A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “I will!” Stroud shouted.

  “The sun will break the horizon soon!” Broderick shouted. “We will wait for the sun, and then we will vanquish our enemy!”

  “We ride! We battle! We win!” The battle cry of the Exemplar Knights rose to the night air.

  As the Crimson Knight sat mounted in waiting for the sun to rise, he thought not of battle and glory. Sir Broderick Dougray—successor king of Karvana, the Crimson Knight—thought of his love.

  “Monet,” he breathed. He would not be weakened by doubt of her safety or fear he may find her harmed. He would find her, tear her from the clutches of the enemy, hold her safe once more. Further, he had determined King James would pay for his crimes—for laying hands to Monet. James of Rothbain would linger no more in threatening Broderick’s kingdom, his king, and the Scarlet Princess. As king successor, Broderick Dougray could claim the right to face James—to battle him alone for Karvana’s sake. The Crimson Knight would strike the enemy’s crown and end the war for the kingdom.

  He heard an approach and turned to see Bronson mounted beside him.

  “We will be victorious, Broderick,” Bronson said. “Your princess will be in your arms once more, and the kingdom will be championed.” He was pensive a moment. “It has been near eighteen years since I have seen Karvana’s fields…the castle rising up like a great beacon of hope. Yet, here, at her back, as her protector…it seems no more than a day.”

  “Before the sun is midsky…I will fell a king,” Broderick said. He looked to Bronson. “I will fell him…or I fall.”

  Bronson placed a strong hand on Broderick’s armored shoulder. “You will not fall, Broderick. The Crimson Knight does not fall. Karvana’s successor king does not fall. Further, Ivan’s champion’s prize awaits. What could a knight do for sake of such a prize?”

  Broderick smiled. He looked to King James’s encampment far beyond. He would hold Monet before the moon rose again. He would hold her safe in his arms—drink the nectar of her lips.

  “What could a knight do for sake of such a prize?” he asked. “In the least, fell a king.”

  

  “I go first to meet your father, Rudolph, Princess Anais,” King James said as a squire finished in armoring him. He looked to Monet then and said, “Then next to kill yours.”

  Monet said nothing. Simply she straightened her posture, silently praying for Broderick to find her—to save her father.

  “You stand silent, Scarlet Princess,” James chuckled. “Have you nothing to say? No threats to offer? Ah! Yes! I had quite forgotten. Lord Shelley will arrive today to rescue you.” King James shrugged. “And that is well…at least for you. But what of Alvar’s poor princess?”

  “What?” Anais asked.

  “Had you forgotten, Anais,” King James said, “my promise to Sir Fredrick? You sore vexed him at Ivan’s tournament last…and after he had borne your favour so well. It is sure Sir Fredrick is not one to be vexed and settle. Thus, you are my gift to him…for his service in procuring your father’s army by way of taking you. Further, he fetched to me the Scarlet Princess of Karvana. I cannot gift him wealth, for he has all he would ever need. Thus, he has asked only for you, Princess Anais…as payment for his valiant service to Rothbain and her king. I thought you understood this already.”

  “My father will not fight against King Dacian if you do not release me,” Anais said.

  “Your father will fight…or you will die,” King James said. “This is all he need know.”

  Of a sudden, Anais turned to Monet. It was well Monet knew the expression on her face—indignant rage.

  “You said we need only wait, Monet!” Anais cried. “You said you were not married to Lord Shelley…that your true husband would come for you and we would be saved! How are we to be saved? It is the morrow now…and yet we linger as prisoners!”

  “What is this? What lies do you endeavor to weave?” King James growled. He drew back his gauntleted hand, readying to strike Anais.

  “It is not a lie!” Anais cried. “She told me last eventide. She told me her husband is not Lord Shelley. She carries hope her husband will come for her. She said he would slay your army and my father’s to savior her.”

  “Lord Shelley is not your husband?” King James asked.

  Monet glared at Anais, thankful she had not told the coward Princess of Alvar who her husband truly was.

  “No,” Monet said.

  King James frowned a moment. Yet Monet’s faith in his arrogance was made known, for he smiled next and said, “What matter is it to whom your father wed you? By midday I will have Rudolph of Alvar at my bidding. Nothing will keep me from conquering Dacian and taking his throne.”

  Of a sudden, a breathless soldier stumbled into the pavilion.

  “My king!” the soldier panted. “You must come! Karvana’s lost Knights Exemplar crest the hill at our back!”

  “What?” King James asked. He shook his head—laughed pure amused. “What ploy is this that Dacian endeavors to make?” He struck the soldier hard across one cheek with the back of his gauntlet. “The Knights Exemplar are extinct! Thus they have been for near twenty years, boy!”

  “Their banners herald them the Exemplar Knights—emerald banners, white symbols…rearing lion, a hound, a bull, an armored arm. These are the Exemplar Knights, my king. It is Sir Fredrick himself who confirms it!”

  “How many?” King James said.

  “Eight, my king.”

  “Eight?” King James laughed. “Sir Fredrick is a fool! If these are the lost Knights Exemplar…what are eight knights against two legions of men?”

  “There is more,” the soldier said. “They have King Rudolph…and…and…they are led by the Crimson Knight of Karvana.”

  Monet inhaled a deep breath, endeavoring to remain calm. He had come for her! Her pretty knight had come for her!

  “Nine knights then…and one weak king,” James grumbled. “I see no threat here! Sir Fredrick is a fool!”

  “The Crimson Knight has sent word by messenger—a challenge to Sir Fredrick…individual battle,” the soldier said. “He calls out Sir Fredrick for laying hand to the wife of Sir Broderick Dougray, Karvana’s successor king…husband to the Scarlet Princess Monet.”

  “The Crimson Knight is your husband?” Anais exclaimed. Monet simply nodded to Anais in response.

  King James laughed; boisterous was his laughter.

  “The Crimson Knight?” he roared. “Dacian wed his daughter to a glorified soldier?”

  “If you own one drop of true royal blood…one breath of honor…you will have Sir Fredrick accept his challenge,” Monet said. “You are not afraid, are you, James? What are nine men…when you command legions?”

  Broderick would not approach without a plan to employ. This Monet well knew. Thus she would kindle his charge—whatever it may be.

  “You endeavor to sway me…for you would see your husband vanquish Sir Fredrick for being the hunter who stole you,” King James said.

  “Yes,” Monet said.

  King James clapped gauntleted hands. “Very well! I will allow it! For Fredrick will save me effort…by killing your husband for me. Thus, I will not have to bloody my hands, nor linger in waiting to wed you.”

  Monet wished to shout at him, to tell him the Crimson Knight would best Sir Fredrick with ease. But she said nothing—held her tongue. She knew Broderick’s thoughts; somehow she knew what was in his mind. To ride to Karvana with only eight knights at his side: Sir Fredrick was not Broderick’s only prey. King James thought nine men could do no harm. He would be careless and arrogant. And when King James was at his zenith, the Crimson Knight would rise and fell a wicked king!

  The Crimson Frost

  “How is it you came to be wife to Sir Broderick Dougray?” Anais asked.

  Monet stood breathless, overcome with wonder at seeing the Crimson Knight approach. Her heart pounded so mad within her bosom she feared it might leap from her body. It had been two nights since she had been
held warm in his arms—yet it seemed a lifetime!

  “In all this, Anais—in all you have endured of late—still you stand envious and self-serving,” Monet answered. She looked to Anais. “He loves me. He loves me with a strength that would see him ride into the battle encampment of his enemy…alone. He does not trust King James owns any honor…does not know if James’s archers will let go their bowstrings upon him. Yet he rides to me…there. He comes to me, no matter what stands between us. My father knew the Crimson Knight loved me in such a manner. In the same manner do I love him. This also did my father know. And what does your father know, Anais? A child was beaten by King James’s men and offered up less information than you have this day! I pity your father with such a daughter to offer his kingdom…for you love naught but yourself. You ask how I came to be wife to Sir Broderick. Heaven smiled upon me, Anais. Pray it has forgiveness in its heart…that it may one day smile upon you.”

  Anais said nothing—only turned her eyes to the crest of the hill where lingered the mounted Knights Exemplar.

  Monet watched as Broderick neared. The sun flamed and shone bright on his armor, his crimson banner, with rearing black dragon, licking the breeze as he rode.

  He dismounted—approached. Monet’s heart leapt as his eyes lingered on her for a moment. It was only a moment that he looked at her. His purpose could spare no risk in distraction.

  “Sir Broderick Dougray,” King James said, “the great Crimson Knight. I am honored you have ridden to Karvana to watch me conquer your king.”

  “James of Rothbain,” Broderick began. The sound of his voice sent gooseflesh racing over Monet’s limbs. “I would call out your first knight, Fredrick Esmund. I challenge him…for having dared touch my wife…the Scarlet Princess Monet.”

  James inhaled, smiling an arrogant smile of triumph. “I will honor you in allowing this challenge, Crimson Knight,” Sir James said, “but at a price.”

  “What price do you name?” Broderick asked.

  Monet frowned. A price? What price would James ask?

  “I will allow this challenge…but it must be to the death,” James said. “There will be no champion without a challenger dead on the field.”

  “Done,” Broderick said without pause.

  “Broderick!” Monet exclaimed. It was well she knew Broderick could best Sir Fredrick in honorable battle. Yet of a sudden, the memory of Sir Fredrick’s oft-dishonorable devices entered her mind—when he had bested Broderick in wrestling at Ivan’s tournament. Though she called to him, he did not look at her. Monet knew he could not, lest his strength be shaken by fear for her.

  “Done,” King James said. King James laughed, full foolish in his arrogance. “Sir Fredrick!” James shouted.

  “And now I will name my price,” Broderick said.

  “Your price?” James laughed. “Your wife in return, I suppose.” James shook his head. “Now, Sir Broderick…you know I am at war. You know your wife is my pawn of triumph.”

  “The price is not my wife,” Broderick said.

  “Not your wife?” King James asked. “You do not wish to know her again?”

  “Oh, I will know her, James,” Broderick said. “But my price for triumphing over Sir Fredrick…this will I name when he lies dead at your feet.”

  King James laughed. “You cannot best him, Sir Broderick. He is too strong…too full of hate and loathing. You have been softened by your pretty princess. Even now I can see her in your eyes. You will not be champion. You will bleed out on the ground before her, knowing she will be mine when you are dead.”

  “I will name my price when Fredrick is dead,” Broderick said. “Do you accept this?”

  King James chuckled. “Done.”

  “Done,” Broderick said. He turned then and drew a sword from its sheath at his hip, brandishing it high, the sun glinting on the steel blade. “Let all here witness this accord,” he shouted. “Soldiers of Rothbain…your king will know my price and abide by it when Sir Fredrick is dead. To this you have heard King James agree. I will hold him to it, and so must you…for if he claims to be a king worthy of your allegiance, then he will not break such a word as he has given here.”

  The cocksure smile faded from James’s face.

  Monet held her breath. It was she feared King James would set his soldiers to Broderick. She knew he was considering doing so, for Broderick had played well at war. If King James ordered his men to kill such an honorable knight as the Crimson Knight of Karvana—if he ordered that they kill a man of such bravery as to ride amidst them for the honor of his wife—then the Rothbainian soldiers would know the true coward their king was. This he could not risk, for dissent and rebellion might nurture in men already fighting to conquer a king for mere sake of the vanity and greed of another. Yet James may yet command it, and well his soldiers might yet follow his orders—even for their uncertainty.

  King James’s eyes narrowed. He had made his choice, and Monet did not breathe.

  “Sir Fredrick!” King James shouted. Monet exhaled—King James would not risk his men failing him.

  Sir Fredrick appeared from a gathering of soldiers nearby. He strode to King James and drew his own sword from its sheath.

  “Kill him,” King James said.

  “Of course, my king,” Sir Fredrick growled.

  Monet’s eyes filled with tears. Broderick did not look at her; she knew he could not. She knew there was more unspoken—that Broderick and the great Exemplar Knights on the hill meant more than simple revenge for Sir Fredrick’s having taken her. Yet she could not fathom their plan and thus was overcome with sudden fear.

  Broderick raised his sword before his face and bent his head to one side, light kissing the blade before dropping his helmet shield with a tap of one gauntlet.

  “Such a pretty sword, Sir Broderick,” Sir Fredrick laughed, drawing his own helmet shield over his face.

  “A pretty sword made for a pretty knight,” Broderick said. “It is the Crimson Frost, forged for the Crimson Knight. And it will live famed eternal…as the sword that fell Sir Fredrick Esmund.”

  “You have forgotten Ivan’s tournament,” Sir Fredrick said. The two men took stance. “Do you remember the pain I put upon you there?”

  “I remember only the charger I won when I unhorsed you in the joust,” Broderick began, “unhorsed you at first lances.”

  Of a sudden, Sir Fredrick raised his helmet shield. “Light armored! Or are you a coward, Crimson Knight?”

  “Light armored,” Broderick said.

  “No!” Monet breathed. She shook her head, letting tears spill from her eyes.

  “You see, Sir Fredrick is sure of victory, Princess,” King James said to her. “He calls Sir Broderick to light armor.”

  Monet watched as two squires approached, one at Sir Fredrick’s armor, one at Broderick’s. Quickly the squires removed Broderick’s and Sir Fredrick’s armor, till not but vambraces, greaves, and sabatons remained. Light armor left a knight’s body full vulnerable, save his forearms and lower legs. Monet knew Broderick was the better knight—the stronger knight—yet for weeks and weeks he had known only sparring. She feared Sir Fredrick’s hatred and blood-lust would spur him—that Broderick’s love for her, his exile, and no doubt his fatigue might find him ill-prepared.

  Again the two took stance. Broderick’s raven hair, dark yet in the sun, gave him the appearance of strength. There was no sound, save that of the banners in the breeze.

  Monet gasped as the Crimson Knight attacked first. Charging at Sir Fredrick, Broderick struck. Sir Fredrick’s blade crashed against Broderick’s, the sound ringing through the air as a battle bell. Monet covered her mouth with her hands to keep from crying. This was not tournament: this was battle to the death!

  Sir Fredrick raised his sword to strike. Blades crashed once more as Broderick defended the blow. Blow for blow they battled, and Monet could not but watch in horror! Each time Sir Fredrick wielded his blade, she feared it would meet with Broderick’s flesh. Metal crashing
echoed. There was no respite—simply battle—battle that would end in death.

  There was a pause then as Broderick and Sir Fredrick circled as two lions stalking prey.

  “Are you weary, Crimson Knight?” Sir Fredrick asked. He was short of breath. Monet thought Sir Fredrick’s breathing more labored than Broderick’s. Further, Broderick did not seem in the least weakened, and this renewed her hope.

  “Of playing at swords with you? Yes,” Broderick said.

  “Playing at swords?” Sir Fredrick chuckled a light laugh. “I will kill you, Crimson Knight…and King James will take your wife to his bed.”

  “You should not have laid hands on her, Fredrick,” Broderick growled. “And I am weary of playing at swords.”

  Broderick quickly took stance. Grasping the blade of the Crimson Frost in one hand, the pommel in the other, he drove the hilt into Sir Fredrick’s face. Sir Fredrick reeled back with the force of the blow. He did not fall but raised his sword two-fisted, held high over his head in preparation to strike. Sir Fredrick did not strike, however, nor did his blade meet Broderick’s. It could not—for the sword, the Crimson Frost, was through Sir Fredrick Esmund—hilt full against his chest, blade jutting from his back.

  Monet gasped as Sir Fredrick Esmund looked to the Crimson Knight, who held the hilt at his chest—the Crimson Knight, who had run him through.

  Clutching the dying man’s throat in his free hand, Broderick drew near to Sir Fredrick’s face. “I told you…I am weary of playing at swords,” the Crimson Knight said.

  Pushing at Sir Fredrick’s shoulder, the Crimson Knight drew his sword from the body of his enemy. Sir Fredrick Esmund crumpled to the ground.

  “You will leave him!” Broderick shouted to the Rothbainian soldiers standing silent in astonished awe. “You will leave this blackguard thus…till his blood is wholly frozen and a crimson frost upon him!”

  “Broderick!” Monet cried. She started toward him, but King James held tight to her arm.

  “You will remain here,” James growled, “or I will order him killed.”