Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  Arundel the Black—who sounds more like an oversexed fratboy on a cell phone than a knight in shining armor to me—says “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Right. Cool. You aren’t too far. Just, uh, drive past the yellow house a little bit ‘til you see the uh, Tractor Supply store, then turn left. The high school will be, uh, like, you know, uh, right there.”

  “Thanks.” I shut off the phone and hand it back to a stunned Pegeen. “I know where we’re going now. Can we get this show on the road, please? I’m sure you don’t want to miss any of the, uhhhh, fighting.” I bat my eyes at Pegeen suggestively.

  Pegeen blushes to her ears and shoves her phone back between her boobs. “Sure, Lees.”

  We arrive at Neil Armstrong High School—a long dirty-gray building that resembles a machine-shop factory more than it does a school—about five minutes later. Pegeen parks the car in the lot, which is filled with shiny Lexuses, Volvos, and Cadillacs, plus a smattering of minivans and trucks that all sport multiple bumper stickers with odd sayings like “I Brake For Vikings,” “Fighters Do It In Chainmail,” and “Do Not Tailgate The Dragon, For You Are Meaty and Taste Good With Ketchup.”

  Pegeen opens the creaking trunk of her Tercel and pulls out a huge black cloak with faux-fur lining. She pulls it around her plump frame until it covers her loud Renaissance outfit completely, making her look like a much wider version of Arwen in Lord of the Rings. I have to admit—the dark, velvety cloak makes Pegeen look magical.

  “Wow,” I say, staring. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Oh, Arundel bought it for me from a merchant at the Springtide Day Festival and Feast last month. Do you like it?”

  “Yeah, it’s very nice. But aren’t you hot? It’s going to be like, eighty-five degrees today.”

  “Oh, they have air conditioning inside, don’t worry.”

  “But they didn’t have air conditioning during the Middle Ages,” I said. “Did they?”

  Pegeen laughs. “Lisa, one thing you need to learn about SCA is that we recreate the Middle Ages not as they were, but as they should have been. And there definitely should have been air conditioning back then. And cars, too.” Pegeen slams the trunk of her Tercel shut. “Only in SCA, cars are called dragons.”

  “Cars are dragons?” I don’t know whether to laugh or nod in bewilderment. I decide it’s probably safer to nod.

  “One more thing, Lees. For the rest of the day, my name is not Pegeen. So don’t call me Pegeen, okay?”

  “What should I call you?”

  “Pegonia ap Wihommenneesdattir de Tyre.”

  I blink. “Pegonia ap what?”

  “Well, just Pegonia is okay, I guess. Let’s go, Lees. You’re going to have so much fun!”

  ****

  We enter Neil Armstrong High School and follow some hand-lettered paper signs marked with “SCA THIS WAY” up and down the linoleum hallways until we find the gymnasium. There are several people of varying ages milling around the gym entrance, all wearing medieval clothing of varying quality. And when I say “varying quality”, I mean that one attractive youngish woman sports an elaborately crafted red-velvet English Tudor garment worthy of Queen Elizabeth I, while a few feet away, a portly middle-aged man wears something that looks like a stapled-together burlap sack over a T-shirt and bluejeans.

  It must be pretty obvious to everyone that I’m a newbie, because before I have time to look around any more, the youngish woman in the Queen Elizabeth I outfit saunters right up to me and starts pumping my hand.

  “Good tidings, good tidings, milady!” Queen Elizabeth sputters in a fake British accent.

  “Huh?”

  “That means ‘hello’ around here, dear,” Queen Elizabeth says in a more normal voice. “You see, we speak forsoothly in the S-C-A.” (Instead of pronouncing it “skah” like Pegeen/Pegonia does, Queen Elizabeth spells the abbreviation out—‘ess-see-ay’, with a slight lisp on the ‘ess.’)

  Now I’m even more lost. “Um, what does forsoothly mean?” It sounds like some kind of tooth disease.

  “It means to speak in the manner of courtly love.”

  I have no idea what that means, either. So I just shrug. This doesn’t seem to impress Queen Elizabeth.

  “Well, it certainly seems you’ve got a lot to learn!” Queen Elizabeth beams. “You’re Pegonia ap Wihommenneesdattir de Tyre’s friend, aren’t you?”

  I just nod. I’m not about to try pronouncing Pegeen’s SCA name.

  “Yes, she told me you’d be coming. Why don’t I help you get settled in?”

  “Uhhh, okay,” I stammer. I look around desperately for Pegeen, but my best friend had disappeared.

  “First, we need to get you garbed,” Queen Elizabeth explains. “What period do you think you’d like to wear?”

  I draw a blank. “Uh, what did you say?”

  “I said, what period do you think you’d like to wear?”

  Period? What does she mean, wear a period?

  I decide to hazard a guess. “Uhhh, I’m not having my period right now. Is that a problem?” I blurt, not knowing what else to say. But when I see Queen Elizabeth’s lips purse like an old-maid schoolteacher, I know that’s probably the wrong answer.

  Queen Elizabeth just laughs. “Oh, not that kind of period, dear. Time period. Do you want to be Norman England, early Viking, Italian Renaissance? Tudor? Cavalier?”

  “Uhhh—“

  Queen Elizabeth smiles gently and folds her hands onto her bodice’s padded waist. Her growing impatience is obvious, and she sighs. “How about I just give you one of our general ‘medieval fantasy’ outfits? Those aren’t necessarily tied to a specific time period. That way, you can experience several at once, which might help you in developing your own S-C-A persona.”

  I still don’t understand much of what Queen Elizabeth is saying, but figure feigning agreement is the best way to go. “Yeah, sure. I’ll take one of those general fantasy-whatever things.”

  “Wonderful! Let’s see then. You’re pretty slender, and your bosom is on the small side—I bet you’ll look great in a corset. And a nice, full skirt. That would definitely give you a nice shape. How about that?”

  “Okay, sure, whatever,” I shrug. I keep looking around for Pegeen, but all I can see are a bunch of burly-looking men carrying huge wooden sticks covered with duct tape and wearing suits of homemade armor that resemble modified garbage cans.

  Queen Elizabeth rummages around in a couple of cardboard boxes stashed under a folding table. “You know dear, most S-C-A folk aren’t quite as thin and petite as you are, so we tend to only have larger sizes in our Gold Key garb supply. But it does look like I have one piece that will fit you nicely, and it just so happens to fall into the ‘general medieval fantasy’ category. Here we are.”

  Queen Elizabeth pulls out a garish hot-pink polyester taffeta dress spackled with sequins from one of her boxes and holds it out towards me. “This is one of our most popular gowns in the Gold Key booth. Many, many young women have worn this one over the years at their first events. The corset is built from a McDonald’s pickle-storage barrel. Isn’t that clever? I must say, it’s not necessarily the prettiest garb you’ll see here today, but it’ll do for you to wear around as a newbie.”

  I stare at the bizarre garment, thinking I’d rather walk around naked all day than be caught wearing something made out of a fast-food container.

  Queen Elizabeth shakes the costume at me, urging me to take it. I snatch it from her and hold out the filmy hot-pink dress material between two fingers.

  “Gee,” I say. “Well. Thank you, uh, I guess. Is this corset thing really made out of a pickle barrel?” I notice the dress’ corset top does have a vaguely fast-food type of smell. Like pickles. And hamburger grease.

  Yummy.

  “Oh yes, indeed,” Queen Elizabeth replies. “Lots of S-C-A folks use those McDonald’s pickle barrels to make costumes and armor and such. You’ll see that as you watch the fighters. It’s amazing what you can do with that pickle-barrel material. It�
��s so strong, yet so flexible!”

  “Oh. Well. That’s nice,” I mutter. “So, where do I change?”

  Queen Elizabeth smiles broadly back. “I’m so glad the garb will work out for you! There’s an empty classroom right down the hall to your left—you can change in there and lock up your personal belongings there, too—here’s a key. When you’re changed, we’ll take care of your registration and then you’ll officially be admitted to the Blood and Roses Tournament!”

  “Great,” I say.

  “And what about a name for you? Have you come up with your persona yet? What should the good gentlemen and gentlewomen of the S-C-A call you today?”

  I have no idea what a persona is. “Uhh, just call me Lisa for now, I guess. I’ll come up with that umm, persona thing later.”

  “Oh. Well. I guess that’s all right,” Queen Elizabeth says, disappointed. “My S-C-A name is Mistress Mathilda Merryweather of Winged Hills. The ‘Mistress’ part is my peerage title. I’m a Laurel, you know.” She points to a purple-and-gold badge on her breast depicting a wreath of laurel leaves. “My Laurel’s in Costuming. But I won’t bore you with all that. You just go change. Oh, Lisa, you’re going to have so much fun in the S-C-A!”

  Whatever you say, Queen Elizabeth, I think as I go to the empty classroom to change.

  Chapter 2

  I’ve been watching the SCA fighters tackle each other in the Blood and Roses Tournament for a couple of hours. Which was interesting for a while, but now I’m getting antsy. There doesn’t appear to be much else to do here at SCA events besides watch armored fighters cream each other with swords and sticks—except maybe wander around admiring other people’s garb (which I’ve already done), or play a round or two of chess with some old men in jester outfits over by the fold-out gym bleachers (which I can’t do, because I never learned to play chess). There’s supposed to be a medieval song-and-dance contest later today (which I can’t enter, because I can’t sing and don’t know any medieval dances). There’s another contest where people can show off their homemade medieval handicrafts in exchange for ribbons and prize money (which I can’t enter, because I don’t know how to sew or make anything medieval.)

  I was hoping Pegeen could show me around and maybe help me find something medieval to do besides watch round after round of fighters cream each other, but Pegeen has disappeared. Knowing Pegeen, she’s probably off having Hot Medieval Corset-Dominatrix sex with Arundel the Black somewhere.

  Sigh.

  I lean against the hard cinderblock wall of the gym and move my body up and down against it, hoping to somehow use the resulting friction to scratch at the corset rash that is fast developing all over my back. A youngish bearded guy holding a large wooden staff and wearing a red-and-black tunic decorated with crossed swords announces the next pair of stick-fighters. I yawn, expecting yet another set of nondescript, middle-aged office workers in bulky, clanking garbage-can armor step into the ring.

  That’s when I see him.

  Him.

  The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen just walked in, and he’s standing over by the drinking fountain.

  My knight in shining armor, in fact.

  And I mean literally shining armor. This guy’s armor is so shiny and sexy, he could have stepped right out of Camelot.

  Hell, he could be Heath Ledger stepping out of A Knight’s Tale.

  Hoo baby.

  Is it hot in here?

  The Society for Creative Anachronism just got a helluva lot more fun.

  Chapter 3

  “All remaining first-round fighters, step forward! Attention!” The bearded man in the red-and-black tunic is shouting and banging his large wooden staff on the gym floor, creating thumping echoes. “Calling the next set of fighters! Erick of Flaming Gryphon! Step forward!”

  “Present,” growls a heavyset middle-aged man in blue-painted pickle-barrel armor. Instead of the wooden sword and trash-can lid shield I’ve seen so many of the other fighters carry, Erick of Flaming Gryphon wields a long wooden pole with a huge wad of duct tape stuck to one end.

  The man in red and black says something to Erick of Flaming Gryphon, who nods. “In this round, Erick of Flaming Gryphon will be fighting Polearm!” shouts the bearded man, who appears to be some kind of stick-fighting referee.

  Now the referee is checking something on a clipboard. He starts thumping his staff again, but much louder and faster this time, as if he has something special to announce. Suddenly, dozens of colorfully costumed people appear out of nowhere, clapping and cheering. I see Pegeen/Pegonia and Arundel the Black emerge from the women’s locker room, rearranging their clothing quickly so they can join the crowd. Arundel’s neck is decorated with lipstick kisses; Pegeen/Pegonia’s with at least two hickeys.

  “And now, lords and ladies, the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” shouts the referee. “Erick of Flaming Gryphon, it is my supreme pleasure to inform you that your first fighting opponent in the Blood and Roses Tournament is none other than the Middle Kingdom Champion, Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar!”

  The crowd cheers even louder. But Erick of Winged Hills doesn’t look too happy. He starts arguing with the referee.

  That’s when I see him again.

  Him. The Heath Ledger clone who’s making my panties damp. He’s coming this way.

  Yowza.

  The woman standing next to me nudges my shoulder. “That’s Syr Phillip. He’s a Knight of the Midrealm, you know.”

  The woman points to the gorgeous man I just saw standing by the drinking fountain. So he’s not only gorgeous, but an actual, bona fide knight, too? I’m not about to betray my SCA newbie ignorance by asking her what a Knight of the Midrealm is or how exactly a man goes about becoming one, although I get the notion from this guy’s stellar appearance and the awe he seems to inspire in everyone who sees him that being a Knight of the Midrealm is something very, very special. So I decide to just play it cool.

  “Oh, right, a Knight of the Midrealm,” I stammer, as I stand transfixed by the sheer, pure beauty of this man. “I must have thought he was from some other. . .place.”

  “Oh no, dear. He’s from right here in our own barony, Middle Marches. Syr Phillip’s a local boy—he lives in Westerville, just outside Columbus. We’re so proud of him!”

  I can see why.

  Syr Phillip is tall and blonde, with classic Nordic features and chiseled cheekbones. He’s even got a perfectly formed dimple in the exact middle of his chin. I’ve read about men having chiseled cheekbones and perfectly formed chin dimples in romance novels, but I never actually thought I’d see a real live set of them—let alone on a man wearing a matching set of shining, chiseled, dimple-reflecting metal armor.

  And what a set of armor! No pickle barrels or rubber garbage cans for Syr Phillip. This drop-dead gorgeous hunk of modern-day knight is wearing shiny, polished steel that has been form-fitted to his lean, hard-muscled body. He carries a gleaming steel helmet in one hand, and a wooden sword in the other. I notice that his sword has a delicately woven metal cage-guard around its handle so that it fits the size of his gauntleted hand exactly. His helmet has such a high shine on it you could practically use it as a mirror. Covering his armor is a sleeveless tunic of blue and white fabric emblazoned with a golden dragon clutching bundles of blue arrows in its talons. Unlike the other fighters I’ve seen, Syr Phillip also wears a long white leather belt knotted at the waist, golden spurs on his ankles, and a heavy gold linked chain at least an inch thick which hangs down over the studded metal collar of his breastplate. I think maybe he gets to wear those fancy things because he’s a knight, like they’re special badges or insignia or something. Whatever their special meaning is supposed to be, Syr Phillip carries them off beautifully, naturally—like Prince William does a polo shirt.

  Wow.

  I have actually gone weak at the knees.

  The woman standing next to me must have noticed, because she turns to me and says, “Yes, Syr Phillip certainly is handsome, i
sn’t he? And rumor has it he’s unattached.”

  “Really?” I say. My voice is nothing but a high-pitched squeak.

  “Oh, that’s what they say. Syr Phillip was fighting for Lady Rowan Blacksdowne of the Fenix Barony—that’s Cincinnati, you know. But I heard they broke up a few months ago. And you’ve probably already noticed that Syr Phillip is fighting without a favor on his belt.”

  Okay, what the hell does ‘fighting without a favor” mean?

  I give the woman next to me—who’s wearing something that resembles a jewel-encrusted tent—a wide-eyed look in hopes that maybe she’ll provide some context.

  “You know dear, you might consider giving him your own favor, just for today’s tourney so he isn’t fighting alone. It’s such a shame for a Knight of the Midrealm to be fighting in a tourney, any tourney, even a small one like this, without a favor to carry. I’d give poor Syr Phillip a favor myself if I weren’t married and old. But you’re young and petite and nice-looking. I bet he’d be honored to take your favor, at least for today.”

  I still have no idea what a ‘favor’ is, or what it has to do with armored men hurling wooden sticks at each other, but something tells me I need to find out in the next five minutes. All I do know is, I want to get close to that gorgeous, shiny-armored hunk of man before he puts his helmet on and starts beating the crap out of Erick of Flaming Gryphon.

  And no matter how thrilled the crowd is at the prospect of watching Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar fight him, it looks like Erick of Flaming Gryphon isn’t too excited about the prospect of fighting Syr Phillip. Erick’s still arguing with the referee.

  Erick of Flaming Gryphon and the referee finally seem to come to some sort of agreement. The referee makes a mark on his clipboard, and then begins to speak. “Oyez! Oyez!” he shouts, as if he’s announcing Supreme Court justices instead of just calling a stickfight. “Be it known that Erick of Flaming Gryphon has forfeited this round to Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar! Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar is winner of this engagement by default! Be it also known that the next three fighters Syr Phillip was scheduled to fight have also forfeited. Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar therefore advances to the semifinal round by default!”