A Crimson Frost by Marcia Lynn McClure

this triumph, belonged to one man—to Sir Broderick Dougray, the Crimson Knight. It struck her then how entirely iniquitous it was that Sir Broderick should battle with such brutal valiance, only to have the glory heaped on those who little deserved the glory. What glory should Monet own for his sacrifices? What glory should her father or her kingdom own? She wondered then from whence such a man drew his reason for such an undertaking as was King Ivan’s tournament. For the glory and honor of others? It seemed incomprehensible, and yet did not she love her king and kingdom so well as to sacrifice her own well-being for their sakes? Yes—indeed—she did.
     
    “Bravo, my dove! Bravo!” Dacian called as Monet approached, escorted by Ivan himself.
    Dacian fancied the roses were still too abloom on his daughter’s cheeks—the lingering result of Broderick Dougray’s attentions—and it well pleased him. How lovely Monet appeared then, face bright with delight, her lovely head adorned with a crown of flowers and ribbon. Mirth rained over him, knowing the depth of courage it had taken for her to bestow the champion’s prize in front of such a gathering.
    “Your daughter has proven herself worthy of this crown, Dacian…and of her own,” King Ivan said.
    Dacian nodded, understanding Ivan’s veiled implication. His gaze lingered on his daughter—his lovely daughter—so entirely unaware of the strength she and the Crimson Knight of Karvana had lent its king. Ivan’s tournament would be the subject of much talk and speculation. Tales of the Crimson Knight’s victory would spread as a wild flame, fanned by the account of Karvana’s Scarlet Princess and the kiss bestowed her champion. A tale of chivalry and triumph would reach King James’s arrogant ears, perhaps plant doubt in his mind—doubt of any easy victory over Dacian, King of Karvana. Further, Karvana’s people would hear of the strength and bravery of their princess—their princess, who would one day be their queen.
    “Yes, Ivan,” Dacian said as Monet embraced him. “She has indeed.”
     
    Still trembling from the Crimson Knight’s kiss—the sense of it still warm upon her lips—Monet continued to bathe in the security of her father’s embrace. Her knees seemed weak, her arms prickled with gooseflesh, at the memory of Sir Broderick’s lips pressed to her own.
    Closing her eyes, his face appeared in her mind—awash with great fatigue, dust-streaked, and battered. Monet wondered in that moment, if the look of battle was so obvious on his face, what must the body beneath the armor have endured?
    “He will be well, Father…will he not?” she asked.
    Her father offered a quiet chuckle as he lovingly stroked her hair. “He will be well, pigeon,” he said. “He will be well.”
    “I would speak to you privately, Dacian,” King Ivan said. “If you please.”
    “Of course,” Dacian said.
    Taking Monet’s face between strong hands, King Dacian said, “I would speak to Ivan a moment, Monet. Pray settle the enthusiasm and curiosity threatening to tear your friends to shreds while I do, eh?”
    Monet smiled, heard giggling, and saw Portia and Lenore approaching.
    “Of course, Father,” she said.
    “Thank you,” Dacian said, releasing his daughter.
    His attention turned at once to Ivan, and Monet could not help but giggle at the delight emblazoned on the faces of Lenore and Portia.
    “You must tell us!” Lenore exclaimed in a whisper.
    Taking hold of Monet’s arm, Portia added, “Yes! We must know everything of his kiss! Everything!”
    The tournament was over. The Crimson Knight had prevailed, showering honor and strength over Karvana and its king. Thus, Monet felt a sudden giddiness well within her. It seemed her concerns—her heretofore serious nature—had all but dissolved! Monet enjoyed a sense of liberation of sorts—a freedom—a venue allowing lightheartedness.
    Glancing behind her to ensure her father and King Ivan were at a