The best part of all is Master Melphus’ shield—it’s painted with a tri-colored coat of arms in purple, pink, and black, and emblazoned in the middle where one might expect to see a dragon or a lion, is a Care Bear.
Sunshine Bear, to be exact.
“I can’t believe he ever got that Care Bear coat-of-arms approved for official heraldic registration,” I hear Baroness Barlonda seethe from a few steps behind me. “My husband voted against it, but he got outvoted at the Laurel level. Care Bears aren’t period, you know.”
“Uh huh,” I mutter. “Why would he want to paint a Care Bear on his shield, anyway?”
“No reason. It’s just a typical Master Melphus thing to do. He’s a bit eccentric, you know.”
Master Melphus removes one of his arm plates and begins flexing his left bicep for the crowd. There is a purple Goofy tattoo on his bulging bicep. And Goofy is engaging in an obscene act.
“Yeah, he certainly looks like an odd type,” I say, averting my eyes from Master Melphus’ X-rated muscle. “Is he any good at fighting?”
Baroness Barlonda leans in to whisper in my left ear. “Actually, dear, he’s as good as any knight in the Middle Kingdom. As good as Syr Phillip, even—maybe better. But Melphus is a Master-at-Arms, not a Knight, because he’s a member of the Great Dark Horde. Hordesmen refuse to swear fealty to any one kingdom, which is required for knighthood. And he’s also kind of odd, as you can see.”
“Yeah, I kind of figured that,” I say.
“Plus, Melphus doesn’t always fight fairly,” Baroness Barlonda says, her voice raising slightly. “He fights dirty if he can get away with it. That’s usually how he wins. But the marshal here is very good, so I don’t think he’ll get away with any of those shenanigans today. I hope not, at least, for Syr Phillip’s sake.”
This statement makes me a little nervous. “Why? Has Master Melphus ever hurt anybody?”
Baroness Barlonda blinks several times. “Yes, in fact he has. He was banned from SCA fighting for five years when he broke someone’s kneecaps with an illegal move several years ago. He just came off his ban and got re-authorized last month. This is Master Melphus’ first tournament since coming off his ban, and something tells me he is going to make a bit of a spectacle of it.”
“I think you’re right,” I reply, just as Master Melphus starts pounding on his breastplate and bellowing like a donkey in heat. After about forty seconds of that, he raises his hands over his head, clasps them, and then starts shaking them in the victory gestures typical of a WWE pro wrestler. Several people in the crowd start to boo.
“Doesn’t look like he’s too popular,” I say, but before Baroness Barlonda has a chance to reply, her husband the herald starts shouting again.
“Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! Lords and ladies! The final round of the Blood and Roses Tourney is about to begin! But before we start, our marshal Lord Stephanus wishes to request that Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun proclaim the name of the lady whose honor he defends today!”
Master Melphus whispers something to the marshal, who then whispers something to the herald. The herald nods and proclaims, “Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun today fights to save the honor of Lady Ramona of North Fields! Long live the honor of Lady Ramona of North Fields!”
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 Phil
lip 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 complet
e 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.”
“I find that very hard to believe, Lisa,” Syr Phillip says with a kind smile. “I don’t think you’re clueless at all.”
“But if I don’t have a ticket to the feast—I don’t know anybody here except you and Barlonda and Pegeen, and Pegeen is gone—how do I know they’ll let me in? What if they don’t have enough seats?” Or rocks? We’ll probably be sitting on cave rocks, or perhaps stalactites.
Syr Phillip laughs. “Oh, they’ll let you in, all right. They’ll have to let you in.”
“Why?”
“Lisa, they have to let you into the feast, even without a ticket, because you are the Champion’s lady.”
Chapter 8
The event and tournament at Neil Armstrong High School is breaking up. Merchants are packing up their wares, defeated fighters are loading their armor and weapons into their dragons. The Gold Key booth is folding up its tables and chairs, and although I know I need to find Mistress Mathilda to get my purse and street clothes out of the locked classroom for me, I’m not looking forward to facing her in my new garb. I feel as though I’ve betrayed her and the entire institution of the Gold Key booth by throwing away that cursed hot-pink polyester dress.
Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set Page 58
