A sharp jab in the shoulder startles me.
“Lisa? Are you Lisa?”
I turn around to see a striking redheaded woman of about fifty. She’s wearing a voluminous purple costume that looks like a cross between fairy-princess and Valkyrie Queen, along with at least ten pounds’ worth of beads around her neck. A delicately filigreed silver circlet decorated with pearls rests on her forehead.
“Yes, I’m Lisa. Who are you?”
“I’m Baroness Barlonda. Syr Phillip said you were in need of some new garb. I see you’re wearing that god-awful polyester outfit Mistress Methylyn made over all those years ago. That dress is cursed, you know.”
I scratch at my corset hives. “I know. It’s giving me a rash.”
“That dress gives everyone who wears it a rash—sometimes even an incurable one. We need to get you out of it right away. You don’t want to wind up with eczema for the rest of your life, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
Baroness Barlonda reaches into her cleavage and pulls out a measuring tape and a piece of tailor’s chalk. “Let’s see now.” Baroness Barlonda measures my arms, waist, neck, and bustline and makes some chalk marks on her measuring tape. “You’re awfully flat-chested, aren’t you dear?”
“Yes, I know.” I guess a flat chest is pretty noticeable in a community where virtually every woman stores stuff between her boobs.
“Well, I think there’s something I can do to help you out with that, dear.” Baroness Barlonda makes a few more measurements. “Come out to my dragon with me. I happen to have some things in my stock that will be just perfect for you. You can get them at a ten-percent discount since you’re Syr Phillip’s friend.”
“But I don’t have any money,” I protest.
“Oh, dearie, don’t you worry. Syr Phillip already told me to send him the bill. And trust me, he can afford it. He’s quite well off in the mundane world, you know. Pharmaceuticals or something.”
We crisscross our way through the rows of battered and rusty old “dragons” in the parking lot until we reach Baroness Barlonda’s muddy-brown Aerostar. She opens the rear cargo doors to reveal a miniature costume shop, complete with freestanding clothing racks and a full-length mirror affixed to the inside wall of the van.
“Wow,” I say. “Syr Phillip told me you sold garb at events. Do you do a lot of your garb-sewing business out of your car?”
“Dear, I do all of my garb-sewing business out of my car. Hell, I practically live in this car, driving from one event to the next, selling garb and taking orders. I do some freelance theatrical work, too. Just costumed a production of The Merchant of Venice at Cincinnati Shakespeare Festival.” Baroness Barlonda climbs into her van and starts rummaging through clothes racks, tossing skirts and blouses, tunics and veils this way and that. Finally she settles on a simple sky-blue gown with silver trim that laces up the front and sides. The dress has the same simplicity and quality as Syr Phillip’s dragon tunic, with just enough decoration to look rich, but not enough to be gaudy. The sleeves are long and drapey, and lined in a deep-blue velvet that reminds me of the night sky in summer.
It’s perfect.
“Here we are, dear,” Baroness Barlonda chirps. She holds it out for me to take, but I’m struck dumb by the sheer gorgeousness of the gown. I feel exactly like I felt when I wore my fairy-tale princess costume out trick-or-treating in the second grade—only this time, when I put this dress on, I’ll actually look like a fairy-tale princess, instead of a gawky eight-year-old in a cheap plastic tiara and sequined leotard.
“It’s a wonderful dress, Lisa,” she beams. “Just exactly right for you. I bet you’ve never seen anything quite like it before, have you?”
“Only in the movies,” I finally manage. “It kind of looks like what Liv Tyler wore in Lord of the Rings.”
Baroness Barlonda nods. “You’re absolutely right. Liv Tyler wore what they call a Princess-cut gown in the movie, and that’s exactly what this dress here is. The Princess-cut tunic style was very popular in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, you know. Simple, understated, yet also very sexy.” She holds the gown up to me and smiles. “Oh, and this color will really bring out the color of your eyes, too. And here, you’ll need an underdress.” She pulls another dress off one of the clothing racks—a pale blue gown of cotton muslin with long, tight sleeves and cuffs trimmed with the same silver braiding as the overgown. “You wear this under the main dress, and the little cuffs there and the hem will peek out from underneath. And here, you’ll need a belt, and a headdress. And shoes. Those shoes of yours have got to go, hon.”
I glance down, and remember for the first time that I’m still wearing my dirty Keds with the red-white-and-blue laces. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”
Baroness Barlonda opens a small wooden trunk and takes out a delicate hairnet made out of blue-and-silver yarn, along with a stuffed cloth circlet that looks sort of like a sky-blue sausage. “You’ll catch up your hair in this net, which we call a snood. Then you put the roll on top to hold the snood steady on your head.” She pulls out a silver rope belt that is many yards long. “You’ll wear this looped around your waist several times. I’ll help you with that—the way you tie the belt knot is tricky if you’ve never done it before. What size shoe do you wear, dear?”
“Eight and a half.”
“Good. I’ve got plenty in that size.” Baroness Barlonda pulls a set of delicate blue velvet slippers from the trunk and hands them to me. “There now. I’ll shut these doors so you can get changed. Let me know if you need help getting into the dress, hon.” With that, Baroness Barlonda slams the rear doors of the Aerostar shut.
I stare at the stunning gown Baroness Barlonda just shoved in my hands, and finger its delicate, filmy silken fabric. The silver trim around the overdress’ neckline, cuffs, and hem turns out upon closer inspection to be not just simple trim, but elaborate beadwork of hundreds of tiny silver-plated seed pearls, each one individually sewn on by hand. I inspect the overdress and find that it is completely lined in an even finer silk, and all the seams are double-stitched—quite possibly by hand as well. Baroness Barlonda is certainly a skilled seamstress, and I suppose that her costumes don’t exactly come cheap, especially if she’s hiring herself out to costume professional theatre productions. I have no idea what handmade medieval costumes might sell for, but given the quality of the fabric and delicacy of the beadwork, I figure it’s got to be at least a few hundred bucks just for the overgown, and maybe a few hundred more for the underdress, shoes, and headdress—all of which are handmade in luxurious silk, brocade, and velvet. I can almost see the dollar signs piling up as I run my fingers over the rich fabrics and beadwork.
And if Syr Phillip has indeed offered to pay for all this, maybe he doesn’t think of me as just a clone of his dead sister. Maybe . . .
“Are you all right in there, hon?” I hear Baroness Barlonda call from outside the van. “Do you need help getting into the dress? It’s designed to be worn without a bra, by the way.”
No worries there. With my super-flat chest I go braless pretty much every day anyway—today included.
“No, I think I’m OK,” I call back. “I’ll let you know if I need help.”
I peel off the hideous hot-pink gown and shudder when I see the reddish-purple hives that have broken out all over my backside. “Ewww,” I say, and toss it into a far corner of the van. I decide it’s better to just pay the Gold Key booth the eighty-five cents or so the dress is worth instead of giving it back.
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 po
ke 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 Mat
tingar 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.
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 57
