A Crimson Frost Page 2

  “Hush!” he interrupted. He closed his eyes a moment—seemed to strain his hearing. He looked to Monet then, demanding, “Step into the pavilion, Princess.”

  “What? I cannot!” Monet argued. She wondered why her voice had instantly dropped to a whisper.

  “I hear an approach,” he said. “A company…and not of knights. Therefore, unless you wish to be found out—”

  Monet stepped into the pavilion as the Crimson Knight demanded. He, however, immediately stepped without, quickly unleashing the ties of the two front flaps, concealing her within.

  “Sir Broderick?”

  It was Anais! Monet held her breath, fearful both of being found out and of the Crimson Knight’s response to Anais’s request.

  “Yes?” Sir Broderick’s deep voice boomed.

  “I am Anais…Princess of Alvar,” Anais said.

  “I am your servant, Princess,” Sir Broderick greeted.

  Of a sudden, feelings of vexation leapt in Monet’s bosom. She loathed Anais of Alvar! Ever she had loathed her—even as a child. She wondered what manner of assembly accompanied Anais. Ladies-in-waiting? Servants?

  Curiosity triumphed, and Monet knelt, pressing a hand to the ground in the endeavor of peering through the small opening at the bottom of the pavilion. She could discern the hems of three gowns—ladies-in-waiting—and further the boots of two guards.

  “I have come to offer a great honor to you, Sir Broderick,” Anais said. “I believe you are one who is worthy of such an honor.”

  “I am worthy of nothing, your highness,” Sir Broderick began, “let alone the honor of basking in your lovely presence.”

  Anais and her ladies giggled with vain delight.

  “You are humble…as well as handsome, Sir Broderick!”

  Monet frowned, jealousy, resentment, and anger coursing through her limbs. She watched as Anais’s hem moved toward Sir Broderick—advanced upon the Crimson Knight.

  “And I believe you are he—the only knight at King Ivan’s tournament worthy of this honor,” Anais said.

  “Pray, Princess…may I ask what honor you intend to bestow?”

  “I would have you bear my favour in this tournament, Sir Broderick,” Anais stated. “I do wish you to know that it would be my honor as well as yours…for I have heard you have never carried favour into a tournament or battle.”

  “None visible, your highness,” Sir Broderick said.

  Monet frowned. None visible? Had Sir Broderick Dougray carried a hidden favour? Again jealousy rose within her bosom—a diverse jealousy—a competitor to the jealousy Anais wrought.

  “Do you accept my offer, Sir Broderick?” Anais asked. “Do you accept the honor I am willing to bestow upon you?”

  Monet could not breathe! How would he answer? Would King Dacian’s first knight prove himself wholly loyal? Furthermore, would he prove to be clever—clever enough to circumvent offense to Alvar, its princess, and its king?

  “I fear it is with heavy heart that I must decline, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet still did not draw breath. Instead, she waited—waited for Anais’s emotional eruption—the eruption of angry indignation Monet knew was forthcoming.

  “You refuse?” Anais asked, anger rising in her voice.

  “No, your highness,” Sir Broderick answered. “Rather, I must decline…wretchedly decline.”

  “Decline? And why?” Anais demanded. “When I offer such an honor to you, Sir Broderick…what reason would you have of declination?”

  Monet still did not breathe—waited for his response.

  “I already carry favour, your highness,” Sir Broderick said. “Only this morning I begged a token of another…and she has only just granted me the honor to bear her favour in King Ivan’s tournament.”

  At last Monet drew breath, sighing reprieve. Sir Broderick Dougray had declined! The Crimson Knight had gallantly offered declination and without contributing malicious offense. He had proffered a lie, it was true, yet in protection of his king. Who would not allow it? For a moment, Monet frowned. Had Sir Broderick offered a lie to Anais? Or had he hidden the truth from Monet? Perhaps he had begged token from another—before she had entered his pavilion, before Anais had sought him out. She closed her eyes, shaking her head slightly to dispel the unhappy thought. No. The Crimson Knight was known for his loyalty. Monet was certain he would have informed her had he already begged a token or accepted favour.

  There was silence for a moment. Monet knew Anais well; the Princess of Alvar was reigning in her temper. Anais was infuriated—there could be no doubt of it. Nevertheless, even Anais, daughter of Alvar’s King Rudolph, could not find fault with a knight who would honor his own word and previous commitment.

  “Your loyalty and honor are praiseworthy, Sir Broderick.” Anais began, “To keep your pledge and bear another’s favour when Anais of Alvar has offered hers? Noble, indeed.”

  Monet clenched her teeth. It seemed Anais’s vanity knew no bounds. Of what greater worth was Anais’s favour than that of any other maiden upon the earth?

  Monet rose from her knees, frowning with the familiar inflammation of temper provoked by Anais.

  “I bid you good day, Sir Broderick,” Anais said. “May you fare well in the tournament tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, your highness,” Sir Broderick said.

  Monet heard Anais’s amused giggle. “Pray not as well as whichever knight bears my favour, however.”

  “Yes, your highness.” Monet noted Sir Broderick’s response sounded somewhat forced—thick with impatience.

  The sound of retreating footsteps was soon followed by a low, angry growl.

  Monet gasped as the pavilion flaps burst apart to reveal the infuriated countenance of the Crimson Knight. The enraged expression of indignation on Sir Broderick’s face indeed caused Monet to step back and away from him.

  “I have done your bidding, Princess, and declined Anais of Alvar’s offer…and without striking great offense,” he grumbled, his frown deepening still.

  “I-I thank you, Sir Broderick,” Monet stammered. As the Crimson Knight advanced into his pavilion and toward her, Monet took another step in retreat. “I am in your debt.”

  “You owe no debt to me, Princess,” he said, glaring at her as if she were some threat or enemy he would at any moment strike from existence.

  Monet shook her head as despair began to overtake her then. “Yet tomorrow, when Anais sees you bear no favour…what then?”

  The Crimson Knight’s frown softened from that of fury to one of inquisitiveness.

  “Are you in earnest, Princess?” he asked.

  “Concerning what, sir?” Monet asked in return.

  “Do you truly think I would claim to bear a lady’s favour and then appear in the tournament without one?” he asked.

  Of a sudden, comprehension pierced Monet’s awareness.

  “Y-you would bear my favour, Sir Broderick?” she asked in an astonished whisper. “You would carry my scarlet into tournament?” Surely he was in jest! Yet the thought of the Crimson Knight entering the jousting arena, the scarlet veil of Princess Monet of Karvana knotted at his arm, sent gooseflesh rippling over Monet’s limbs.

  “Is not your father my king?” he asked. “Is not your kingdom the same I defend? And are not you also representative of Karvana and King Dacian?”

  “Yes, sir,” Monet answered.

  “Then what more appropriate favour could I carry?”

  “B-but the Crimson Knight of Karvana never carries favour…in tournament or battle.”

  “Then you have charged a maneuver against me no other foe ever has, Princess,” he said, “and triumphed.”

  “I do not act against you, Sir Broderick,” Monet defended. “I only sought to gain you as my ally.”

  He exhaled a heavy breath, shaking his head.

  “I am your father’s first knight, Princess,” he said. The intenseness of his narrowed eyes increased. “I have ever been your ally…from the moment I pledged allegia
nce to Karvana and its king.”

  “And it is the reason I came to you,” Monet said. “Imagine the people of Karvana—imagine their faces—had their first knight, their most beloved protector…imagine had he ridden into tournament with the Princess of Alvar’s favour at his arm.”

  “I would not have accepted her favour, Princess,” Sir Broderick nearly growled, his frown deep across his handsome brow.

  “And King Rudolph’s fury would have—”

  “It is done, Princess,” he interrupted, raking strong fingers through raven hair. “Whether or not you trusted my loyalty to my king and kingdom…I did decline, and I will bring honor to your father and all of Karvana…by carrying the favour of their princess into tournament.”

  “Please do not be angry with me, Sir Broderick,” Monet ventured. She did not wish to own his vexation. In truth, she wished to own…

  “I am not angry, Princess…not with you,” he mumbled. “Believe what I tell you. I do understand the concerns that drove you to approach me…no matter my appearance of fickle temperament.”

  He did. She knew he did. For all his frowns and menacing glaring, Monet knew Sir Broderick Dougray understood why she had come.

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her for a moment. “Do you know the prize King Ivan has named for the tournament champion, Princess?”

  “Of course,” Monet answered. In truth, she did not know precisely what prize King Ivan had named. Nevertheless, she did not wish to appear ignorant before one so seasoned in battle and tournament. Therefore, having attended many tournaments, Monet assumed the prize would be a golden statue, a finely crafted sword, a high-bred charger, or a thing of worth the like. No doubt a heavy purse would accompany whatever symbol of victory was bestowed as well.

  Monet experienced a slight unsettling of her stomach as the Crimson Knight’s frown vanished, something akin to a mischievous grin owning his lips.

  “And do you still wish to grant me the honor of bearing your favour in the tournament?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, still attempting to appear to own knowledge she did not.

  She forced herself to a facade of calm when Sir Broderick’s dark brows arched with seeming slight surprise.

  “Good. Then you further know the tournament will begin with the Ceremony of Colors…each lady presenting her chosen knight with her favour—a length of silk, a ribbon, or the like in the color significant to only her,” he explained.

  “Yes. An…an extraordinary beginning, indeed,” Monet stammered. In truth, she had never witnessed such a ceremony. In all other tournaments to which she was in attendance, the competing knights were already in possession of their lady’s color when they entered the arena. Monet felt her innards churn at having now twice misled the Crimson Knight concerning her knowledge of King Ivan’s tournament.

  “Indeed,” Sir Broderick mumbled, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he studied her face.

  Monet sensed the heated blush of vermillion at her cheeks yet attempted to appear composed.

  “And an unusual end, as well,” he added.

  “Indeed,” she said, wondering if perhaps the champion’s prize were something other than the customary honors presented.

  “Then you will present me with your favour in the morning…at the Ceremony of Colors,” he began, “and I will win this tournament for our kingdom, for your father—my king—and for you, your highness.”

  Monet could not stop a delighted smile from donning her lips. Her heart leapt within her bosom. The Crimson Knight would bear her favour! Sir Broderick Dougray would—for all common appearances—compete in King Ivan’s tournament for Princess Monet of Karvana! In truth, Monet had dreamt of just such an occurrence many times. Still, she would not dwell on dreams.

  “And you will accept my favour when I offer it on the morrow?” she asked, doubt suddenly besting her confidence.

  “As eagerly as you will bestow my prize when I am named tournament champion,” he said, his grin of mischief broadening. She returned his smile, basking in his pure masculinity, his ethereal comeliness. She wanted to touch him—simply know her hand had pressed to him—to know he was real and not some dream. She was a princess, was she not? Did not princesses own special allowances? Of course they did!

  Reaching up, Monet gently placed a dainty hand against one broad shoulder belonging to Sir Broderick Dougray.

  “I thank you, Sir Broderick,” she said, “for your loyalty to your kingdom…and its king.”

  “I am—as ever—your servant, Princess,” he said, lowering his head in a gesture of respect and compliance.

  Monet smiled, her hand warmed by having touched him. She drew the hood of her cloak over her head once more. “I think I am not so afraid of you as I was before coming,” she whispered.

  Sir Broderick frowned. “What did you have to fear of me?” he asked.

  Tilting her head to one side, Monet studied him for a moment—his powerful and handsome countenance causing her heart to flutter.

  “Have you forgotten, Sir Broderick?” she asked, stepping from the pavilion. With a breath of light laughter, she pronounced, “There is reason Father christened you the Crimson Knight.”

  An Enemy Revealed

  “Father,” Monet began, seating herself next to the King of Karvana.

  “Yes, my dove?” King Dacian asked.

  “Considering the rare Ceremony of Colors King Ivan has arranged to commence his tournament,” Monet ventured, “is there anything else different concerning it? His tournament, I mean?”

  King Dacian chuckled, smiling at his lovely daughter. How proud he was of Monet’s compassionate soul, humility, and beauty! Her heart was pure, kind, and caring, yet strong as a lion’s. He studied the features of her face—the warm violet of her eyes, the pure ruby of her lips, her angular and high-swept cheekbones. Her ebony hair—the exact color her mother’s had been—was drawn away from her face, upswept as befit a young woman. How he missed the tender cascade of a little girl’s tresses, the bobbing curls Monet had worn so often in her childhood. Yet she was a woman now—ever as beautiful as her mother had been, as slender, as graceful. Oh, how he loved her! His greatest treasure—this was his Monet.

  “Anything else different you ask, my lily?” Dacian asked. “Why, yes. Ivan always attempts to make his tournaments…distinctive—thus the Ceremony of Colors. There are other alterations as well.”

  “Such as?” Monet asked. She had not slept well through all the night. Something Sir Broderick had said the day before gnawed at her mind as a mouse to cheese—his reference to the tournament champion’s prize, as if it were different from the customary prizes awarded. Furthermore, she had wielded deceit—twice lied to mask her own ignorance. Vain lies were these. She had spent much of the darkest hours of the night in scolding herself for such sins.

  King Dacian frowned, tilted his head, and considered Monet for a moment. Monet felt a cherried blush rise to her cheeks.

  “Why do you ask?” her father inquired.

  “Father…I,” she stammered. “It is all quite a long and drawn-out tale, you understand.”

  “What is a long and drawn-out tale?”

  Monet swallowed the thick discomfort in her throat.

  “I-I have asked Sir Broderick to carry my favour in the tournament, Father,” she confessed. “Please do not be angry. I—”

  Her father’s familiar laughter gave her a measure of comfort, his smile warming her heart.

  “Why should such a thing anger me, Monet?” he asked. “Sir Broderick is a noble and valiant man. His loyalty to me and his kingdom is unrivaled.”

  “Then you are not angry with me?” she asked. She had been so fearful—so worried her father may find fault with her favour being displayed in tournament, even by his first knight.

  “No, my dove,” he said. His smile broadened, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Still, I now have a question of my own.”

  “Anything, Father,” Monet said, relieved to be yet in his good
graces.

  “There is conduct…events, if you will…about this tournament of King Ivan’s that is unusual. I would ask you now what you know of these differences.”

  Monet shrugged. “The Ceremony of Colors. I have never attended a tournament wherein such a ceremony is performed. And I must confess to being greatly unsettled at being part of it…of having to appear before so many spectators.”

  Again her father offered a chuckle. “Oh, I well believe that by the end of the tournament that appearance will be the least of your worries, my dove.”

  Monet felt her heart begin to hammer within her bosom. She was not at all certain if it hammered for the excitement of the sudden eruptive roar of the crowd as the knights began to enter the jousting arena or from the sense her father and Sir Broderick owned knowledge she did not.

  “What do you mean to say, Father?”

  Yet her father only laughed, his smile broadening as he nodded to the lead knight to ride past the stands.

  “Here rides our knight now, Monet,” King Dacian said, “the Crimson Knight of Karvana.”

  Monet looked to the direction her father nodded. The sight of the Crimson Knight caused her breath to catch for a moment.

  Astride a high-marching black charger robed in white, crimson, and black, the Crimson Knight entered the arena. His chain mail and armor shone bright, as did the armored chanfron of his charger—glinting in the morning sun as if each piece had been polished to its highest possible sheen.

  The Crimson Knight paused before the stands, where Monet and her Father sat with the other royals. He nodded, the piercing steel of his eyes barely visible through the slit in his helmet. He spurred his horse, and it reared, its white robes, adorned with Sir Broderick’s crimson shield and black dragon coat of arms, rippling in the breeze. The Crimson Knight raised his lance in respectful recognition of his king.

  The crowd—both common and noble—cheered and applauded as the Crimson Knight’s charger stomped and snorted.