Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (74 page)

Okay, I think I have this “favor” thing figured out
now.

Apparently, a “favor” is nothing more than a piece
of fabric owned by the wearer, which a knight carries onto the
battlefield as a symbol of his far-away beloved. Or, in the case of
the SCA, it’s a piece of fabric carried into a stickfight in a
rural high school gymnasium. I suppose that these SCA fighters
usually carry their girlfriends’ favors, but in the absence of an
actual girlfriend, it looks like
any
unattached woman’s
favor will do. And judging by their Beatlemania-like screams and
swoons, there are at least a dozen ladies here today more than
willing to be just that
any
woman.

This gives me an idea.

I reach down and tear a sequined swatch from the hem
of my borrowed gown.

“Good gentles! Good gentles! Is there any other fair
maiden among us who wishes to offer her favor to Syr Phillip
Reginald of Blackstar?”

“I do! I do!” I wave my swatch of sequined polyester
and go line up by the other giddy women. I notice that Syr
Phillip’s face lights up when he sees me, and his head turns to
watch my approach.

“You GO girl!” I hear Pegeen/Pegonia shout from
somewhere in the back of the gymnasium.

“Are there any other favor offers?” the referee
shouts. There are none. “Then Syr Phillip shall choose his
lady!”

The crowd cheers.

Syr Phillip looks up and down the line of giddy,
fabric-waving women, and his stunning sapphire eyes come to rest on
me. He walks straight up to me without even a glance in the other
women’s direction. Just before he gets to me, he goes down on one
knee and gently takes my hand. The touch of his skin against mine
is pure electricity.

“My dear lady, it would be my supreme honor to carry
your favor into battle this day. Will you grant me this honor?”

I am too overwhelmed to speak. My mouth has suddenly
gone as dry as wool. I just nod and hand him my bit of torn fabric,
which Syr Phillip takes carefully, and then holds up like a
treasure for the crowd to see. Everyone cheers.(Well, everyone but
the dozen or so women Syr Phillip just rejected, that is).

“What is your name, milady?” Syr Phillip asks
softly.

“Uhh, I don’t know,” I stammer, embarrassed.

Syr Phillip grins. His teeth are strong, white, and
even. “You don’t know your own name, milady?”

“Um, well, I
do
know my name. It’s just
that—umm, I don’t have one of those fancy medieval names yet. And
I’m, uhhhh, sort of new around here—”

Seeming to sense my giddy anxiety, Syr Phillip
softly strokes my hand. “Your mundane name is fine if you don’t
have a SCA name yet.”

“Uhhh, what’s ‘mundane’ mean?” I am feeling dumber
by the second.

“’Mundane’ means ‘ordinary’ in SCA lingo,” Syr
Phillip explains, without even the slightest hint of condescension.
“Modern. Non-medieval. Normal. Everyday. What’s your
everyday
name?”

“Uhhh, Lisa. Lisa Smith. See, it’s kind of a boring
name—”

Syr Phillip kisses my hand. “Lisa Smith, I am Syr
Phillip Reginald of Blackstar. It is my supreme honor and privilege
to meet you this day.”

“Wow,” I mumble. “Really?”

“Oh yes, indeed, Lisa. It is always a pleasure to
make the acquaintance of a beautiful lady. Lisa is a period name as
well, did you know that? Italian. Like the
Mona Lisa
.”

“No, I uhhh, I guess I didn’t realize that,” I say.
“Wow.”

I should really find another word to say today
besides
wow.
It probably isn’t very medieval.

“Where are you from, my lady Lisa?”

“Dayton. Well, Miamisburg, actually, which is a
suburb of Dayton, but—“

“Ah,” Syr Phillip nods. “Then you reside in the
shire of Winged Hills, which is part of the Barony of Flaming
Gryphon. Thus, for today you shall be known as Lisa of Winged
Hills.”

“Umm, okay,” I say. I’m so nervous it’s getting hard
to speak.

“Pardon me a moment, milady,” Syr Phillip says. He
slips my strip of torn fabric around his shiny white belt, ties it
into a double knot, and then goes to whisper something to the
bearded referee, who makes a note on his clipboard. Then the
referee starts pounding his staff again.

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! Be it known
that Syr Philip Reginald of Blackstar, Knight of the Midrealm and
Middle Kingdom Champion, now fights to save the honor of Lisa of
Winged Hills!”

The crowd goes wild. I see Pegeen/Pegonia give me a
thumbs-up, and I feel my face go as hot-pink as my borrowed corset
gown.

Syr Phillip nudges me. “Now it’s official,” he says.
“Would you like to get some lunch?”

Chapter
4

Syr Phillip has spirited me away to the football
field behind Neil Armstrong High School, where a number of SCA
“merchants” have set up shop on folding tables and blankets spread
on the ground.

“Gemstones! Jewelry findings! Bells!” shouts a
middle-aged man in a turban. The merchant has spread out a Persian
blanket on the dewy spring grass to display his wares, which range
from cheap sew-on glass rhinestones to bead necklaces made of
semi-precious stones. “Decorate your garb with the finest gems! How
about you, miss? Would you like some rhinestones to go on that
sparkly little gown of yours?”

“No thanks,” I say as Syr Phillip and I wade past
him through the rest of Merchant’s Row. “The gown’s borrowed.”

“So, Lisa, is this your first event?” Syr Phillip
asks.

“Umm, yeah. How could you tell?”

“Well, it’s your costume, actually. That’s from the
Gold Key booth, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is,” I say, embarrassed. “How did you
know?”

“Well, the Gold Key booth costumes generally are
pretty awful.”

I gasp. “You think this dress makes me look
awful?”

Syr Phillip laughs. “Oh, you’re taking it the wrong
way,” he says. “I’m just saying that your Gold Key dress there has
a bit of a checkered history in the Ohio SCA. I’m surprised that
thing can’t walk around by itself. Do you realize that
same
dress has been worn by just about every young, thin woman ever to
come to her first SCA event held anywhere in the state of Ohio in
the past twenty years?”

“How do you know that?”

Syr Phillip laughs again. “My sister and I joined
SCA when we were teenagers in the mid-eighties. Our parents got
involved first, and then they dragged us to a few events. My sister
wore that very same dress you’re wearing to her first event when
she was fifteen. To Harvest Day in Dayton, back in 1983. It’s a
made-over early 80s prom dress.”

I giggle. “Really?”

“Yes. I hadn’t remembered that until I saw you in
it.” I see a dark shadow pass over Syr Phillip’s face. “Like you,
my sister was also naturally very thin and petite. Just about your
size exactly.” Syr Phillip’s voice suddenly sounds very sad.

“Is something wrong?”

Syr Phillip turns to me and takes both of my hands.
“My sister died many years ago—not long after she wore that dress
to her first event, in fact. She and I were very close when we were
teenagers—we were only a year apart in age. I—I haven’t thought
about her in a long time, and seeing you in that dress, and seeing
how much you remind me of my sister, Holly—well, when I saw you
back in the gymnasium, waving that little strip of fabric, I
experienced some wonderful memories of Holly that I hadn’t had in a
long time. I can’t believe that the Gold Key folks are still trying
to pass off that made-over prom dress as garb, even after all of
these years. I knew as soon as I saw you were wearing it that I had
to carry your favor into battle today, as a tribute to Holly.” Syr
Phillip fingers the frayed strip of hot-pink polyester looped
through his belt like a precious treasure. “You’ve given me a
wonderful gift, Lisa. I’ve tried to forget my sister and how much
fun we used to have at SCA events when we were young. Seeing you in
that old dress—well, I guess it just took me back.”

“Umm, you’re welcome,” I murmur, breathless. I feel
the wind fall out of my sails a little. Here I was thinking that
Syr Phillip found me ravishingly attractive compared with the
mostly middle-aged frumps who’d been offering him their favors,
when the whole time it’s really because I remind him of his
sister?
I’m not sure that’s a good thing, romantically
speaking. He might think that dating me would be incestuous or
something.

Syr Phillip squeezes my hands again, and despite the
weird dead-sister reference, I feel an electric jet of arousal
shoot straight up my spine. My very
itchy
spine. This
plastic pickle-barrel corset-thing is giving me a major case of
eczema. I start scratching the small of my back.

“Is that dress giving you a rash?” Syr Phillip asks,
the sad look falling away from his face.

“Umm, yeah, actually I think it is.”

Syr Phillip laughs so hard he almost doubles over.
“It gave Holly a rash too, as I recall. She was practically taking
baths in calamine lotion for a week after Harvest Day. I’d
forgotten about that, too. I think that dress might be infected
with poison ivy or something. Either that or Mistress Methylyn put
a curse on it.”

“What?”

Syr Phillip loops his arm through mine. “Let’s take
a walk over to the far side of the football field and I’ll tell you
that story on the way. There’s a shepherd’s pie stall over there—we
can get some lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved after
having all those fighters forfeit their duels to me.”

I have to laugh at this. “So nobody will fight you
willingly? Are you really that good?”

“Well, that’s what the Middle Kingdom royalty keeps
telling me. First they made me a knight, then they made me Kingdom
Champion. I guess that means I’m pretty good. Plus, I just got
invited to fight in Crown Tournament again—“

“Whoa—wait a minute.” I stop in my tracks. “Royalty?
Kingdoms? Crown Tournament? You have to remember, I’m the new girl
around here. I don’t know what any of this stuff means yet. Can we
just stick to lunch for right now? I need some more time to get my
head around all these SCA rules and government stuff.”

“Sure. We’ll stick with lunch for right now. I
really shouldn’t brag about my knighthood, anyway. It’s
unchivalrous of me.”

“Unchivalrous? Huh?”

Syr Phillip laughs again. “Pardon me, that’s SCA
language. It means against the laws of chivalry.”

I’m still clueless. “Why does everyone keep talking
about chivalry? Is that important in the SCA?”

“Oh yes, it’s very important, milady,” Syr Phillip
says, and his voice takes on the deep, rich stylized baritone I
first heard back in the gym. “Chivalry is the highest and most
important art of the Current Middle Ages. I’ll explain chivalry and
courtly love to you later, along with all that
rules-and-SCA-government stuff. But for now, I’ll tell you a little
more about the history of that hideous—no offense—dress you’re
wearing.”

“None taken,” I say. We start walking along the
asphalt running track toward the refreshment stand, where a long
queue of tunic-wearing men and women are lining up for a
pseudo-medieval lunch of meat pies and Diet Coke. “So,
this—
thing
used to be a prom dress, huh? Funny, I thought it
was a reject from the old Carol Burnett show.”

Syr Phillip has another fit of laughter. “Actually,
you might be right on that one. All I know is, Mistress
Methylyn—she used to be a pretty big leader in the Ohio baronies of
the Middle Kingdom about twenty years ago—she made it out of some
thrift-store reject in the early eighties. Rumor has it Methylyn
was also a practicing witch. I don’t know if that’s true, but
almost everyone who has borrowed that dress ever since has gotten a
nasty rash from it—a lot of folks think Mistress Methylyn put some
kind of witch’s curse on the thing.”

The itch from my corset rash is getting a lot more
intense now. I scratch it again, but I just make it worse.

“I think it’s probably time we found you some new
garb,” Syr Phillip says. “I know a good seamstress—Baroness
Barlonda. She usually has a merchant booth set up with some
ready-to-wear tunics at these events. We can look for her after
lunch.”

“But I didn’t bring any money with me or anything,”
I protest. “My friend Pegeen—she just sort of dragged me here this
morning. I barely had time to get dressed before we left, let
alone—”

“Don’t worry, it’s my treat. I won’t have the lady
I’m defending in battle wearing a rash-producing gown, and a
hideous one at that.” Syr Phillip punches me lightly in the
shoulder.

Punches me in the shoulder, just like a brother
would a sister. So much for the possibility of romance with this
dreamy, chisel-faced knight.

We finally make it to the shepherd’s pie stall. A
round, vivacious-looking woman with a heavy, crown-like circlet
resting on her forehead is behind the counter of the
wood-and-corrugated-metal concession stand, which probably doubles
as a hamburger-and-hotdog joint when Neil Armstrong High School
holds football games here.

“Hiya, Syr Phillip,” the woman bubbles in a heavy
Southern accent. “Nice to see ya. I hear you whupped all your
opponents’ butts this mornin’.”

“Good morrow, Duchess Danyel,” Syr Phillip says. “I
didn’t ‘whup’ anyone’s butts, exactly. They all forfeited.”

“That’s what I mean!” Duchess Danyel booms, and
nearly doubles over laughing. Her crown, which is decorated with
brass maple leaves set in groups of three, almost falls off her
natty gray head. “They’re so afraid of bein’ whupped by your sword,
they just whup themselves! So, what’ll y’all have this
mornin’?”

“I’d like a slice of your best meat pie for myself
and my lady friend here. And a clove cake for dessert. And two Diet
Cokes.”