Monet frowned, for he was indeed correct. She shook her head and said, “In the least you did not beg me on bended knee to carry it. Thus, Marius embellishes there.”
“It does not matter. Go on,” he said.
Monet nodded, struggling to remember the ballad.
“It goes on with description, embellishing my beauty…though I like that he sang my hair was woven with sapphire. That I liked.” She smiled, and Broderick chuckled lowly. She frowned again, pensive. “The knight begs her favour, and she grants it. And he is thoughtful as he leaves her, thinking on a token-shield…a secret token that had saved him in…in…” Monet was breathless, her heart pounding mad of a sudden. “A token that saved him in Ballist.” She remembered then what she had thought of only moments after the Minstrel Reynard had finished his song. “‘None visible,’ you said,” she whispered. “In your pavilion, when I came to you before Ivan’s tournament began…Anais told you it was said you had never before carried favour…and you said, ‘None visible, your highness.’”
With trembling hands, Monet took hold of the front of Broderick’s doublet. The Minstrel Reynard had indeed sung of the leather strap around Broderick’s neck—the ballad telling a tale of a token hidden in the pouch, a raven braid woven of the Scarlet Princess’s hair.
“It cannot be,” she breathed as she began to untie the points at his doublet. “It is not true!” Surely Marius had only embellished, desirous to pen a ballad that enchanted any who were to hear it. A ballad of secreted love and unquenched desire was always preferable to one of mere meadows and trees.
“Monet,” Broderick said as she continued to struggle with untying the points of his doublet. He took hold of her hands, but she broke his grasp. She fair tore open his doublet to reveal the pouch hanging from the leather strap around his neck.
“I first saw this at Avaron…in your pavilion…when I came to you after your final joust,” she whispered. “H-how long have you kept this? The minstrel sang you owned this at Ballist. That cannot be true. Surely it cannot!” Tears streamed over Monet’s cheeks. Surely it could not be that the great Crimson Knight of Karvana had borne such a token! Surely Broderick had not clasped a lock of her hair to his breast in secret.
“Since first your father charged me seek Lord Morven in Ballain…before Ballist,” he said.
Breathless, Monet opened the pouch. With trembling fingers, she withdrew the small ebony braid within, woven as a small ringed circle and tied with a tiny scarlet ribbon.
“Three years you have borne this?” she sobbed.
“Near four,” he mumbled. “Your father first charged me as Guardian of the Scarlet Princess near four years ago…in secret…and it did save me in Ballist.”
“I do not understand,” she whispered, still staring in confounded disbelief at the ebony braid she held. “How…how did this save you in Ballist?”
“It woke me from the Reaper’s grasp,” he said. “I was sore wounded…my blood trailing out upon the ground. Darkness had overtaken me…as had the crimson frost. I was cold…dead cold there on the battlefield. There was no warmth left in me. Thus the crimson frost covered my armor, littered my hair, froze my flesh. Yet of a sudden, something over my heart warmed a little…enough to wake me, and I drew breath once more. My eyes were yet closed, and I saw you. In my mind I saw you…the Scarlet Princess of Karvana…and the token your father had given me whence he charged me as your protector warmed me where it lay on my chest. My heart began to burn with life, and I rose…for I would not see Lord Morven lay siege to Karvana Castle and harm you. In those moments, I cared not for Karvana, her king, or her people…but I would let no harm near you. Thus, I rose…as even the Reaper approached…for there before me was Morven, fresh and strong, having stood back in cowardice as his men fought and died. I was battle-weary and worn…near dead…but as Morven raised his sword to strike me down…I felt the token of your hair beneath my armor, and I ran him through.”
Monet replaced the token braid—placed it safe in the leather pouch hanging at Broderick’s stomach.
“No one knew of this token,” Broderick said. “Only your father and I. Not even Eann knew what the leather pouch held. Do you then see how your father speaks to you through Marius’s ballad?”
“The ballad tells me you will long guard me…as ever you have,” Monet whispered. She could not believe more; she would not endeavor to hope that her father spoke to her of Broderick having secreted a love for her.
“The ballad speaks far beyond, Monet,” he said. “You know this. In your heart you know this.”
Monet knew well then—that Marius and her father had conspired to reveal to Broderick her secreted love for Sir Broderick Dougray, for the ballad spoke plain of it. Yet still she could not believe the Crimson Knight of the ballad true loved the Scarlet Princess—that the Crimson Knight, there in the cottage, loved her.
“In my heart I do know it speaks to you of more than your charge,” she whispered. “Yet if you would have me know revelation in it…then you must know revelation, as well.”
“I would face any legion alone…battle the Reaper himself…and still I would not be so fearful as I am before you here,” he said. She could not look up into his face—simply she stared full at his chest, bare before her, adorned by the leather strap and pouch that hid a token of her own hair.
“What has the Crimson Knight to fear here?” she asked.
“Marius’s ballad revealed my heart,” he said, his voice low and alluring—the flavor she so delighted in. “I would bed you as wife not for the sake of your father’s charge…but for my own sake…for that of my heart, which you alone hold. Further, I would have you because you wished to have me. Thus, you have made a coward of me…for the ballad reveals my long and secreted love for you, Monet. Yet Marius may have well embellished the thoughts and longings of the heart of the Scarlet Princess. In this, I stand before you more fearful than ever I have been in all my life.”
Monet brushed tears from her cheeks—smiled as she wept. She placed a tender hand to his chest—felt his heart beating strong beneath her palm.
“I was…I was so young when first you came to Karvana with Sir Alum,” she whispered. “You were young as well…just fourteen years. Yet even then your jaw was square and strong. Your eyes were pure as sapphires. Even Mother said they were more beautiful and bright than the jewels in her crown. Your hair was as raven as midnight…and your shoulders far too broad for one so young. One day, I was with Mother, visiting a sick woman in the village. You were there. An old man had stumbled and fallen. Several young men were mocking him. They did not move to help him…only stood in cruel taunting.” Monet smiled at the memory. Brushing tears from her cheeks, she looked up into the ethereal comeliness of Broderick’s face “You bested them…all three…with naught but your fists for weapons. Then you lifted the old man into your arms and carried him to his family. It was in that moment that I first loved you. I used to lay in my bed at night…weeping…sobbing…for I knew my husband would be chosen for me…that I could never own you. Even if you cared for me I could never belong to you. Then Ivan’s tournament was upon me…and the champion’s prize. I determined it would be enough…that the memory of your kiss would carry me through life…and that…and that…whomever Father chose as my husband…I vowed it would be you. Your kiss I would feel pressed to my lips whenever I must endure…the touch of another.” She paused—glanced away a moment—shy and blushing. “Marius did not embellish the love I have long secreted for you, Broderick. And I am wicked,” she breathed, “for often I have wished that James would pound at Karvana’s gate…so that I may be your true wife.” She looked up, and the smoldering emotion in his eyes caused gooseflesh to race over her limbs. “What use is such a wicked princess to poor Karvana now?”
Broderick smiled, one powerful hand cupping her chin.
“More use than the wicked knight who loves her,” he mumbled. His thumb caressed the softness of her lips, and she smiled.
“
You would be my wife?” he asked in whisper. “You would give yourself to me?”
Monet let her arms go around his neck—wove her fingers through soft raven hair.
“Only if you love me…and not because it is your knightly charge,” she whispered.
“I do love you, Monet,” he said. “Ever I have loved you.”
He gathered her in strong arms, pulling her body flush with his own.
“And I love you…my pretty Crimson Knight,” she breathed.
His mouth descended to capture her own, in the blending of ambrosial, nectar-laced kisses—the beginning, at last, of true love’s blessed consummation.
Monet knew cold no more. In the dark nights of early winter slept she warm in the arms of her lover-husband, Broderick—the horseman of Ballain. One week passed, then two. Three weeks wasted since the Minstrel Reynard had delivered the ballad message to Broderick and Monet.
Certain it was true, Monet knew boundless bliss and happiness in knowing Broderick loved her. Certain it was true, Broderick owned the same in knowing she loved him. Still, for all their long conversations in attempting to convince one another otherwise, they worried for their kingdom, their king, and his subjects.
Early winter had slowed King James’s attack. Though his legions camped just without Karvana village, he did not attempt to lay siege to the town and castle. It was a foolish king who endeavored to battle winter as well as conquest a kingdom. James was greed-driven, not foolish.
This Monet discerned as she and Sarah sat in the blacksmith’s cottage after supping.
“Rudolph yet pauses,” Bronson said. “He is a coward, and it may serve Karvana well.”
“He is a coward,” Broderick began, “and therefore weak…pliable of mind. James has but to find a method of convincing, or a means to control him, and Rudolph will falter.”
“I am weary of this war talk, Prissy,” Sarah sighed. “Let us, you and I, away to the next room…where we may speak of happy things.”
Sarah rose from the table, as did Monet, but Bronson caught her hand, staying her.
“We will cease this speak of war, Broderick,” Bronson laughed, “for we are driving away our wenches…and we certain do not want to be without our wenches!”
“Indeed!” Broderick chuckled, taking Monet’s waist between his hands and pulling her to sitting on his lap. Monet giggled, took Broderick’s handsome face between her palms, and quick kissed him on the mouth.
“You are a bad man, Bronson the blacksmith,” Sarah giggled, though she promptly sat on her husband’s lap, caressing his smooth-shaved head with one gentle hand.
“I am!” Bronson said. “For I wish to hear a song.”
Monet bit her lip with delight, for it was Sarah knew many songs, most of which were mirthful.
“And which song is it you wish to hear, blacksmith of Ballain?” she asked.
“My favorite,” Bronson laughed, “‘The Merry Ale Wench’!”
Broderick laughed, and Monet could not help but caress his face. How she loved him! How entirely and wholly, utterly, and deliciously she loved him.
“Very well, Blacksmith,” Sarah said.
Monet giggled as Sarah left her comfortable seat on Bronson’s lap, stepping up onto the table.
Broderick smiled, cupped Monet’s chin, and drew her lips to his in a moist, warm, and lingering kiss.
“‘The Merry Ale Wench,’” Sarah said, bowing. Monet clapped her hands softly in rhythm as Sarah danced light on the table and sang.
Oh, there was a merry ale wench…with cheeks of rosy pink,
And she did serve all manner of amber ale drinks!
Oh, how the patrons loved her…the men who met her there,
For she was young and pretty…with ale-amber hair!
Monet laughed, delighted by both Sarah’s song and light dance and the look of love and admiration on her blacksmith husband’s face as he gazed at her.
Oh, the ale wench was Fanny…her mother’s name was too.
And she bewitched the patrons with the ale her father brewed.
Yes, many men wished Fanny would bless them with her kiss,
But they dared not to touch her, for she owned a fatal fist!
Of a sudden, the door to the blacksmith’s cottage flew wide—a breathless Stroud at the threshold startling all within.
“Father!” Stroud shouted. He was wild with distress—yet paused, frowning as his gaze fell to his mother. “Mother?” he asked, pure perplexed as he studied her a moment. “Why stand you on the table?”
“Stroud,” Bronson said, tearing his son’s attention from his mother. “What is it?”
“The minstrel…Reynard…the one who was here only weeks past,” Stroud began, “he has been brought to Ballain…bloodied and beaten and arrow-wounded. He yet lives, but he is in a bad way. The miller does not know if he will survive. It seems he has been robbed.”
Monet rose from Broderick’s lap as he stood.
“Has the minstrel spoken, Stroud?” Broderick asked.
“No, Sir Broderick…but he is awake,” Stroud answered.
“We must speak with him,” Broderick said to Bronson.
“Yes…at once,” Bronson agreed.
Broderick looked to Monet, gripping tight her hand. “You will come with us. This cannot be mere chance. You will stay close to me.”
Monet nodded. “Of course,” she said. She trembled as she and Broderick followed Stroud to the mill. Bronson was at their backs—ever wary.
Indeed, the Minstrel Reynard was badly beaten. Monet winced at the sight of him, for her soul whispered it was he found himself harmed for sake of Karvana—for sake of her.
The Miller Aldrich and his wife tended the beaten man.
“Will he live?” Broderick asked.
The miller shrugged, combing strong fingers through silvered hair. “I cannot yet tell you,” Aldrich said. “He is badly beaten…though I did remove the arrow. It was at him through the back.”
“Did you yet have it?” Broderick asked.
“Yes,” Aldrich said. He reached beneath the table on which the Minstrel Reynard was laid out, producing an arrow and handing it to Broderick.
As Broderick studied the arrow, so too did Bronson and Aldrich.
“Rothbainian,” Bronson mumbled.
The minstrel moaned, and Monet could not keep from placing a comforting hand at his brow.
“Minstrel Reynard?” she whispered.
“Swift break the seal,” the minstrel mumbled. “The Crimson Knight must break the seal…swift he must break it.”
“Where were you attacked?” Broderick asked. “From whence came you to return to Ballain?”
“Ballist,” Reynard breathed.
“He is fevered,” the miller said. “He is speaking ballad words of Ballist and the Crimson Knight.”
“Yet he…he holds brave…” the minstrel whispered. “In Ballist he holds brave.”
“Who?” Bronson asked.
But Reynard fell unconscious and spoke no more.
“But who would endeavor to beat and kill a minstrel? Why not rob him and cast him aside?” Aldrich asked.
Monet felt tears fill her eyes. She looked to Broderick, fury plain on his face.
“Bronson,” Broderick began, “you must set the village at the ready. A Rothbainian arrow though a minstrel’s back…a minstrel who claims he was at Ballist so near Ballain…”
“King James is stretching his arms,” Bronson said.
Broderick nodded. He looked from Bronson to Monet.
“Forgive my Prissy, Aldrich,” he said. “She is weary and must retire.”
“Take her then, Broderick,” Sarah said. “Bronson and I will linger to help here.”
“I am so sorry,” Monet whispered, yet caressing the bruised and bloody brow of the minstrel.
“I know it is frightening, Prissy,” the miller said, “but it is no fault of yours.”
Monet forced herself to nod at the miller—
though she well knew Reynard’s condition was full her fault.
“Ballist is too close,” Broderick said as they hastened to the cottage. “If there are Rothbainians lurking there…then they will soon seek out Ballain.”
“Who do you think holds brave in Ballist, Broderick?” Monet asked. Fear was full in her soul. Of whom had the minstrel spoken? Who held brave in Ballist?
Broderick shook his head. “It is not the king. He would not be so easily captured…and what reason would James have for taking him to Ballist? If that is what you are thinking…that it is somehow your father…it is not.”
Still, Monet breathed yet with little ease.
“Will we flee Ballain?” she whispered as they entered the cottage.
Broderick closed the door and drew the bolt across it.
“Ballain is one of the farthest townships from Karvana,” Broderick said. “If King James’s reach finds Ballain…it will find any village.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “We will be watchful of strangers. We will hide ourselves in the woods.” He frowned, his eyes moist with emotion. “But know this. Whatever comes…I would die in preserving you, Monet.”
“Do not talk of death, Broderick! Please do not speak such things,” she said.
At once he gathered her into his arms, warm against the strength of him. Monet let her arms embrace him tight—wept against his strong chest.
“Very well,” he said, his voice low and soothing. “We will linger through the night. On the morrow we must plan. But for now, I will keep you warm in our bed…safe in my arms.”
Monet pressed to him, desperation coursing through her being. She would hold him—for he was hers! Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight—the horseman of Ballain—he belonged to her full body and heart, and she to him.
The noises of the night seemed loud and strange to Broderick. As his beloved lay restless in his arms, he listened. He would not sleep; he had known he would not. Yet there had been no manner other in which to lead Monet into bed and sleeping. His mind told him to run—that they should not linger in Ballain. Yet to flee in winter’s cold—without preparation—he was uncertain as to the wisdom in that too. In truth, his heart had surrendered—to his love for Monet. For the weeks past he had bathed in the beauty of her love for him—pushed thoughts of war and knighthood to the far corners of his mind. Yet he remembered now, he was a knight—First Knight of Karvana, Guardian of the Scarlet Princess, Blood Warrior of Ballist—and a fight was coming to him. Of this he was certain.
A Crimson Frost Page 26