Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  “Dude, my mouth feels like, so clean now,” Arundel the Black blurts after putting away his fourth chicken leg and fifth cloved apple in less than five minutes. Skinny as he is, he must have a killer metabolism. “Why is that?”

  “It’s the cloves,” Duchess Danyel explains. “Cloves are a period breath freshener, you know.” She picks a couple of clove stubs from her teeth. “And it’s a good thing they had cloves back in the Middle Ages. Everyone had very, very bad breath back then. If it wasn’t for cloves, then nobody would have been able to stand kissing. And if there’d been no kissing in the Middle Ages. . .” Danyel winks at Syr Phillip.

  “. . .none of us would be here today,” Syr Phillip finishes. “So thank the gods for cloves, right Lisa?” Syr Philip shoots me a sidelong glance and pops a few leftover cloves into his mouth, crunching and smacking his own lips in my direction more than a few times. The trite sensuousness of his gesture isn’t lost on me. Pegeen and Arundel take it as their cue to start making out. Duchess Danyel just shakes her head and laughs.

  “Ahhh, young love,” she says, pulling off her coronet to rub her temples. “You’re in pharmaceuticals mundanely, right Phil?” Duchess Danyel stops rubbing her temples and replaces her coronet, which I notice is worn and tarnished around the edges. “Maybe you should talk to Pfizer about using cloves to make an aphrodisiac. Call it Clovinex or something. It would sell like mad.”

  Syr Phillip rolls his eyes. “I think we’re already doing pretty well with Viagra, Your Grace.”

  “Are you speaking as a salesman or a connoisseur?” Duchess Danyel gives Syr Phillip a playful peck on the cheek. He smiles but doesn’t answer. I notice that there is a strange connection forming between Syr Phillip and the bawdy older woman. It’s not necessarily a sexual connection, but it certainly has a sensual quality I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “So, Phil,” Duchess Danyel purrs. “You gonna take the lovely Lisa of Winged Hills here to the post-revel? Or do you think she’s a little too. . . pure for that just yet?”

  I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, so I just watch Syr Phillip’s face for a reaction. I don’t notice one, but that could just be because it’s getting dark.

  “I suppose that’s up to Lisa,” Syr Phillip finally says. His voice is quiet, and he’s fiddling with his white leather belt.

  “What’s a post-revel, exactly?” I ask.

  “It’s what happens after the revel,” Duchess Danyel replies, and laughs at her own bad joke.

  Now I feel even more clueless. “Okay, so what’s a revel?”

  Syr Phillip comes to my rescue. “It’s a kind of dance and music party, medieval-style, that happens at the event site after the feast. We would have had a revel here tonight if we weren’t kicked out of the cave first. So instead we’re going straight to the ahhh. . .post-revel.”

  “I still don’t get what a post-revel is.”

  Syr Phillip grins. “Well, to put things politely, it’s where everyone kind of hangs out and gets drunk, sleeps, and, ummmm—“

  “Screws,” Duchess Danyel says, laughing. “Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Oh,” I stammer and giggle at the same time, and it comes out as almost a choke. “R-Right. Sort of like the after-prom party in high school, then.”

  “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?”

  “Better be safe than sorry,” Grizzly says gently, and guzzles the rest of his beer. “I’d take you there myself, but I’m too poached to drive now. Syr Phillip’ll have to take you. That is, he’ll take you when he’s finished with—”

  “Shhhhhh!” Barlonda hisses at Grizzly, making sweeping motions with her arms. “Grizzly will go find Syr Phillip for you, Lisa. Won’t you, Grizz?”

  Baron Grizzly holds up his hands in an “I don’t know” gesture.

  “Go on, Grizz. Bring Syr Phillip back out here, no matter what he’s doing.”

  Baron Grizzly gives Barlonda a serious look. “Are you sure you want me to do that? Because—“

  “Go.” Barlonda’s tone is severe.

  Barlonda’s lips are pursing and she’s wringing her hands. She sets her half-empty beer can down on a side table and sighs. “Lisa, I hope that you and Syr Phillip don’t break up over this little minor thing even before you’ve had a chance to get started. You don’t know how much good a woman like you could do him.”

  I stare at Barlonda helplessly through my tears, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

  Barlonda takes both of my hands in hers. “Syr Phillip sort of has a—a history with Lady Ramona, you see. And Lady Ramona is a jealous type, and Syr Phillip is, well, let’s just say he’s easily manipulated sometimes. Especially when a beautiful young woman like Lady Ramona is drunk.”

  I get the vague notion that Syr Phillip is probably doing a lot more than just saying his goodbyes right now. My lower lip starts to tremble and it’s all I can do to keep from bursting into tears.