feel frightened and hopeless in the secret depths of her heart—the Crimson Knight.
It was true. Never had Monet denied to herself the love she secreted for Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight. Ever had she known she loved him. She had known she had loved him when she was only a young girl, when he had first been squire to Sir Alum Willham, as when he was knighted. She had loved him at Ivan’s tournament and every moment since. Even standing in her bower—as Friar Fleming performed their marriage ceremony—even then she had not denied to her heart and mind that she loved him. Yet with each passing day spent in Ballain at playing his wife, with each moment in his company within the cottage, with each conversation shared, Monet began to fear she could not endure life without him.
The battle raged in her—her desire to see Karvana triumph and be saved from King James was ever warring with her desperation to remain Sir Broderick’s wife—to become his true wife and remain so. Before Ballain—before war with Rothbain and her father’s charge that the Crimson Knight spirit the Scarlet Princess to exile—Monet had never known reason for hope. Always it was told her—and always she understood—that her marriage would be arranged. In this she had spent many hours—nay, many years—in persuading herself to the knowledge and acceptance of the fact she could never belong to the man she truly loved. Yet as they lingered—as weeks passed with no word from her father—Monet could sense hope and despair battling in her. She could not lose her pretty Crimson Knight! She could not see Karvana fall to James of Rothbain! Yet only one could be, and it oft sickened her that the path she truly wished for in silence was the path that led her and kept her in Ballain with Sir Broderick.
Thus Monet busied herself all the long day—as Sir Broderick did—and the weeks passed with no word from her father.
“Prissy!” Sarah called as she hurried toward Monet. Monet looked up from her place near the stream. Her hands were sore, chilled from washing in the cold water of the stream. Sarah’s cheeks were pinked, as ever they were. The resplendent smile upon her lovely face caused Monet to smile as well, even for having no reason.
“The baby has come!” Sarah exclaimed. “Grayson and Wilona have had their baby!”
Monet giggled as utter delight washed over her. The young thatcher, Grayson, and his lovely young wife, Wilona, had long been awaiting the arrival of their firstborn child. There was much worry in the village, for Wilona was quite young.
“All is well then?” Monet asked, drying her hands on her apron and hurrying to meet Sarah.
“All is well! Though it is near the largest baby I have ever in my life seen,” Sarah giggled. “And you will not guess what they have named him!”
“What?”
“Dacian!” Sarah exclaimed. “For the king…for Grayson says King Dacian will not let Karvana fall, and perhaps a babe named for him will give the angels cause to aid the king further.”
“And Wilona is well?” Monet asked, honored by the tribute to her father the king.
“Very well…yet strong and pleased in her baby!”
“When may I see him?” Of a sudden, Monet longed to see Wilona’s baby—to hold him and feel of his tiny fingers and toes.
“There will be a feast tonight. All the village will be there! And then, on the morrow, Wilona will welcome visitors,” Sarah explained. “Stroud and Wallace have already begun to build the fire in the village. We must make haste…for Bronson will roast a pig, and I must make bread. You should bring your turnip stew, Prissy! It is far the best I have ever tasted!”
“You are only being kind, Sarah,” Monet giggled. “Still, I will bring the stew.”
“Oh, Prissy!” Sarah sighed, taking Monet’s hands in her own. “There is nothing so wonderful as new baby! You will know this one day. I hope it is soon.”
“As do I,” Monet said. Her heart felt as if it had been pierced by a dagger of a sudden. Would she ever know the joy of bearing children? If she did know such a joy, would her joy be complete if the babes she bore were not Sir Broderick’s? Still, she would be happy for Wilona and her Grayson. She would not linger in misery and pity for herself and what may or may not be.
A Crimson Frost Page 17