Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (82 page)

“I suppose so,” Syr Phillip says. “Only they don’t
generally have drunken Dungeons and Dragons tournaments and
all-night
Monty Python
DVD marathons at after-proms. At
least, they didn’t at mine.” Syr Phillip pauses, licks his lips,
and readjusts his tunic. “Many SCA couples first become, ahhhh,
introduced
at post-revels, you know.”

Is Syr Phillip aroused?

Maybe just a little. My brain is telling me that I’m
not quite ready to go all the way with him yet, but my crotch is
saying the exact opposite. In fact, my crotch is not-so-subtly
reminding me that I am a female in the presence of a very, very
virile male.

“Well, I guess I could go to the post-revel for a
little while, as long as Pegeen can come along. She’s my ride back
to Dayton, you know.”

Syr Phillip’s face lights up, and he does a seated
half-bow and knightly flourish with his left arm. “It would be an
honor and a pleasure to escort you to the post-revel, milady. And
if Pegeen disappears into the arms of her new lord Arundel this
evening, as I think is quite likely, I would be happy to fly you
back to Winged Hills in the morning on the back of my large red
dragon, which bears the strange magical name of Lincoln
Navigator.”

This cracks me up. “Fly me back in the
morning
, Phillip? That’s a little optimistic, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I wasn’t implying anything untoward, Lisa,
believe me. These post-revels can go on for quite a long time
whether or not. . .ahem. . .sex is involved. Plan on being awake,
or a least semi-conscious, for at least the next eighteen
hours.”

“Are you
sure
that we’ll be there that long?”
I ask, playfully batting my eyelashes at him.

“Oh, at least,” Syr Phillip says boldly as he
stretches himself up to his full, rippled-muscle height. “What time
do you need to be at work on Monday? Depending on how things go,
you might want to call in sick.”

****

After a last-minute run to a packaged-goods store,
Syr Phillip and I arrive at a shabby tri-level house on a dark,
dead-end street that backs up to an overgrown cornfield. A portion
of the tri-level’s aluminum siding is peeling away at one corner,
and the weedy, patchy lawn is scattered with a few rusty,
little-used gardening implements. A plastic daisy windcatcher leans
to one side just beside the front door, and a rusty old pickup with
a faded “BUSH/QUAYLE ‘88” bumper sticker sits in the driveway. A
typical rural Ohio homestead, if a little rough around the
edges.

“Whose house is this?” I ask.

“Dunno,” Syr Phillip replies, scratching his head.
“This is the address the post-revel map gave. Although it looks
vaguely familiar to me for some reason.”

“Looks like a pretty average Ohio house,” I
offer.

“That’s not what I mean,” Syr Phillip says as
Barlonda and Grizzly pull up in their battered Aerostar. “I think
I’ve been here before. To this
specific
house. I don’t
remember exactly when, though, but my gut is telling me it was
another post-revel. A post-revel where I’m sure I was probably
totally wasted.”

“Does everybody get totally wasted at these things?”
I haven’t hit too many alcohol-soaked gatherings since I got out of
college. I’m not sure I’m still in shape for a wild all-night house
party, pseudo-medieval or not.

“Well, the younger folks, the college-aged SCA folk,
definitely do,” Syr Phillip explains. “I know
I
did. There
were a lot of really crazy house parties back when I was active in
the Ohio State SCA chapter, and a lot of the SCA folk at today’s
event are Ohio State people. I swear, I
know
I’ve been to
this house before—it’s going to bother me all night if I don’t
remember why.”

Barlonda and Grizzly tumble out of their Aerostar,
lugging a case of Busch Light. Grizzly is already slurring his
words, and Barlonda smells like a beer factory.

“Are weeesh-sure thatsh shish ish zah rightsh
househ?” Barlonda oozes, nearly tripping over her skirts.

The tri-level’s front storm door opens with a
squeak. A dark-haired young woman in a T-shirt and cutoffs leans
out and waves at us with one hand; she’s holding a wine-cooler
bottle in the other. The front door leaks the thumping,
bass-amplified blast of Queen’s “We Are The Champions.” I vaguely
recognize the dark-haired woman from the favor-granting contest
this morning, but without her medieval garb on I can’t place which
one she is.

The dark-haired young woman flings the front door
wide. It hits the shabby aluminum siding with a clang, and sticks.
The young woman waves at us again and then turns her smooth-haired
head back over her left shoulder.

“Hey everybody!” she calls out into the dark, noisy
interior of the house. “The
Champion’s
here!”

At this announcement, Freddie Mercury’s recorded
voice suddenly gets a lot louder, followed by some raucous
cheers.

The dark-haired young woman bounds up to Syr
Phillip, still carrying her half-empty Bartles and Jaymes bottle.
Shoving right past me, she wraps both her arms around him, wine
cooler still in hand, and plants a drippy tongue-kiss square on his
mouth before he can protest.

In fact, Syr Phillip doesn’t protest at all. To my
shock and disgust, Syr Phillip starts kissing her back, and pretty
soon the woman’s hands have found Phillip’s ass—and a moment later,
his crotch.

“Uhhhh—Syr Phillip? Excuse me, ummm, miss,” I blurt,
my voice shaking a bit. “But Syr Phillip is
my
date, and
he’s carrying
my
favor, and—“

The dark-haired woman unwraps herself from Syr
Phillip’s now heaving upper body and smiles at me. “Hi Lisa,” she
says, slurring her words a bit

Then I recognize her.

Syr Phillip’s chiseled features have gone deep red.
He wipes some sweat from his temple and says meekly, “Lisa, I
believe you already know Lady Ramona of North Fields. Mundanely
known as Susan Northfelder.”

I give him a single nod and fold my arms tightly
across my chest.

Syr Phillip’s forehead is sweating. “Lady Ramona—I
mean, Susan—and I are old friends. From—from college,” he finally
manages. Lady Ramona/Susan just smirks.

“That’s funny, because you didn’t exactly act like
old friends this afternoon at the tournament,” I seethe. I give
Lady Ramona/Susan a hard stare. She just shrugs and guzzles the
dregs of her wine cooler.

Syr Phillip runs a nervous hand through his tousled
blonde hair and taps both his feet, searching for an explanation.
“Lady Ramona can be quite. . .friendly when she’s been
drinking.”

“Obviously.”

Barlonda and Grizzly step between us. “Lisa, hon,
something you need to understand about SCA folk is, we’re all just
very affectionate with each other,” Barlonda explains, her voice
suddenly losing most of its drunken sludge. “Especially at
post-revels.
Everybody
snuggles. It doesn’t mean anything.
Syr Phillip is still your dedicated knight and lord. Aren’t you,
Phil?”

Syr Phillip manages an awkward bow. “Most
definitely.”

Lady Ramona/Susan pulls a pack of Kools out of her
back jeans pocket and lights one up. “Yeah, chill out.
Lisa.”
She speaks my name with the same curt, condescending
tone she used at the event site and then saunters back inside the
tri-level.

“This is Lady Ramona’s house, ain’t it?” Grizzly
says, knocking Syr Phillip lightly in the arm with his beer
can.

Syr Phillip nods, defeated. A slight glimmer of
recognition clouds his eyes. “Yes, I believe you’re right.”

“You better be on your best behavior then,” Grizzly
says, and starts to laugh. He pulls off his baron’s coronet and
tosses it into his Aerostar through the open front window. He pulls
off his tunic too, revealing nothing but a battered pair of cutoff
sweats underneath. “Let’s post-revel!” the old baron shouts and
dashes through the open front door into the house, followed by a
lightly staggering Barlonda, who for the moment has remained fully
clothed. Syr Phillip and I are left staring at each other.

After an awkward silence, Syr Phillip finally says,
“Barlonda’s right. SCA folk are very affectionate with each other,
even people they aren’t in relationships with.”

“I wouldn’t call what you just did with Ramona
affectionate.
I would call it
foreplay,”
I snap.

“Lisa, I’m sure Lady Ramona wasn’t aware that you
and I are an official item now. I’ve only just met you today, you
know.”

“But—“

Syr Phillip places two strong hands on my shoulders.
For a second I think he’s going to shake me, but he doesn’t. “Lisa,
I am carrying your favor. I won a tournament in your name today.
And I am
definitely
very attracted to you. But that doesn’t
necessarily mean we are exclusive boyfriend and girlfriend. Not
yet, anyway.”

“But—I thought since you fought for me and bought me
this fancy dress—“ I blurt, petulant. “I thought—“ My voice trails
off. I realize that I sound like a spoiled child.

“Lisa, you’ll find that relationships can work a
little differently among SCA folk. A knight carrying a lady’s favor
in the SCA world doesn’t necessarily mean he’s going to become her
lover in the mundane one. At least not right away. The SCA world
and the mundane world are two separate things. You and I would need
to spend some time together outside the Society in order to decide
whether our relationship will exist in both places.”

I sigh and stare at the oil-stained concrete of Lady
Ramona’s driveway for a moment or two. “Which world is this
post-revel in?” I finally ask.

“Both,” Syr Phillip whispers, and kisses me full on
the mouth. I can taste Lady Ramona’s cigarettes and booze in his
saliva, and refrain from kissing him back. Even so, the
now-familiar electricity runs up both of my thighs and warms up my
belly. I can’t deny the fact that despite his recent indiscretion,
Syr Phillip evokes sensations in my body I never thought
possible.

“Let’s go inside,” Syr Phillip whispers, and leads
me towards the tri-level by one arm. I follow him, dragging my
feet.

The inside of the house is dark and messy.
Mismatched furniture from the 1970s sits on threadbare shag
carpeting in misshapen avocado and burnt-orange lumps. Piles of old
newspapers and magazines are everywhere, along with dirty laundry,
empty beer bottles, and the occasional old pizza box or takeout
carton. A sewing machine sits in one corner next to several bolts
of velvet brocade. A bookcase full of heavy tomes on medieval
costuming and pageantry sits in another. An ancient, dirty poodle
is sleeping on an old blanket in the middle of the gray-linoleum
front hall. The house smells of mildew, sweat, dogs, and parties
long over.

“This place is a dump,” I say, wrinkling my
nose.

“Yes, Lady Ramona is known more for her parties than
her housekeeping,” Syr Phillip replies. “She’s been that way ever
since college.”

I pick my way through the clutter and trash in the
hallway towards the sunken family room, which appears to be
Post-Revel Central. The atmosphere is like a college frat party.
About thirty people are crowded into shag-carpeted room. I
recognize some of the partygoers from the Blood and Roses
tournament but not others. Paladar the Passionate is here with his
group of noisy, faux-furry Horde buddies, and so is Master Melphus,
who has changed from his SCA garb into raggedy jeans and a Led
Zeppelin T-shirt. Queen’s
Greatest Hits
album blasts from an
ancient stereo with throbbing speakers that stand four feet high.
Several open coolers are scattered about the room, filled mostly
with cheap beer brands like Pabst and Keystone. A cloud of
cigarette and marijuana smoke hangs over everything. Virtually
everyone at the post-revel is paired up into couples—male-female,
male-male, female-female all included—and they are all making out
with wild abandon, with the exception of Master Melphus and two or
three others I don’t know. I’ve never been much of a party animal,
even in college. Looking around, I feel out of place, even a little
dirty.

Syr Phillip seems to notice my discomfort. He turns
to me, his expression serious. “Lisa, if you aren’t comfortable
here, we can go somewhere else. Or I can take you home. It’s
entirely up to you.”

“I think I’d like to go home,” I hear myself say.
“That is, if you don’t mind.”

Syr Phillip squeezes my hand and smiles. “Not at
all, milady. Just let me—ahhhh, say a few goodbyes first. I’ll meet
you out at the car.”

I pick my way back out of the tri-level and am
almost out the front door when the dirty, ancient-looking poodle I
noticed earlier springs to life. Out of nowhere, the yappy little
dog launches an all-out barking-and-biting assault on the train of
my now damp and rust-stained gown. The animal has a bark so big and
deep it sounds more like a German shepherd than a toy poodle, and
its teeth are as sharp as lawnmower blades. The train of my gown is
in ribbons in less than a minute, and even then the mangy mutt
isn’t satisfied—it sinks its teeth into my now-exposed ankle.

“HEEELLLLLLPPPP!” I screech.

Grizzly and Barlonda come running, beer cans in tow.
Barlonda is now missing the outer bodice of her gown—she is clad
only in a corset and skirt. Grizzly picks up the filthy poodle by
the scruff of the neck and tosses it onto one of the lumps of
furniture in the living room.

“Goddamn that dog,” Grizzly hisses. “Lady Ramona
should have it put to sleep. And dollars to donuts it ain’t had its
shots, neither.” Grizzly leans down to inspect my bitten ankle.
“Well, she broke the skin. Unless Lady Ramona’s got a rabies tag
she can show you, you probably need to go to the hospital an’ get
shots yerself.”

Tears well up in my eyes. “You mean I might have
rabies?”