Monet could feel her own eyes bright with excitement. An ally! One living in exile as she and Broderick lived. Surely he could be trusted. Surely he was still loyal to Karvana and her king.
“Yet which one could he be? His name, I mean?” Monet asked, of a sudden overcome with curiosity of her own.
Broderick shook his head. “How could we know? And what would the need be of knowing which he is?”
Monet smiled. “Among other reasons…to satisfy my own curiosity.”
Broderick chuckled. “Well, as much as I wish to settle your fevered mind, there is no way of knowing…other than his choosing to reveal to us.”
She giggled. “I learned a song once, as a child. My grandmother taught it to me before her death. I remember hearing Marius sing it as well—the names of the Knights Exemplar, put to melody.”
Broderick smiled. “Then sing it to me, Prissy…that we may endeavor to discern the Exemplar here.”
“Very well,” she said. “Only remember…it is a song meant for children. It is very simple.”
“As it should be,” he said.
Monet patted her cheeks, silently pleading that their blush would fade. Inhaling a breath of courage, she then sang the song of the Knights Exemplar.
Twelve knights to marvel…twelve knights of fame,
Twelve Knights Exemplar…twelve knights of name.
Thus name them now, each Exemplar bold,
The Knights Exemplar…their legend told!
Sir Ogden Mather sits at the round,
With a wild steed and a milk-white hound.
Sir Hunter Kenley born of Devon,
With brothers five and sisters seven.
Sir Alum Willham, knight young and brave,
Fair of hair and a handsome knave.
The wisest of all Sir Leland Knox,
Strength of a wolf and wit of a fox.
Sir Ackley Carrington, strong and tall,
Will crush the enemy—bones and all.
Sir Garrick Jarvis, with gauntlet strong
And a jeweled blade, saves right from wrong.
Sir Stanley Sheppard guards the flock,
With force of iron and might of rock.
Sir Fairfax Ewing, first son of Roan,
Cousin to King of Karvana’s throne.
Sir Richard Hamilton, Exemplar nine,
Is partial to game and wench’s wine.
Sir Payton Ransley bears one green eye.
Blue is the other—as blue as sky.
Sir Wakefield Denton, with fingers eight,
Lost one in battle and one to fate.
Last, brave First Knight is Sir Elton Kent.
He serves the kingdom—wherever sent.
Twelve are these at King Seward’s table,
Twelve with horses in Seward’s stable,
Twelve who fight for Karvana’s sake,
Twelve knights with trembling in their wake.
Monet finished her song and said, “And that, my pretty Crimson Knight…is the song of the Knights Exemplar.”
Broderick smiled, drawing his hands together in pleased applause. “Well done!” he said, chuckling. “Well done!”
Monet nodded and said, “I thank you for your approval, good sir. And I bid you use it to your aid in our quest to determine which Exemplar our Bronson may once have been.”
“Very well,” Broderick said, lowering his voice once more. “There are pieces of description in it.”
Monet smiled. “Pieces I never fathomed as owning consequence before. As a child, it was merely a song to sing in passing the time. Yet in this moment…I do see!”
“Thus, we can reason…Sir Alum Willham is in your father’s service at this moment. In service…or dead of battle in the north. Therefore, the blacksmith is not Sir Alum.”
“Dead?” Monet breathed. A vision of Sir Alum, kneeling before her as she wished him well in riding to battle, lingered in her mind.
Broderick shook his head, placing one strong hand of comfort over hers where it lay on the table. “No…not our Sir Alum. He battles still…I am sure of it. Remember…I squired…he taught me. ” He meant to comfort her a little, and he did.
He smiled and asked, “Which Exemplar owned but eight fingers?”
Leaning forward, Monet smiled and whispered, “Sir Wakefield Denton…and Bronson owns all ten fingers. Therefore he cannot be Sir Wakefield Denton.”
“Precisely.” Broderick exclaimed. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from Monet’s cheek. The gesture caused the delicious delight of gooseflesh to swathe her arms.
“And you—you, a woman who regards such things—what color are our blacksmith’s eyes?” he asked.
“Brown,” Monet breathed. “Then he cannot be Sir Payton Ransley…for he had one green eye and one blue.”
“Thus we have cast off three of the twelve as possibilities.”
Monet felt her own eyes narrow as she studied him. “You have determined, without doubt, that it is so?” She said. “You have determined Bronson the blacksmith is indeed one of the banished and lost Knights Exemplar?”
“There is more than the brands on the underflesh of his arms that whispers to me,” he said. “The swords he fashions with his bellows and hammer—swords of such perfection, with such the detail of a true craftsman—no ordinary blacksmith expends his strength forging weapons afforded only by knights and kings.”
Monet nodded in agreement.
“And it is true what you say,” Broderick continued. “Always I have wondered over Bronson’s sons. They are far too skilled in brandishing blades…both swords and daggers. It is in my mind they are accomplished with maces and bows as well. These are not mere peasant boys gifted of God with the apt wielding of weapons. These are young men who have been trained to battle. Their skill, their form…it is distinct. Sir Alum taught me in like manner. For one who knows the ways of the great Exemplar Knights, it is easy to discern that Bronson’s sons have been knightly trained.”
“How long have you been suspect of this, Broderick?” Monet asked.
He paused. “You will not be angry with me?”
Monet smiled. “Of course not. Why ever would I be angry with you for being so foxish in your wit and wisdom…in your skill of discernment?”
He nodded. “Then I confess to knowing something surrounding him the moment we arrived in Ballain. He is a profound leader. It is pure obvious he has experience in leading men…for he leads the village with the wisdom and manner a knight might lead his men. Further, he watched over each person and family…as if they were his own kin.”
“Perhaps he is then Sir Stanley Sheppard,” Monet offered.
“Why say you he is Sir Stanley?”
“For the reason I know the song far better than you,” she giggled. “Sir Stanley Sheppard…who guards the flock?”
Broderick nodded. “I see the wisdom in that.”
“And in the rest of Sir Stanley’s verse…with the force of iron and might of rock,” she said.
“Hmm. It does indeed put one in mind of a blacksmith,” he mumbled.
“Yet there is Kenley to consider,” Monet said.
“His son?”
Monet nodded. “Is young Kenley so named for his father’s true name…the Exemplar Sir Hunter Kenley? Or is he named for his father’s friend?”
Broderick laughed. The Scarlet Princess was full possessed by curiosity! Her eyes were bright with wonder. She was beautiful!
“Or perhaps,” Monet began, “perhaps he is Sir Richard Hamilton…the gambling wencher!” Her mouth dropped in wonder as her mind continued to conjure. “Perhaps then Sarah was once a wine wench at the Emerald Crown…and Sir Richard spirited her away into banishment with him!”
Again he laughed, wholly amused by her speculative chatter—wholly delighted by her company.
“Sarah does not seem the wenching sort,” Broderick offered.
Monet arched one brow. “Are you so familiar with the wenching sort as to recognize them at first sig
ht?”
“No,” he said, smiling. She knew he was amused by her, though she knew not whether it was her appearance, her words, or her ways that amused him. “And though you know even less about the wenching sort…you do not truly think Sarah was once a wine wench…do you?”
Monet shook her head. “No. She does not seem anything akin to cook’s red-haired maid.”
Broderick chuckled.
“Oh, you must discover it, Broderick!” she exclaimed. “Else I am gnawed to death with curiosity!”
“I will endeavor to discover if he would, in truth, be counted our ally. Beyond that I cannot promise you, Princess…for there is a reason he is named Bronson Blacksmith here. I would not risk revealing his secrets, for they are his for his reason…and for the protection of his family, no doubt.” He smiled at her, and she nodded.
“You are right…as always it seems you are,” Monet said. She leaned forward. “Yet you must promise to share any knowledge you may gain as to which Exemplar Bronson is. Do you promise?”
He smiled and nodded. “I will tell you what I discover.” His eyes narrowed, and he leveled a forefinger at her. “But you must not press Sarah. We must remain in secret here, Monet. If she is the wife of one of Karvana’s banished Exemplar Knights, she will be wary of too many questions asked…as would we.”
“I will not press her,” Monet said. She leaned forward, till her face was only a breath from his. “But I will press you.” Quickly she kissed him on one unshaven cheek. Pushing her chair from the table, she near leapt to her feet. She could not linger so close to him, for his nearness was causing such a flutter in her bosom as she could not breathe calm.
“Tripp is at the fence,” she said, opening the shutters to gaze out the cottage window. “You are tardy with feeding him, and he is sore vexed with you.”
“Then I best tend him,” Broderick said, studying her as she looked through the window at his impatient horse.
He rose from his seat at the table, retrieving his shirt and doublet. She had kissed him sweet upon one cheek—as a wife would kiss her true husband. Of a sudden, Broderick wished he owned more secrets to be shared with her, for the Scarlet Princess was delighted by mystery—and he enjoyed delighting her.
“I will return at midday,” Broderick said.
“I will be here,” Monet said, smiling at him. How handsome he was! How delicious to look upon, dressed in his brown doublet and peasant’s trousers. Further, how wise was he! To have discerned the presence of an Exemplar—the Crimson Knight was as wily as he was handsome!
She watched him leave the cottage—watched him through the window as he tended Tripp and the other horses. It was full sure Broderick favored Tripp, as it was full certain Tripp loved his master. Monet frowned, curious as she watched Broderick stroke Tripp’s rather disheveled mane. She could hear the Crimson Knight speaking to the animal in a low, soothing voice, and she wondered why they favored each other so.
At length, Monet busied herself in the cottage. She could not stand at the window and gaze out at Broderick all the day long—though she would savor doing so.
As she tidied, placing the now cold stones from her bed near the hearth to begin warming for the night to come, she first hummed the melody. Yet soon she whispered the song as she labored, singing, “Twelve knights to marvel…twelve knights of fame…twelve Knights Exemplar…twelve knights of name. Thus name them now, each Exemplar bold. The Knights Exemplar…their legend told.”
Sir Broderick Dougray tied the horse to the post without the smithy. He could feel the heat of the forge—hear the breath of the bellows as Bronson labored within.
Stepping into the darkness, he called, “Bronson.” The clatter of the hammer against iron and anvil echoed a moment longer. Bronson turned and nodded to Broderick and gestured his attention would be free soon.
Broderick smiled and nodded. He watched Bronson labor for a moment more. Then he turned to the wall at the back of the smithy. There were the swords of which he had told Monet. He had seen them—discerned their worth and pure master-made quality when first he had entered the smithy when the first six horses had arrived near three weeks past. Hidden in shadow, some sheathed and others not, the swords in Bronson’s smithy beckoned to Broderick as a fairy whisper. Row upon row of swords there were—ornate hilts of some, simple hilts of others. Yet to one who knew weapons, these were crafted of a man who not only knew swords but used them well.
“Have you come for trifling or service, Broderick my friend?”
Broderick turned to face the blacksmith—a once-great and respected Knight Exemplar of Karvana.
“Perhaps both,” he said, “for Tripp must be shod anew…and I am weary of work today.”
Bronson’s smile broadened. He chuckled. “Weary? You? Yet we were both of us at the Miller Aldrich’s till near sunrise…were we not?’
“Indeed,” Broderick said. He looked to the swords once more. “You are craftsman as well as blacksmith, it would seem.”
“I am,” Bronson said, “for iron work is necessary…but laborious and dull.” His eyes narrowed as he seemed to study Broderick. “Would you like to better know my work?”
“If you can spare the time, yes.”
Bronson’s smile broadened. “Very well, Broderick. Approach.” The blacksmith held out a hand to the wall of swords—a gesture to Broderick that he may look upon the swords more closely. Yet his command of approach stirred Broderick’s mind and senses, for it was the same command Sir Alum had used in sparring with Broderick Dougray, his squire—the same Sir Broderick Dougray had used in sparring with his squire, Eann.
“These are fine swords,” Broderick said. “At least…they are fine to my horseman’s eye.”
Bronson chuckled. “Indeed…I am a fine crafter of swords. Here is one you will like.” Broderick watched as Bronson reached forth, lifting a sword from the wall and handing it to him. As Broderick gripped the hilt, he inhaled deep. The feel of the hilt in his hand stirred him. The weight and balance of the weapon was perfect. Of a sudden, he wished he could spar with the sword he now held instead of with the wooden ones Bronson’s sons provided.
“It is called Gauntlet,” Bronson said. “I crafted it as tribute to a fallen knight of Karvana…one who fell long ago.”
Broderick studied the sword—the gleaming blade and ornate hilt. “A fine weapon is this, Bronson…and a fine tribute.”
Bronson held a hand toward Broderick, and Broderick surrendered the sword to Bronson’s hold.
“Here is one of interest,” Bronson said. Reaching up to the wall, he pulled a longsword from its sheath. Broderick gripped the hilt of the long, double-edged slashing sword Bronson offered. He smiled, both for the beauty of the weapon and the knowledge it affirmed of Bronson’s identity. This was a weapon most difficult to forge—and forged at great expense. No mere blacksmith could afford the forging of such a magnificent weapon—not without commission. Broderick marveled the pommel’s perfect fit to his hand. He nodded approval.
“Magnificent!” he mumbled.
“I am glad you are pleased, Broderick,” Bronson said.
Broderick was startled, yet quick in his defense, as the blade Bronson wielded cut the air—met with his own blade wielded.
“My sons say you wield a blade well,” Bronson said. “Are you fearful of sparring with steel?”
“What do you think?” Broderick chuckled.
Broderick’s heart hammered with the thrill of the sound of the blades crashing—the strength his body so long had held hidden. As Bronson cut and thrust, Broderick countered—knowing he was at spar with one of the great Knights Exemplar.
“You are well trained—exquisitely skilled with a sword—for a horseman,” Bronson laughed, strengthening his stance.
Broderick smiled. “And you…you are strong and skilled…well trained…for a blacksmith.”
With a roar of laughter, the blacksmith attacked, yet Broderick met his attack with the dexterity and strength of K
arvana’s great Crimson Knight.
The blacksmith was masterful in his wielding of the blade! Broderick thought even Sir Alum was not so skilled and strong. Blow for blow they sparred—Bronson chuckling, Broderick enthralled and proud of knowing such a worthy challenge.
With one final thrust ably defended, Bronson laughed, his breath rising and falling with the labor of mock battle.
“You would fell me hard and easy, Broderick,” Bronson said.
“Nay…neither hard nor easy would you be felled, blacksmith,” Broderick said. He owned only infinite respect and admiration of the great and nameless knight before him.
“And do you like the blade?” Bronson asked. “Does it meet with your approbation?”
“I am none worthy to approve or otherwise, friend,” Broderick said. “But it is a fine weapon…a very fine weapon.
Bronson chuckled. “Then read its name, Broderick…and know it.”
Broderick’s brow furrowed with inquisition. Still, he held the sword straight, that the sun may glint on the blade.
Sir Broderick Dougray smiled—chuckled. There, eloquently engravened on the burnished steel, were the words.
“The Crimson Frost,” he read aloud.
“This blade I forged in your honor, Sir Broderick Dougray,” Bronson said, “when the Crimson Knight confounded both the Reaper and Lord Morven at Ballist.” Broderick nodded, and Bronson said, “This…swords are my manner of offering tribute to those who protect the kingdom when I am bound and unable to do so.”
“Am I so incompetent at disguise?” Broderick asked, yet studying the fine weapon in his hands. Of a sudden, he wondered—if Bronson so easily saw his knighthood, could the villagers discern it as well?
Yet Bronson chuckled, his eyes merry with mirth as he shook his head. “No more than I, it would seem.” He paused, still smiling. “I was at Ivan’s tournament. I saw the tournament champion battle to victory,” Bronson said. “Stroud and Wallace were with me…for they do so enjoy witnessing tournament.”
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