A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “Would your soldiers yet follow such a cowardly king?” Monet whispered.

  King James looked to her. His eyes narrowed, yet she knew she had kept doubt in his mind.

  “And now, King James,” Broderick said, “for my price as victor in this battle.”

  “You fell Princess Monet’s captor, Crimson Knight,” King James said. “I have allowed this. I will allow no more.”

  “I fell the man who took my wife,” Broderick growled. “I have yet to fell her captor.”

  King James’s eyes narrowed. “What is this price you think you may demand of me?”

  “I wish you to prove your worth to the people of Rothbain,” Broderick said. “I wish you to prove to your men that you are a king who owns honor…a king worth the sacrifice of their lives on the battlefield of greed and vexation.”

  Monet looked to the soldiers standing near. Their brows furrowed with thoughtful interest.

  “I am their king! They are bound to me because I am their king!” James shouted.

  “You gave your word…before all these men of Rothbain who battle for your purpose,” Broderick shouted. “Not for theirs. Not because they are threatened. But for your purpose alone. Then I would have you show them. I would have you prove that you deserve to command them.”

  “I do not need to prove myself,” King James said. “I am their king!”

  Monet stepped back from James. He was distracted and had released her arm. She looked at the faces of the soldiers—saw their doubt growing.

  “I have your word…here…before your men. You agreed to my price before I battled Sir Fredrick,” Broderick said. “Did not you hear your king agree?”

  King James looked to his men. “You will hang for treason! Everyone will hang if you do not abide by my commands!”

  “Who will hang them, James?” Broderick asked. “Will they hang one another?”

  James glanced back to Monet. “Take her! Do not let her away!”

  Monet paused, yet no guard laid hand to her. The soldiers of Rothbain were in doubt of their monarch.

  King James straightened broad shoulders. Monet could see he was pensive—desperate, but pensive.

  “Perhaps you are right, Sir Broderick,” King James said. “Perhaps I should display my worth to my men. I have asked them to battle with and for me. I must show them I am their king. What is your price?”

  “A pledge of individual battle,” Broderick said.

  “You wish me to battle you as Sir Fredrick has only just so pitifully done?”

  “I do not challenge you, King James,” Broderick said, “though it would serve me well to see you run through. No…the challenge comes from another.”

  “Who?” James growled. “Dacian?”

  “No.”

  Monet watched as Broderick pointed to the Exemplar Knights on the crest of the hill. As Broderick raised one hand, one Exemplar rode down the hill toward the encampment. Armor glinting, the knight riding carried an emerald banner with the symbol of a white armored arm—the symbol of strength, of a great leader.

  The horse bearing the great Knight Exemplar reared, stomping the ground before King James.

  He lifted his helmet shield, and Monet gasped in a whisper, “Bronson!”

  King James sneered as he said, “Ackley Carrington! Defiler of princesses!”

  “James of Rothbain,” Bronson growled. “Coward!”

  “My helmet! At once,” James shouted. He was full armored, save his helmet. A small squire stepped forward, handing King James his helmet. King James put on his helmet, drawing its shield over his face. “Men of Rothbain! Now you shall see how worthy your king is of your loyalty…and your lives!”

  Bronson dismounted and drew his sword. Holding the blade before his face as Broderick had done, he tipped his head to one side and light kissed the glinting steel. Bronson dropped his helmet shield and attacked.

  James shouted and Bronson roared as steel clashed! King James was known as a fierce king—a battle-ready beast. Yet Bronson fought strong and sure. All eyes were upon the battle before them—the battle of king against banished knight. And though she was fearful for Bronson—though tears moistened her cheeks at realizing then that Sarah was indeed King Dacian’s sister and her own aunt—still, she slowly crept aside. She would not linger within reach of any Rothbainian.

  Blade met armor, blade met blade, and the battle between King James and the great Exemplar Knight Sir Ackley Carrington raged on.

  Monet drew near to Anais. She took hold of her arm, capturing her attention—for even Anais was overcome with the battle. Slowly, she led Anais to the margin of King James’s encampment.

  “Anais, you must run!” Monet said. “Run to the wood…there…near the crest of the hill! There stand the Exemplars…and your father.”

  Anais started to run, yet paused.

  “What of you?” Anais asked.

  “I will not leave without my husband,” Monet said.

  Anais nodded and started toward the wood.

  Monet looked to the encampment—the place where Bronson battled King James—as, of a sudden, there was no noise upon the air. The battle had ceased—but who was champion?

  “Broderick!” Monet breathed. If James was victor, he would sure order his men to murder Broderick. She owned no thought of herself then—only Broderick. Thus, she hastened to the place where soldiers stood in silence.

  Monet slowed as she approached. Broderick was there, well and unharmed. No archers readied to let fly arrows; no soldiers drew swords. She moved closer still—glanced to see the great Knights Exemplar riding down the hill toward her.

  King James lay upon the ground, the tip of Bronson’s sword pressed to his throat above his breastplate. King James reached up, removing his helmet.

  “You have bested me, Ackley,” James panted. “Once again…it would seem.”

  “I should run my blade through your coward’s throat!” Bronson growled.

  “Perhaps,” King James said.

  “You will cease this battle, James,” Bronson said.

  Broderick looked up, catching sight of Monet. She started toward him, but he held up a hand to stay her. All was not safe as yet.

  “The white flag!” someone shouted. “Dacian approaches!”

  Monet felt tears leave her eyes to moisten her cheeks as her father approached, mounted on his white charger. Next to him rode Sarah. As understanding washed over her, Monet gazed at the lost Princess Eden—Bronson’s Sarah.

  “Father!” Monet whispered as he neared.

  Channing was there too, mounted behind Wallace. The castle guards were heavily armed and surrounded the royal party. The great Knights Exemplar also surrounded the king and the Princess Eden.

  “Sir Ackley Carrington,” King Dacian said.

  Bronson straightened his posture. “My king!” Sir Ackley answered.

  “You have bested King James?” Dacian asked.

  “I have.”

  “Then the war is ended.” Dacian said.

  “Ended?” King James said, struggling to his feet. “Ended?” Turning to his soldiers, King James shouted, “I have proven my honor! I have proven myself a king! You would turn so quickly on the king who only endeavors to ensure your prosperity? Have I not led you to valiance? Many times to victory?”

  Monet could see the Rothbainian soldiers’ countenances. Their doubt in their king was fast fading.

  “Would you have a knight humble you? Would you see a knight of Karvana slay your own first knight—the First Knight of Rothbain—without consequence? Would you see your king threatened? I ask you…would you see a Karvanian sit on the throne of Rothbain?”

  The soldiers’ hearts were turned back to their king, but Broderick’s wit was quick!

  “Knights of Karvana—attack!” he shouted.

  At once, there was the clash of steel as the Exemplar Knights rode toward the place where Sir Ackley and the Crimson Knight stood, backs together, fighting Rothbainian soldiers.

  �
��Monet!” King Dacian shouted.

  Monet looked to her father as he rode to her.

  “Up the hill! At once!” he told her as he drew his sword and rode toward the battle.

  Of a sudden, Tripp was at her side—as if Broderick had sent the horse to her. She clung to his mane and mounted—rode up the hill with Sarah and Channing and Wallace at her side.

  A great roar commenced, and she looked to see not only villagers from Ballain but also Alvarian soldiers charging down the hill toward the battlefield. Anais stood on the hill’s crest—with her father.

  As Monet and the others reached them, King Rudolph said, “King James will not live to threaten Karvana…or Pershtera! He will die for taking Anais!”

  Monet turned Tripp, searching the battle below for Broderick. He was there, his raven hair a beacon to her heart.

  “He is not armored!” Monet cried.

  “He is the Crimson Knight,” Sarah said. “And he has Sir Ackley Carrington at his back.”

  “Aunt!” Monet whispered as Sarah reached forth and clasped her hand. “And Channing.” She wept for joy at seeing them safe, yet she wept for fear as the battle raged below. “Broderick…my love!” she breathed.

  The Crimson Knight felt steel graze his arm. He turned, plunging the Crimson Frost into a Rothbainian who endeavored to kill him. He fell another enemy—another. Yet he was not armored, and there were twenty men to his one—to Bronson’s one—to each Knight Exemplar’s one! He could hear the pounding hooves. He hoped it was approach of the villagers Stroud led. Still, they were villagers, and these were Rothbainian soldiers.

  He looked to Bronson—turned to see his friend catch hold of his arm, blood flowing from a deep wound. They would not survive long at twenty to one. He defended a blow and glanced about.

  He looked up and saw King Dacian mounted on his white charger and slaying the enemy to his left and right. This was a good king before him! This was his king—the king who had chosen him, Sir Broderick Dougray, as his successor! This king could not fall!

  “Where is James?” he shouted to Bronson.

  “There! Just there!” Bronson pointed through the battle to King James, standing behind a line of soldiers shouting orders.

  He looked to Bronson. “I would not leave you,” he said.

  “Go!” Bronson shouted. “Sever the head of the serpent, and it dies! Go!”

  He went then—the Crimson Knight of Karvana advanced upon Rothbain’s king. Three men he fell—four more. A vision of the bloody fields of Ballist was upon him—a vision of the Reaper and the crimson frost. He pressed one hand to his belly as he fell another soldier with the blade of the Crimson Frost. He felt it there—against his body—the leather pouch with his treasured token it in.

  “Monet!” he breathed as he ran the soldier through. He advanced, the token at his chest burning—spurring him on with consummate power!

  “James of Rothbain!” he shouted. James looked up, anger pure on his face—and Broderick charged forth. There were but three men between him and the wicked king who endeavored to crush Karvana—three men between him and the man who had taken Monet from him—three men who fell by the Crimson Frost wielded well in the hand of the Crimson Knight.

  “She is my wife!” Broderick shouted as he stood before James. “And this is my kingdom!”

  “Knights are not meant to have princesses! And this kingdom shall be mine!” James shouted as he attacked. Broderick blocked the blow—and another. Near mad with fury, roaring his strength, the Crimson Knight of Karvana wielded the Crimson Frost wide and strong—severed the head of the serpent.

  Sir Broderick Dougray stood over the beheaded King of Rothbain. The Reaper was reaping at his feet, yet the sound of battle began to hush at his back. King James was dead.

  “Broderick!”

  It was Dacian’s voice.

  Broderick turned. His king was there—and eight great Knights Exemplar.

  “Behold, Sir Broderick Dougray!” King Dacian shouted. “Son of Kendrick Nathair! First Knight of Karvana! Favored Warrior of King Dacian! Commander of the First Legion! Commander of the Second Legion! Slayer of a Thousand Enemies! Blood Warrior of Ballist! Protector of the Kingdom! Guardian and husband of the Scarlet Princess! The Crimson Knight…Karvana’s successor king!”

  Such a roar Broderick had never before heard. The Rothbainians began to retreat as Ballainians, Ballistians, and Karvanians from the nearby village cheered. Broderick looked to see Alvarian soldiers as well. All hailed the Crimson Knight, heralded of the king—he who had severed the serpent’s head and ended the war with Rothbain!

  Still, for all the glory that they would heap upon him—king and subject alike—Broderick thought not of it. In that moment his heart was glad with living—living for one purpose.

  “Monet?” the Crimson Knight whispered as he looked to the hill crest beyond. There stood Tripp—the Scarlet Princess on his back.

  “Broderick!” Monet breathed. She saw his raven hair—saw her father, the King of Karvana, dismount—saw Broderick take his place on the white charger—saw the great Crimson Knight of Karvana spur the charger toward her.

  As tears streamed over her cheeks—as her heart beat so wild and mad as to cause her pain—Monet whispered, “On, Tripp! Carry me to your master. Carry me to my love.”

  It seemed an eternity! Though Tripp was as swift as the wind—though it was mere moments—it seemed an eternity before Monet felt the strength of Broderick’s arms about her, the moist heat of his mouth crushed to hers. She cared not that the multitude of peasants, soldiers, knights, and royalty looked on. She only cared for him—for her Broderick—her beloved.

  “Forgive me, Monet,” Broderick breathed when he had kissed her long. “I should never have let you leave the smithy without—”

  His words were silenced by her fingers pressed to his lips.

  “Hush,” she breathed. She reached up, combing trembling fingers through his hair, gazing into the pure sapphire of his eyes. “It was no fault of yours,” she whispered. “No fault of yours. Yet look what you have done.”

  Broderick frowned. “I…I killed the warring king?” he mumbled. Monet smiled, for his humility was only further proof of his greatness.

  “You preserved me in exile,” she said. “You hailed forth the great Exemplar Knights from their hiding…and you gathered the people of the kingdom in unity.”

  He pressed a bloodied hand to her cheek, yet she did not draw back from it.

  “I care only that I have you, Monet,” he said. “All I did…I did to hold you…to taste your kiss…to hear your voice.” He smiled, though she saw the excess moisture lingering in his sapphire eyes. “All I did…I did for the champion’s prize.”

  Monet smiled. “Then claim it, my pretty knight,” she whispered, weeping with joy. “Claim your prize. Claim me as your token of favour…for I has ever been yours, Broderick.” She trailed soft fingers over his handsome brow, whispering, “Thus, ever can Karvana trust…no enemy will ever thrust…his blood or bones of flesh to dust…for my pretty knight is strong and just…and no crimson frost will bind him.”

  There he kissed her. As all Karvana cheered, the Scarlet Princess Monet bathed in the bliss of the Crimson Knight’s kiss.

  After

  The herald stepped to the stage. Dressed in the sapphire tunic with black shield and fisted gauntlet of his lord, he raised one hand.

  “Good people!” the herald began. The crowd hushed—waited. “It is honored I am to herald my lord to the final joust of King Broderick’s great tournament of knights!” A deafening roar burst forth as the people of Karvana and all others attending King Broderick’s tournament cheered the young herald. The herald raised a hand, and the crowd settled once more.

  “It is well you know my lord…and well you know he bears the favour of the Sapphire Princess of Karvana, Princess Afton, in this, her father’s tournament!” The crowd roared their approval, and the herald again waited for the noise to settle.

 
“Thus, I herald to my King Broderick, to my Queen Monet…to all kings, queens, knights, and nobles who here attend…and to you good people of the Kingdom of Karvana…to those of all other realms,” the herald began, “I offer my lord for your approval! Sir Channing Snow…Son of Drake Elmar…First Knight of Karvana…Favored Warrior of the Crimson King…Commander of the Fourth Legion…Vanquisher of Enemies…Beloved of the Scarlet Queen…Protector of the Kingdom!”

  Queen Monet rose from her seat, cheering as Channing’s charger entered the jousting arena. The white charger, robed in mail and sapphire robes, reared once—twice—thrice. The gathering of subjects, nobles, and royals cheered as Sir Channing Snow—First Knight of Karvana—raised his lance in honor of his king and queen. Tears brimmed in the queen’s eyes as she looked at the brave young knight—to the man who had once been a boy—a boy who had saved the kingdom for his infinite courage and loyalty. Channing’s shield of black with white-fisted gauntlet shone bright, as did his armor.

  “He will unhorse this Sir Fulton of Avaron,” King Broderick said aside to Lord Ackley Carrington.

  Lord Ackley laughed. “Even Stroud could not unhorse Sir Fulton,” he said. “Nor Wallace, nor Kenley. If my sons cannot unhorse this knight, then your Sir Channing will not…even at three lances.”

  Monet smiled at her Aunt Eden. Eden smiled as well.

  “Our Stroud did not hope to win the hand of Karvana’s princess,” Eden said to her husband.

  “Will you grant Channing the hand of Afton if he triumphs as champion, Broderick?” Ackley asked.

  “Yes,” Broderick said, “though I will grant Afton’s hand to Channing whether or not he wins the tournament. However, I do not know if Channing full believes my assurance of this.”

  Broderick chuckled, and Monet smiled at her husband—the Crimson King of Karvana. Gazing lovingly at him, she thought it did not seem so many years before that he had reared his own charger in King Ivan’s arena—that he had triumphed and won the great champion’s prize. He was as handsome as ever he had been; Monet fancied he was more handsome. She smiled, thinking the white at his temples well served to embellish his comely countenance—only accented the smoldering sapphire of his eyes. How Afton did resemble him! Monet glanced to her children, seated in the stands nearby. As her sons, the Princes Bronson, Marius, and Dacian, owned Monet’s amethyst eyes and ebony hair, so Princess Afton owned her father’s raven locks and eyes of flaming sapphire. Monet smiled as she watched Afton’s gaze affixed to Channing, her countenance beaming with admiration and immeasurable love.