Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (73 page)

“Great,” I say.

“And what about a name for you? Have you come up
with your persona yet? What should the good gentlemen and
gentlewomen of the S-C-A call you today?”

I have no idea what a
persona
is. “Uhh, just
call me Lisa for now, I guess. I’ll come up with that umm, persona
thing later.”

“Oh. Well. I guess that’s all right,” Queen
Elizabeth says, disappointed. “My S-C-A name is Mistress Mathilda
Merryweather of Winged Hills. The ‘Mistress’ part is my peerage
title. I’m a Laurel, you know.” She points to a purple-and-gold
badge on her breast depicting a wreath of laurel leaves. “My
Laurel’s in Costuming. But I won’t bore you with all that. You just
go change. Oh, Lisa, you’re going to have so much
fun
in the
S-C-A!”

Whatever you say, Queen
Elizabeth,
I think as I go to the empty
classroom to change.

Chapter
2

I’ve been watching the SCA fighters tackle each
other in the Blood and Roses Tournament for a couple of hours.
Which was interesting for a while, but now I’m getting antsy. There
doesn’t appear to be much else to do here at SCA events besides
watch armored fighters cream each other with swords and
sticks—except maybe wander around admiring other people’s garb
(which I’ve already done), or play a round or two of chess with
some old men in jester outfits over by the fold-out gym bleachers
(which I can’t do, because I never learned to play chess). There’s
supposed to be a medieval song-and-dance contest later today (which
I can’t enter, because I can’t sing and don’t know any medieval
dances). There’s another contest where people can show off their
homemade medieval handicrafts in exchange for ribbons and prize
money (which I can’t enter, because I don’t know how to sew or make
anything medieval.)

I was hoping Pegeen could show me around and maybe
help me find something medieval to do besides watch round after
round of fighters cream each other, but Pegeen has disappeared.
Knowing Pegeen, she’s probably off having Hot Medieval
Corset-Dominatrix sex with Arundel the Black somewhere.

Sigh.

I lean against the hard cinderblock wall of the gym
and move my body up and down against it, hoping to somehow use the
resulting friction to scratch at the corset rash that is fast
developing all over my back. A youngish bearded guy holding a large
wooden staff and wearing a red-and-black tunic decorated with
crossed swords announces the next pair of stick-fighters. I yawn,
expecting yet another set of nondescript, middle-aged office
workers in bulky, clanking garbage-can armor step into the
ring.

That’s when I see him.

Him.

The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen just walked in,
and he’s standing over by the drinking fountain.

My knight in shining armor, in fact.

And I mean
literally
shining armor. This
guy’s armor is so shiny and sexy, he could have stepped right out
of
Camelot.

Hell, he could be Heath Ledger stepping out of
A
Knight’s Tale
.

Hoo
baby
.

Is it hot in here?

The Society for Creative Anachronism just got a
helluva lot more fun.

Chapter
3

“All remaining first-round fighters, step forward!
Attention!” The bearded man in the red-and-black tunic is shouting
and banging his large wooden staff on the gym floor, creating
thumping echoes. “Calling the next set of fighters! Erick of
Flaming Gryphon! Step forward!”

“Present,” growls a heavyset middle-aged man in
blue-painted pickle-barrel armor. Instead of the wooden sword and
trash-can lid shield I’ve seen so many of the other fighters carry,
Erick of Flaming Gryphon wields a long wooden pole with a huge wad
of duct tape stuck to one end.

The man in red and black says something to Erick of
Flaming Gryphon, who nods. “In this round, Erick of Flaming Gryphon
will be fighting Polearm!” shouts the bearded man, who appears to
be some kind of stick-fighting referee.

Now the referee is checking something on a
clipboard. He starts thumping his staff again, but much louder and
faster this time, as if he has something special to announce.
Suddenly, dozens of colorfully costumed people appear out of
nowhere, clapping and cheering. I see Pegeen/Pegonia and Arundel
the Black emerge from the women’s locker room, rearranging their
clothing quickly so they can join the crowd. Arundel’s neck is
decorated with lipstick kisses; Pegeen/Pegonia’s with at least two
hickeys.

“And now, lords and ladies, the moment you’ve all
been waiting for,” shouts the referee. “Erick of Flaming Gryphon,
it is my supreme pleasure to inform you that your first fighting
opponent in the Blood and Roses Tournament is none other than the
Middle Kingdom Champion, Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar!”

The crowd cheers even louder. But Erick of Winged
Hills doesn’t look too happy. He starts arguing with the
referee.

That’s when I see him again.

Him.
The Heath Ledger clone who’s making my
panties damp. He’s coming this way.

Yowza.

The woman standing next to me nudges my shoulder.
“That’s Syr Phillip. He’s a Knight of the Midrealm, you know.”

The woman points to the gorgeous man I just saw
standing by the drinking fountain. So he’s not only gorgeous, but
an actual, bona fide
knight
, too? I’m not about to betray my
SCA newbie ignorance by asking her what a Knight of the Midrealm is
or how exactly a man goes about becoming one, although I get the
notion from this guy’s stellar appearance and the awe he seems to
inspire in everyone who sees him that being a Knight of the
Midrealm is something very, very special. So I decide to just play
it cool.

“Oh, right, a Knight of the
Midrealm
,
”
I stammer, as I stand transfixed by the sheer, pure beauty of this
man. “I must have thought he was from some other. . .place.”

“Oh no, dear. He’s from right here in our own
barony, Middle Marches. Syr Phillip’s a local boy—he lives in
Westerville, just outside Columbus. We’re
so
proud of
him!”

I can see why.

Syr Phillip is tall and blonde, with classic Nordic
features and chiseled cheekbones. He’s even got a perfectly formed
dimple in the exact middle of his chin. I’ve read about men having
chiseled cheekbones and perfectly formed chin dimples in romance
novels, but I never actually thought I’d see a real live set of
them—let alone on a man wearing a matching set of shining,
chiseled, dimple-reflecting metal armor.

And
what
a set of armor! No pickle barrels or
rubber garbage cans for Syr Phillip. This drop-dead gorgeous hunk
of modern-day knight is wearing shiny, polished steel that has been
form-fitted to his lean, hard-muscled body. He carries a gleaming
steel helmet in one hand, and a wooden sword in the other. I notice
that his sword has a delicately woven metal cage-guard around its
handle so that it fits the size of his gauntleted hand exactly. His
helmet has such a high shine on it you could practically use it as
a mirror. Covering his armor is a sleeveless tunic of blue and
white fabric emblazoned with a golden dragon clutching bundles of
blue arrows in its talons. Unlike the other fighters I’ve seen, Syr
Phillip also wears a long white leather belt knotted at the waist,
golden spurs on his ankles, and a heavy gold linked chain at least
an inch thick which hangs down over the studded metal collar of his
breastplate. I think maybe he gets to wear those fancy things
because he’s a knight, like they’re special badges or insignia or
something. Whatever their special meaning is supposed to be, Syr
Phillip carries them off beautifully, naturally—like Prince William
does a polo shirt.

Wow.

I have actually gone weak at the knees.

The woman standing next to me must have noticed,
because she turns to me and says, “Yes, Syr Phillip certainly is
handsome, isn’t he? And rumor has it he’s unattached.”

“Really?” I say. My voice is nothing but a
high-pitched squeak.

“Oh, that’s what they say. Syr Phillip was fighting
for Lady Rowan Blacksdowne of the Fenix Barony—that’s Cincinnati,
you know. But I heard they broke up a few months ago. And you’ve
probably already noticed that Syr Phillip is fighting without a
favor on his belt.”

Okay, what the hell does ‘fighting without a favor”
mean?

I give the woman next to me—who’s wearing something
that resembles a jewel-encrusted tent—a wide-eyed look in hopes
that maybe she’ll provide some context.

“You know dear, you might consider giving him your
own favor, just for today’s tourney so he isn’t fighting alone.
It’s such a shame for a Knight of the Midrealm to be fighting in a
tourney,
any
tourney, even a small one like this, without a
favor to carry. I’d give poor Syr Phillip a favor myself if I
weren’t married and old. But you’re young and petite and
nice-looking. I bet he’d be honored to take
your
favor, at
least for today.”

I still have no idea what a ‘favor’ is, or what it
has to do with armored men hurling wooden sticks at each other, but
something tells me I need to find out in the next five minutes. All
I do know is, I want to get close to that gorgeous, shiny-armored
hunk of man before he puts his helmet on and starts beating the
crap out of Erick of Flaming Gryphon.

And no matter how thrilled the crowd is at the
prospect of watching Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar fight him,
it looks like Erick of Flaming Gryphon isn’t too excited about the
prospect of fighting Syr Phillip. Erick’s still arguing with the
referee.

Erick of Flaming Gryphon and the referee finally
seem to come to some sort of agreement. The referee makes a mark on
his clipboard, and then begins to speak. “Oyez! Oyez!” he shouts,
as if he’s announcing Supreme Court justices instead of just
calling a stickfight. “Be it known that Erick of Flaming Gryphon
has forfeited this round to Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar! Syr
Phillip Reginald of Blackstar is winner of this engagement by
default! Be it also known that the next
three
fighters Syr
Phillip was scheduled to fight have
also
forfeited. Syr
Phillip Reginald of Blackstar therefore advances to the semifinal
round by default!”

The crowd goes wild. Erick of Flaming Gryphon throws
his duct-taped pole on the ground and stomps off, while Syr Phillip
takes a modest bow and waves.

So, nearly all the other fighters attending today’s
tournament would rather forfeit than risk going sword-to-sword with
Syr Phillip?

He’s
that
good?

Oh, wow. That’s
hot.

I feel myself going weak at the knees again. Not to
mention a little bit wet between the legs. I decide I really need
to find out what that “favor” thing means, so I can give whatever
it is to Syr Phillip, along with my undying love and devotion. I
swear, I could float right up to heaven on the sapphire-blue waters
of his eyes.

“Oh, so could
I,
dear,” the tent-wearing
woman next to me agrees. “Syr Phillip has beautiful eyes, yes
indeed he does.”

Oh, crud. Did I just say that out loud?

“That’s his real eye color too,” says the
tent-wearing woman, adjusting her blue cotton wimple. “No contact
lenses for him. Can you believe somebody can have eyes that color
naturally
?”

“No,” I mumble. “I mean, yes. I mean—he certainly
has lovely eyes. Yeah.”

Okay, so now I’m getting loopy. I always get loopy
when I’m aroused. And
sweaty
. My armpits are spewing pea
soup, and my pickle-barrel corset isn’t exactly providing good air
circulation, so it can only get worse. I hope I don’t start to
stink too badly, because that probably wouldn’t help me out too
much if I try to give Syr Phillip my favor—whatever
that
is.

Or in the spirit of historical accuracy, perhaps a
little body odor won’t matter that much. I start to ponder this,
but the booming voice of the bearded referee interrupts me.

“Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! I have an urgent
announcement! Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar wishes to make a
special request!”

The crowd starts to murmur.

Syr Phillip gently sets his polished helmet and
rattan sword down on the varnished gym floor, and then rubs his
gauntleted hands together. “Good gentles, I am afraid I have a bit
of a problem at today’s tourney.” Syr Phillip’s voice is a rich,
smooth baritone—instantly, my knees grow still weaker at the very
sound of it. “You see, I do not have a lady’s favor to carry with
me into battle.”

“I KNEW it!” the tent-wearing woman shouts in my
ear. She motions for me to approach Syr Phillip, but my feet are
rooted to the floor.

Syr Phillip is still talking. “Would one of the
beautiful unattached ladies here at the Blood and Roses Tournament
do me the great honor of bestowing her favor upon me?”

Dozens of women scream. A freckled redhead in
peasant garb faints. At least six different frumpy-looking
middle-aged ladies, all wearing tentlike garments and long cotton
veils, rush the basketball court. Most of them are waving small
pieces of embroidered fabric, while a skinny, younger one takes off
her white cotton veil and begins waving it in the air like a flag
of truce.

Syr Phillip looks like he doesn’t know whether to be
flattered, or to run.

The bearded referee pounds his staff again. “Ladies!
Ladies! One at a time
please!
Kindly step to the edge of the
fighting ring, and give Syr Phillip a chance to consider
all
your chivalrous offers.”

The screeching, fabric-toting women follow the
referee’s orders and go to stand along the sidelines of the gym. A
few of them throw their slivers of embroidery at Syr Phillip’s
feet.