Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  The crowd goes wild. Erick of Flaming Gryphon throws his duct-taped pole on the ground and stomps off, while Syr Phillip takes a modest bow and waves.

  So, nearly all the other fighters attending today’s tournament would rather forfeit than risk going sword-to-sword with Syr Phillip?

  He’s that good?

  Oh, wow. That’s hot.

  I feel myself going weak at the knees again. Not to mention a little bit wet between the legs. I decide I really need to find out what that “favor” thing means, so I can give whatever it is to Syr Phillip, along with my undying love and devotion. I swear, I could float right up to heaven on the sapphire-blue waters of his eyes.

  “Oh, so could I, dear,” the tent-wearing woman next to me agrees. “Syr Phillip has beautiful eyes, yes indeed he does.”

  Oh, crud. Did I just say that out loud?

  “That’s his real eye color too,” says the tent-wearing woman, adjusting her blue cotton wimple. “No contact lenses for him. Can you believe somebody can have eyes that color naturally?”

  “No,” I mumble. “I mean, yes. I mean—he certainly has lovely eyes. Yeah.”

  Okay, so now I’m getting loopy. I always get loopy when I’m aroused. And sweaty. My armpits are spewing pea soup, and my pickle-barrel corset isn’t exactly providing good air circulation, so it can only get worse. I hope I don’t start to stink too badly, because that probably wouldn’t help me out too much if I try to give Syr Phillip my favor—whatever that is.

  Or in the spirit of historical accuracy, perhaps a little body odor won’t matter that much. I start to ponder this, but the booming voice of the bearded referee interrupts me.

  “Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! I have an urgent announcement! Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar wishes to make a special request!”

  The crowd starts to murmur.

  Syr Phillip gently sets his polished helmet and rattan sword down on the varnished gym floor, and then rubs his gauntleted hands together. “Good gentles, I am afraid I have a bit of a problem at today’s tourney.” Syr Phillip’s voice is a rich, smooth baritone—instantly, my knees grow still weaker at the very sound of it. “You see, I do not have a lady’s favor to carry with me into battle.”

  “I KNEW it!” the tent-wearing woman shouts in my ear. She motions for me to approach Syr Phillip, but my feet are rooted to the floor.

  Syr Phillip is still talking. “Would one of the beautiful unattached ladies here at the Blood and Roses Tournament do me the great honor of bestowing her favor upon me?”

  Dozens of women scream. A freckled redhead in peasant garb faints. At least six different frumpy-looking middle-aged ladies, all wearing tentlike garments and long cotton veils, rush the basketball court. Most of them are waving small pieces of embroidered fabric, while a skinny, younger one takes off her white cotton veil and begins waving it in the air like a flag of truce.

  Syr Phillip looks like he doesn’t know whether to be flattered, or to run.

  The bearded referee pounds his staff again. “Ladies! Ladies! One at a time please! Kindly step to the edge of the fighting ring, and give Syr Phillip a chance to consider all your chivalrous offers.”

  The screeching, fabric-toting women follow the referee’s orders and go to stand along the sidelines of the gym. A few of them throw their slivers of embroidery at Syr Phillip’s feet.

  Okay, I think I have this “favor” thing figured out now.

  Apparently, a “favor” is nothing more than a piece of fabric owned by the wearer, which a knight carries onto the battlefield as a symbol of his far-away beloved. Or, in the case of the SCA, it’s a piece of fabric carried into a stickfight in a rural high school gymnasium. I suppose that these SCA fighters usually carry their girlfriends’ favors, but in the absence of an actual girlfriend, it looks like any unattached woman’s favor will do. And judging by their Beatlemania-like screams and swoons, there are at least a dozen ladies here today more than willing to be just that any woman.

  This gives me an idea.

  I reach down and tear a sequined swatch from the hem of my borrowed gown.

  “Good gentles! Good gentles! Is there any other fair maiden among us who wishes to offer her favor to Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar?”

  “I do! I do!” I wave my swatch of sequined polyester and go line up by the other giddy women. I notice that Syr Phillip’s face lights up when he sees me, and his head turns to watch my approach.

  “You GO girl!” I hear Pegeen/Pegonia shout from somewhere in the back of the gymnasium.

  “Are there any other favor offers?” the referee shouts. There are none. “Then Syr Phillip shall choose his lady!”

  The crowd cheers.

  Syr Phillip looks up and down the line of giddy, fabric-waving women, and his stunning sapphire eyes come to rest on me. He walks straight up to me without even a glance in the other women’s direction. Just before he gets to me, he goes down on one knee and gently takes my hand. The touch of his skin against mine is pure electricity.

  “My dear lady, it would be my supreme honor to carry your favor into battle this day. Will you grant me this honor?”

  I am too overwhelmed to speak. My mouth has suddenly gone as dry as wool. I just nod and hand him my bit of torn fabric, which Syr Phillip takes carefully, and then holds up like a treasure for the crowd to see. Everyone cheers.(Well, everyone but the dozen or so women Syr Phillip just rejected, that is).

  “What is your name, milady?” Syr Phillip asks softly.

  “Uhh, I don’t know,” I stammer, embarrassed.

  Syr Phillip grins. His teeth are strong, white, and even. “You don’t know your own name, milady?”

  “Um, well, I do know my name. It’s just that—umm, I don’t have one of those fancy medieval names yet. And I’m, uhhhh, sort of new around here—”

  Seeming to sense my giddy anxiety, Syr Phillip softly strokes my hand. “Your mundane name is fine if you don’t have a SCA name yet.”

  “Uhhh, what’s ‘mundane’ mean?” I am feeling dumber by the second.

  “’Mundane’ means ‘ordinary’ in SCA lingo,” Syr Phillip explains, without even the slightest hint of condescension. “Modern. Non-medieval. Normal. Everyday. What’s your everyday name?”

  “Uhhh, Lisa. Lisa Smith. See, it’s kind of a boring name—”

  Syr Phillip kisses my hand. “Lisa Smith, I am Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar. It is my supreme honor and privilege to meet you this day.”

  “Wow,” I mumble. “Really?”

  “Oh yes, indeed, Lisa. It is always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a beautiful lady. Lisa is a period name as well, did you know that? Italian. Like the Mona Lisa.”

  “No, I uhhh, I guess I didn’t realize that,” I say. “Wow.”

  I should really find another word to say today besides wow. It probably isn’t very medieval.

  “Where are you from, my lady Lisa?”

  “Dayton. Well, Miamisburg, actually, which is a suburb of Dayton, but—“

  “Ah,” Syr Phillip nods. “Then you reside in the shire of Winged Hills, which is part of the Barony of Flaming Gryphon. Thus, for today you shall be known as Lisa of Winged Hills.”

  “Umm, okay,” I say. I’m so nervous it’s getting hard to speak.

  “Pardon me a moment, milady,” Syr Phillip says. He slips my strip of torn fabric around his shiny white belt, ties it into a double knot, and then goes to whisper something to the bearded referee, who makes a note on his clipboard. Then the referee starts pounding his staff again.

  “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! Be it known that Syr Philip Reginald of Blackstar, Knight of the Midrealm and Middle Kingdom Champion, now fights to save the honor of Lisa of Winged Hills!”

  The crowd goes wild. I see Pegeen/Pegonia give me a thumbs-up, and I feel my face go as hot-pink as my borrowed corset gown.

  Syr Phillip nudges me. “Now it’s official,” he says. “Would you like to get some lunch?”

  Chapter 4


  Syr Phillip has spirited me away to the football field behind Neil Armstrong High School, where a number of SCA “merchants” have set up shop on folding tables and blankets spread on the ground.

  “Gemstones! Jewelry findings! Bells!” shouts a middle-aged man in a turban. The merchant has spread out a Persian blanket on the dewy spring grass to display his wares, which range from cheap sew-on glass rhinestones to bead necklaces made of semi-precious stones. “Decorate your garb with the finest gems! How about you, miss? Would you like some rhinestones to go on that sparkly little gown of yours?”

  “No thanks,” I say as Syr Phillip and I wade past him through the rest of Merchant’s Row. “The gown’s borrowed.”

  “So, Lisa, is this your first event?” Syr Phillip asks.

  “Umm, yeah. How could you tell?”

  “Well, it’s your costume, actually. That’s from the Gold Key booth, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it is,” I say, embarrassed. “How did you know?”

  “Well, the Gold Key booth costumes generally are pretty awful.”

  I gasp. “You think this dress makes me look awful?”

  Syr Phillip laughs. “Oh, you’re taking it the wrong way,” he says. “I’m just saying that your Gold Key dress there has a bit of a checkered history in the Ohio SCA. I’m surprised that thing can’t walk around by itself. Do you realize that same dress has been worn by just about every young, thin woman ever to come to her first SCA event held anywhere in the state of Ohio in the past twenty years?”

  “How do you know that?”

  Syr Phillip laughs again. “My sister and I joined SCA when we were teenagers in the mid-eighties. Our parents got involved first, and then they dragged us to a few events. My sister wore that very same dress you’re wearing to her first event when she was fifteen. To Harvest Day in Dayton, back in 1983. It’s a made-over early 80s prom dress.”

  I giggle. “Really?”

  “Yes. I hadn’t remembered that until I saw you in it.” I see a dark shadow pass over Syr Phillip’s face. “Like you, my sister was also naturally very thin and petite. Just about your size exactly.” Syr Phillip’s voice suddenly sounds very sad.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Syr Phillip turns to me and takes both of my hands. “My sister died many years ago—not long after she wore that dress to her first event, in fact. She and I were very close when we were teenagers—we were only a year apart in age. I—I haven’t thought about her in a long time, and seeing you in that dress, and seeing how much you remind me of my sister, Holly—well, when I saw you back in the gymnasium, waving that little strip of fabric, I experienced some wonderful memories of Holly that I hadn’t had in a long time. I can’t believe that the Gold Key folks are still trying to pass off that made-over prom dress as garb, even after all of these years. I knew as soon as I saw you were wearing it that I had to carry your favor into battle today, as a tribute to Holly.” Syr Phillip fingers the frayed strip of hot-pink polyester looped through his belt like a precious treasure. “You’ve given me a wonderful gift, Lisa. I’ve tried to forget my sister and how much fun we used to have at SCA events when we were young. Seeing you in that old dress—well, I guess it just took me back.”

  “Umm, you’re welcome,” I murmur, breathless. I feel the wind fall out of my sails a little. Here I was thinking that Syr Phillip found me ravishingly attractive compared with the mostly middle-aged frumps who’d been offering him their favors, when the whole time it’s really because I remind him of his sister? I’m not sure that’s a good thing, romantically speaking. He might think that dating me would be incestuous or something.

  Syr Phillip squeezes my hands again, and despite the weird dead-sister reference, I feel an electric jet of arousal shoot straight up my spine. My very itchy spine. This plastic pickle-barrel corset-thing is giving me a major case of eczema. I start scratching the small of my back.

  “Is that dress giving you a rash?” Syr Phillip asks, the sad look falling away from his face.

  “Umm, yeah, actually I think it is.”

  Syr Phillip laughs so hard he almost doubles over. “It gave Holly a rash too, as I recall. She was practically taking baths in calamine lotion for a week after Harvest Day. I’d forgotten about that, too. I think that dress might be infected with poison ivy or something. Either that or Mistress Methylyn put a curse on it.”

  “What?”

  Syr Phillip loops his arm through mine. “Let’s take a walk over to the far side of the football field and I’ll tell you that story on the way. There’s a shepherd’s pie stall over there—we can get some lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved after having all those fighters forfeit their duels to me.”

  I have to laugh at this. “So nobody will fight you willingly? Are you really that good?”

  “Well, that’s what the Middle Kingdom royalty keeps telling me. First they made me a knight, then they made me Kingdom Champion. I guess that means I’m pretty good. Plus, I just got invited to fight in Crown Tournament again—“

  “Whoa—wait a minute.” I stop in my tracks. “Royalty? Kingdoms? Crown Tournament? You have to remember, I’m the new girl around here. I don’t know what any of this stuff means yet. Can we just stick to lunch for right now? I need some more time to get my head around all these SCA rules and government stuff.”

  “Sure. We’ll stick with lunch for right now. I really shouldn’t brag about my knighthood, anyway. It’s unchivalrous of me.”

  “Unchivalrous? Huh?”

  Syr Phillip laughs again. “Pardon me, that’s SCA language. It means against the laws of chivalry.”

  I’m still clueless. “Why does everyone keep talking about chivalry? Is that important in the SCA?”

  “Oh yes, it’s very important, milady,” Syr Phillip says, and his voice takes on the deep, rich stylized baritone I first heard back in the gym. “Chivalry is the highest and most important art of the Current Middle Ages. I’ll explain chivalry and courtly love to you later, along with all that rules-and-SCA-government stuff. But for now, I’ll tell you a little more about the history of that hideous—no offense—dress you’re wearing.”

  “None taken,” I say. We start walking along the asphalt running track toward the refreshment stand, where a long queue of tunic-wearing men and women are lining up for a pseudo-medieval lunch of meat pies and Diet Coke. “So, this—thing used to be a prom dress, huh? Funny, I thought it was a reject from the old Carol Burnett show.”

  Syr Phillip has another fit of laughter. “Actually, you might be right on that one. All I know is, Mistress Methylyn—she used to be a pretty big leader in the Ohio baronies of the Middle Kingdom about twenty years ago—she made it out of some thrift-store reject in the early eighties. Rumor has it Methylyn was also a practicing witch. I don’t know if that’s true, but almost everyone who has borrowed that dress ever since has gotten a nasty rash from it—a lot of folks think Mistress Methylyn put some kind of witch’s curse on the thing.”

  The itch from my corset rash is getting a lot more intense now. I scratch it again, but I just make it worse.

  “I think it’s probably time we found you some new garb,” Syr Phillip says. “I know a good seamstress—Baroness Barlonda. She usually has a merchant booth set up with some ready-to-wear tunics at these events. We can look for her after lunch.”

  “But I didn’t bring any money with me or anything,” I protest. “My friend Pegeen—she just sort of dragged me here this morning. I barely had time to get dressed before we left, let alone—”

  “Don’t worry, it’s my treat. I won’t have the lady I’m defending in battle wearing a rash-producing gown, and a hideous one at that.” Syr Phillip punches me lightly in the shoulder.

  Punches me in the shoulder, just like a brother would a sister. So much for the possibility of romance with this dreamy, chisel-faced knight.

  We finally make it to the shepherd’s pie stall. A round, vivacious-looking woman with a heavy, crown-like circlet rest
ing on her forehead is behind the counter of the wood-and-corrugated-metal concession stand, which probably doubles as a hamburger-and-hotdog joint when Neil Armstrong High School holds football games here.

  “Hiya, Syr Phillip,” the woman bubbles in a heavy Southern accent. “Nice to see ya. I hear you whupped all your opponents’ butts this mornin’.”

  “Good morrow, Duchess Danyel,” Syr Phillip says. “I didn’t ‘whup’ anyone’s butts, exactly. They all forfeited.”

  “That’s what I mean!” Duchess Danyel booms, and nearly doubles over laughing. Her crown, which is decorated with brass maple leaves set in groups of three, almost falls off her natty gray head. “They’re so afraid of bein’ whupped by your sword, they just whup themselves! So, what’ll y’all have this mornin’?”

  “I’d like a slice of your best meat pie for myself and my lady friend here. And a clove cake for dessert. And two Diet Cokes.”

  “Comin’ right up,” Duchess Danyel says, and nods in my direction. “’Scuse me milady, but you might wanna take that there dress off before it gives you a rash. An’ I’m sure Syr Phillip here will be more than happy to get you out of it!” Duchess Danyel gives Syr Phillip a not-so-subtle wink and laughs again.

  “We’re working on that, Your Grace,” Syr Phillip says before I can get too embarrassed. “Just the food for now, if you please.”

  “You betcha.” Duchess Danyel hands us a Styrofoam carton, napkins, and plastic forks along with the Diet Cokes. “That’ll be four-fifty, Syr Phillip. Reg’lar price is six bucks, but as a duchess I’m obligated to give the Middle Kingdom Champion a discount.”

  Syr Phillip fumbles some cash out of a pouch hanging from his belt. “Thank you, Your Grace. Now if you’ll just excuse us—“