Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (76 page)

“Are you saying that his mom and his sister were
murdered or something? And what the hell is the Pennsic War?”

“Pennsic is the SCA’s biggest event. It happens
every summer out in Pennsylvania—more than ten thousand people show
up for it every year. Or so I hear. Look, I don’t know if they got
murdered, or died in a car accident, or got hit by lightning, or
what. All I know is, I’ve heard a lot of weird rumors about it. And
word on the street is, you’re
never
supposed to make mention
of Syr Phillip’s sister, mother, or father in his presence. That
he’ll get really upset if you do. Syr Phillip—he’s kind of
mysterious.”

“I’ll say.”

Pegeen/Pegonia chews her pinky nail thoughtfully.
“Well Lisa, not mentioning the sister and mom I can see, because
they’re dead. But I don’t know what the deal is about him not
mentioning his dad. Especially since Syr Phillip’s dad is currently
the king of Aethelmarc.”

“What’s Aethelmarc?”

Pegeen sighs. “The SCA kingdom just east of Ohio.
Rumor has it Syr Phillip isn’t on speaking terms with his dad,
which is pretty odd, considering Syr Phillip’s a knight and so is
his dad, and his dad is also a sitting SCA king. And Syr Phillip
wouldn’t even be in the SCA at all if his dad hadn’t brought him
into it as a teenager. Supposedly they haven’t spoken for years.
But of course, that’s just a rumor.”

“You sure hear a lot of rumors, Pegonia.”

Pegeen/Pegonia smiles. “Yep, I’m finding that
getting all the good SCA gossip is one of my talents. Anyhoo,
remember what I said. Don’t bring up Syr Phillip’s sister, his mom,
and
definitely
not his dad. Otherwise, he’ll get upset. And
I probably wouldn’t mention that
your
parents died in a car
accident, either. Might seem like too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, I don’t know how accurate your information
is, Pegonia. Because he did sort of talk a little bit about all
three
of them when we were hanging out this morning. He also
told me about how his dad used to date the duchess who runs the
shepherd’s pie stand.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.” Pegeen/Pegonia rolls her
eyes and wraps her cloak around herself, exasperated. “I guess it’s
okay to talk about them if
he
brings them up. Just
you
don’t be the one to bring it up. How does that
sound?”

“I think I can do that. And what exactly is this
Pennsic War you keep talking about? Does the SCA actually have wars
with people?”

“How about I explain that at the feast tonight? That
is, if I’m done ditching you by then.” Pegeen/Pegonia starts off in
the direction of the parking lot. “Gotta go! Remember, I’m ditching
you until, tonight, maybe longer. At least until things calm down
about you snagging Syr Phillip in such a hurry. Who knows—maybe it
won’t be such a big deal if he ends up losing the tournament.”

“I thought you said he was the best fighter in the
kingdom,” I say.

“He is,” Pegeen/Pegonia replies curtly. “So you can
pretty much forget about him losing.”

With that, Pegeen/Pegonia disappears between the
rows of cars—or dragons, as they’re called in the SCA. As I watch
her go, I start feeling sick to my stomach. I don’t know if it’s
from the corset rash, the midday heat, or if I’m just afraid of
what’s in store for me the rest of the day.

I decide it’s probably a combination of all
three.

Chapter
6

I try to shake off my rising nausea by walking
briskly back towards Neil Armstrong High School. I have about an
hour until Syr Phillip fights in the final round, so I decide to
explore a bit and see if I can find some of the other favor ladies
I beat out for Syr Phillip’s attentions this morning—maybe then I
can apologize to them. I don’t know exactly what I should be
apologizing for—perhaps just for looking more like Syr Phillip’s
dead sister than they do. The more I think about it, the more I
believe that Syr Phillip’s designs on me are purely fraternal in
nature.

I think I recognize one of the women from this
morning’s favor-waving lineup leaning against the outside wall of
the high school. I notice that she’s chain-smoking, pulling her
next cig from a pack stored in her cleavage before she’s even done
with the first one. Cleavage storage must be standard practice in
the SCA, since I haven’t seen anyone carrying a purse or shoulder
bag around. That may prove a problem for me, given that even in
this super-tight corset getup I have almost no cleavage to speak
of.

“Excuse me, miss,” I say to the chain-smoking
woman.

“The proper way to address a woman in the Society is
‘milady’,” she hisses, and takes a deep drag on her noxious menthol
cigarette. “But you’re new here, so I guess you don’t know that, do
you?”

“That’s right, I don’t. I am definitely new around
here. And I just wanted to say, you know, that I hope we didn’t get
off on the wrong foot or anything this morning with the
favor-giving. You know, with Syr Phillip and all. Anyway, I just
wanted to come over and introduce myself. I’m Lisa.”

I hold out my hand. The chain smoker doesn’t take
it. She just looks down her nose at me. “I’m Lady Ramona of North
Fields,” she finally snarls. “I outrank you, you know. I have an
Award of Arms.”

“What’s an Award of Arms?”

“It means I outrank you, Lisa. I have the title of
Lady. The rest you’ll have to figure out for yourself.
Lisa
.” She says my name with a curled lip and a growl of
contempt. She stubs her cigarette out, turns on her heel, and goes
back inside.

I don’t know what to think. I guess Pegeen wasn’t
lying when she said I ruffled a few feathers among the single SCA
women. That much I can understand. But all this mumbo-jumbo about
ranks and titles, Crown Tournaments, and kings, queens, and
duchesses is getting pretty hard for me to follow. And I’ll readily
admit that I’ve never exactly been the sharpest knife in the
drawer. Between my rampant dyslexia and complete lack of public
speaking abilities, it’s a wonder I can function in adult society
at all.

A sharp jab in the shoulder startles me.

“Lisa? Are you Lisa?”

I turn around to see a striking redheaded woman of
about fifty. She’s wearing a voluminous purple costume that looks
like a cross between fairy-princess and Valkyrie Queen, along with
at least ten pounds’ worth of beads around her neck. A delicately
filigreed silver circlet decorated with pearls rests on her
forehead.

“Yes, I’m Lisa. Who are you?”

“I’m Baroness Barlonda. Syr Phillip said you were in
need of some new garb. I see you’re wearing that god-awful
polyester outfit Mistress Methylyn made over all those years ago.
That dress is cursed, you know.”

I scratch at my corset hives. “I know. It’s giving
me a rash.”

“That dress gives
everyone
who wears it a
rash—sometimes even an incurable one. We need to get you out of it
right away. You don’t want to wind up with eczema for the rest of
your life, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Baroness Barlonda reaches into her cleavage and
pulls out a measuring tape and a piece of tailor’s chalk. “Let’s
see now.” Baroness Barlonda measures my arms, waist, neck, and
bustline and makes some chalk marks on her measuring tape. “You’re
awfully flat-chested, aren’t you dear?”

“Yes, I know.” I guess a flat chest is pretty
noticeable in a community where virtually every woman stores stuff
between her boobs.

“Well, I think there’s something I can do to help
you out with that, dear.” Baroness Barlonda makes a few more
measurements. “Come out to my dragon with me. I happen to have some
things in my stock that will be just perfect for you. You can get
them at a ten-percent discount since you’re Syr Phillip’s
friend.”

“But I don’t have any money,” I protest.

“Oh, dearie, don’t you worry. Syr Phillip already
told me to send him the bill. And trust me, he can afford it. He’s
quite well off in the mundane world, you know. Pharmaceuticals or
something.”

We crisscross our way through the rows of battered
and rusty old “dragons” in the parking lot until we reach Baroness
Barlonda’s muddy-brown Aerostar. She opens the rear cargo doors to
reveal a miniature costume shop, complete with freestanding
clothing racks and a full-length mirror affixed to the inside wall
of the van.

“Wow,” I say. “Syr Phillip told me you sold garb at
events. Do you do a lot of your garb-sewing business out of your
car?”

“Dear, I do
all
of my garb-sewing business
out of my car. Hell, I practically
live
in this car, driving
from one event to the next, selling garb and taking orders. I do
some freelance theatrical work, too. Just costumed a production of
The Merchant of Venice
at Cincinnati Shakespeare Festival.”
Baroness Barlonda climbs into her van and starts rummaging through
clothes racks, tossing skirts and blouses, tunics and veils this
way and that. Finally she settles on a simple sky-blue gown with
silver trim that laces up the front and sides. The dress has the
same simplicity and quality as Syr Phillip’s dragon tunic, with
just enough decoration to look rich, but not enough to be gaudy.
The sleeves are long and drapey, and lined in a deep-blue velvet
that reminds me of the night sky in summer.

It’s
perfect.

“Here we are, dear,” Baroness Barlonda chirps. She
holds it out for me to take, but I’m struck dumb by the sheer
gorgeousness of the gown. I feel exactly like I felt when I wore my
fairy-tale princess costume out trick-or-treating in the second
grade—only this time, when I put this dress on, I’ll actually
look
like a fairy-tale princess, instead of a gawky
eight-year-old in a cheap plastic tiara and sequined leotard.

“It’s a wonderful dress, Lisa,” she beams. “Just
exactly right for you. I bet you’ve never seen anything quite like
it before, have you?”

“Only in the movies,” I finally manage. “It kind of
looks like what Liv Tyler wore in
Lord of the Rings
.”

Baroness Barlonda nods. “You’re absolutely right.
Liv Tyler wore what they call a Princess-cut gown in the movie, and
that’s exactly what this dress here is. The Princess-cut tunic
style was very popular in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, you
know. Simple, understated, yet also very sexy.” She holds the gown
up to me and smiles. “Oh, and this color will really bring out the
color of your eyes, too. And here, you’ll need an underdress.” She
pulls another dress off one of the clothing racks—a pale blue gown
of cotton muslin with long, tight sleeves and cuffs trimmed with
the same silver braiding as the overgown. “You wear this under the
main dress, and the little cuffs there and the hem will peek out
from underneath. And here, you’ll need a belt, and a headdress. And
shoes. Those shoes of yours have got to go, hon.”

I glance down, and remember for the first time that
I’m still wearing my dirty Keds with the red-white-and-blue laces.
“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Baroness Barlonda opens a small wooden trunk and
takes out a delicate hairnet made out of blue-and-silver yarn,
along with a stuffed cloth circlet that looks sort of like a
sky-blue sausage. “You’ll catch up your hair in this net, which we
call a snood. Then you put the roll on top to hold the snood steady
on your head.” She pulls out a silver rope belt that is many yards
long. “You’ll wear this looped around your waist several times.
I’ll help you with that—the way you tie the belt knot is tricky if
you’ve never done it before. What size shoe do you wear, dear?”

“Eight and a half.”

“Good. I’ve got plenty in that size.” Baroness
Barlonda pulls a set of delicate blue velvet slippers from the
trunk and hands them to me. “There now. I’ll shut these doors so
you can get changed. Let me know if you need help getting into the
dress, hon.” With that, Baroness Barlonda slams the rear doors of
the Aerostar shut.

I stare at the stunning gown Baroness Barlonda just
shoved in my hands, and finger its delicate, filmy silken fabric.
The silver trim around the overdress’ neckline, cuffs, and hem
turns out upon closer inspection to be not just simple trim, but
elaborate beadwork of hundreds of tiny silver-plated seed pearls,
each one individually sewn on by hand. I inspect the overdress and
find that it is completely lined in an even finer silk, and all the
seams are double-stitched—quite possibly by hand as well. Baroness
Barlonda is certainly a skilled seamstress, and I suppose that her
costumes don’t exactly come cheap, especially if she’s hiring
herself out to costume professional theatre productions. I have no
idea what handmade medieval costumes might sell for, but given the
quality of the fabric and delicacy of the beadwork, I figure it’s
got to be at least a few hundred bucks just for the overgown, and
maybe a few hundred more for the underdress, shoes, and
headdress—all of which are handmade in luxurious silk, brocade, and
velvet. I can almost see the dollar signs piling up as I run my
fingers over the rich fabrics and beadwork.

And if Syr Phillip has indeed offered to pay for all
this, maybe he doesn’t think of me as just a clone of his dead
sister. Maybe . . .

“Are you all right in there, hon?” I hear Baroness
Barlonda call from outside the van. “Do you need help getting into
the dress? It’s designed to be worn
without
a bra, by the
way.”

No worries there. With my super-flat chest I go
braless pretty much every day anyway—today included.

“No, I think I’m OK,” I call back. “I’ll let you
know if I need help.”

I peel off the hideous hot-pink gown and shudder
when I see the reddish-purple hives that have broken out all over
my backside. “Ewww,” I say, and toss it into a far corner of the
van. I decide it’s better to just pay the Gold Key booth the
eighty-five cents or so the dress is worth instead of giving it
back.