A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  Striding through the room, the Crimson Knight opened the door.

  “Wolves have attacked the miller’s horses,” Bronson said. “It is sure some cannot be saved. Yet will you come…try to do what you can?”

  “Of course,” Broderick said.

  “Were only horses attacked?” Monet asked as Sir Broderick snatched up the linen shirt he had cast aside a short time before.

  “Only horses,” Bronson said. “It seems we did not hear them for the merriment of the celebration.”

  “Draw the bolt until my return,” Sir Broderick said. Monet nodded, watching him disappear into the darkness without the cottage.

  Drawing the bolt, she sighed. “Wolves,” she grumbled. She felt compassion for the Miller Aldrich, for she knew the loss of horses could be to his great detriment. Still, the moments before Bronson had pounded upon the door had been the most blissful of her life!

  Monet sat before the fire. The sense of his strong arms about her still warmed her—as did the sense and taste of his kiss. She closed her eyes, remembering the champion’s prize at Ivan’s tournament—the kiss she offered the Crimson Knight in his pavilion—the furious sealing kiss forced in her bower—the lighthearted kiss in the village a short time before. Yet the cottage kiss—the kiss Sir Broderick had asked of her there before the fire—the kiss he had given and taken—surely nothing could meet the resplendent pleasure the cottage kiss had begat. Nothing!

  The Knights Exemplar

  It had been far late into the night before Sir Broderick returned. The wolves had killed one of the miller’s horses, lamed another, and injured a third. Sir Broderick himself had put down the lame horse, though he was encouraged of the third horse’s ability to full heal. Still, it was a great loss—both to the miller, who needed his horses for his trade, and for Sir Broderick, who had seen both horses nurtured at his stables at Karvana Far from foals. Sir Broderick had returned to the cottage sore weary and greatly discomfited. He had said little to Monet upon his return. Simply, he had bolted the door and taken up his place on the bearskin before it.

  Monet knew him to be wholly fatigued. Yet as he slept through the sun’s rise, she began to worry over him. Ever he had risen before the sun. Even when he had passed days without sleep—as he had as they traveled from Karvana to Ballain—even then he had raced the sun to rising.

  Monet’s tender brow frowned with deep concern as she stood studying him a moment. He slept sound—more sound than she had ever known him to sleep.

  Kneeling beside him, she pressed one palm to his cheek. He startled, his eyes opening at once.

  Monet exhaled the breath she had been holding, relieved to see he yet breathed. Somehow she had feared he would not.

  “Princess?” he mumbled. He seemed near confused for a moment, as if his mind were not at once certain as to where he was.

  “Sir Broderick?” Monet asked. “Are you well?”

  He frowned, closing his eyes for a moment. “I am,” he said.

  He sat up from his bearskin bed, clasped his hands at the back of his head, and stretched away the lingering tethers of sleep. He rubbed his eyes with one strong hand. Monet could not help but to smile at his tousled hair and rather boyish appearance. Without conscious thought, she reached out, combing her fingers through his soft raven hair several times. She thought she could be lost in bathing in such soft raven locks, for his hair was as the silk of heaven between her fingers.

  “I have never known you to let Sir Sun defeat you in the race for morning,” she said, smiling at him as she brushed a strand of hair from his forehead.

  He did not respond—only sat staring at her as if astonished somehow.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked. “I have prepared your breakfast. Even some of the ham Bronson brought yesterday.” Still he did not make conversation. Still he continued to stare at her—nearly as if he did not know her.

  “Sir Broderick?” she asked. “Broderick…are you well? Do you hear me?” Panic began to rise in her, for he was never so slow to converse.

  He could yet feel the blissful sense of her fingers in his hair. Her touch had quite confounded him. He hoped she would not notice the gooseflesh her touch had provoked over his arms and chest—hoped that if she had noticed it, she would think he was merely chilled by the morning air.

  In those moments the great Crimson Knight of Karvana doubted his own strength of resistance. The kiss he had shared with the Scarlet Princess the night before had near been his undoing. Weary and worn from hard labor and pleased by her teasing, he had not been able to deny himself in partaking of her lips. Had Bronson not summoned him with mad pounding upon the cottage door, Broderick Dougray knew he would well have kept his promise to the Princess Monet—his promise to have kept her bliss-bound for all the hours of the night in kissing her. Yet now, her touch—her sweet fingers combed through his hair—it was near as threatening to his resolve to keep from her as their shared kiss in the night had been.

  Further, she had named him Broderick. At long last—after weeks of his assurance she should do so—at long last she had called him Broderick, not Sir Broderick. Though he had come to accept—nay, to find joy in—her terming him her pretty Crimson Knight, it was yet more formal than his given name. He wondered, had she even been aware she had named him Broderick?

  “Truly, Broderick,” she asked, a frown at her pretty brow, “are you ill in some way?”

  “I am well,” he said and saw the expression of worry soften upon her lovely face.

  He would have her! He would! He would gather her into his arms—there, on the bearskin before the door. He would kiss her—hold her—and beyond!

  Yet a vision of King Dacian intruded in his mind—a gathering of sealed parchments, a charge to protect the heart of Karvana from any and all who would dare to harm her. If he knew nothing else of the Princess Monet, it was that she honored her father—would be obedient to his commands above all else. Further, what if she did not truly want the Crimson Knight as husband? Certainly she had spoken the night before—assured Broderick that were Karvana to fall she would find no shame in bearing his children. Still, this was no more than obedience to her father’s instructions. It did not mean she would want him as husband, only that she would endure—for she was royal, and royalty did nothing if not endure arranged marriages. He would nest on such thoughts of her no longer.

  “I was merely considering on the loss of the miller’s horses,” he said. “And I am hungry.” He forced a smile, and she seemed relieved—if only a little. “Pray allow me to press water to my face, and I will join you for breakfast. Unless you have already had yours.”

  She smiled, and he thought the sun was not brighter than the smile of the Scarlet Princess. “No,” she said. “I waited for you.”

  He smiled, and Monet thought there was no more delightful thing to see than the handsome smile of Broderick Dougray. Even yet the memory of his kiss was fresh in her mind—the sense of it warm on her lips. He was merely worn. That was the reason for his late rising.

  As Broderick—and he was Broderick, for Sir Broderick might never have kissed her in like manner Broderick the horseman of Ballain had before the fire the night before—as Broderick left the cottage to refresh himself, Monet set about placing ham and cooked eggs on a plate for him.

  He returned with haste and sat at the small table, across from her.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked. Monet smiled as he began to eat.

  “Far better than you, I am sure,” she said. “What will the miller do without his horses?”

  Broderick sipped from the cup she had placed before him. “I will give him two horses more. When the others I sent for arrive…he shall have two.”

  “But can he pay for them? For if you simply gift them to him…”

  “He can pay…for one now. And he will trade us grains for the other,” he said. “It well is a good trade for both our sakes.”

  “Why did the wolves attack them?” Monet asked. “I did not think they w
ould endeavor to attack stabled animals.”

  “One of the horses had been injured…bore a small cut on its hindquarters. I suspect the wolves sensed the blood,” he explained. “Game is also in short supply. Bronson has told me that Lord Morven near hunted the game to gone here before Ballist…and not for need of it.”

  Monet nodded. “Lord Morven was corrupt in every way…was he not?”

  “He was,” Broderick answered. “He was responsible for the cause of much misery and the deaths of many good men…many of my good men.”

  “Was there truly a crimson frost, Broderick?” she asked of a sudden.

  “There was,” Broderick said. “It covered the dead…and me for a time. Winter descended upon Ballist as if summoned by the Reaper.” He paused to eat for a moment before continuing. “The dew was rare heavy one morning particular. And though it was dew at sunrise, it was frost by eventide…frost frozen over blood…and thus appeared to be crimson.”

  “But you vanquished…rather your will and strength did,” Monet said.

  He looked at her, his eyes filled with sad remembrance. He pressed one hand to the pouch hanging from the thin length of leather around his neck. “The Reaper did not take me that day in Ballist…for I did not let him. And as my body warmed…so the crimson frost about my armor was banished.”

  Monet smiled. “I know it is a painful memory for you,” she said. “Yet you can see why the people love the tale so. It is a tale of strength, of honor…of a great knight battling for his kingdom.”

  “And it is a tale of triumph over threatened death,” he said. “Thus, I know why the people talk of it still…why Marius and other minstrels sing of it. In truth, it has given even me strength, for I am in constant reminding myself…that if I found purpose and strength enough to be victor over Lord Death at Ballist…then there is much else of which I am full able.”

  “You are the greatest knight Karvana has ever known,” Monet said, “perhaps even the world has ever known.”

  Broderick chuckled and shook his head. “I am glad for your confidence,” he said, “or your flattery…whichever it is you offer.”

  Broderick studied Monet for a moment. Should he share his suspicions with her? Her owning him as the greatest knight in Karvana had caused him to wonder if perhaps the time had come. King Dacian had charged him with the princess’s protection and preservation. He knew the ways and means of doing so were his choice. Still, they were in exile together—and in marriage together—whether or not either would remain as such. Thus, he felt inspired to tell her—to know her thoughts.

  “What do you know of Exemplar Knights?” Broderick asked.

  Monet felt her brow furrow with curiosity. “The Knights Exemplar? My grandfather’s elite table of knights?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sir Broderick mumbled. “What knowledge do you own with concern to them?”

  Monet smiled. How curious. What reason could Broderick own for such seeming lighthearted conversation—even at breakfast? Still, she would humor him, for she yet sensed a great unrest about his countenance.

  With a careless shrug, she began, “I am certain you know far more than I…for though you were not born in Karvana, you were Sir Alum’s squire.”

  “I do know something of them…yet Sir Alum was not as forthcoming as you might think. You may own a knowledge that I may not. Thus, tell me what you know of the Knights Exemplar.”

  “They were…exemplary!” Monet smiled and breathed a little giggle. He smiled, amused with her wit. She continued, “I remember them—that is, I have a vague reminiscence of a few of them. I was very small when they were dispersed.” She sighed, remembering the green tunics and gleaming blades of the Knights Exemplar of King Seward’s reign of Karvana. “They were such knights as were never before seen! Skilled with weapons far beyond any knights in the five kingdoms, and their bravery knew no bounds…nor did their loyalty to one another.”

  When she paused, he encouraged, “And?”

  Monet sighed. “And their code of chivalry was extraordinary…unparalleled. That is, until…”

  “Until?” Broderick prodded.

  “Until…until my grandfather’s first knight…until he…he…”

  “Until Sir Ackley Carrington seduced the king’s daughter,” he finished for her.

  Monet nodded. “Yes. My aunt…the Princess Eden, my father’s favorite sister…they say she was beguiled by Sir Ackley’s charm and…and banished.”

  “They say?”

  Again Monet offered a slight shrug. “I do not remember well my Aunt Eden,” she said. “For Father, Mother, and I were often at Karvana Far then…and I was so young. Still, I have heard the stories my father tells of her…and of Sir Ackley…and of their being spirited away. And I do not think he seduced her. In the least I do not think it was in the manner my grandfather declared it.”

  “Why?”

  Monet bit her lip—felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks.

  “I think they loved one another and that my grandfather, King Seward, did not approve. I think they fled…ran away together. My father thinks as I do.” She ventured a glance at Sir Broderick—quivered with delight when she saw the pleased grin on his handsome face, his eyes narrow with approval.

  “And?” he prodded once more.

  “And thus my grandfather, King Seward, had the Knights Exemplar cast out…broken apart for Sir Ackley’s disloyalty. For the passionate actions of one, the Knights Exemplar were banished. My father has ever carried a great weight of guilt for it. When my grandfather died and my father took the throne, he sent word to the farthest corners of the kingdom…word that any Exemplar who would return to Karvana would have his place, prosperities, and wealth restored. Only one Exemplar returned.”

  “Sir Alum,” Broderick said, smiling.

  “Yes,” Monet sighed. “Sir Alum Willham. He had been my grandfather’s youngest knight of the round table of conferring. He was brave in his return…did not hold my father responsible for the mistakes of the previous king. Father granted him property and wealth and a seat at his table. He was first knight for many years…until…”

  “Until I was named first knight,” he mumbled, an expression of regret and guilt owning his handsome face.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “You know the story well,” he said. She watched as he leaned back in his chair, studying her with approval. “And what is your opinion of the Knights Exemplar? Would they defend Karvana once more? Would they be counted ally or enemy?”

  Monet giggled. “Sir Alum was the youngest, pretty knight…and even he now boasts snow-white temples. Yet…it is said among the people that the Exemplars were so beloved of Karvana—so loving of Karvana in return—that they would never raise a blade against her. Still, to wage war in defense of her? What loyalty would they own to a kingdom whose king so mistreated them?”

  “Yet that king is dead, and another now sits on Karvana’s throne…one who would vindicate the great Exemplar Knights…one who would gladly right the wrong done them. Do not you think then…could not one of these lost Knights Exemplar…could not he be counted an ally?”

  Monet felt an odd quiver travel through her body. As was often the truth, the Crimson Knight owned a knowledge she did not. Of this she was certain.

  “You are feeding me fodder of preparation for something else, Broderick. Are you not?” she asked. “Pray tell me what you are thinking.”

  Broderick paused, inhaling deeply as if in coarse contemplation. “The blacksmith,” he began.

  “Bronson?” she asked. “What of him?”

  “He bears two marks—one beneath each arm…just here,” he said, motioning to the place under his strong arm—a hand’s width above the bend in it. “A circled brand. Do you know this mark?”

  Monet felt her own eyes widen. “You have seen this? He bears the mark on each arm…on both? Are you certain?”

  “I am.”

  “The mark of the Knights Exemplar! The symbol of their eternal brotherho
od!”

  “Hush!” Broderick scolded, reaching out and placing a hand over Monet’s mouth a moment to quiet her excitement. She wondered if he were in suspect they were not alone in the cottage—though she knew well they were.

  Tugging his hand from her lips, she whispered, “An Exemplar Knight! Here in our village? Bronson?”

  “I am not sure certain,” Broderick said, lowering his voice. “But there is much about him that gives me cause to believe that he is one of them. What man would endure the pain of branding if it were not so? What reason would a man own for playing at being an Exemplar when they are no longer banded?”

  “He appears in age to be one who could have been an Exemplar,” Monet offered.

  “And he is yet strong…keeps himself fit for hard work…and perhaps battle.”

  “And you are thinking his sons are far too skilled with a blade,” Monet whispered. Broderick frowned with inquisition, and she blushed. “I have watched you play at battle with them on occasion. Stroud and Wallace…even Kenley and Birch are wielders well of wooden sparring swords.”

  “And do you remember, the first night we supped with them…young Kenley, when we were speaking of Ballist, he said the family hid…for they feared their father being taken by Morven to battle against the king.”

  Monet nodded; she did remember it.

  “Further…what need has a blacksmith of so many horses?” he said. “He owns four…asks me to sell him two more…near one for each son. This is a knight’s method, not a blacksmith’s.”

  “You tell me you are not certain…yet I can see that you are,” Monet said. “Is it only to share curiosity that you tell me this now?”

  Broderick paused—seemed to consider. “It would be good to know…if a fight came to us here…it would be good to know there was one we could trust,” Broderick mumbled.

  “And we well could trust a true Exemplar Knight!”

  “I believe we could,” he said.