Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
Monet wondered at Sir Broderick’s presence in the inn. How long had he been returned to Karvana? Had he simply been lingering at the Emerald Crown? Or had he known she would find her way there?
As Sir Broderick conducted her toward the door, a man stepped into their path, barring their way. Yet the Crimson Knight did not pause. Monet stood confounded as, releasing his grip on her arm, the Crimson Knight drove one powerful fist to the man’s face—then another. Again his fist met with the man’s jaw, rendering him benumbed. Like a felled tree, the man crashed to the inn floor senseless and bleeding.
“Bind this one as well and bring him to the gates with the others!” Sir Broderick growled. Taking hold of Monet’s arm once more, he pulled her through the door and out into the lavender of eventide.
Monet did not speak—did not dare to offer any utterance. The Crimson Knight pushed her forward, placed his hands at her waist, and lifted her onto the back of a horse bearing no saddle. At once he was mounted behind her, wrapped one powerful hand in the horse’s mane, and spurred the animal into a wild gallop. Certain she would slide from the slick beast’s back, Monet leaned back against the strong, brawny body of the Crimson Knight, desperately clutching at the soft leather of his trouser thighs in an effort to steady herself.
She closed her eyes—an effort to fortify her courage and strength. Yet her mind began to present a procession of memories, a gallery of images past—of King Ivan’s tournament, of the Crimson Knight’s victory in swords, maces, and the joust! What mild events were tournaments and banquets when weighed against battles in the fields and spies lying in wait in Karvana’s inns?
He spoke not a word to her as they rode, yet Monet could feel his anger. It exhaled from his body as perceivably as the heat of his breath breathed into her hair. He spurred their mount to leap a farmer’s fence, his arm tight about her waist to keep her steady as the horse surged upward into the air, coming to earth able, but with jarring force.
Monet wondered at their wild pace. The Crimson Knight rode as if Lord Death himself were at their heels. And then—then she knew. As a rider robed entirely in black suddenly matched the stride of the Crimson Knight’s mount to their right, Monet was certain the Reaper himself was upon them. She gasped as another rider robed in midnight met their stride to the left.
“Hold here!” Sir Broderick growled, taking Monet’s hand and burying it in the horse’s mane. Monet leaned forward, fisting her small hands in the coarse hair.
The rider to the right drew a blade. Monet screamed as Sir Broderick’s dagger found its target—the villain’s throat. The rider reeled backward, tumbling from his mount to the grassy field slight of Karvana’s first drawbridge.
Monet screamed once more as the rider to the left took hold of her arm. Yet his grip was loosed as the Crimson Knight’s rowel spur met with the black rider’s leg. The rider cried out but was not vanquished.
“Lower the bridge! Archers, take aim!” Sir Broderick shouted, drawing his sword. Grasping its hilt in backguard stance, the Crimson Knight plunged his blade through the breast of the black rider. He did not pause as the enemy’s horse reared, felling its rider, but sheathed his bloodied blade and tugged at the ties of Monet’s cloak at her throat. Monet felt his hand fist the cloth of her cloak at her back—felt it stripped from her shoulders—heard the flapping of velvet tossed to the wind.
“The Scarlet Princess approaches!” the Crimson Knight shouted as the drawbridge began to lower. “Archers at the ready! The enemy is upon us!”
Monet heard the Crimson Knight’s cloak meet the air as well. She turned, looking behind them to see three more black-robed riders at their backs. Breathless with fear, Monet looked ahead—up to the archers of Karvana poised on the parapets. The bridge was lowered, and again Sir Broderick’s arm was at her waist to ensure she did not slip from the horse’s back.
“Fell the enemy! Fire!” Sir Broderick shouted as the sound and jarring of hooves on bridge planking wracked Monet’s tender body. Karvanian soldiers on horseback rode past, the thundering of their horses’ hooves near deafening as they crossed the bridge to meet whatever remained of the enemy riders who had advanced.
Once across the inner drawbridge, the Crimson Knight pulled their mount to a halt. He slid from the horse’s back, took Monet’s waist between strong hands, and lifted her down. Yet the brutal ride had weakened Monet’s body and mind more than she had at first conceived. Wavering for lingering fear and bodily strain, Monet clutched at the Crimson Knight’s tunic, endeavoring to right herself.
“Are you injured?” Sir Broderick asked, his strong hands gripping Monet at the pit of each arm to support her.
“No, sir,” she breathed, yet unable somehow to stand of her own accord.
“You are but winded, Princess,” he rather mumbled as, of a sudden, he swept her into the cradle of his arms. “Summon the king to Princess Monet’s bower!” he shouted as several guards approached. “The Scarlet Princess is returned and would audience him.”
As the Crimson Knight began to carry Monet up the stairway leading to her bower, she could not keep her arms from going ’round his neck. Somehow one thumb slipped beneath his tunic at the back of his neck, entangled with a leather strap there. Monet closed her eyes as the sudden vision of the Crimson Knight in his pavilion at King Ivan’s tournament leapt to her mind. She could see him—as clearly as if the moment had only passed a breath before—standing in his pavilion after having bathed following the tournament. She witnessed in her vision the moment he had placed the length of leather around his neck—the length of leather owning the small leather pouch to hang over his sculpted chest and stomach. In that moment, her mind brief wondered what treasure the small leather pouch cached that he would wear it into battle.
She opened her eyes once more as she felt her body lay upon her own bed. Gazing up into the face of the Crimson Knight, Monet felt tears brim in her eyes. The deep scowling frown he wore well brandished his anger—his loathing.
“I-I am sorry to have—” she began.
“The enemy is upon us, Princess,” he interrupted. “We must, each of us, be wary.”
“I only wanted to offer my thanks…my heart to the families of those soldiers who returned in the death cart today,” she said. Reaching into her corselet, she withdrew the nine remaining kerchiefs cached there, the small strips of parchment, each bearing the name of a fallen soldier of Karvana. “I wept bitterly for them today,” she whispered. She felt overcome with fatigue—defeated. “Each…each kerchief bears my tears of sorrow for a soldier. It…it is a small token, I know. Yet it is a token, and I only wished to—”
He yet frowned. Still, Monet fancied the look of loathing had left him.
“Pray do not own hatred of me, Sir Broderick,” she cried in a whisper as tears flowed over her cheeks. “I did not know the danger was already among us here. I only meant to comfort those who have sacrificed so much.”
“It was wise to put off your cloaks, Sir Broderick! Otherwise the archers and guards may not have known it was the Crimson Knight barking orders to them!” Monet wept anew as her father limped into her bower. She watched as her father put a hand at Sir Broderick’s neck, pulling him into a thankful embrace. “I thank you for my daughter’s life, Crimson Knight. And it seems you were right in your estimations. The enemy is already among us.”
“Yes, my king,” Sir Broderick said.
Monet winced as her father looked to her then. “Guardian of the Scarlet Princess, indeed,” he mumbled. “I assume you have thanked your savior-knight…thanked him for his risk of life and limb for your sake.”
“Father, I—” Monet began.
“I warned you, Monet,” King Dacian said, taking seat on the bed next to her. “I told you we were suspect of James’s bleeding his evil into our midst. Did you not believe me? To creep out of the safety of the castle…to—”
“I am sorry, Father!” Monet cried. “Truly! Had I known…had I known…”
“Yet still you would have ventured it…would you have not?” he asked. He sighed, a slight smile quirking his lips.
“What manner of princess would I be if I owned no compassion and empathy for our people?” she whispered.
“I understand, Monet,” King Dacian admitted. “And it is a rare goodness in you, dove. Yet you must own comprehension of this: the people are strong in their king, their queen, their prince or princess. Were James of Rothbain to endeavor to destroy you or me and succeed…the people would be hearts-lost. Their own courage and strength would fail them in feeling the loss of righteous sovereigns…thus hope. In this, he would prevail and conquer. He would conquer, or the people would succumb to a defeat they could not battle alone.”
Monet could not speak, overcome with humility, fear, and conflict of emotion.
“Thus, thank your brave rescuer, and promise us both that from this moment forth, you will not leave the castle without my bidding. Not while we are at war with James of Rothbain.”
“Th-thank you, Sir Broderick,” Monet said, though she could not meet his piercing gaze for long. “And I am sorry to have imposed such danger upon you.”
“Your heart was well placed, Princess,” the Crimson Knight said, “as ever it has been.” Of a sudden, he reached out, taking the kerchiefs and parchments from her hand. “I go now to offer these tokens in your stay,” he said.
“Pray bathe and take respite first, Sir Broderick,” King Dacian said.
“I will, my king,” he said, “only after the dead have been properly reverenced…as our princess wishes.”
The Crimson Knight wore weary. It was evident by the shadows of fatigue surrounding his alluring blue eyes, by the disheveled condition and uncommon length of his raven hair. His tunic was soiled and tattered, and even the breadth of his shoulders did not seem as straight and commanding as was natural.
“Very well,” King Dacian said. “Go about your errand, lad. But know this—when first the sun rises on the morrow…I would have your audience in the west mezzanine. Preparations must begin…all preparations. And your part in these preparations is consummate.”
The Crimson Knight turned to take his leave. Yet Monet’s voice stalled him.
“I thank you, Sir Broderick,” she said. “For my life…and my errand.”
He looked over his shoulder, nodded, and was gone.
“How…how did he know where to find me?” Monet asked. “I think he thwarted Lord Death on my behalf this night.”
“He is the Guardian of the Scarlet Princess, Monet,” King Dacian said. “Further, we all of us know your heart. He knew you would disobey me in this…at least once…though I argued with him otherwise. Thus he followed you into the night. As a phantom he was ever at your back without your knowledge.”
“I would be dead—or at the very least taken—were it not for him,” Monet whispered, brushing fresh tears from her cheeks.
Her father laughed lightly and brushed a tear from her chin. “And to think, last spring at Ivan’s tournament, you thought me mad for giving him title…for heralding our Crimson Knight as Guardian of the Scarlet Princess. What think ye now, daughter?”
Monet smiled, though she yet wept. “I think you are far wiser than I shall ever be…and that I should not endeavor to question your commands again.”
Again low laughter. “Do I have your word then…that you will trust in my commands henceforth?”
“Yes, Father,” Monet said as her father gathered her into his strong embrace.
King Dacian sighed. Perhaps this night was not all for naught. He had been fearful of Monet’s counterpoise of certain preparations to come. Yet if this night had apt struck fear into her heart, perhaps she would not oppose his forthcoming demands as she might well have without such a night to her experience.
As Dacian held his precious daughter to his breast, he prayed—prayed for the strength and safety of Karvana’s soldiers—prayed for the good people of his kingdom—prayed his daughter would accept her role as heir to Karvana’s throne and act as she must to preserve it.
It was the sound of her dreams that awoke her—as much as the vision of them. The mad pounding of hooves upon the ground, the horse’s rhythmic breathing as they fled, the Crimson Knight calling the archers of Karvana to arms. Monet awoke trembling and awash with perspiration.
Had it not been for the Crimson Knight, she would have been taken—or dead. Had he not thwarted three men in the inn, two more while astride his mount, what would have become of her? She owed him her life; the valiant knight who had championed her, her father, and Karvana at King Ivan’s tournament months before had far greater championed her that night.
War was coming to Karvana. Something whispered the truth of it to her as she stood before the hearth in her bower. War had come to Karvana months before, yet to the great lands beyond, not to the villages and castle itself. Death would be brought to the village and the castle gate. Whether by battle or siege, Lord Death would wander among the people now. Monet wondered—were there kerchiefs enough to absorb the river of tears she would cry for her people when King James battered the very gates of Karvana?
The Heart of Karvana
“You cannot be in earnest, my king,” Sir Broderick near growled. There was no disrespect in his manner—merely the frustration of a soldier eager to return to the defense of his kingdom.
“You know I am in full earnest, Broderick,” Dacian said.
Broderick’s broad chest rose and fell with the labored breathing of indignation.
“You would ask me to hide? As a coward runs from battle…or a jester from consequence?” he asked.
The Crimson Knight was pure vexed. In truth, Dacian fought to keep a smile from his lips. How entirely disconcerted Broderick was! A tiny spark of mirth rose in Dacian’s bosom—even for the fear and worry threatening to consume him as a king who must preserve his people and kingdom.
“Nay, my friend,” Dacian said. “But I would ask you to protect…to serve with a strength untried to one even so strong as you. You see the reason. I know you do. There is wisdom in this…broad wisdom. In the end, it may be you alone who preserves Karvana. May it not? I know you see it…though you are vexed in having to leave your men to battle in the north without you. Still, I remind you, Broderick…this battle may be the greatest and most difficult you may ever know, for it will tax your mind to madness…as it will tax your body in a manner you cannot fathom.”
Sir Broderick Dougray inhaled slowly. An even deeper frown creased his strong brow. “Oh, it is well I am able to fathom it…and this, near more than any other reason given, is why I doubt your choice in me. You put too much confidence in my strength.”
“No,” Dacian said. “I do not, and it can only be you, Broderick. Only you. There is none other…none who can win
this
battle in this war we wage against James of Rothbain.” Dacian shook his head, smiling. “Was not this strategy of defense
your
suggestion? At the round table of conferring? Was it not Sir Broderick Dougray who first thought to defend Karvana’s heart?”
“Of course,” Broderick mumbled. “But I did not fathom such an implement as this.”
Dacian paused—felt his eyes narrow as he studied the great Crimson Knight standing before him. “Yet you see the vast wisdom in it…its clever conception, do you not? Can you name a better battle strategy, a finer way of besting James, if it comes to the very end?”
“In my current state of wear and fatigue…no,” Broderick admitted.
“I stand that, were you not already worn with battle and worry, you would have conceived this plan yourself, Broderick,” Dacian said. “Perhaps you would not have appointed the task to yourself, for you see yourself as capable of wielding blades only in battle…when it has long been the strategy of your mind, the strength of your soul, that I most admire. You will triumph in this, Broderick. You will not fail, nor even falter. Therefore, even if James and Rothbain lay siege to Karvana, the heart of our kingdom…the hope of our people will survive. Will you do this thing I ask of you, Broderick? Will you battle where others cannot…where I dare not send a weaker man?”
Dacian was silent—watched as doubt and the unfamiliar expression of uncertainty crossed Sir Broderick’s countenance. Such compassion Dacian felt. His bosom ached for his friend—for the adversity stretching before him were he to accept the charge asked of him.
At last he spoke. Sir Broderick Dougray answered, “I will. I am a knight of Karvana…first knight of Dacian’s round table of conferring. What honor would I own if I refused? Far better to try…to fight and to fail…than to take the weak coward’s road and deny such a charge as this.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. “Still, it would go easier on my mind if I owned a knowledge of it all, sire.”
“Faith, Broderick,” Dacian began, “another of your merits. Your faith in God will have to serve for now…and your faith in me—faith in my wisdom and judgment.” Dacian turned, retrieving a gathering of parchment. He studied the gathering for a moment, gazing upon his own seal. He looked to the signet ring on his index finger—the rearing stag—looked upon its likeness in the wax sealing the parchment. It would be indisputable. When the seal was broken and the content instructions followed, Karvana would be forever changed.
Turning, he offered the gathering of parchment to Broderick.
“Accept this charge I give you, Broderick Dougray. Honor me in this battle…and Karvana’s heart may be saved,” he said. He nodded with approval when the Crimson Knight accepted the gathering without pause. “I will further instruct you now—for thus far you imagine yourself to be held tortured for all your long remaining years, do you not?”
Dacian smiled when Broderick glanced away, a slight blush of crimson rising to his cheeks a moment.
“I have accepted this charge, my king,” he began, “and all consequences fixed with it.”
“Very well,” Dacian said. “Then sit, Sir Broderick…for there is much, much more to fighting this battle before you. Your mind must be as sharp as your weapons.”
Broderick nodded, and Dacian began, “The minstrels will be the messengers. Always listen to the minstrels. Their tales and ballads will inform and guide you when I cannot. You will be utterly cut off; thus, mind the minstrels.”
Sir Broderick Dougray stood without the king’s chamber. Gazing down at the gathering of parchments in his hands—in his trembling hands—he could not fathom his king would charge him with such a strategy. Who was he to fulfill a charge the like? Sir Broderick Dougray? The Crimson Knight? He felt no more worthy of such a charge than a pig boy called to service from slopping swine only moments before. Furthermore, what manner of consummate strength did King Dacian imagine his Crimson Knight to own? What manner of constitution in virtue?
Broderick sat—nearly collapsed—into a chair just without the king’s chamber. He fisted one strong hand and drew it to his forehead and then to his mouth as he struggled for strength of endurance. Two days had been given him—two days in which to prepare. He must rise—rise and go forth in preparation. Still, his hands yet trembled. He would pause a moment more—gather his conviction and courage.
He breathed a sigh. In the least Eann would be pleased. When King Dacian had inquired as to whether there were any favor the king might grant the Crimson Knight as pitiful payment for his willingness to serve, Broderick had named two. First, his squire Eann would be knighted. Broderick knew that owning a knighthood was Eann’s greatest wish. Further, Broderick had asked the king that young Richard Tailor might enter into service as Eann’s squire, that young Richard himself might one day be knighted. It was all he could fathom in those moments when the king had promised him anything—knighthoods for Eann and young Richard.
“Good morning, Sir Broderick.”
The melodic lilt of her voice near caused him to tumble from his chair, so unexpected was it.
“Princess,” Broderick greeted, forcing himself to rise and bow to Monet. She smiled at him, so innocent to the true demands and destruction of war.
“H-have you been in counsel with my father?” she asked.
“I have,” he said. She frowned a little, and he knew she thought him vexed with her.
“Oh, I see,” she whispered. Her countenance seemed to change, fear and worry arresting her features. “Is it hopeless, Sir Broderick?” she asked. “The war to keep King James from conquering Karvana? Is it so very hopeless? I beg the truth from you…please.”
With purpose he allowed his gaze to narrow to a glare. He must strengthen himself for battle. No soft or tender emotions must caress his heart or mind. If King James were to be bested—if Karvana’s heart were to be protected—then it must be a soldier, a knight of Karvana, who protected it—not a weakened, fearful boy!
“No,” he said. “It is not hopeless. But if Karvana is to survive…if she is to be victorious and James of Rothbain vanquished, great sacrifices are yet to be made…by all who love and defend her.”
“I am one willing to make any sacrifice for her, Sir Broderick,” the princess told him. He almost smiled at the sudden straightening of her posture—the indignant rise of her pretty chin.
“Good,” he growled, “for it may needs be you sacrifice near all you know…as others of us have covenanted to do.”
He watched as her lovely amethyst eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Have I vexed you somehow, Sir Broderick?” she asked. “Have I done something to offend you? Or perhaps you are still angry with me for…for disobeying my father…for the incident last evening that began at the Emerald Crown.”
Broderick studied her for a moment and wondered—would the Princess Monet appear so becoming if she stood before him in a peasant girl’s frock and not the fine scarlet gown she wore? If her ebony hair were windblown instead of perfectly braided, if a smudge of dirt marred her face, would she be as beautiful? She would—he knew it. Further, he feared she would be more so.
“I am only weary, Princess,” he said. “Forgive me.”
“I would forgive you anything, Sir Broderick,” she said, smiling at him.
“Would you?” he mumbled. Her soft brow puckered with perplexity, yet he offered her no time to inquire further. “I am certain your father is desirous of your company this morning,” he said. “I therefore take my leave. Good day, Princess.”
He did not look at her again, nor wait for her to bid him farewell. Two days—it was all the time allotted him to prepare, and he must prepare—as best he could.
“God help me,” he breathed as he strode down the corridor.
“Good day, Sir Broderick,” Monet whispered. The great Crimson Knight was quite out of countenance. In truth, Monet had never seen Sir Broderick so out of countenance. Nor had she missed seeing the gathering of parchment he held fisted in one powerful hand. Her father’s seal was upon it: charges—battle strategies. Monet swallowed the thick fear in her throat as she watched the Crimson Knight stride away. Her father was sending him back into battle! The thought near tore her tender heart.
Thus Monet did not beg audience by knocking on the great door to her father’s chambers. Simply she burst in upon him—so startling him he gasped.
“Monet!” he exclaimed. “You fair caused the Reaper to ghost me! What are you about, rupturing the privacy of an old man?”
“You are not an old man, Father,” Monet scolded. “By far you are not. But what task have you set upon the Crimson Knight? I thought he would behead me as soon as speak to me just now?”
Her father sighed. This only increased her concern.
“He was in possession of parchments, Father,” she began, “parchments with your seal. What strategies are you sending to the legions in the north? Or have you sent him on a singular errand?” The pounding in her bosom increased—the deep fear for Sir Broderick’s safety. Three months she had worried for the Crimson Knight in battle—each sunrise wondered if he would be among the dead returned to Karvana in the death carts. Yet since the night before, since the moment he had revealed himself at the inn, she had known a measure of comfort. Even for the Rothbainians who had attempted to capture or murder her, even for the mad ride to the castle, the archers poised above, even for all of it she had been blessed with the knowledge that Sir Broderick Dougray was well—that he lingered in safety at
Karvana
Castle
.
Further, Monet yet wondered why the Crimson Knight had questioned her when she had told him she would forgive him anything. Was he sent on such an errand of horror as to strip him of his honor somehow? Had he been sent as assassin, to cut off the enemy’s head?
“Perhaps you have sent him to behead King James,” she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.
Monet frowned when her father chuckled, drawing her from her reverie. “No. I have not. Yet it is a valid suggestion. And I have no doubt Sir Broderick Dougray could accomplish such an incomprehensible task were it given him. But, no, I have not sent him to execute King James…as much as the thought tempts me now.”
“In any regard, he seemed pure vexed…with me, I am sure,” Monet said.
“You are thinking he is vexed over the events of last evening…the events begun at the Emerald Crown and ended in your bower.”
“What else could put him in such state of discountenance toward me?”
“War, my dove. Vexation, frustration, foul temperament…these are what war heaps upon a soldier,” her father said. “In truth, I thought he might not be quite so vexed still…for I have agreed to knight Eann on the morrow at his request.”
“Father! That is wonderful!” Monet exclaimed, still wondering what charge her father had given Sir Broderick. “Eann has labored hard to prove himself worthy.”
“That he has, and though he is young, I believe he is deserving…and ready,” King Dacian said. “Young Richard Tailor is to be Eann’s squire. This was also Broderick’s request.”
Monet thought it odd—the manner in which her heart fluttered with delight and pride in the knowledge Sir Broderick would be so thoughtful of his squire and others.
“It is so very admirable that he would request this of you, Father…of all the things you must have offered as honor for whatever charge you gave him. Eann will be a great knight…and someday so may Richard Tailor be,” she said. “Yet what could you have asked of him that he would endeavor to secure Eann’s knighthood?”
“Curiosity is well a part of war, Monet,” he said. “Yet secrecy is the larger part.”
“Forgive me, Father,” Monet said, humbled. “I would not endanger Sir Broderick by pressing you to reveal strategies you should not.”