A Crimson Frost Read online

  King Dacian nodded to his first knight—smiled as Sir Broderick rode on and the procession of knights continued.

  “Thus your hero has entered the tournament, Monet,” King Dacian said.

  “Your Crimson Knight seems lacking in humility,” King Rudolph said, taking his seat next to Dacian and nodding as his own first knight approached.

  “He only displays his unconditional allegiance,” King Dacian said. Monet glanced to where Anais stood next to her father, her expression that of caching some great secret.

  “I beg your pardon, Father,” Anais said, “but I must away to prepare for the Ceremony of Colors.”

  “And which knight bears your favour this tournament, Anais?” Monet’s father inquired.

  “If you will forgive me, your majesty…I have promised to keep that secret until the ceremony,” Anais said.

  “Such wisdom in one so youthful, Rudolph,” Monet heard her father force. “You have done well in raising her.” Monet knew her father was loathing of propriety—at the necessity of having to offer insincere compliments. King Dacian held no respect for Rudolph, King of Alvar. Yet propriety demanded civility in such circumstance.

  “Thank you, Dacian,” King Rudolph said, smiling with unwarranted pride.

  “Anais,” King Dacian said as Anais turned to take her leave, “pray…would you allow Monet to accompany you to the ceremony platform?”

  Monet tried not to smile—tried not to feel triumphant as the pink plainly drained from Anais’s pretty face.

  “Monet, your majesty?” Anais asked.

  “Yes,” King Dacian answered. “She has granted favour in this tournament and is a novice to the Ceremony of Colors. I would be indebted if you were to escort her down.”

  “Of-of course, your majesty,” Anais said—nearly growled—her eyes narrowing with indignation.

  “Monet,” King Dacian said, gesturing she should follow Anais. Monet smiled when her father offered a nod of understanding.

  “Yes, Father,” she said, rising.

  “Come along, Monet,” Anais said—any remnant of a smile fading from her beautiful face.

  

  Four and ten young ladies of royal or noble birth stood shoulder to shoulder on the platform erected for the Ceremony of Colors. Monet held her posture straight—though she considered lifting her skirts and running. All eyes would be upon her when Sir Broderick approached to receive her favour; all eyes in the stands would fall to her. She loathed the thought—abhorred the attention often heaped on her as Karvana’s princess.

  She ventured a glance at Anais. Head held high, smile soft and laced with vanity, Anais of Alvar shone conceit—delight in knowing all eyes would fall to her. Auburn-haired and green-eyed, Anais of Alvar was nearly as opposing in appearance to Monet of Karvana as she was in nature.

  “You have granted favour, Monet?” Portia asked from her place next to Monet on the stage. Portia’s golden hair and blue eyes seemed to imprison the sunlight and sky—hold them captive to radiate her lovely countenance.

  “I have,” Monet said. She could not help but smile, delighted with what she knew the reaction among the other royals and nobles would be when she presented her scarlet favour to the Crimson Knight: astonishment—astonishment and envy!

  “But you never grant favour!” Lenore exclaimed in a whisper. Lenore’s brown eyes were bright with excitement as well, her acorn hair hanging long down her back, nearly to her ankles.

  “This day I do,” Monet said.

  “To whom?” Lenore asked.

  “To the champion of King Ivan’s tournament, perhaps,” Monet answered.

  Portia and Lenore smiled, pleased with Monet’s courageous answer. Anais, however, did not smile—did not look to Monet, nor to any other lady present.

  “King Ivan’s herald approaches,” Portia whispered as a man robed in King Ivan’s signature blue and yellow stepped to the front of the platform. “He will herald each knight to come forth and claim our favours.”

  The crowd in the stands fell silent as King Ivan’s herald raised one hand.

  “My kings and queens…my lords and ladies…King Ivan of Avaron welcomes you to his tournament of knights!” the herald announced.

  Applause and cheering were allowed for a moment, and then King Ivan’s herald raised a hand once more, restoring silence.

  “You are well aware of the great event that is one of King Ivan’s tournaments,” the herald began. “Feasting, music, and dance at sunset…brave men in battle at day!” More cheering—a raised herald’s hand. “And what manner of unusual prizes has King Ivan collected for his tournament champions? Gold!” Cheering. “Jeweled swords and daggers!” Cheering. “Further, to the tournament champion goes the greatest of all prizes! Not only will he who is named tournament champion choose and name the tournament’s Queen of Love and Beauty—”

  Monet ventured a glance to Anais when she heard Alvar’s princess lightly laugh—a laugh of conquest.

  “—but also a prize above all prizes! A prize worth more than gold or jeweled swords,” the herald continued. “King Ivan has granted that whichever gallant knight triumphs as champion in this tournament…said knight may claim the lips of his lady…a kiss bestowed by she whose favour he bears in this tournament!”

  Monet gasped, rendered breathless by the herald’s revelation as the crowd roared with approval. She glanced across the arena to her father’s seat in the stand. He was applauding, smiling, and nodding his sanction.

  “A kiss?” Portia exclaimed. “A kiss? Did you know of this, Anais?”

  “Of course,” Anais of Alvar answered. Anais looked to Portia. “Do not tell me you chose to give your favour to your father’s ancient Sir Terrence, Portia.”

  “I did!” Portia said. “For he is the best of men.”

  “Then you will not concern yourself over bestowing a kiss,” Anais said. “For is he not worthy of it?”

  “Did you know of the promised prize to the champion?” Lenore asked of Monet.

  “If he triumphs, I will gladly bestow such a prize to he who bears my favour,” Monet said. Nevertheless, of a sudden she feared fainting! The knowledge of the champion’s prize was near to overwhelming her. A kiss? Lips? To bestow a kiss, to press lips with, Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight? In truth, Monet could imagine nothing more desirable! Yet to bestow a kiss in front of so many—and to a man who no doubt counted kisses as mundane trivialities compared with knightly duties and battle.

  “Knights of the tournament…approach!” Ivan’s herald commanded.

  There came upon the air the sound of armor marching in unison.

  “As I herald you…each one…come forth and claim favour from your lady!” the herald instructed. The crowd roared, and the herald raised his hand to hush them.

  “Sir Terrence Langford,” the herald began, drawing out each word with dramatic result. “Son of Dimitrie Dumitru…Earl of Luestin…First Knight of Norvola…Defender of Queens…Rescuer of the Ninth Legion…come forth and bear color!”

  Monet watched as Portia stepped forward. A knight in dark armor approached, his coat of arms a sapphire shield and roaring bear.

  “Present your favour, Princess Portia of Norvola!” the herald called.

  Portia nodded to Sir Terrence. Drawing the ribbon from around her throat, she reached out, tying the length of white adornment around Sir Terrence’s right armored arm.

  The crowd cheered, and Portia smiled, offering a nod to Sir Terrence as he bowed for a moment.

  “Prince Martin of Avaron…Second Son of King Ivan…Prince of Avaron…Defender of Innocence and Destroyer of Malice…come forth and bear color!”

  A knight in a helmet adorned with a gold crown stepped onto the platform. Monet smiled, pleased to see Lenore step forward. Lenore smiled at Prince Martin as she secured her own yellow ribbon to his arm. The crowd cheered, and Monet did not miss the expression of elation on Lenore’s countenance. It was clear she favored Prince Martin—more even than Monet ha
d suspected.

  King Ivan’s herald raised a hand to silence the stands once more.

  “Sir Fredrick Esmund…Son of Esmund Tudor…First Knight of Rothbain’s Round Table…King James’s Favored One…Commander of the Fifth Legion…Commander of the Third Legion…Conqueror of Kingdoms…Vanquisher of Weakness…come forth and bear color!”

  Monet’s eyes narrowed as Anais of Alvar stepped forward. Somehow Monet was not surprised Anais should ask one of King James’s knights to carry her favour—Sir Fredrick, a man infamous, known for his arrogance and cruelty. Sir Fredrick was branded by his thirst for blood in battle, for his ungallant behavior in tournament. No doubt when Sir Broderick had declined to carry Anais’s favour, she had sought out the knight most likely to wound any other in the tournament—including, and most of all, Sir Broderick. Anais secured a length of lavender silk to Sir Fredrick’s arm, nodding at him as he bowed to her.

  Monet gazed across the arena to her father. King Dacian nodded—a nod of encouragement. Monet let her attention linger on her father, concentrating on his goodness to the people of their kingdom—and the honor the Crimson Knight would bring to them all by venue of the tournament.

  Seven more knights were heralded to the platform before Monet’s attention was again full on King Ivan’s herald.

  “Sir Broderick Dougray…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…the Crimson Knight…come forth and bear color!”

  The roar of the crowd was near deafening as Sir Broderick Dougray stepped onto the platform.

  “Princess Monet,” Sir Broderick spoke, the deep intonation of his voice far more intimidating as it sounded from within his helmet, “pray grant me the honor of bearing your favour.”

  Monet paused. No other knight had spoken to his chosen lady when heralded to the platform. She was momentarily struck silent—uncertain as to response.

  “Accept me, Princess,” Sir Broderick demanded. “I am the Crimson Knight of Karvana…your servant.” The crowd erupted into approving shouts and deafening applause as Karvana’s Crimson Knight took to one knee before his princess.

  “Pray rise, Sir Broderick,” Monet begged, “for the honor would be mine.”

  The Crimson Knight nodded and stood erect once more. Monet pulled the scarlet silk from around her shoulders. Reaching out, she watched her trembling hands begin to tie the favour to the Crimson Knight’s right armored arm.

  “If you please, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said, “pray tie it at my throat…that I may better bear and shield your precious favour.”

  As Monet reached up, securing her veil around the neck of the Crimson Knight, the crowd roared with approval.

  “I will win this tournament for you, Princess,” Sir Broderick said. Monet looked up—gazed through the slit in Sir Broderick’s helmet—breathless as the severe blue of his eyes captured her own. For a moment, Monet was certain her heart would cease in its beating—certain she may faint from Sir Broderick’s nearness, from his gestures and words of respect to her. No other knight had knelt before his lady. No other knight had spoken to his lady—begged his lady’s favour be worn at the throat—let alone promised aloud to win King Ivan’s tournament in her name.

  “Pray take care against any wound or injury, Sir Broderick,” Monet said as Sir Broderick bowed. How she worried for him suddenly! As the memory of tournaments past washed over her—of blood and broken bones—she feared for his well-being, as ever she had.

  Sir Broderick raised his head, and through the slit in his helmet, she saw his blue eyes narrow.

  “Yes, your highness,” he said. He turned then, and the crowd roared with a delight.

  The Crimson Knight stepped down from the platform, and Monet stepped back to her place between Portia and Lenore.

  “Sir Broderick agreed to carry your favour?” Lenore asked in a whisper as the herald called for the next knight.

  Remembering the moments she had been secreted in the Crimson Knight’s pavilion—the conversation between Sir Broderick and Anais—Monet said, “In truth, he asked a token before I had the opportunity to request it of him.”

  “Then for your sake, Monet,” Portia began, “I hope he wins the tournament for you! To press one’s lips to those of the Crimson Knight…do you not suppose it would be worth near any price?” Monet looked to Portia to see her eyes bright with merriment and anticipation.

  “I do suppose it would be,” Monet said, smiling.

  “Sadly, you will not know such an honor, Monet…for Sir Fredrick will triumph. There is no doubt,” Anais said.

  “The Crimson Knight has promised to win the tournament in the name of his princess, Anais,” Portia said through clenched teeth. “His reputation in tournament manifests he would die before breaking promise.”

  Anais glared at Portia, then Monet. “Then he may well die…for Sir Fredrick told me he would kill any foe barring his way to my kiss.”

  “It is well my father knows Sir Fredrick, Anais,” Portia said. “If Sir Fredrick would kill to clear a path to you…then he would expect far more than a simple kiss when he arrived.”

  Monet heard Lenore gasp—felt her own cheeks grow pink at Portia’s assurance to Anais.

  “Portia!” Lenore scolded. “Such an implication!”

  “It is the truth,” Portia said. “And I suspect Anais knows it is the truth.”

  Monet looked to Anais. The haughty Princess of Alvar simply smiled and returned her attention to the knights in the arena.

  Monet—still stunned by Portia’s revelation concerning Sir Fredrick and Anais—looked to the knights aligned in the arena before her. Her attention was instantly drawn to Sir Broderick. He offered her a slight nod, and she returned his acknowledgement by bowing her own head for a moment. As she studied him—his massive form, the polish of his heavy armor, his great height—she was certain the scarlet veil at his throat was merely a dream.

  

  Monet held her breath and allowed her hands to fist where they lay in her lap. The sound of the horses charging—of powerful hooves beating upon the ground—of leather straining and armor braced for battle echoed—thundered as a violent storm. The Crimson Knight’s lance struck, splintering into a thousand pieces just above its base. As Sir Ostler fell back—tumbled from his charger and to the ground—Monet closed her eyes and offered a thankful prayer for Sir Broderick’s victory and thus his safety.

  “He has unhorsed Sir Ostler with one lance!” King Dacian shouted, applauding his Crimson Knight.

  The crowd in the stands roared with approval as the Crimson Knight turned his horse. Monet watched as the black charger carrying Sir Broderick Dougray paused before the place where she and her father were seated. The charger reared, and Sir Broderick raised his splintered lance as tribute to his king. Monet bit her lip but could not keep a delighted smile from spreading across her face.

  “Well done, Sir Broderick!” King Dacian shouted. “Well done, lad!”

  The Crimson Knight nodded as the banner bearing his crimson shield and black dragon coat of arms replaced that of Sir Ostler’s on the tournament scoring wall.

  “He has yet to face Sir Terrence of Norvola,” King Rudolph reminded.

  “As well as Sir Fredrick, your majesty,” Anais added.

  King Dacian was undaunted, however.

  “He will face them,” he said, “and triumph, no doubt.”

  Monet smiled, pleased by her father’s faith in his first knight.

  Yet she next sighed, for the tournament was weighing heavy on her mind. This third day of tournament seemed all the more brutal than the two previous. Monet’s father had explained the manner in which a lengthy tournament wore down those knights competing. Three days of mock battling—of sword fight, mace play, wrestling, archery, and jousting—wrought havoc on a man’s body. By the third day and the final jousts, m
ost knights were bruised, broken, and worn to the bone with fatigue.

  Monet worried for Sir Broderick. He had battled hard. His victories were the talk of Avaron! Having bested every knight in swords and maces, he had bested all but Sir Terrence in archery. Gossip was his loss to Sir Fredrick in wrestling was to be blamed on the deep wound at his right arm. Sir Fredrick—owning little or no chivalry or sense of fair play—had intentionally plunged his fingers into Sir Broderick’s wound during their wrestling, inflicting great pain to the Crimson Knight, thus managing to best him—but only just.

  Now the crowd roared as but three banners remained on the scoring wall of the jousting arena. If the Crimson Knight managed to best Sir Terrence and Sir Fredrick, he would, no doubt, be named tournament champion. However, he was wounded, and Sir Fredrick and Sir Terrence were not.

  Still, enough strength was left in him to have unhorsed Sir Ostler. Thus Monet hoped the tournament would end with no further injury to Sir Broderick—whether or not he were crowned champion.

  Monet had hardly eaten in near three days, her appetite cast off for worry over Sir Broderick and the other knights. It was why she was not in regular attendance at tournaments. She found them brutal, frightening, and difficult to endure. Nevertheless, she knew a weary knight often drew strength from the presence of those he protected or competed for. Therefore, she had attended every event in which Sir Broderick Dougray had competed.

  “Let us partake refreshment, Anais,” King Rudolph said, rising from his seat. “Sir Broderick will accept his earned respite before facing Sir Terrence.”

  “Sir Broderick will face Sir Terrence at once,” Monet’s father said. She watched as her father folded strong arms across his chest.

  “Surely not,” King Rudolph argued. “He will want rest…restoration of his strength before facing another joust.”

  “He fell Ostler with one lance,” King Dacian said. “He will not be worn yet and will face Sir Terrence at once.”

  “My kings and queens…lords and ladies…and to all others within the sound of my voice…I present to you Sir Terrence Langford!” Sir Terrence’s herald began. Sir Terrence’s sapphire and roaring bear coat of arms blazoned on his gold tunic, the herald continued, “Son of Dimitrie Dumitru…Earl of Luestin…First Knight of Norvola…Defender of Queens…Rescuer of the Ninth Legion!”