A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  The Crimson Knight drew his wife tight to his chest—buried his face in the sweet fragrance of her soft hair. Gently, he kissed the back of her neck, tasting her flesh. He well knew he could be killed in preserving her. Yet he cared only for her—her life and love.

  Of a sudden, Monet turned in his arms. Though he could not see her eyes for the dark in the cottage, he knew she looked for him, for he felt her soft hand at his cheek.

  “My pretty knight is plagued with worry and planning,” she whispered.

  Her fingers caressed his lips as he said, “Yes.” He felt her mouth press warm and inviting to his own, and he returned her kiss once—twice—took her mouth with his own as his passionate love for the Scarlet Princess consumed him.

  

  “Yet why did they choose to beat a minstrel?” Bronson asked. “It is sure they were searching for any who might own information. But a minstrel?”

  “Oh, it is true they are often weak of body and light-minded,” Broderick said. “When in truth…who hears more than a minstrel? Are they not often present in banquet halls, throne rooms, and village squares? Sitting silent, save for when they are plucking lutes and singing ballads…who would have better opportunity to hear ill-guarded secrets?”

  Monet glanced up to Sarah, who nodded in agreement with her husband.

  It was long Broderick and Bronson were conversing in the forge. Broderick was helping Bronson to ready weapons—for the men in the village—and for himself.

  Monet rose, for the forge was stifling and the talk of weapons and battle frightening.

  “Monet?” Broderick asked, however.

  “I only mean to breathe a breath without, Broderick,” she said. He had not let her from his sight since the night before, and she was well glad of it. Yet the forge was so dark and close.

  “I will go with her,” Sarah said. “Just without…for only a short time.”

  Broderick opened his mouth to forbid it, but Bronson’s hand on his shoulder calmed him.

  “If they keep to smithy wall?” Bronson asked.

  Broderick nodded. “Keep to the wall,” he said.

  “Yes,” Monet agreed.

  Sarah pulled her cloak tight about her shoulders as they stepped from the smithy into the cool air of winter’s morning.

  “We shall be needing furs soon,” Sarah said.

  “It is colder,” Monet said. She followed Sarah to the side wall of the smithy, where sat a small bench. The two sat down upon the bench, and Monet laid her head back against the wall.

  The village seemed so still. She could hear the distant lapping of the mill wheel still lifting water from the pond. In the distance, children laughed, and a breeze whispered through her hair.

  “Princess Monet?”

  Was it the whisper of the breeze she heard—a whisper so soft as to own the timidity of a child’s voice? Yet when she felt Sarah’s hand at her arm, Monet opened her eyes. She could not draw breath—not even gasp. Her lips parted as horror fair entombed her—yet she could not speak—she dared not—for the sharp blade of a dagger pressed the tender flesh of the boy’s throat. He was dirty—dried blood at the corner of his mouth, the deep purple of painful bruising at one swollen cheek. His page’s cloak was torn, his dark hair matted and disheveled.

  “Channing?” Monet whispered as tears left her eyes to rain over her cheeks.

  “Do not speak,” Sir Fredrick Esmund commanded in a whisper, “lest I slit his throat and bleed him out before you.”

  The Bravest Page

  “Do not cry out, Princess,” Channing whispered, tears brimming in his frightened eyes. “All will be well.”

  “Release the boy,” Sarah demanded.

  “Hush, woman!” Sir Fredrick growled. Monet did not breathe as Sir Fredrick’s dagger blade hard pressed Channing’s throat, the tip of it drawing blood just beneath Channing’s left ear. “I will kill him.”

  “Sarah,” Monet said in a whisper. “Pray do not press Sir Fredrick. Make no sound.”

  “Come with me, Princess,” Sir Fredrick growled. “Come with me. Bring your friend…and we will discuss the boy’s life.”

  “You are dead if you go with him,” Sarah whispered.

  Monet looked to her beloved friend—wept for the tears brimming in Sarah’s eyes.

  “Channing is dead if I do not,” she whispered.

  “Make haste,” Sir Fredrick breathed. “If you summon the blacksmiths in any way, I will open the boy’s neck.”

  Monet rose, as did Sarah.

  Oh, how Monet wanted to cry out—call for Broderick! Yet Channing’s frightened eyes, the bruising about him, his disheveled appearance—Sir Fredrick would kill Channing if Monet cried out. Of this she was certain.

  Monet and Sarah kept to the backs of the cottages, as Sir Fredrick instructed. No one saw them, for the village was yet quiet, the cold of morning still lingering upon it. He led them into the wood—near to the cropping of holly Broderick had once led her to—once kissed her before. Monet wondered then—would she ever know his kiss again? Was her beloved lost to her, as perhaps her own life may be?

  “Far enough,” Sir Fredrick said. As he paused to look about—to ensure their privacy—Monet acted. Lunging toward him, she drew a second dagger from a sheath at his waist. Holding the dagger firm with two hands, she pressed the tip of the blade to her bosom.

  “Release him!” she cried out. “Release the boy and Sarah…or King James will have you executed for failing in your charge!”

  “Princess!” Channing cried. Sarah gasped but stood firm.

  Sir Fredrick’s eyes widened. He was unsettled—yet held fast to Channing.

  “I will kill the boy,” Sir Fredrick growled. “Do you doubt I will do it?”

  “I do not,” Monet said, “for you are a filthy coward! Yet kill him…and you will not bring me back to King James alive. And he does want me alive…does he not? Else you would have killed me at first sight.”

  In truth, Monet knew she could not plunge the blade into her bosom—she would never and could never take her own life or any others. Yet she hoped Sir Fredrick were not so certain of her incapability.

  Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. “The boy has told us of your father’s forced marriage.” Monet looked to Channing. Tears were streaming over his young cheeks, and Monet wondered what abuse he had endured—what harm had come to him that would cause him to reveal her marriage. Yet she did not fault one so young of revealing while being beaten and tortured. Ever she had adored young Channing, just as her father favored him. She felt only love and compassion for Channing—loathing and anger for those who had harmed and pressed him.

  “Yes…the boy told us of your father’s valiant attempt to preserve the royal bloodline of Karvana. If I release the boy, he will no doubt hasten to the village to inform your decrepit old husband that you have been taken. Elderly or not, Lord Shelley is still able enough to raise an alarm that you have been taken.”

  Monet frowned. She did not speak, though perplexed. She must think. Lord Shelley? Lord Robert Shelley was an ancient noble of Karvana, steward of the village of Neville beyond Karvana Far. Monet looked to Channing. The frightened blue eyes of her father’s favored page seemed to plead with her—and she understood. Though Channing had been captured, beaten, and threatened into revealing King Dacian’s charge of exile where Monet was concerned, the young boy had somehow been able to keep the name of Monet’s true husband as secret. Channing was Lord Shelley’s grandson, and he—knowing Lord Shelley was of a branch of near-extinct royalty—had been sharp of wit—known such a marriage would have seemed plausible enough to King James to be believed.

  “Lord Shelley will indeed raise the alarm,” Monet said. “Yet the alarm will be raised in like manner when it is discovered I am gone. Thus release the boy to Sarah…with instruction to linger…and I will go with you. Willing I will go if you release them. If you do not…I will die, and King James will be thwarted.” Monet brushed tears from her cheek. “Release him! You are
causing him pain and fear! If you do not release him, I swear I will not return with you…not alive.”

  “Hush, woman! Lest you raise the alarm yourself and watch the boy bleed out before you!” Sir Fredrick growled.

  Monet tried to calm her trembling. Oh, why had they left the forge? For the sake of fresh air? She was self-loathing at her own weakness. Broderick had not wanted her to leave his side—yet she had pressed him, and he had allowed it. Her mind silently shouted his name—cried out for him—Broderick!

  Monet inhaled a deep breath of courage—pressed the dagger tip near painful to her bosom.

  “You are not alone. I am sure you are not, Sir Fredrick,” Monet said. “Then release the boy. Order that he should linger here with this woman until we are well away…even there is a small clearing behind the crop of holly…there,” she said, nodding toward the holly. “Let them shelter there till nightfall. Even leave a man to watch them from afar to ensure they do as you have commanded. They may go to the village after sunset…if Lord Shelley does not miss me first. It will be impossible for the villagers to track us at night. Do this…or you will not return me living to King James.”

  Monet watched as Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. “You will come of your own accord?”

  “You have my word,” she said.

  “Swear it!” Sir Fredrick growled. “On this boy’s life…swear you will not struggle…that you will accompany me willingly.”

  “I swear it!” Monet cried. “Now release them, or I will sure pluck out my own heart!”

  Sir Fredrick’s eyes narrowed. He studied her for a moment, no doubt uncertain in trusting her word. Trembling, Monet stood firm. He must believe she meant to die before letting him kill Channing. Though she would not take her own life, she would fright Sir Fredrick to her death at his hand before she would see Channing killed.

  Channing cried out as Sir Fredrick pushed him forward and into Sarah’s arms. Sarah embraced Channing, smoothing his disheveled hair, kissing his tear-stained cheeks.

  “Come to me, Princess Monet,” Sir Fredrick growled. “I have your word…and I may yet throw the dagger through his heart!”

  “Princess!” Channing cried.

  “Silence!” Sir Fredrick barked.

  Monet lowered the dagger she held, offering it to Sir Fredrick as she walked to him.

  Instantly, he took her arm—brutal gripped in his hand.

  “It is I think King James would see me delivered unharmed…as well as alive, Sir Fredrick,” she said.

  He glared at her, eyes narrowed with loathing.

  “You! Woman!” Sir Fredrick barked, looking to Sarah. “Do not speak to this boy. And, boy…if you speak one word to this woman before sunset…my men will tell me if you do, and it will not bode well for Karvana’s princess. Do you understand?”

  Channing brushed tears from his cheeks, nodding.

  “Woman?”

  Sarah nodded as well—held Channing tight and protected against her body.

  “Then come, Scarlet Princess of Karvana,” Sir Fredrick said. He smiled, a triumphant smile of arrogance. “King James awaits.”

  Monet looked to Channing. “You are a brave boy, love,” she began, “and a very wise friend.” She looked then to Sarah. “Tell Lord Shelley of my love for him.”

  Sarah nodded, brushing at her tears.

  Monet brushed more tears from her face—paused, saying, “Do as you are told, Channing…Sarah,” she said. “Wait until sunset. Then seek out my husband. It is well you know he will care for you. He will come for me. You know that he will. Your quick wit has saved us, love.”

  “Lord Shelley, indeed,” Sir Fredrick chuckled. “Dacian assured knew pure desperation in preserving his line…to wed you to a relic the likes of Shelley. Come then, Princess,” Sir Fredrick said, tugging her arm, “for you have given your word.”

  Monet gasped as Sir Fredrick took hold of the back of her dress, pulling her away from the frightened boy—from her beloved friend—from Broderick’s protective reach.

  “See that they do not speak…nor leave the grove till sunset. If they attempt any conversation or escape, bring them to me,” Sir Fredrick ordered as a Rothbainian soldier approached. Monet breathed a quiet sigh. She had hoped Sir Fredrick owned a breath of chivalry. As a knight—even as a knight of Rothbain—he was bound to honor his word.

  Sarah and Channing would be well. Further, they would be found—and soon. Monet knew Broderick would miss her. Ever watchful as he was, perhaps he had already missed her. He would find Channing and Sarah, and he would come for Monet. Of a sudden, Monet was not so frightened as she had been a moment before—for she knew Broderick loved her and would come for her.

  She looked at Sir Fredrick as he led her through the wood. Even she stared at him.

  “Why do you study me so, Princess?” he asked. “Are you wishing your father had wed you to one so handsome as I…and not some relic of the kingdom past?” He chuckled.

  “I was only just imagining how you will look without your head,” she began, “for my husband will surely see you bled out by his own hand if you harm me.”

  Sir Fredrick sneered. “Lord Shelley bleed me out? And I am the fairy king, Princess.”

  “I hope the man you left to guard my friend and the boy…I hope he did not mean so much to you,” Monet said as she yet walked beside him. “For if my husband should come upon him…if your man should engage my husband…he will not be returning to you. Not alive.”

  Sir Fredrick laughed. “Do not tell me…do not tell me you have found feelings for this man your father wed you to!”

  “Do not endeavor in arrogance over my husband, Sir Fredrick. It may well cost you your life,” Monet said.

  Sir Fredrick continued to chuckle, however. “Ah, Princess,” he sighed. “In the least the return to Karvana may be amusing in your company.”

  Monet said no more. She would keep her secret—the true identity of her husband. And when the Crimson Knight came for her—when he bested Sir Fredrick at war as easily as he had in lances at Ivan’s tournament—full she would relish the expression on the villain’s face then. Broderick would come for her. She must know patience and keep her wits about her till he did.

  “They are not at the cottage,” Broderick growled. “The false woodpile has not been touched.”

  “Sarah would not allow the princess to leave,” Bronson said. He ran one trembling hand over the smoothness of his head.

  “They have been taken,” Broderick said. “My soul tells me it is true.”

  Bronson hurried to the wall of the smithy. Quickly, he took down several swords—including the Crimson Frost he had once shown to Broderick.

  Handing the Crimson Frost to Broderick, Bronson shouted, “Stroud! Wallace!” A moment later, as Bronson secured his own to his waist, Stroud and Wallace entered.

  “Father?” Stroud asked.

  Broderick could see by the manner in which the boys stood at the ready—their father had trained them for battle.

  “Wallace,” Bronson began. “Bring Kenley. Tell Birch to stay with Carver and Dane. Your mother and the princess have been taken.”

  “Mother?” Wallace exclaimed.

  “The Gauntlet is yours, Stroud,” Bronson said, handing the longsword to his son. Stroud nodded and strapped the sheathed sword at his waist. “You may choose your weapon, Wallace,” Bronson said. “You and Kenley may choose…and then you will go to the miller. Tell him the village is in danger. We must arm ourselves…all of us.”

  “Yes, Father,” Wallace said, taking his leave at once.

  Bronson gathered daggers then, handed two to Broderick, and placed two in his own belt.

  “We will find them, my friend,” Broderick said. He could feel his knightly strength returned—and with it his rage.

  Bronson nodded. “We will.”

  Broderick had never known such fear. When he had left the smithy in search of Monet—when he had not found her near—he had been fearful near to madness. Calm and
rational thinking had been lost to him for a time. Yet he had breathed deep a moment—stood pensive for a time. He knew King James would not order Monet killed—that he would want her delivered to him alive and well, to serve whatever villainous purpose he owned. In his heart Broderick knew his beloved wife lived—though he was not so certain of Bronson’s. Still, he thought Sarah might be used as a pawn—a tool of convincing Monet to do as she was commanded. In this, Broderick hoped Bronson’s beloved was yet well.

  In striding from the cottage back to the smithy, his strength had been renewed. The strength of the First Knight of Karvana had returned—as well as his wisdom and wit.

  “We will track them,” Broderick said.

  Bronson nodded. “Then let us do so.”

  “There were no tracks near the cottage,” Broderick said as they stepped from the smithy into the cold of winter. “And Monet would not have gone far for the breath of air she begged.” He shook his head. “I should not have lost sight of her…not for even a breath.”

  “Do not linger on regret, my friend,” Bronson said. “Go forward and leave the past where it is.”

  Broderick looked about the ground outside the smithy. The snow and mud were mingled. There were many footprints. His eyes searched—his mind battled as he studied the markings in the mud and snow.

  “Here,” he said, squatting low and gesturing to a place nearby. “These are theirs…Monet’s and Sarah’s. Small…not so deep as the others.”

  “Yes,” Bronson said. “It is hard to see…but they trod here.”

  Standing, Broderick followed the tracks to the side of the smithy—to the bench against one wall.

  “They took respite here,” Bronson said.