A Crimson Frost

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  Ackley laughed, saying, “Then I will not wager! For if the hand of Afton is Sir Channing’s inducement to unhorse Sir Fulton…only a fool would wager against him!” The familiar, beloved, and boisterous laughter of Lord Ackley Carrington echoed through the roaring of the crowd.

  “Age is sore upon my love,” Eden said, gazing at her husband, one of only three Exemplar Knights still living. “Yet his laughter is still strong…and warms my heart as ever it has.”

  “As it warms mine,” Monet said. She was, of a sudden, somewhat saddened at the thought of only three Knights Exemplar still owning breath. After the long-passed battle that found King James beheaded at the hand of the Crimson Knight, Monet’s father, King Dacian, had bestowed great wealth, title, and honor on those brave and loyal once-banished knights who rode to Karvana’s aid. All the long-lost Exemplars had returned to Karvana. Each Exemplar was honored to sit at Dacian’s table round of conferring, and each remained at the table until he was heralded to paradise or was stricken too aged or ill to rise and confer. One by one the great aged Knights Exemplar faded to heaven, till only three remained. Lord Ackley was one—and Lord Alum. Lord Aldrich yet lived, though too weak to attend the conferring table or tournament. Thus he lingered in Karvana Far with the aged King Dacian, who had abdicated his throne to his daughter, the Scarlet Princess, and her successor king husband near ten years before.

  The crowd fell silent of a sudden. Monet looked to the arena as the banner bearer dropped the starting banner. Sir Channing’s mount reared; the First Knight of Karvana leveled his lance. The thunder of hooves beat the ground as the two knights bore down. Monet did not draw breath. Sir Channing’s lance was leveled and steady, as was the lance of his challenger. A brutal crash echoed then as Sir Channing’s lance struck armor—shattered—unhorsing Sir Fulton.

  The cheering roar of the crowd was deafening! Monet clapped, calling out her delight at Sir Channing’s well-won victory. Broderick turned to her, smiling. He took her face between powerful hands and kissed her firm on the mouth. Blissful in his kiss, Monet pressed her hand to his chest—felt the leather pouch yet hidden beneath his kingly robes.

  Breaking the seal of their lips, Broderick smiled and said, “Our Channing has triumphed!” Yet his smile faded, and Monet’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of the moisture full in her husband’s. “Still, I have lost my daughter this day,” he whispered.

  Monet tenderly caressed his strong jaw with the back of her soft hand. “No,” she said. “You have only gained another son.”

  Broderick nodded and coughed once as Lord Ackley pounded him hard on the back with approval.

  “I have not seen such strength in jousting since the Crimson Knight of Karvana endeavored to win the champion’s prize at Avaron many years ago,” Lord Ackley chuckled.

  “I would yet face any challenge or enemy for hope of winning that prize again,” Broderick said, and Monet could not resist. Taking hold of the front of Broderick’s kingly robe, she raised herself to press lips with his. As the king’s arms bound his queen against his body as he endeavored to drink nectar from her lips, the crowd cheered once more—for never was there a kingdom so happy in the love of their king and queen as was the Kingdom of Karvana.

  “Father!”

  Broderick sighed as he ended their kiss, and Monet giggled at the excitement in her daughter’s voice.

  “Father! Sir Channing has won your tournament! He has won!” Afton cried with delight.

  Broderick yet lingered in gazing at Monet.

  “How I love you, my pretty knight,” Monet said.

  “And I love you, my Scarlet Princess,” he mumbled.

  “Father!” Afton whispered, tugging at her father’s ermine-trimmed crimson cloak.

  Inhaling deep, King Broderick turned as Sir Channing Snow approached the stands yet mounted on his charger. Sir Channing stepped down from his horse, stepped onto the heralding stage, and took a knee before the Crimson King of Karvana.

  “My honor is for you, my king,” Sir Channing said. He raised his shattered lance and offered it to the king. Broderick chuckled and accepted the lance.

  Tossing it into the arena, however, King Broderick heralded, “Behold the tournament champion…Sir Channing Snow! Rise, Sir Channing, and claim your champion’s prize…the hand of the Sapphire Princess Afton!”

  The crowd roared near to thundering all the earth! Monet laughed as Broderick then lifted Afton in strong arms. Afton giggled as her father lowered her into the waiting arms of Sir Channing Snow.

  “Are you in earnest, my king?” Sir Channing asked, yet cradling Afton in strong arms.

  “I am!” King Broderick said.

  “My queen?” Sir Channing asked, looking to Monet.

  Again Monet’s eyes filled with tears. Could this gallant knight standing before her—this champion, this man with such broad shoulders and comely countenance—could this truly be the brave young page who once stood so brave in defense of his princess and kingdom?

  “Your king is most earnest, Sir Channing,” she said, “as is your queen.”

  “Thus, kiss him well, daughter!” Broderick chuckled. “For he well deserves the champion’s prize!”

  All of Karvana cheered! Laugher and merriment were heavy on the air—joy and hope and all things good and happy.

  Long was the day in celebration of the betrothal of the Sapphire Princess Afton to Sir Channing Snow. Feasting at banquet, honor bestowed, dancing, and all manner of friendly conversation ensued. Many royals were there—King Martin of Avaron and his queen, Lenore. Lord Terrence Langford was there—Lord Terrence Langford, who had won the hand of his lady, the Princess Portia of Norvola. It was even the Queen of Alvar was there—Queen Anais, who had taken the Alvarian throne upon her father’s death and never married. The young princes of Karvana reveled in the banquet—in talking of the tournament and the honors earned. Still, it was Sir Channing Snow and his betrothed, the Sapphire Princess Afton, who knew most their zenith, for they loved as deep and as true as the Crimson Knight and the Scarlet Princess had loved—and still loved.

  And when the cheering had ceased—when the stands of King Broderick’s arena had emptied and the banquet hall of Karvana Castle was quiet—there lingered near the royal mausoleum a man and a woman—a husband and wife—a horseman and peasant girl.

  “Do you remember when we came here, after you fell King James,” Monet began, “when Father insisted we take the secreted instructions from the place in my mother’s tomb and break the seal?”

  Broderick placed powerful hands at his wife’s waist, pressing her back against the outer wall of the mausoleum. Monet felt gooseflesh prickling her limbs as the smoldering sapphires of his eyes flamed love as he gazed at her.

  “I do,” he said. His voice was low and alluring, and Monet smiled. “King Dacian bade me break the seal myself—read what he had penned upon the parchments full four years before.”

  “That I would marry only Sir Broderick Dougray,” Monet whispered as Broderick pressed his strong body against her own. “That my true betrothed had ever been Sir Broderick, the Crimson Knight of Karvana—that it was he who was charged with one day ruling Karvana with me.”

  “I yet cannot fathom he would entrust me with his kingdom. I cannot fathom he would entrust me with his daughter,” Broderick said. He bent, placing a lingering kiss on Monet’s neck.

  “He knew who best would rule the kingdom,” Monet said. She reached up, combing her fingers through the raven hair of his head—the snow at his temples. “He knew the people of Karvana loved their great Crimson Knight…that you were, and are, the greatest ruler they could know. And he knew I loved you.”

  “He knew I loved you,” Broderick said. He kissed her light once—twice—thrice.

  In the distance, Monet could hear music. She knew Marius lingered atop the keep as he often did, plucking his lute and singing ballads to cheer or soothe any who may hear him. She smiled as she heard—ever light on the air—the ballad of the Sca
rlet Princess and the Crimson Knight.

  “It is yet ever his favorite,” Monet said, warming in her lover’s embrace.

  “As it is Reynard’s,” Broderick chuckled. “You would think the people would grow weary of it.”

  “I never grow weary of it,” she said.

  “Would you grow weary of me, Monet?” he asked.

  Monet giggled. “I only grow weary that you endeavor to tease me…instead of kissing me as I desire my pretty knight should.”

  Lips pressed then—blended in passion—in promise and love eternal. As the Crimson King of Karvana and his Scarlet Queen lingered in loving, the voice of the Minstrel Marius floated soft on the air…

  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.

  

  The Crimson King Broderick and the Scarlet Queen Monet of Karvana…

  begat the Sapphire Princess Afton.

  The Sapphire Princess Afton wed Sir Channing Snow…

  who did inherit the taken Kingdom of Rothbain upon the death of his wife’s brother.

  King Channing and the Sapphire Queen Afton of Rothbain…

  begat the Princess Vanya.

  The Princess Vanya wed Prince Hillton of Avaron.

  King Hilton and Queen Vanya of Avaron begat the Princess Felice.

  The Princess Felice of Avaron wed Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces.

  King Michael and Queen Felice of the Kingdom of Graces thus begat the princess…

  Saphyre Snow.

  To my husband, Kevin…

  My heart’s desire,

  My every dream come true,

  The love even I could never have imagined!

  And now, enjoy the prologue and partial first chapter of the romantic fairy tale sequel of

  A Crimson Frost—Saphyre Snow

  by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  Prologue—Saphyre Snow

  The cool frosted moonlight of early winter lent a beautiful and blue shimmer to the falling snow. There were those who had witnessed the rare and miraculous event before—the soft and quiet splendor of indigo-laced frost drifting from a clear sky, as if the diamonded stars in the heavens sprinkled small, lustrous sapphires from their fingers to bejewel all the still earth. Indeed it seemed the soft blue moonlight and indigo frost whispered to the woods and meadows—breathed of a secret—a secret something of extraordinary worth. All who beheld this pageant of nature’s artistry believed it to be a herald of benevolence from above—a remembrance that moments of peaceful respite were of far more merit than wealth. All who lingered in the blue moonlight, all who felt the cool radiance of the sapphire frost sweet upon their faces, knew respite and hope. Thus, this quiet, beautiful rarity of occurrence—the serenity borne of the blue light and frost—became known among the people of the Kingdom of Graces as the sapphire snow.

  Indeed, the sapphire snow was uncommon. No man could call down from the heavens a cool, blue moonlight and downy flakes of frost. Even the king of the kingdom could not summon the mystical sapphire snow. Thus, as is often the way with rare events, it was on one of these uncommon evenings—an evening of beauty and peaceful wonder, of blue moonlight and indigo frost—that a young mother gave birth to an uncommon child. On this evening of serene enchantment—of blue frost and indigo moonlight mingling to blanket the earth with beauty—the princess Saphyre Snow was birthed.

  All those living in the Kingdom of Graces wept with happiness; each subject, common or noble, rejoiced when King Jordan announced the birth of his granddaughter. A good king, beloved of his people, King Jordan was resplendent with merriment himself at the birth. The lovely Queen Penelope was at the king’s side when he heralded the coming of the princess Saphyre Snow. The babe’s father, Prince Michael—only son of King Jordan and Queen Penelope—stood at the casement with his king father and queen mother as the king offered proclamation to the people of the Kingdom of Graces of the birth of a new royal. Prince Michael’s graceful and beauteous young wife, the Princess Felice, listened as all the kingdom cheered their joy at her daughter’s coming. Yes, the birth of Saphyre Snow was the most blessed event in the kingdom—a kingdom beloved by her king and queen, who were loved by their subjects in return.

  The father of Saphyre Snow, Prince Michael, was sole heir to the throne of the kingdom. A good and handsome prince beloved by all his father’s subjects, Prince Michael owned much honor. He had commanded legions, warriored well in battle, and owned titles for doing so. Still, perhaps most wondrous of all, Michael had won the heart and hand of the Princess Felice of Avaron.

  Hair as dark as midnight and eyes as violet as the velvet curtains of twilight, Felice of Avaron was an exquisite beauty, both of body and of spirit. The daughter of a king and queen in a far-off land, Princess Felice had been greatly sought after. Many men had battled for a mere chance at gaining her favor. Yet Felice of Avaron was bred of a long lineage of honor—and of true love. Descended from a mighty line of a great kings and noble queens, Felice of Avaron did not give token of favor in light manner. Nevertheless, upon first sight of Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces, the Princess Felice of Avaron had known at once where her heart would ever remain. Thus, Prince Michael of the Kingdom of Graces gave full his heart to she who filled it, and a betrothal followed forthwith.

  On their wedding day, the Princess Felice gifted her young husband a token—a favor of such profound worth that all who witnessed the giving of the gift knew the heart of the beautiful Princess Felice would never waver. The favored gift was a sword, forged long ago, generations before, by a master craftsman. The sword was named the Crimson Frost and had been forged in honor of a great knight who had once lived and walked the earth in such glory and honor as to birth eternal legend—a knight who had risen to king, a king who had sired progeny, progeny from whence descended Princess Felice and the babe princess, Saphyre Snow.

  Thus, though Prince Michael was handsome, every subject of the Kingdom of Graces hoped that the babe, Princess Saphyre, might grow to be as beautiful as her mother—that the strength and honor of the royal family might mingle with the legendary power and beauty of the Princess Felice’s ancestors to craft as rare a princess as was rare the miracle of nature’s artistry for which she had been named. It was not long before the king and queen, Prince Michael and Princess Felice, and all the subjects of the Kingdom of Graces began to see that the wee princess would indeed inherit of her mother’s beauty. As Saphyre grew, it was certain to all who looked upon her that she mirrored her mother’s beautiful image and countenance. Hair as black as silken ebony, skin as soft and as fair as porcelain, and lips as sweet and as red as any ripe cherry or fragrant rose were those of Saphyre Snow—an immeasurable and truly ethereal beauty. Yet perhaps the most striking feature of the Princess Saphyre was the color of her eyes—as deep and as bright a blue as any sapphire on earth, with such a spark of life in them as to enchant any who might own the blessing of her gaze.

  Further, it was certain to all who knew her that her mother’s strong ancestry had fared well in her blood. The child Saphyre Snow owned a rare gift of empathy and compassion. An obedient child, she was yet strong of will and did not linger in despair. All who looked upon her admired her, all who spoke with her felt joy, and all who were privy to her company in any manner loved her.

  Thus the young princess grew in love and happiness, cherished by all her family and every soul in the Kingdom of Graces. Beautiful and happy and safe lived the princess Saphyre Snow—for a time.

  Seven Souls

  Saphyre paused, leaning against a strong pine for support. The crisp, spiced scent of the forest—of tree bark
and leaf litter blanketing the ground—did little to soothe her. Brushing a strand of ebony hair from her tear-stained face, the princess attempted to catch her breath before pressing on. Her bosom ached from breathing the cold night air. She looked to her arm—to the wound there administered by a mean-spirited holly branch she had intruded upon while running through the wood. The lesion, though not profound in size and no longer bleeding in profusion, yet stung painfully. Saphyre winced and determined to ignore the discomfort. She was cold and frightened and alone, without any conception of how she should proceed. No time had been allowed her—no time to consider or plan. She had known only the necessity of escape, and she had fled. And she must yet elude—run—keep far from what lay behind her—pray it was not yet following.

  Crumpling to her knees, careless of the moist pine needles, leaves, and other forest spoils littering the wooded ground, Saphyre buried her face in her hands and bitterly wept. How could such things be? How could it all have come to such a dreadful spectacle? She thought of her mother and wished with all her heart she had not died. The queen had passed from earthly life the year previous, and oh, how Saphyre missed her! How she missed her mother’s loving embrace, her wise counsel, her beautiful smile. Saphyre shook her head, brushing the tears of pain and fear and frustration from her cheeks and chin. Her mother had died, and her father had altered entirely. He was so thoroughly changed—so very altered in countenance. Her father’s wits had been complete about him before her mother’s death. Everything and everyone—the whole of the kingdom—had been happy and safe. It seemed to Saphyre the Kingdom of Graces and all its subjects had begun to weaken as a whole. Upon the death of the beloved Queen Felice, the kingdom began to transform, taking upon itself a dark countenance—a countenance in similitude to the one it had begun to exhibit shortly after the death of Saphyre’s grandmother years previous. In this, even King Michael had changed. Gone was the tender, loving father Saphyre had known. In his place there lingered a stranger—one who frightened Saphyre, struck her with feelings of uncertainty and vulnerability. Thus, how desperately Saphyre missed her mother now. How desperately she longed for the sense of safety and hope her mother had ever exuded.