Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
“Yet you might own no proficiency for harvest…and she may own none for compassion of the people,” the Crimson Knight said. “I battle well, but were I to endeavor to compose a ballad the like Marius is able…” He shook his head. “Right or not, it is often our talent and character as much or more than our inherited station that determine where we are led in life…as well as what trials we may face.”
Monet felt her eyes narrow as she looked at him. She smiled, delighted by both his comely appearance and his wisdom.
“So you are wise as well as battle ready,” she said.
“And you are humble as well as selfless,” he said. “This is why I have chosen that we should hale from Alvar…for its princess is in exact opposition to Karvana’s. Therefore, who would think to suspect of two Alvarians in Ballain?”
He smiled at her then, and Monet thought sure her heart would take to flight as a bird and escape her bosom by way of her throat.
“Still, I am sorry for you in this, Sir Broderick,” she said.
“Broderick,” the Crimson Knight said. “Broderick is a common enough name. You will call me Broderick.”
“And I shall be Monet?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Monet is not a common name…and Princess Monet is far too known through all the five kingdoms. I will name you…Prissy.”
“Prissy?” Monet exclaimed. “You cannot be in earnest!”
Monet did not miss the delicious grin of mischief tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“As the king told me just two days past…I am in full earnest,” he said.
“But I do not like that name,” Monet said. “It is not mine.”
“Yet it does put me in mind of you somehow. Prissy you shall be.” His eyes fair twinkled with mirth. She imagined for a moment that he was teasing her. Yet this was Sir Broderick Dougray—the Crimson Knight. Surely she was mistaken.
“I will not speak to you if you call me Prissy, Sir Broderick,” she said.
“Broderick,” he corrected.
Monet shook her head, attempting to dispel the sudden fear rising in her again—the renewed awareness she was being taken into exile, away from her father and all she knew. And she could not even keep own her name.
“I-I cannot name you simply Broderick,” she said. “It is far too familiar. It is not appropriate.”
“I am your husband,” he growled, his temperament altered of a sudden. “How more familiar must I make myself?”
He was vexed with her. It seemed he was easily vexed when she was near him. She understood then that, no matter his reassurance that he did not feel tortured by her father’s charge to take her into exile—to protect her—yet he did.
“Very well,” she said. “You will be Broderick, and I will be—”
“Prissy,” he finished for her.
“As you wish, Sir Broderick,” she mumbled. When he scowled at her, she said, “Broderick.”
He spoke no more. Monet sensed he did not wish to converse with her any longer, and so they rode on. For hours and hours they traveled—until Karvana was far behind them and dusk descended.
Monet’s eyes opened a little. Her body ached—in particular her neck. She gasped—sat upright as she realized the cart had stopped—that her head had been resting against the Crimson Knight’s strong shoulder. When she had fallen asleep she did not know, but darkness was upon them now, and she was chilled.
“Forgive me,” she said.
Sir Broderick said nothing as he climbed down from the cart. “We will pause here,” he said.
Monet glanced about. The moonlight revealed they were halted in a small recess of rock among a thick grove of trees. She realized then he meant her to sleep in the open. She had never in her life done such a thing.
“Are we to have a fire?” she asked, for the night air was already frightfully chilled.
“No,” he said, “for we must not risk discovery.”
She opened her mouth to argue. Yet as she watched him pull a fur from the cart, she knew she should not. This was a man well skilled at battle—all manner of battle. If he deemed no fire should light the night as a beacon to their encampment, then no fire should light it.
There was certainly no room in the cart in which to lay down to rest. Thus, Monet assumed they would sleep on the cold ground. Tears filled her eyes at the thought of such cold discomfort, for she was painfully weary of a sudden.
“You will rest here,” Sir Broderick said. She watched as he spread the large bearskin on the ground near the rocks. “The rocks should keep the breezes from you.”
“And where will you rest?” she asked, for he did not spread another skin on the ground. Rather he returned to the cart, drawing the harness from the cart horse.
“I will stand watch,” he said. He led the cart horse and the other to a nearby tree. Tying their bridle reins to a low branch, he patted the soft neck of each animal, speaking in a soothing voice to them as they began to nibble grass.
“Stand watch?” she asked. “Through the entire of the night?”
“Of course,” he said, taking her hand and helping her down from the cart. Of a sudden, she shivered, her body thoroughly chilled in the night air.
“You cannot stand watch all the night,” she said. “When will you take your rest?”
“When we reach Ballain,” he answered, leading her to the place near the rocks where the bearskin lay upon the ground. “I will rest tomorrow night.”
“I will not rest if you are not at rest as well,” she told him. “How can I?”
“It is of no consequence, Princess,” he said. “It is many a night a soldier does not rest.”
A sudden gust of wind blew about them, and Monet shivered, her teeth fair knocking together. Wrapping her arms about her, she trembled with the terrible discomfort of the cold night.
“You are too chilled,” Sir Broderick said, a frown of deep concern furrowing his brow. “In falling asleep as we traveled, your body cooled.”
“I fear I am not so sturdy in the wind and cold as your comrades of battle might be,” she admitted. Her teeth so chattered it was near hurtful.
“Do not worry over it,” he said. “A bit of chafing and a heavy fur about your shoulders and you will rest warm enough.”
Monet nodded—watched as he returned to the cart and retrieved another fur.
“Come,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her to sit on the bearskin. He sat down before her, taking her hands in his and blowing warm air on them.
The sense of his heated breath on her hands caused her body to rush with gooseflesh. He rubbed her hands between his own—blew breath on them again. His strong hands next rubbed at her shoulders and upper arms as he endeavored to chafe her to warmth. Yet still she trembled with being chilled.
“Forgive me my weakness, Sir Broderick,” she began. “I fear I am not as immune to weather as a knight.”
“You would not be a princess if you were,” he said. He smiled a slight smile, and she knew he was not vexed with her—in the least, not at that moment. “Here,” he said, leaning back against the rocks. “I will warm you a moment.”
Drawing his legs up, he drew her between his knees, and Monet was breathless with delight as he pulled her back against his body. He spread the fur around them, his arms encircling her body beneath it. She felt his heated breath on her neck as he endeavored to warm her flesh with it.
“Forgive me, Princess,” he said. “I did not think to recognize you might be more vulnerable to the elements than I. And the night is not so warm as I hoped.”
“D-do not concern yourself, Sir Broderick,” she said, teeth still clattering in her head. “I must learn not to be so weak.”
Again he blew his warm breath on her neck, chafing her arms with strong hands beneath the fur.
“It is not a weak young woman who finds the courage to leave her kingdom…her home…and those who know her…to dwell in exile with only a rough and disagreeable soldier for company,” he said.
“You do not need to endeavor to flatter me, Sir Broderick,” she said. “I know I am not so strong as you…but how could I be? Further, it takes no courage to leave one’s kingdom and home when one has been commanded by the king to do so. Further, you are not always rough and disagreeable. You must not be…for women fawn after you for far more reason than just your pretty face.”
His chafing of her arms ceased at once, as did his breath upon her neck.
“Pretty?” he near growled.
Monet smiled—as warmth and fatigue began to overtake her. “You do not think you are pretty, Sir Broderick?”
“Pretty is termed when describing women, not men…and certainly not knights and soldiers,” he mumbled.
Monet giggled. His pride was wounded, though she had meant to compliment him. An unfamiliar sense of liberty began to wander through her bosom. Even for the cold of the night—and the fear of the unknown path down which the Crimson Knight was leading her—Monet found that, in the open solitude of the wilderness, her mind and soul—even her body—felt free, unbound by expectation and propriety.
“I think that I am not so thoroughly terrified of you as I was a day ago, Sir Broderick,” she said as his strong hands began to chafe her arms once more.
“First you term me pretty…and then dub me terrifying in the next breath,” he said. “I do not know what to make of it.”
“Make of it that you are…pretty terrifying, Sir Broderick Dougray,” Monet said, smiling at the warmth of his breath in her hair.
She heard him chuckle. “And you possess a wit I was not so thoroughly aware of before this day,” he said. “Do you intend to be ever so forthright in speech during this period of exile?” he asked.
“I am only tired, Sir Broderick,” she answered. “Therefore, fear not. I am certain that on the morrow I shall be as frightened and as doubtful as ever.”
“And I suppose I shall be as terrifying as ever,” he mumbled.
“There is no doubt,” she whispered—warm—safe held—in the powerful arms of the Crimson Knight. “And far as pretty,” she mumbled to herself, smiling as her eyes then closed.
Broderick sensed Karvana’s princess drifting into heavy slumber. It was certain the Princess Monet was more tired than ever in her life she had been. He felt the gooseflesh leave her arms as she warmed—felt her body relax against his as she surrendered to fatigue. He scolded himself for having let her become so thoroughly chilled. He might have known better, for a princess was not as familiar with bodily hardship as was a soldier. What good would there be in spiriting the Scarlet Princess to exile to save Karvana’s hope if the Reaper were to steal her instead?
A breeze lifted a strand of her hair to his cheek—the scent of her skin to his nostrils—and he ground his teeth with resistance of desire. His hands ceased in their smooth chafing of her arms—light gripped them instead as he attempted to contain his thoughts—thoughts of her beauty—of their remote isolation and solitude.
As he bent his head, allowing himself the simple pleasure of the warm flesh of her neck so near to his chin, he frowned, pained by the sudden memory of having raised his voice to the king. In the moments that morning before young Channing had been sent to summon Princess Monet, he had spoken harsh to the king. It was true; he had near shouted, demanding to know why King Dacian had chosen him, Broderick Dougray, to carry the Scarlet Princess into exile. He had demanded to know what purpose the king had in the marriage, one that would cause the princess to loathe the Crimson Knight and one that might well find the Crimson Knight reigning as King of Karvana one day—an honor and burden Broderick did not wish to own. He had demanded of the king as to what foul sin Karvana’s first knight had committed to deserve being placed in such a torturous circumstance as that of being wed to a woman he could not wholly have as wife.
King Dacian—ever wise and compassionate—had not rebuked, nor even scolded. “I love you as I would love my own son, Broderick,” he had said. “And I ask that you know this. I know you are the only man I may entrust with my daughter’s care and safety…the only man worthy of protecting the heart of this kingdom…the only man who loves this kingdom enough to take up this charge and to honor it.”
Broderick had knelt before the king near instantly, his anger reined, his mind and heart humbled by the king’s incomparable trust and faith—by owning his favor and love.
“Forgive me, my king,” Broderick had said. “I am but a soldier, greatly fatigued and worried for my kingdom…and in truth…again questioning my own strength and resistance.”
“You will not falter, Sir Broderick,” the king began, “and, in proving your valiance, shall one day be rewarded with such a measure of prize you cannot fathom at this moment.”
“I will bear this charge, my king,” Broderick said. “I will keep my oath to protect the Scarlet Princess of Karvana…though it cost me my life.”
“I know the truth of it, Broderick,” King Dacian said. “And know that your anger, fear, doubt, and frustration…they are not simply cast off by your king.”
Broderick grinned, amused by the memory of King Dacian’s own smile—the smile of mischief he had worn upon his face in the next moment when King Dacian had said, “Thus, to you, in all this burden of charge you carry…I will allot to you a small margin of pleasure in that you may kiss the Scarlet Princess whenever opportunity is ripe…on condition that you kiss her well when you do.”