A Crimson Frost (19 page)

A wave of deep loneliness washed over her—a wave of missing her father, of sudden fear for the kingdom, and of dread of the unknown path stretched out before her. Yet she endeavored to calm herself. All would be well—of certain it would. She would not think of the requisites of her marriage to Sir Broderick—tried not to think of the truth of it all, of how bitterly woven the web was. It was often following the moments Friar Fleming had pronounced Monet as wife to Sir Broderick Dougray and as she had traveled with Sir Broderick to Ballain that she had considered her father’s terms. She could not endure Karvana’s fall or the loss of her father. Further, she knew Sir Broderick did not wish to rule as king. Still, to suffer annulment, followed by marriage to an unnamed man—she could not think on it! Her heart began to beat with worry and fearful anticipation. She felt as a fox, desperately fleeing the hunt, all the while owning knowledge that to endeavor further was futile. She could not see Karvana saved and keep the Crimson Knight for herself: she could not own both.

Closing her eyes, Monet struggled to calm her breathing.
All will be well—all will be well
, she thought. She looked again to Sir Broderick in slumber so deep and so near to her. She would think on the future no more. She would live one day and then the next. Further, she would savor being near him. One day he may not be near her—her beloved Crimson Knight—but this day, this night, he was.

“All will be well. All will be well,” she whispered—whispered until the soothing words lulled her to slumber.



Monet wiggled her nose—rubbed at it with one dainty finger. The dust in the cottage was profound, having known years of gathering. Monet paused in her efforts to tidy the small dwelling. Glancing out the window, she smiled as she watched Sir Broderick laboring to extend the fences just beyond the path. It was no wonder the blacksmith boasted strong arms and a pleasant nature. Hard work and good company did nurture such good things. It was often in the past Monet had noted the pleasant faces of the villagers of Karvana, in stark contrast to the often severe or frowning brows of the nobles and royals. It had always seemed to Monet that the common folk knew more laughter and mirth than did those of noble or royal birth. Already her arms ached with the unfamiliar work of readying the cottage for comfortable dwelling. Yet she had never known such a sense of satisfaction in tasks accomplished.

As she watched Sir Broderick, perspiration beading on his brow and chest, she knew he must be glad to have a task to set himself to. Having been at battle for three months previous—having been stripped of his comrades and knightly life—it was no doubt he was glad to be no longer idle.

There came a knock upon the cottage door, and Monet startled.

“Who is there?” she asked. Her heart was pounding mad in her bosom, for fear had washed over her of a sudden. Had someone followed? Had someone discovered the place of their exile?

“It is Sarah. I am wife to the blacksmith, Bronson,” came the pleasant voice of a woman.

Monet exhaled the breath she had been holding. She opened the door to see a lovely woman and six strapping boys standing at the threshold.

“Hello,” the woman said. She smiled a beautiful smile and nodded a friendly greeting. Monet returned her smile, delighted by her enchanting countenance. She was near in height to Monet, brown-haired, and brown-eyed. “I am Sarah,” she said. “And these are our boys.”

“I welcome you,” Monet said. “I am…um…Prissy.” Naming herself Prissy was far worse even than hearing Sir Broderick so name her. Yet she continued to smile and stepped aside, that Sarah and her sons might enter.

“We have brought chestnuts…from the tree near the wood,” Sarah said, offering a basket to Monet.

“Thank you,” Monet said. “It is very thoughtful of you.”

“We are not so kind as you may think,” Sarah said, smiling. “In truth, my boys could not wait till the evening to see you…their father having told them of your beauty. They were determined to see you at once.”

Monet felt her cheeks pink as a tall, broad-shouldered young man with dark hair nodded to her and said, “I am Stroud…eldest son of Bronson Blacksmith and Sarah.”

“I am glad to meet you, Stroud,” Monet said.

“And I am Wallace,” a second young man said. He was similar in appearance to the first, yet owned his own countenance of mischief. “The second son.”

Monet nodded, and a third boy approached. “I am Kenley,” he said. His manner and appearance were that of his brothers. Monet deemed him to be perhaps fifteen years, Wallace and Stroud perhaps one and two years his elder.

“I am Birch,” the fourth son offered. Birch appeared perhaps twelve years, and he stepped aside to reveal two more brothers, appearing to be one and two years younger than he. “These are the youngest of the Blacksmiths,” Birch said, “Carver and Dane.”

Monet smiled, pure delighted at the sight of Sarah and her six brawny sons.

“You are very pretty,” the youngest said. “Father said that you were.”

“Thank you, Dane,” Monet said. “And thank you for coming to welcome us.”

“May we meet your husband?” the eldest, Stroud, inquired.

“Of course. He is out at the fences just now.”

All six boys turned and hurried out of the cottage. Monet giggled as she watched them go.

“They are quite headstrong,” Sarah said as she too watched the boys approach Sir Broderick, “like their father.”

“I thank you for coming,” Monet said, “and for the chestnuts. It is so difficult to be in a new place.”

“Indeed,” Sarah said. “But you will find Ballain to be a good place to dwell. There are good people here.”

“It is good to know,” Monet said.

Sarah glanced about the cottage. “It is such a sweet home, is it not? I hold such fond memories of the place. I hope it will one day hold such memories for you and your handsome husband.”

“I am certain it will.” Monet sighed as she gazed for a moment through the open door to where Sir Broderick stood in conversation with Sarah’s sons. She thought for a moment that she would like to have six sons that resembled the Crimson Knight in the manner in which the blacksmith’s sons resembled him.

“May I help you with your tidying?” Sarah asked.

“Oh, I could not press upon you in such a manner,” Monet said.

“It would be my pleasure,” Sarah said, smiling. “We are going to be fast friends, Prissy. This I know already. Thus, why not converse as we work? It will seem less taxing in that…do you not think?”

Monet smiled. “I am certain you are right.”

“Though I cannot say your husband will accomplish his task more quickly with my sons about him. They would endeavor to tempt him into playing with them,” Sarah said.

“Playing?” Monet asked.

Sarah nodded and smiled. “Oh, it is always their way with their father. In one moment, he will be at work, laboring at the smithy as he should…and in the next he is gone, out in the woods or by the stream, wrestling about with his sons…pretending at swords and daggers instead of shoeing the horses needing to be shod.”

Monet giggled. “He is a good father then?”

“The very best of fathers,” Sarah said. She smiled, and Monet felt comforted. The bright resplendence of Sarah’s countenance was testament of her true happiness. This was a woman true in love with her husband, proud and loving of her sons, content in her village life. Monet envied her happiness—her peace and safety. Sarah’s cheeks were pink with her joyful countenance; her smile and offer of friendship were earnest.

“And what of your man?” Sarah asked. “He is heavenly handsome and appears to own no fear of labor. Bronson says he is a horseman.”

“He is a fine horseman,” Monet said, “and a great man…a selfless man.”

Sarah smiled. “Then he is the best of men. I am glad you are come to Ballain, Prissy. I feel in my heart that you and I will be glad of knowing one another.”

“I am certain of it,” Monet said—for she was.



The day had passed quickly. Monet found herself grateful in Sarah’s company, as well as her help in tidying the cottage. Sir Broderick had accomplished much as well—though not so much as he had hoped, having spent the better part of the afternoon in sparring at wooden swords with Bronson and Sarah’s sons.

At eventide, as they supped with the blacksmith and his family, Monet learned much concerning the
village
of
Ballain
as she sat in conversation. It seemed the miller and his wife were friendly of Bronson and Sarah. Young Stroud found the miller’s daughter to be the most beautiful in the village—both in face and spirit. The tanner had eight daughters—one of whom Wallace fancied—and was a kind widower. The young thatcher had wed a pretty weaver the year before, and their first child was expected to arrive within a fortnight.

As Monet listened to the descriptions of the people of Ballain, she was further assured of Sir Broderick’s wisdom. Ballain was remote, yet its people worked well together—seemed to live well together. Further, there seemed to be a sense of privacy, mingled well with good-fellowship. Still, it had not always been so.

“Lord Morven was a beast,” Sarah said. “I am not saddened to know he is gone.”

“Lord Morven was lord over Ballain…steward of the village before his death,” Bronson explained. Certainly it was well Monet knew the story of Lord Morven; better still did Sir Broderick know the tale. Yet she was far curious to hear Bronson and Sarah’s telling, for they had lived it all.

“He seemed merely greedy at first,” Bronson said. “But then King Seward died. Morven was not fond of King Dacian. Morven thought Dacian too tender in heart…too loving of the people.”

“Too loving of the people?” Monet exclaimed. “What would Lord Morven have a king be of his people?”

She felt Sir Broderick’s hand clasp her own beneath the table around which they sat. She had said too much and determined to remain silent for the rest of the evening. Had she threatened their safety in exile already?

“It is as we all thought,” Bronson said. “Seward had been no good king for some years. It was glad we all were of Dacian’s taking the throne. Yet Morven was not glad…for Dacian would see the people happy and the lord stewards less wealthy. Thus, Morven began to gather men.”

“We went into hiding for some time,” young Kenley said. “I remember being frightened of Lord Morven’s taking Father from us to battle against our own king.”

“We began to fear Morven would indeed lay some sort of attack to the castle at Karvana,” Bronson said, “that he would endeavor to harm Dacian.”

Sir Broderick still held Monet’s hand in his own beneath the table. She felt his grasp tighten a moment and looked to him. His expression was stern. No doubt the memories of Ballist’s battlefields were raining over him. Yet what path could he take? There would be no good reason to ask Bronson to cease in telling of Ballain’s trials.

“Still, our king is wise and not so blind as was his father,” Stroud said. “You have heard of Ballist’s battlefields, have you not? Even in Alvar you would have heard of it.”

“We know the story well, yes,” Sir Broderick said.

“Then you know…if not for King Dacian and his Crimson Knight, Ballain might well have been lost,” Wallace said.

“Ballain did not hold with Morven’s dislike of Dacian,” Bronson said. “Yet we were all of us at the mercy of a corrupt steward. I do not like to think what may have happened to this village and its good people had the Crimson Knight and his legion not battled triumphant in Ballist.”

“It is good the battle did not come to Ballain,” Sir Broderick said.

Monet thought him suddenly paler than before. She desired to reach up—to smooth the slight frown from his brow with a kind caress. She had moved before even she had realized it, trailing soft fingers over his handsome brow and over his cheek.

He looked at her, his alluring blue eyes saddened somehow, even for the slight smile he offered her.

“You seem weary, Broderick,” Sarah said. “No doubt you labored longer than you needed today for having taken from your task to play with my boys.”

“Yes. Travel and fences are wearing, indeed,” Bronson said. “Why not retire early and find respite in the arms of your pretty wife, horseman? Tomorrow you may labor again. It is one certainty in life, is it not?”

“Indeed, it is,” Sir Broderick said. “I hope it will not offend if I thank you for such a fine meal, Sarah, and you men for such fine conversation, and take my leave. The horses I await may be here on the morrow, and the fence is not ready. I must rise early in that I may complete it.”

“Of course, dear,” Sarah said. “And Prissy must be greatly fatigued as well. The cottage was in great need of tidying.”

Bronson stood, offering his hand to Sir Broderick as he stood as well.

“I will have the thatcher visit you as soon as possible, for I know the cottage thatch is in need of repair,” he said as Sir Broderick took his offered hand of friendship.

“Thank you, Bronson,” Sir Broderick said. “And to you, Sarah…and to you young lads for your youthful vigor today. It has been far too long since I played at swords.”

Monet smiled, thinking no doubt it had been long since Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight, had
played
at swords.