Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (77 page)

I pull the pale blue muslin underdress off its
hanger and try to figure out how to put the thing on. It laces up
the back with a white grosgrain ribbon pulled through about five
hundred silver grommets. The overdress is open at the sides and in
front, with even more ribbon lacing and more grommets. The lacing
on the overdress is woven into a complicated pattern that I don’t
understand.

There is absolutely no way I can put this on by
myself.

I open the van door a crack and poke my head out.
“Actually, I think I could use some help.”

Baroness Barlonda smiles a mile wide. “I thought so.
My designs aren’t exactly toss-on-and-go.”

****

Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from Baroness
Barlonda’s Aerostar a new woman.

When I first look in the full-length mirror mounted
on the van’s interior wall, I can’t believe what I see. I look like
a real princess. With my rich, beaded velvet gown and sparkling
headdress, I could have just walked off the set of
Lord of the
Rings.
Or
Braveheart.

Baroness Barlonda’s dress flatters me in every
possible way. And thanks to a sophisticated architecture of boning
and lacing, I even have something that resembles cleavage.

“You’re stunning,” Baroness Barlonda says, fluffing
out my gown’s velvet train. And she’s right. I’m so floored by my
reflection that I can’t even speak, so I just nod my head in
agreement.

“Look at how that blue brings out your eyes, hon.
Gorgeous.”

I look in the mirror and see Baroness Barlonda is
right. My eyes look like bright blue searchlights.

“I think it’s just about time for Syr Phillip’s
final tournament bout to start,” Baroness Barlonda says as she
makes a final adjustment to my corset strings. “How about you go
make a grand entrance as his favored lady? I can even have the
herald announce you. The herald’s my husband, you know.”

“Okay, sure,” I say against my better judgment. I’ve
never made a grand entrance anywhere. I hope I don’t screw it
up.

“And what did you do with that horrible loaner
dress, Lisa?” Barlonda asks. “We’ll need to return it to the Gold
Key booth. And how about these dirty old sneakers of yours? Would
you like me to hold onto them for you, or toss them?” She holds out
my filthy sneakers with one finger, as if they’re diseased.

“Oh, I think you can just toss them,” I say
casually. “I ahhm, wasn’t planning on keeping them anyway.” A lie,
of course.

“Fine,” Baroness Barlonda says, and puts the
battered shoes in a garbage bag. “And the Gold Key dress? Do you
have it?”

“Uhhh, no. I kind of—threw that old pink dress away
somewhere.” I have no idea where the cursed thing landed when I
tossed it aside a few minutes ago. Baroness Barlonda’s van seems to
have swallowed it. “Will I get in trouble for that with the Gold
Key people? I hope not, because I really don’t think anyone should
wear that dress ever again.”

Baroness Barlonda laughs. “I’ll take care of it. I’m
good friends with the Gold Key chatelaine, Mistress Mathilda. I’ll
just give her a couple of old tunics from my stock in exchange. Now
I think it’s about time for you make your grand entrance.”

We weave our way through the rows of “dragons” back
to the main high school building. When we get to the gym doors,
Baroness Barlonda motions for me to stay behind. She steps inside
and I see her whisper something to a portly middle-aged man wearing
a green-and-yellow tunic emblazoned with two crisscrossed yellow
trumpets. After a moment, he nods, and Baroness Barlonda waves a
signal for me to come in. “Walk in slowly,” she whispers.

I obey, walking one step at a time—the same way I
did at high school graduation.

A booming voice echoes in my ears. “OYEZ! OYEZ!
OYEZ! Lords and ladies! Now entering the fighting pavilion is the
Kingdom Champion’s most favored lady, Lisa of Winged Hills! Be it
known that Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar, Knight of the
Midrealm and current Middle Kingdom Champion, fights to save the
honor of Lisa of Winged Hills! Poohbah! Poohbah!”

“POOHBAH!” shouts the crowd, applauding wildly.
“POOHBAH!”

What the hell does ‘poohbah’ mean?

“POOHBAH!” the herald shouts back at the crowd. I
notice he’s wearing the same style silver, pearl-decorated circlet
as Baroness Barlonda. I guess that means he’s a baron, too. “Long
live the honor of Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar’s most favored
lady!” he shouts.

The crowd starts applauding and shouting again. But
not everyone is clapping. I glance to my right and spy a gaggle of
unattached women leaning against the wall. I recognize several of
them from the favor-giving contest this morning—along with the
skinny, blue-veiled chain-smoker Lady Ramona of North Fields, who
is giving me the evil eye. Most of the other women fold their arms
across their chests and won’t even glance in my direction.

I guess they really do hate my guts.

But if the roaring cheers of the crowd are any
example, I’m pretty popular with the rest of the Middle Kingdom.
The crowd parts to form an aisle leading to the bear pit, and as I
walk up the aisle, a few people toss silk flowers at me that land
at my feet. I want to bend over and gather them up for a bouquet,
but I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll wet my pants.

I’m contemplating whether I want to risk soiling
Baroness Barlonda’s beautiful dress for a few posies when I see Syr
Phillip.

And that’s when I really
do
wet my pants.

Well, almost. I manage to hold it at the last
second, but doing that just makes my knees start knocking.

Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar is gorgeous. Heath
Ledger, eat your heart out.

Syr Phillip has changed into an even more
resplendent tunic and even shinier set of armor than he had on this
morning. He’s carrying his polished helmet in one hand, and his
sword in the other.

And he’s staring straight into my eyes.

Chapter
7

I rush up to Syr Phillip, almost tripping over my
train. He sets down his sword and helmet and takes both my
hands.

“Holy mackerel,” he says, his voice breathless. “You
look amazing. Baroness Barlonda outfitted you well.”

“Yeah, she’s really nice,” I say. “But these clothes
must be super-expensive—“

Syr Phillip touches his finger to my lips. “Hush. I
already told you—I won’t have the lady I’m defending in battle
running around in bad garb. Don’t worry about the cost. Baroness
Barlonda is giving me a big discount.”

“Are you pretty good friends with her then?”

“Yes, and also the fact that you’re the center of
attention this afternoon gives her costuming business lots of free
advertising.”

“Oh, right,” I say, giggling.

“Why are you laughing?”

“I don’t know. It’s just—it’s just I never pictured
this happening to me today.”

Syr Phillip squeezes my hands again. “Neither did
I,” he says, and gives me a light kiss on the cheek.

Even that light, airy kiss is flat-out
amazing.
The electric surge of arousal goes up and down my
spine again, and my knees turn into tapioca pudding. I almost fall
over. Syr Phillip puts his hand on the small of my back to steady
me, and at his touch I feel the electricity surge up my spine and
down the backs of my legs again.

“Are you all right, Lisa?”

“Oh, I’m fine. More than fine, actually. But I think
I better go sit down.” I fan myself with my palms. “Is it warm in
here?”

“Yes, I think it is a little warm in here,
actually.” Syr Phillip wipes his brow with a towel. “Although
you’re definitely the hottest thing in sight.” He squeezes my left
hand, tighter this time, and gives me a sultry glance.

Whoa
. Maybe he does think of me as more than
just a clone of his dead sister.

“They’re about to start the fight, Lisa. You’ll need
to get a safe distance from the ring. I’ve saved you a seat over
there.” Syr Phillip points to a delicately carved wooden chair on
the sidelines. It looks like a miniature throne. I somehow manage
to make my way over to it and sit down without my knees
buckling.

The herald is gearing up for another big
announcement. “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!” he shouts. “And now entering the
fighting forum is Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar’s challenger
for the Blood and Roses Tournament title! Lords and ladies! Please
welcome the winner of today’s Loser’s Bracket, Master Melphus
Mattingar the Hun!”

The crowd applauds, but not nearly as loud as they
did for Syr Phillip. The crowd also parts in anticipation of the
fighter’s entrance, but Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun is nowhere
to be seen.

The herald clears his throat. “Oyez! Master Melphus
Mattingar the Hun! Your presence is required in the Fighting Hall!
Please appear immediately!”

The crowd hushes in anticipation, and turns its
collective head toward the gym doors. Again, no one enters.

The referee in the red-and-black tunic I saw earlier
whispers something to the herald, who nods. “Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!” the
herald shouts. “Be it known to all within hearing that if Master
Melphus Mattingar the Hun does not appear within the next three
minutes, the Blood and Roses Tournament title will go to Syr
Phillip Reginald of Blackstar by forfeit!”

Some members of the crowd cheer this news.

“Don’t count on it,” a gruff male voice growls from
the back of the gym. The crowd turns to gawk as a huge man in
monstrous black leather armor shoves his way past stunned
onlookers.

Master Melphus, whose battered, metal-studded
leather armor makes him look like a relic from a Motley Crue video,
finally lumbers into the fighting ring, trailed by an entourage of
several scrawny young men who carry various pieces of rattan
weaponry. He also wears a studded white leather sash diagonally
across his torso. One of his scrawny attendants hands Master
Melphus a dented black helmet, which has two cow horns welded onto
it. The cow horns aren’t exactly welded on straight, either—one is
attached to the crown of the helmet, with its point facing up,
while the other is affixed to the left side, its point facing
down—making the helmet look like the head of a slightly deformed
Viking. The rest of his attire pretty much matches the helmet—his
breastplate has a black feather boa attached to its collar, and his
leg armor appears to be made of studded Naugahyde that might have
been ripped off a 1970s sectional couch.

The best part of all is Master Melphus’ shield—it’s
painted with a tri-colored coat of arms in purple, pink, and black,
and emblazoned in the middle where one might expect to see a dragon
or a lion, is a Care Bear.

Sunshine Bear, to be exact.

“I can’t believe he ever got that Care Bear
coat-of-arms approved for official heraldic registration,” I hear
Baroness Barlonda seethe from a few steps behind me. “My husband
voted against it, but he got outvoted at the Laurel level. Care
Bears aren’t period, you know.”

“Uh huh,” I mutter. “Why would he want to paint a
Care Bear on his shield, anyway?”

“No reason. It’s just a typical Master Melphus thing
to do. He’s a bit eccentric, you know.”

Master Melphus removes one of his arm plates and
begins flexing his left bicep for the crowd. There is a purple
Goofy tattoo on his bulging bicep. And Goofy is engaging in an
obscene act.

“Yeah, he certainly looks like an odd type,” I say,
averting my eyes from Master Melphus’ X-rated muscle. “Is he any
good at fighting?”

Baroness Barlonda leans in to whisper in my left
ear. “Actually, dear, he’s as good as any knight in the Middle
Kingdom. As good as Syr Phillip, even—maybe better. But Melphus is
a Master-at-Arms, not a Knight, because he’s a member of the Great
Dark Horde. Hordesmen refuse to swear fealty to any one kingdom,
which is required for knighthood. And he’s also kind of odd, as you
can see.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” I say.

“Plus, Melphus doesn’t always fight fairly,”
Baroness Barlonda says, her voice raising slightly. “He fights
dirty if he can get away with it. That’s usually how he wins. But
the marshal here is very good, so I don’t think he’ll get away with
any of those shenanigans today. I hope not, at least, for Syr
Phillip’s sake.”

This statement makes me a little nervous. “Why? Has
Master Melphus ever hurt anybody?”

Baroness Barlonda blinks several times. “Yes, in
fact he has. He was banned from SCA fighting for five years when he
broke someone’s kneecaps with an illegal move several years ago. He
just came off his ban and got re-authorized last month. This is
Master Melphus’ first tournament since coming off his ban, and
something tells me he is going to make a bit of a spectacle of
it.”

“I think you’re right,” I reply, just as Master
Melphus starts pounding on his breastplate and bellowing like a
donkey in heat. After about forty seconds of that, he raises his
hands over his head, clasps them, and then starts shaking them in
the victory gestures typical of a WWE pro wrestler. Several people
in the crowd start to boo.

“Doesn’t look like he’s too popular,” I say, but
before Baroness Barlonda has a chance to reply, her husband the
herald starts shouting again.

“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! The final round
of the Blood and Roses Tourney is about to begin! But before we
start, our marshal Lord Stephanus wishes to request that Master
Melphus Mattingar the Hun proclaim the name of the lady whose honor
he defends today!”

Master Melphus whispers something to the marshal,
who then whispers something to the herald. The herald nods and
proclaims, “Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun today fights to save
the honor of Lady Ramona of North Fields! Long live the honor of
Lady Ramona of North Fields!”