Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (71 page)

“Perhaps not,” Robert offered. “Both Tostig and
Reginald were attempting to take the crown from King Henry. You
might just be heralded as a hero. I’ll certainly put a good word in
about you to the King.”

The Duke’s eyebrows raised. “You know the King, sir?
Personally? How is that possible?”

Robert smiled. “Your Grace, I am a mercenary. And as
such I make a point to know everyone of any importance, whether in
England or anywhere else.”

The Duke smiled back, then clapped his new
son-in-law on the shoulder. “Methinks that you shall be a great
addition to the Angwyld family fortunes, Robert. Sabina, you have
made a very wise choice, far better than I ever could have chosen
for you.”

With that, the three of them departed the
battlefield arm-in-arm. They had a wedding to celebrate, after
all.

Epilogue

Angwyld Castle, February
1102

Sabina sat in a cozy rocking chair by the fire in
Angwyld Castle’s great stone banquet hall. A cat dozed at her feet.
She passed her hands over her swollen belly; Robert’s child was due
to arrive in a little more than two months. “Come the spring thaw
you’ll be here, little one,” Sabina whispered to her belly.

Her father the Duke walked in, carrying two mugs of
hot cider. “How goes my grandchild?” he asked. He handed her a
steaming mug. “Don’t worry, yours isn’t fermented,” he said when
she pointed to her belly and shook her head. “But mine is. God
knows I could use a hot toddy on a cold day like today. He sat in
the heavy wooden chair opposite her. “Baby kicking hard today?”

“Harder than usual,” Sabina said. “Methinks this one
shall be a son, and another mercenary at that.”

The Duke chuckled. “Let’s hope not. Your husband is
a respected English nobleman now, with lands and a proper title. He
has the King’s ear. We are all the better for it, we want for
nothing.”

Sabina smiled. “Papa, do you really think that
Robert would give up his mercenary ways just because he now carries
the title Viscount of Angwyld? ‘Twould go against his very nature.
Besides, we want for nothing precisely because the King has too
much need of Robert’s skills. Robert can demand almost any price of
the King, and get it.”

“True,” the Duke acquiesced. “Though I’d still
rather he did everything he does out of liege loyalty to the
sovereign, rather than just for the gold.”

“Don’t forget spices,” Robert said as he entered the
room. He came and joined them both by the fire. “I’ve many contacts
in the spice trade I’ve promised Henry I will help exploit for the
English treasury.” He grinned and took a sip of cider. “For a
price, of course. I have a wife and child to support, after all.
And servants to hire, and vassals to retain, and taxes to pay—the
Angwyld estate doesn’t run itself, you know.”

Now it was the Duke’s turn to laugh. “You talk like
a future Duke of Angwyld. I daresay that marrying my daughter has
turned you into a respectable landed gentleman.”

“Perhaps,” Robert said. “But with a mercenary’s
heart. As my friend Master Cuthbert likes to say, once a mercenary,
always a mercenary.”

“And once a mercenary bride, always a mercenary
bride,” Sabina added.

They all laughed soundly together, and raised their
tankards to a blessed future, in Angwyld and beyond.

Tender is the Knight

Author's Note

The Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA),
on which the central plot of this novel focuses, is an actual
organization that has been in existence worldwide for nearly 40
years, and now boasts more than 30,000 active members in more than
20 countries (not including many persons who participate in its
events without joining the governing organization). Although every
effort has been made to represent the Society and its members
accurately in this novel, some liberties have been taken for
narrative purposes. Please also note that
actual
SCA
kingdoms, shires, and baronies (and the Great Dark Horde, a
real-life entity as well) are all referred to in this story, but in
all cases, they are used fictitiously. Any characters, situations,
or incidents in this book which resemble actual SCA historical
incidents and/or current or former SCA members, living or dead, do
so coincidentally---with the exception of Duke Syr Cariadoc of the
Bow (mka M. David Friedman, noted economist) who does in fact
exist, and did in fact start the annual Pennsic Wars by “declaring
war on himself” in 1971. For more information on exactly how that
happened, you would need to ask Duke Syr Cariadoc himself.

Grateful acknowledgment is
made to members of the Board of Directors of the Society of
Creative Anachronism, Inc., who provided their generous assistance
in making this book as accurate as possible in its representation
of the SCA. For more information about SCA or to find a group in
your area, visit
www.sca.org
.

PART ONE

Chapter
1

“C’mon, it’ll be
fun
,” my best friend, Pegeen
Palmer, insists early this morning. She’s been bugging me to come
with her to one of her Society for Creative Anachronism events for
months, ever since she joined the Dayton, Ohio SCA chapter after
seeing a ten-second TV spot about them on the Channel 7 evening
news. (Dayton, Ohio is a pretty dull place—so dull, in fact, that a
bunch of off-duty office workers wearing homemade crushed-velvet
tunics and hitting each other with sticks counts as headline
news).

Even though Pegeen and I have been best friends
since the third grade, and even though we have done practically
everything together for most of our lives—from getting our first
perms and matching pairs of frosted jeans together back in junior
high, to getting our first jobs after college together at the AC
Delco assembly plant in Kettering, Ohio—I just couldn’t bring
myself to join Pegeen in her latest obsession at first. I’d hoped
that Pegeen’s newfound enthusiasm for the Society for Creative
Anachronism would go the same way as all her previous odd
obsessions have—just like her plans to open a children’s birthday
party business did, or her idea for setting the
Guinness
world record for building the world’s largest craft-stick house,
which she only stuck with for about three weeks and then
abandoned.

But unlike those failed initiatives, Pegeen’s latest
odd obsession seems to have stuck. And in our grand best-friend
tradition of doing absolutely everything together, Pegeen has been
bugging me ever more insistently for months to “go medieval” with
her.

And I, of course, have been refusing her for
months.

Until today, of course.

Pegeen shows up at my doorstep at six a.m. Already
decked out in full Renaissance costume, she starts pounding on the
screen door with the fingerboard of her reproduction Italian
Renaissance lute. And if the ensuing racket isn’t bad enough,
Pegeen’s red velvet bodice, purple skirt, and gigantic green
headdress are already attracting stares from my elderly next-door
neighbor, Mr. Watkins, who always rises before dawn to water his
prized begonias.

“There are going to be TONS of single men there,
Lisa,” Pegeen gushes when I finally drag myself out of bed to let
her in. “TONS. And I
know
you’re in the market, especially
given your usual luck finding men. When exactly
was
the last
time you were on a date, anyway?”

“Ummm, I don’t exactly remember,” I moan, rubbing
the salty crust of sleep from my eyes. “Jacob was my last steady
boyfriend, you know.”

Pegeen rolls her eyes. “Don’t tell me you haven’t
been out with a guy since
Jacob
? You guys broke up what,
four
years ago?”

“Something like that,” I say as I flop onto the
ancient purple La-Z-Boy recliner I inherited when my parents died.
The less I think about Jacob, the better. We broke up when I found
out that for the whole of our nine-month relationship, he was
married, and that he’d actually considered me his
mistress
—something I’m not sure I could be if I wasn’t aware
he was married in the first place. I’ve been a little gun-shy about
men ever since.

Pegeen starts shaking my shoulder violently. “Come
on Lisa, get dressed. It’s only a two-hour drive to the event. If
we leave now, we’ll still have a chance to get a good seat for the
tournament.”

A two-hour drive up Interstate 75 in Pegeen’s rusty
old Tercel is definitely not my idea of Saturday fun, especially if
she’s planning on wearing that foot-high green velvet headdress the
whole way. I know I have to dodge her somehow. “Well, I’d really
like to go and all,” I lie. “But I don’t see how I can. You know
that I’ve been picking up all these extra shifts at the plant this
month so I can pay off my Visa bill. This is the first day I’ve had
off in almost three weeks. I need to get some sleep.”

Pegeen rolls her eyes again, not about to be talked
out of her recruitment mission. “You can sleep in the car on the
way up.”

“B-but I don’t have any of those old-fashioned
outfits,” I protest. And I can’t well borrow anything from Pegeen.
Pegeen and I, who have been best friends since we were both eight
years old, have never exactly been the same size. Not even close.
Pegeen is a voluptuous, mega-curvy size twelve, while I am a lanky,
flat-chested, hipless size eight. With Pegeen’s sexy Rubenesque
body and bubbly, irresistible personality, she’s never had a
problem getting dates.

Unlike me.

With my straight, mousy brown hair, super-flat
chest, complete lack of hips, and an annoying tendency to blurt out
stupid things at the most inopportune times (not to mention the
weight of all the emotional baggage I carry from being orphaned at
the tender age of sixteen) I don’t exactly attract the opposite sex
that often. And when I do, they’re usually either married—or
gay.

For the next ten minutes, Pegeen prods, cajoles, and
downright grovels with me to accompany her to the Blood and Roses
Tournament and Feast in Wapakoneta, Ohio, and I finally agree just
to shut her up.

“Okay, Pegeen,” I finally acquiesce. “I’ll go this
once, just for today. Just don’t make me do anything too, you know,
medieval.”

“I won’t,” Pegeen agreed. “Just so you’re aware,
though, the theme of tonight’s feast is The Black Death: It’s Not
As Bad As You Think.”

“Uhhhh—“

“Just kidding,” Pegeen giggles. “Come on. We need to
get on the road. You
will
have to wear a costume, by the
way. They won’t let you in without a costume.”

I smell a possible reprieve. “Well, I guess I
definitely can’t go then. Like I said, I don’t have any of those
old-fashioned clothes. I’ll just go back to bed now. Have a great
time, Pegeen!” I wave goodbye to my best friend, slam the screen
door shut, and start walking back toward my bedroom.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Pegeen blocks the screen door
with her velvet-slippered foot. “You
already
agreed to go.
And don’t worry about not having a costume, Lisa. You can borrow
one from the Gold Key booth once we get to the event.”

“Gold Key?” I say. “I always thought that was a
college honor society or something.” Not that I’ve ever been a
member of any college honor society. Between my rampant dyslexia
and the state of abject poverty I was in after my parents died, I
barely managed to graduate from ultra-low-class Wright State
University—and my crummy, dead-end job as a spark-plug inspector is
testament enough to the quality of education I received there.

“In SCA, Gold Key is the welcoming committee,”
Pegeen explains. (She pronounces the SCA abbreviation “skah”, like
it’s a real word.) “They help newbies get acclimated. And they loan
out temporary costumes free of charge. That’s how I got garbed for
my first event.”

“That’s how you got
what
?”

“
Garbed.
” Pegeen giggles again. “Oh, I’m
sorry. I keep forgetting you don’t know the SCA lingo,” she says,
as if her three months in the group somehow makes her a seasoned
veteran. “
Garb
is a SCA word. It means period attire. You
know, medievalwear.”

“Uh huh,” I say, not really understanding. “So
getting garbed
means. . .what?”

“Getting
dressed
, stupid! And by the way,
Lisa,
you
need to get dressed so we can get on the road.”
Pegeen glances at her chrome Timex, which certainly doesn’t match
her garish Italian Renaissance outfit. “I can give you exactly five
minutes. And by the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, Lisa—you
really need to throw away that old ‘I’m A Pepper’ T-shirt of yours.
It’s so worn out you can practically see right through the fabric.
Leaves nothing to the imagination at all.” Pegeen smirks. “Although
it’s not as if you have a lot of chest to see.”

“No way,” I say, pulling the near-transparent cotton
fabric tighter across my flat chest. “I love this shirt. And
besides, it might be a collector’s item someday. I could sell it on
Ebay for a lot of money.”

“Yeah, right,” Pegeen laughs. “And
I’m
Eleanor of Aquitane. Get moving, Lisa. We’ve got an event to make,
and I don’t want to get caught in the Saturday-morning
traffic.”

“There
is
no traffic in Ohio on Saturday
morning,” I snarl under my breath as I head for the shower. Pegeen
barely gives me enough time to get wet, let alone wash my hair or
shave my legs.

“Come ON!” she keeps shouting, and after exactly
forty-three seconds under the showerhead, she pulls aside the
mildewy shower curtain, throws a towel and a set of mismatched
clothes she’s pilfered from my bedroom floor at me, and orders me
out to her car.