A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Would the good people of Ballain…would all enjoy a new tale in song?” Reynard asked.

  Cheers of encouragement were heard. Monet glanced to Broderick—saw his eyes narrow with suspicion and interest. Her own breath quickened as her heart began to pound within her bosom.

  “What tale is this?” the Miller Aldrich called.

  “Oh, this is a tale most divine,” Reynard said. As he began to pluck at his lute, he said, “A tale of romance…of secreted love…and of lips pressed in bliss.” The crowd of villagers clapped—called out their encouragements. “This, good people, is a tale of a princess and her knight lover. I give to you, people of Ballain…‘The Champion’s Prize’…the ballad of the Scarlet Princess and the Crimson Knight.”

  Monet was rendered breathless! As all of Ballain cheered and clapped, begging Reynard to hasten in commencing his performance, Monet could not draw breath! She looked to Broderick, and he gazed at her for a moment. Monet still clung to his arm, and his hand moved to rest on her leg. Pressing her knee with reassurance, he returned his attention to the minstrel. He would listen—Broderick would listen to the same words sung as Monet would hear. Yet he would hear what Monet knew not how to hear. Thus, she tightened her embrace of his arm—and waited.

  In the heavens the gilt sun guarded—as a gold piece swathed in blue—

  Brave knights mid Ivan’s tournament, who battled as champions do.

  For the Champion’s Prize Ivan promised could not be measured its cost…

  Yes, the Champions Prize Ivan promised,

  The rare Champion’s Prize Ivan promised,

  Oh, the Champion’s Prize Ivan promised was worth more than diamonded frost.

  Gold statues and pieces of silver—great wealth and honor profound.

  The knight who would win Ivan’s favor, mid riches would he abound.

  Yet gold and silver and jewel’d riches did not tempt one knight so bold…

  One knight whose heart longed for one lady’s,

  Great knight whose heart longed for one lady’s,

  Bold knight whose heart longed for one lady’s…meant Ivan’s rich prize to hold.

  A kiss from the lips of a lady…or maiden of noble birth.

  Press lips with a lady or princess was the Champion’s Prize of worth.

  Thus to win King Ivan’s tournament meant honor never ’fore known.

  And the Crimson Knight meant to win it.

  Yes, the Crimson Knight meant to win it.

  Oh, the Crimson Knight meant to win it…kiss the heiress of a throne.

  For the Crimson Knight loved a princess, a maiden of royal birth.

  Yet he loved her in painful secret, as the heavens love the earth.

  Still, before him a chance opportune, for one knight to kiss a maid…

  To press lips with the princess he loved,

  Taste the lips of the princess he loved,

  From the lips of the princess he loved, this knight would not be stayed.

  So the Crimson Knight sought his princess—she that unknown owned his soul,

  That he may endeavor to kiss her and at last count himself as whole.

  To the Scarlet Princess he wandered—to she he so long battled for.

  He once battled in Ballist for her.

  Yes, he battled in Ballist for her.

  He had battled in Ballist for her…to bar evil from her door.

  The great Crimson Knight found his lady, midst nobles and royals crowned,

  And he begged her give him a token, that he may to her be bound

  By her favour in Ivan’s trials, that he may have hope to taste

  Her sweet lips pressed tender to kiss him,

  Oh, sweet lips pressed tender to kiss him,

  Win her lips pressed tender to kiss him…win her kiss soft, nectar-laced.

  Her eyes were as amethyst jewels, her frock a silk scarlet red.

  Her hair was as raven as midnight woven with sapphire thread.

  Her face held the grace of an angel; her lips were wild-berry wine.

  Thus the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  Yes, the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  There the Scarlet Princess of beauty stood ripe as the grape of the vine.

  As the Crimson Knight strong approached her, the Scarlet Princess so fair

  Did not speak of her own love for him…the secret she did long bear.

  As he knelt on one knee before her, begging a token to clasp,

  The Scarlet Princess wished fervent,

  The Scarlet Princess hoped fervent,

  The Scarlet Princess prayed fervent to be in the Crimson Knight’s grasp.

  He was ever her equal in beauty, this raven-haired knight of the realm,

  As tall as the oaks in the wild wood, in armor and bright burnished helm.

  His eyes were the sapphire stream that flowed midst her ebony hair.

  And he raised his gauntlet to greet her.

  When he raised his gauntlet to greet her,

  As he raised his gauntlet to greet her, his kiss would be hers did she swear.

  Then she granted him full a token…her favour—a scarlet veil.

  And she begged him that he should triumph, through Ivan’s fest-battle gale.

  She asked for their king and their kingdom, that her knight would win with haste.

  She called Crimson Knight to triumph,

  She bid Crimson Knight to triumph,

  She begged Crimson Knight to triumph…that her lips to his be placed.

  He rose from his knee with the token…her favour—the scarlet veil—

  And he gave his princess his promise that in battle he would not fail.

  Yet his promise had been proved before—on Ballist’s red battlefields.

  Though the princess knew not of it,

  No, the princess knew not of it,

  Scarlet Princess knew not of it…Crimson Knight’s secret token-shield.

  For ’round his neck hung a length of leather—a rare gift bestowed of the king—

  And it carried a token of favour—a dark raven woven ring.

  The braid of the Scarlet Princess, held close to his broad, strong breast

  Had at Ballist’s fields pure saved him,

  Oh, at Ballist’s fields it did save him,

  When at Ballist’s fields, it had saved him…been the savior of his bleak quest.

  As he strode from his princess he lingered on thoughts of the tokens he bore…

  Of the veil at his throat wove of scarlet and the secreted locks that he wore.

  He would ride and fight tournament battle; he would win Ivan’s promised prize.

  He would know the sweet lips of his lady,

  Know the nectar-laced lips of his lady,

  Taste the nectar-laced lips of his lady…own the amethyst of her eyes.

  The tournament battle was brutal, as challengers fell swept aside,

  By the Crimson Knight’s mace and lances—by his power and strength in stride.

  He was battle-worn, weary, and bloodied, but he rose to each challenger new…

  For the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  Yes, the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  His sweet Scarlet Princess of beauty…whom he loved most fierce and true.

  She had seen him best all at maces; she had seen his charger rush.

  She had heard the crowd rise up roaring for the lances he had crushed.

  Though his rerebrace was stained with bleeding, yet he bore her favour smart.

  So the Crimson Knight of Karvana,

  The brave Crimson Knight of Karvana,

  Thus, the Crimson Knight of Karvana won the kiss of Karvana’s heart.

  The Crimson Knight stood before her on the platform at Ivan’s stands.

  The Champion’s Prize would be claimed, midst the clapping of common hands.

  Thus the Scarlet Princess fair trembled as she raised to the Crimson Knight,

  And he kissed her as even she kissed him,

 
; Yes, he kissed her as even she kissed him,

  Oh, he kissed her as even she kissed him as the sun flashed its last light.

  And such was the love that was blended, when their lips pressed in soft bliss,

  That a fragrant wind came up on them…summoned by lovers’ first kiss.

  And away the wind carried crimson, with scarlet bound in its arms.

  Crimson Knight held his love—Scarlet Princess.

  Crimson Knight kissed his love—Scarlet Princess.

  Crimson Knight and his love, Scarlet Princess, thus spirited by love’s charms.

  Oh, he holds her still in his power—safe in love—boundless embraced.

  As the fragrant wind whispers to them, they blend kisses, sweet nectar-laced.

  And she knows he will hold her always…that he loved before ever she knew,

  For he carries her braid at his bosom,

  He yet carries her braid at his bosom,

  Still he carries her braid at his bosom…o’er his heart…his love ever in view.

  Thus all noble and common of subjects…of Dacian’s kingdom proud,

  Will fear not when enemies threaten, nor shrink from battle’s bleak cloud.

  For the Heart of Karvana is clasped, safe in the grip of true love,

  For the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  Oh, the Scarlet Princess of beauty,

  Yes, the Scarlet Princess of beauty is held fast in his gauntleted glove.

  So break the vast seal of your fearing; go forth and conquer your dread,

  As the great Crimson Knight begged the favor of the princess veiled in red.

  As the Scarlet Princess of beauty bestowed well her Champion’s Prize,

  Swift break the seal of forbearance,

  Swift melt the seal of forbearance,

  Crack fast the seal of forbearance, and claim your Champion’s Prize!

  The crowd of Ballain villagers roared—shouted and cheered with approval. Monet watched—astonished into silence, unable to move—as the Minstrel Reynard bowed low before the people. Of a sudden, as villagers rushed forth to bestow gifts to the minstrel for his song of love and hope, Monet felt the tears on her checks. She brushed them quickly and gasped when Broderick stood, leaving her at the bench as he approached the minstrel.

  She saw him pull a coin from the pocket of his doublet and offer it to the minstrel. Reynard studied the coin for a moment and then bowed to Broderick.

  “I thank you for your generosity,” Reynard said.

  “And I thank you for your ballad,” Broderick said.

  Monet rose, walking to the place where Broderick stood in conversation with the minstrel. The ballad had indeed served as fodder for excitement. All in the village were merry, begging Reynard to repeat his offering of the new ballad. He agreed, and the excited villagers began to settle once more.

  Yet Broderick did not settle. Taking Monet’s arm, he led her to the place where Bronson and Sarah stood, aside of the others.

  “The enemy is at her gate,” Broderick growled. “Karvana stands threatened.” Monet could sense the fury in him, for he gripped her arm tight—near to hurting her.

  Bronson nodded. “And in this you have instruction. Your charge is made clear.”

  The meaning of their words—the conversation between Bronson and Broderick—did not full wash over Monet, for her attention was at something else. The words of the minstrel’s song echoed in her mind.

  Quiet she whispered, “For ’round his neck hung a length of leather…” She quick pressed her hand to Broderick’s chest; she could feel the leather strap he ever wore. She moved her hand down, over his body, till she felt the small leather pouch beneath his doublet at his stomach.

  She gasped as Broderick’s hand covered her own, pushing it from his body. He glared at her; she could see him fair trembling with scarcely restrained fury.

  “Karvana will not fall, Broderick. We will not let her fall,” Bronson said, placing a firm hand on Broderick’s shoulder. “The enemy is at the gate, but the king yet lives…and he will not let Karvana fall. In this Dacian has his charge…and you have yours.”

  Broderick did not speak. Simply he started away from the village square and toward the cottage he and Monet shared.

  “What does the ballad tell you, Broderick?” she begged him as he hastened to the cottage. “For though my ears heard the same words as yours…I know they mean more to you.”

  Monet gasped as, of a sudden, Broderick lifted her into the cradle of his arms, kicked open the cottage door, and crossed the threshold. He let Monet’s feet drop to the floor; he closed the door and drew the bolt.

  Raking trembling fingers through his raven hair, he hastened to the hearth and laid a fire.

  “You will speak to me of this, Broderick! Please!” Monet begged as tears escaped her eyes to moisten her cheeks.

  He stood a moment, gazing into the hearth as the fire kindled and next burned.

  “Karvana is threatened. The enemy is at the gate,” he mumbled. He turned, his eyes narrow, smoldering sapphires burning through her. “You will have no need of the warming pan in your bed this night, Monet…for I must follow my charge…and take you to wife.”

  Swift Break the Seal

  Monet brushed the tears from her cheeks. He was angry; her heart ached with pain. In all the world she wanted nothing more than to be the true wife of Sir Broderick Dougray—to be owned by him—to own him in return. Yet in those moments she understood the cost of winning her deepest wish—Karvana.

  “Tell me, Broderick,” she began in a whisper. “Tell me of the minstrel’s message. Please tell me all you understood that I did not.” Monet’s thoughts had been arrested by the ballad’s tale of the secreted love of the Crimson Knight and the Scarlet Princess. The minstrel’s song had woven a spell over her, it seemed—one that left only images of Ivan’s tournament in her mind and a painful curiosity about the leather strap and pouch around Broderick’s neck. Thus, she had not ably discerned many other parts of the message.

  Broderick turned from her—exhaled heavy as he gazed into the hearth.

  “It was certain it was written of Marius himself,” he said.

  “How do you know this?” Monet asked. She did not doubt him—only wished to own the knowledge to discern Marius as ballader.

  “It is sure Marius’s ballad…for there are markers,” he began. “Marius has placed particular words in the lyric…words he agreed to leave for me. In planning your exile, I bade Marius place sequences of particular words in a ballad if it were of him and meant for me. Marius penned a list—ten sequences of words to help me discern if a ballad were a message. There were four of these sequences in this ballad.”

  “Which were they?”

  He remained before the fire—did not turn to face her—yet spoke. “The first refers to the king’s state of health—‘diamonded frost.’ Diamonded frost…it tells me your father yet lives, rules, and is in good health.” Monet brushed another tear from her face and moved to stand next to him before the fire, for she was chilled.

  “I am sore thankful for it,” she whispered.

  “As am I,” Broderick said.

  “Is there a sequence Marius will send if Father is not well?” she asked, for she wished to discern future ballads as Broderick was able.

  “Crimsoned frost,” he mumbled.

  “Yes…I see,” Monet whispered. “And next?”

  “The second sequence is ‘battle’s bleak cloud.’ It refers to the enemy…tells us James is at Karvana’s gate, as a cloud hovers in threatening a storm. Marius openly referred to James being at the gate, of course. Yet this sequence, combined with the third and fourth, instructs me in my charge. The third sequence is ‘sweet nectar-laced’…and the fourth, ‘swift break the seal of forbearance.’”

  “It instructs you to take me to wife…for the king fears Karvana may fall,” Monet said. “Thus he has doomed you to life as a peasant…with me as your shackle.” She brushed more tears from her face. Oh,
how she loved Broderick—how desperately she wanted to belong to him. Yet he was the great Crimson Knight—the valiant knight who would battle to save his kingdom—the powerful knight now doomed to the simple life of a peasant. How could he truly want her when it would cost him all that he knew and loved?

  He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low. She sensed a thing akin to fear in him. “Your father sends a message to you, Monet…through the ballad. I see his wisdom in it…yet I fear he may be mistaken in your feelings.”

  Monet frowned. “But I own no sequence of words to discern.”

  “No,” he said. “You do not. But you know the tale the ballad spins…for you lived it. Your father has revealed something to you. There is revelation—proof of…of what he suspects in you…and what he knows in me.”

  Monet felt as if she might simply fall to the floor in a heap of sobbing, heartache, and fear. Yet she was not so weak as she wished to be. Thus she began, “It…it is the tale of Ivan’s tournament…of the champion’s prize,” she said. “The ballad begins at the tournament, with description of the sun…of the prizes the knights who battle may win. It tells of the great champion’s prize…a kiss from a lady…and of the knight who wishes to win his lady’s kiss.” Monet glanced to Broderick, who studied her with narrowed eyes. Monet shrugged and said, “Naturally, Marius has woven a secret romance through the ballad…perhaps to represent our exile together.”

  “Perhaps,” Broderick said.

  Monet frowned. “The knight…the Crimson Knight…asks the princess for a token to bear in tournament that he may win her kiss.” She smiled a little and looked to him. “This is where Marius trips a bit…for he was not there to know that I asked you to bear my favour. You did not ask me.”

  “Did I not?” Broderick said, a slight grin at his lips.

  “No. You did not,” Monet said. “I came to you…to beg you not bear Anais’s favour.”

  “But you did not ask me to bear yours,” he said.