Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (78 page)

Ah. Lady Ramona of the Chain-Smoking Snotty Attitude
is more like it.

Lady Ramona makes her way through the crowd to
modest applause, and she goes to sit in a folding chair on the
opposite side of the bear pit. She gives me a half-hearted wave. I
smile and wave back politely, and she rolls her eyes and looks
away.

The marshal steps into the middle of the fighting
ring. He motions for Syr Phillip and Master Melphus to step
forward.

“The title fight will consist of three rounds,” the
marshal shouts. “Each round will use a different weapon style.
First round will be sword and shield. Second round will be polearm.
Third and final round will be Florentine. The winner of the title
must win at least two out of three rounds. Are the two fighters
ready? Prepare to engage, please!”

Syr Phillip and Master Melphus put on their helmets
and pick up their swords and shields.

“Ready. . .Lay on!” The marshal moves to the edge of
the ring, watching both men closely. Syr Phillip and Master Melphus
circle each other slowly. Each looks reluctant to make the first
blow.

“C’Mon Melphus! Hit him! Hit the bastard!” shouts a
rough male voice from the rear of the room.

“Go Syr Phillip! We love you, Syr Phillip!” shouts a
middle-aged woman near the sidelines.

Syr Phillip does not move. He stands with his shield
raised and his sword down at his side, waiting for something.
Master Melphus shuffles on his huge feet, which are clad in dirty
black Reebok high-tops that have been partially covered with
mismatched pickle-barrel shoe guards, also painted black. I can see
his eyes narrow through the dirty metal grating across the front of
his ugly, horned helmet. All at once, Master Melphus raises his
sword, aiming for Syr Phillip’s head.

The whole crowd gasps, then holds its breath as
Master Melphus’ sword comes down. But instead of the clang of
wooden sword against metal helmet that we’re all expecting, at the
last possible moment, Syr Phillip raises his shield over his head
in an impossibly fast parry and simultaneously swings his own
wooden sword upward—hitting Master Melphus’ chin-guard in a swift,
underhanded move.

There is a resounding
crunch.

Master Melphus staggers backward with a grunt and
very nearly topples onto his rear, stopping himself at the last
second by using his sword as a crutch.

“Standard decapitation!” the marshal shouts. “Master
Melphus, you’re dead. Please die, milord.”

Master Melphus stamps his foot in frustration.
“Damn,” I hear him say under his breath, and then he drops his
sword and shield and keels over onto his back.

“The winner of sword and shield is Syr Phillip
Reginald of Blackstar!” the marshal shouts.

The crowd goes wild. After a few seconds on his
back, Master Melphus staggers upright and picks up his wooden
polearm.

“Do the fighters wish to take a break before the
polearm round?” asks the marshal.

Both men shake their helmeted heads in the
negative.

“All right then,” the marshal says, and notes
something on his clipboard. “Prepare for the polearm round,
milords!”

Baroness Barlonda nudges me on the shoulder. “Your
lord Syr Phillip is very good with sword and shield.”

“Yeah, uhh, I see that. Wow. I guess that’s why he’s
a knight, then?”

“Well, that’s one reason he’s a knight, yes. But
there’s a lot more to being a knight than just being a good
fighter. Oh——looks like they’re ready to start polearm! This round
will be very good to watch.” Baroness Barlonda squeezes my shoulder
and then rubs her hands together. She looks a little nervous.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Well, polearm is Syr Phillip’s weakest weapon
style. But it’s Master Melphus’ strongest one. So, there might be
an upset.”

“Uh huh,” I reply, feeling my anxious nausea rise
yet again. I’m not sure if I can stomach watching Syr Phillip lose
even
one
round.

The two men have taken up their polearms and are
waiting for the marshal’s signal. Syr Phillip grips his slick,
spotless polearm—a long piece of rattan painted blue and gold with
a neatly duct-taped piece of foam at its end—in both hands, holding
it across his body at a forty-five degree angle with the ground.
Master Melphus drags his own dented, unpainted, and almost
moldy-looking polearm behind him with one hand, lightly rolling it
back and forth between his fingers. It’s clear that Master Melphus
is in his element, while I notice that Syr Phillip’s knuckles have
gone almost white as he clutches his own weapon. He’s shifting back
and forth on his steel-covered feet, bouncing up and down like an
oversugared four-year-old.

Syr Phillip is scared. So am I.

The marshal raises his right arm. “Milords, prepare
to fight!”

Both men take their stances. Syr Phillip grips his
polearm even tighter than before.

“Lay on!”

This time, Syr Phillip doesn’t wait for Master
Melphus to strike. He raises his polearm above his head with both
hands, and rushes at the bigger, older man with all the speed that
his size and youth can afford him—aiming for Master Melphus’ ugly,
crooked-horned helmet. But Master Melphus deflects him easily, and
bellows out a sinister laugh.

“You won’t be winning this one, Phillip,” Master
Melphus grunts, his voice muffled by his helmet.

“No talking during the fight!” the marshal
shouts.

“We’re lucky that Lord Stephanus is marshaling
today,” Baroness Barlonda whispers. “He doesn’t put up with any
funny business.”

“That’s good,” I say, just as a resounding CLANG
jerks my attention back to the fighting ring. Syr Phillip is now
kneeling on his left leg, still holding his polearm.

I’m stunned. “What happened?”

“Looks like Syr Phillip took a blow to the leg,”
Baroness Barlonda explains. “SCA fighting rules stipulate that if
the marshal calls a blow to a limb has been taken, the fighter that
got hit then has to fight without using that limb.”

“Uh huh. So he gets to keep fighting, though? Syr
Phillip didn’t, uh, you know—
die
?” I ask, apprehensive.

“Not from a blow to the leg, dear, no. Master
Melphus had to die right away in the last one because he took a
blow to the head. You get hit in the head, that’s it. But arms and
legs, that usually just disables the fighter. Of course, the
marshal has discretion to say that a limb blow is fatal if it’s
hard enough, or lands near an artery.”

“Seems like there are a lot of rules,” I say,
transfixed by Syr Phillip’s skill at deflecting Master Melphus’
repeated polearm blows, despite having one disabled leg.

“Yes there are, dear,” Baroness Barlonda nods. “But
don’t feel bad about not understanding all of them at first. I’ve
been watching SCA fights for years and I’m still learning. Oh
dear—looks like Syr Phillip is about to lose an arm!”

Sure enough, Master Melphus whacks his grubby wooden
weapon hard against Syr Phillip’s shoulder. Syr Phillip grunts in
pain at the impact.

“Oh my! Is he hurt?” I stand up and start to walk
towards the ring, but Baroness Barlonda reaches out to stop me.

“He’ll be all right, dear. It’ll just be a nasty
bruise. Those rattan things they fight with don’t usually cause
more than that.”

“But you said Master Melphus broke somebody’s
kneecaps once!”

Baroness Barlonda smiles. “Well, that was a highly
unusual case,” she says. “And they changed the weapons rules after
that happened, too. That’s how the SCA finally got the PVC
grand-maul weapons banned, you know.”

Now I see that while Master Melphus is still
standing upright with the use of both his arms, Syr Phillip is down
on one knee and has to wield his nine-foot-long polearm with only
one hand—which is awkward to say the least.

“Oh, it doesn’t look like Syr Phillip’s doing well
this round at all, dear,” Baroness Barlonda says, squeezing my
shoulder again. “I was worried this might happen.”

“What happens if he loses this round?”

“Well, as long as he wins the Florentine round, then
he’ll still win the title,” Baroness Barlonda explains. “But I
think it could go either way. Syr Phillip is very good at
Florentine, but then again, so is Master Melphus.”

“What’s happens in the Florentine round?” I ask. It
sounds more like a pasta dish than a medieval weapon.

“Oh, you’ll see, dear. Just watch the fight and pray
with all your might that rotten old Master Melphus loses. I have
never, ever liked that dirty old man in the least bit.”

“I can see why,” I say, as Master Melphus bellows
out his sinister laugh again. He sounds like a cross between
Blackbeard the Pirate and a Great Dane.

“Quiet in the fighting ring!” the marshal scolds.
“That’s your last warning, Master Melphus, or you forfeit this
round. Understood?”

Master Melphus gives a single nod, although it’s
obvious he’s not happy about it.

“You may resume, milords!” shouts the marshal.

Master Melphus seems prepared to win this round
easily. With Syr Phillip minus one arm and one leg, Master Melphus
steps away from Syr Phillip, turns to the crowd and does a
one-armed victory gesture before he raises his polearm for the
final strike. He hoists his polearm high above his head, and pauses
for a brief moment before bringing it down so he can give another
gloating glance to Lady Ramona, who has risen from her folding
chair and is blowing Master Melphus sloppy kisses.

Syr Phillip sees his opportunity, and takes it.

In one swift motion, Syr Phillip swings up his own
polearm in a high half-circle, conking Master Melphus on the side
of the helmet when the older man is still accepting Lady Ramona’s
air-kisses.

Thunk.

“Standard decapitation!” shouts the marshal. “Master
Melphus, you are dead. Please die, milord.”

“No fuckin’ way, man,” Master Melphus growls. “No
fair. I was still talkin’ to my lady.”

“The fight was fully engaged, milord,” the marshal
insists. “Syr Phillip landed a perfectly legal move. A very good
one, I might add. You will be so kind as to die, Master Melphus.
Immediately. Or else I will have to revoke your SCA fight
authorization card.”

Master Melphus drops his polearm and pouts. “Fine,”
he growls, and keels over backward. Syr Phillip sets down his
weapon and stands up. He takes off his helmet and beams. His hair
is damp with sweat and he looks rugged, gritty—and absolutely
amazing.

“Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar, you have now won
two out of three rounds, making you the Blood and Roses Tournament
Champion. It is therefore your privilege to waive the Florentine
round, or to fight Master Melphus in a chivalric exhibition of the
Florentine fighting style.”

“With all due respect to Master Melphus, I waive the
Florentine round. Perhaps we shall engage each other in the
Florentine style at a future tourney. I thank Master Melphus
Mattingar the Hun for the privilege of matching at arms with him.”
With that, Syr Phillip gives Master Melphus, who is still lying
flat on his back, an exaggerated bow.

Baroness Barlonda’s husband, the herald, steps
forward. “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! Presenting the Blood
and Roses Tournament Champion, Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar!
Poohbah!”

“POOHBAH!” shouts the crowd, clapping wildly.

Baroness Barlonda nudges me. “You need to go join
your lord now, dear. He won the title for you. Go on.”

I gingerly step forward. Syr Phillip pulls the steel
gauntlet from his right hand and extends his sweaty palm out to me.
I take it, and nearly double over from the bolt of lighting that
runs from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head as our palms
touch.

Yow.

“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!” shouts the herald. “Lords and
ladies! This day Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar has fought to
save the honor of Lisa of Winged Hills! Long live the honor of Lisa
of Winged Hills! Poohbah!”

“POOHBAH!” shouts the crowd in one voice. Then a
chorus of cheers rises up, and the echoes it creates in the
gymnasium are deafening. The cheers continue for nearly two minutes
while Syr Phillip and I take bow after bow after bow.

When the crowd finally calms down and starts to
break up, Syr Phillip kisses me full on the mouth.

The feeling of Syr Phillip’s mouth on mine is so
electric, so powerful in its sheer sexuality, that I nearly
collapse.

“You look amazing, Lisa. You are so beautiful,” Syr
Phillip says when we finally come up for air. He fingers the frayed
piece of pink polyester hanging from his belt. “I was so proud to
carry this favor into battle today, Lisa. It was my honor.”

“You won for me,” I stammer. “Holy shit. Nobody’s
ever done anything like this for me before. I—I don’t even know
what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything.” Syr Phillip kisses me
again—this time with so much tongue that he’s probably taking a
complete fossil record of all my dental work.

When we come up for air again, Syr Phillip caresses
my cheek and then releases me from his crushing embrace. “Lisa, if
you’ll excuse me, I really need a shower and a change. And then I
think our presence is required at the feast. Were you planning on
staying for the Blood and Roses feast? The feast is supposedly
being held in a cave.”

“A
cave?”

“Yep, Lisa, a cave. So you can probably understand
that the seating is fairly limited. Do you have a ticket?”

“I have no idea,” I say. “My friend Pegeen said
something about a feast earlier, but I don’t know anything about it
or what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know where Pegeen is right now.
She sort of ditched me a couple of hours ago, so I don’t even know
if I have a ride home. I’m completely clueless. By the way,
Phillip, I think you should know that I’m clueless about everything
most of the time.”