Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  “Where did you hear this?” I inquire. “Do you know any of these Dark Horde people? Other than Master Melphus, I mean. And is he even qualified to fight in the tournament? I heard from Barlonda he’s severely injured people before. And he sure doesn’t seem to have an extra forty grand lying around, either.”

  Syr Phillip makes an odd face before answering. “Well—you just hear these things here and there,” he finally says. It’s obvious he knows more than he’s choosing to reveal, but I don’t press him on it. Syr Phillip seems to pick up on my skepticism, though, and after a moment he continues. “As a belted fighter, Melphus is qualified to fight, even if he’s a Master-at-Arms instead of a knight,” he says. “Normally, Melphus wouldn’t have enough money to qualify under the financial requirement, but rumor has it several members of the Dark Horde have agreed to personally underwrite his reign if he wins. Which is a pretty huge development as far as the Horde is concerned, considering that the Dark Horde hates kings, kingdoms, and everything else that symbolizes fealty.”

  “Why? What would make these Dark Horde people, or whatever they are, do something like that?”

  Syr Phillip sits down on my bed and makes that strange, grimacing face again. “Well, because of me, quite frankly. Apparently Master Melphus didn’t take to kindly to me beating him at the Blood and Roses Tournament.”

  I take the time to brush my teeth before I say anything more. Syr Phillip definitely knows more about the Horde, Master Melphus, and Master Melphus’ bid for the Crown than he’s telling me, but I’m not sure I want to know all the details, either. “These Dark Horde people don’t sound very logical to me,” I finally say through a mouthful of toothpaste.

  “They’re not, Lisa. In fact, the Great Dark Horde was founded on the principles of chaos. Hordesmen tend to like things to be as crazy and chaotic as possible. That’s why they don’t like kings and kingdoms. Kings and kingdoms are symbols of order, and the Horde isn’t very big on orderly things.”

  I spit my toothpaste into the sink. “You seem to know a lot about the Great Dark Horde for someone who isn’t a member.”

  Syr Phillip makes that strange, grimacing face again. “Well, let’s just say I’ve known a few Hordesmen over the years. And let me say, Lisa, they’re not bad people. At least, generally they’re not.”

  “What are they, then?”

  Syr Phillip sighs. “Just different. That’s the only way I know to describe the Horde. But whatever they are, the Great Dark Horde is going to be giving me a rough time at Crown.”

  I turn on the shower and motion for Syr Phillip to join me. He shucks off his boxers, steps into the stall, and starts tenuously running his fingers up and down my soapy, wet back. “What else should I know about these Horde people?” I ask.

  Syr Phillip shakes his head and grabs my half-empty bottle of Pantene. “Rumor has it the Hordesmen have gotten the Tuchux involved. Not at Crown Tournament, but at Pennsic should I win Crown Tournament. And wherever there are Tuchux, there is trouble.”

  “Tuchux?” I ask, incredulous. “Everybody keeps talking about the Tuchux. What are they?”

  Syr Phillip shampoos, rinses off and steps out of the shower stall, dripping water all over the place. His gorgeous body is slick with water and steam, and I feel myself heat up between the legs as I stare at him, even as I soap up in the shower. “You know what, Lisa? I really don’t want to discuss the Tuchux right now. I just bathed, and the very thought of those savages makes me feel dirty. I’ll explain another time.”

  He throws the shower curtain open and shuts off the tap, leaving me standing in the now-dry stall still covered in soap and shampoo. “What are you doing?” I shriek.

  “Getting your attention.” Syr Phillip grabs me in a soapy, steamy embrace, turns the tap back on long enough for me to rinse off, and then carries me, still dripping wet, back to bed.

  “How about a quickie before work, milady?” Syr Phillip asks, nuzzling my neck. “Or will that cramp your style?”

  I make a not-so-delicate grab for his sword as my answer.

  Chapter 16

  I arrive at work three hours later with an enormous, shit-eating grin on my face. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I just spent approximately the last nine hours impaled upon my knight-in-shining-satin-bedsheets’ Sword of Hot, Throbbing Love.

  Pegeen picks up on my euphoria right away. “Let me guess,” she calls over from the worktable where she’s inspecting the previous shift’s run of spark plugs. “That ginseng I gave you worked.”

  “And then some,” I chirp, settling in at my own worktable and pulling out the procedures binder that I hadn’t had the chance to work on yesterday. I notice to my delight that Brad has already taken the liberty of filling in all the new procedures in his backslanting, left-handed scrawl. “Pegeen, I can’t thank you enough for dragging me to the Blood And Roses Tournament. From now on, I’m only sleeping with SCA knights. Boy howdy, whoever oversees the awarding of knighthoods in the SCA must have some kind of sex test for the knight candidates, because Syr Phillip sure knows where to stick his sword, if you know what I mean.”

  Pegeen snickers. “You know, I’ve heard that about SCA knights. But I think Arundel knows how to manage his sword just fine, even if he’s just a run-of-the-mill fighter.” Pegeen sets down the spark plug she’s inspecting and saunters over to my worktable. “Of course you understand that I will require details. Full disclosure today at lunch. Sneak previews during our 10 am bathroom break.”

  I grit my teeth. “Sorry, but my bedroom activities are strictly confidential.”

  “Hah! If I hadn’t supplied you with that ginseng, you might not have had the guts to hook up with Syr Phillip at all, let alone have eleven orgasms with him.”

  I feel all the color drain from my face. “How the hell did you know I had eleven?”

  At least, I’m pretty sure it was eleven big Os. Either that, or I just lost count at eleven. With that many in such a short timeframe, I’m surprised I’m still able to walk.

  “I know by the ginseng dosage, Lees,” Pegeen explains. “I gave you precisely enough ginseng oil for eleven orgasms. And if you think that’s good, wait until your tolerance builds enough that you can handle the dosage for twenty. That’s where Arundel and I are right now, you know. The first time I took the twenty-O dose, I could barely stand up for the next three days. But it was worth it.”

  “I can believe that,” I say, spotting Brad out of the corner of my eye. “Can the sex talk,” I whisper. “Brad alert.”

  Brad makes a beeline for us, wagging his AC Delco-logo mechanical pencil in our direction. “No chitchat at the beginning of shift, ladies. You know that.”

  Pegeen and I give Brad our usual begrudging, we-know-the-rules-you-asshole stare. Pegeen walks silently back to her own worktable and resumes inspecting spark plugs.

  “Nice to see you back, Lisa. Feeling better, I assume?” Brad is wearing a fuschia-and-green Hawaiian shirt with pale green chinos and Mork-n-Mindy rainbow suspenders that he’s probably owned since the first time they were in fashion sometime in the late seventies. He hooks his sausagelike fingers into the suspenders and tweaks them a few times; they make an elastic “ping” sound as they hit his man-titted chest.

  “Yes, Brad, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to commit the new assembly-line procedures to memory before Brad decides to give me an impromptu pop quiz.

  “You know Lisa, it’s not usual for me to get personal phone calls for you here at work when you are supposedly home sick, but it happened yesterday. Some weird lady named Baroness Barlonda called Pegeen looking for you. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

  I think about asking Brad what he was doing listening in on Pegeen’s personal calls, but decide that would be the same as admitting guilt myself. “No, I don’t,” I mutter.

  Brad leans in close to me. I can tell that he ate something with salami in it for breakfast. “Well, you better not, Lisa. Because if I find out that you were faking being
sick yesterday so you could play hooky with all your weird medieval friends, I will have to write you up. And don’t forget, you forewomen aren’t unionized. Technically, you guys are management. And you know what can happen to management at AC Delco. . .”

  “At AC Delco, management can be fired at any time, because management isn’t covered under the UAW contract, I know, I know,” I moan, parroting the same words that Brad has ingrained into my and Pegeen’s brains ever since we both started work here six years ago.

  Brad taps his mechanical pencil once on my forehead. “As long as you remember what your status is here, Lisa, you and I will continue to get along just fine. As we always have.” Brad turns on his heel and disappears into his opaque-glass lair.

  “Right,” I seethe. “As we always have, asshole.” I decide that today probably isn’t the day to bring up to Brad my possible need for extra time off to serve as Queen of the Middle Kingdom if Syr Phillip should win Crown Tournament. I dejectedly go back to memorizing procedures.

  At precisely 10:07 a.m.—the time of my and Pegeen’s regularly scheduled morning coffee break—my desk phone rings. I pick it up, and find that it’s Pegeen, who thinks it’s cute to call me from her desk less than ten feet away.

  “That’s a prodigious waste of AC Delco telephone resources, Pegeen,” I spit jokingly into the mouthpiece while shooting her a dirty look.

  “I’m just trying to help you look busy,” Pegeen says, her voice low. “Brad’s really got it in for you right now.”

  “I noticed,” I growl, slowly dismembering a paperclip.

  “Did you know that I caught him eavesdropping in on my phone call with Barlonda yesterday?” Pegeen whispers. Her voice comes through the ancient rotary-dial desk phone as a tinny crackle. “Barlonda called over here looking for you, by the way. I told her you went home.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I whisper back. “She found me at home, too.”

  “What was she doing at your house? I distinctly told her you were ill.”

  I don’t comment on the fact I know Pegeen gave Barlonda directions to my house. “Never mind. Coffee break?”

  Pegeen looks left and right for signs of Brad, or one of his lackeys who might report our breaking official AC Delco policy by taking our coffee breaks at the same time. Finding none, Pegeen hangs up her receiver and motions for me to follow her to the women’s locker room.

  Once there, Pegeen opens her locker and pulls out two cans of Red Bull. “Here. I bet after your romp with Syr Phillip last night you’re feeling pretty tired.”

  I hadn’t noticed any fatigue yet, since I was still flying pretty high on my post-sex buzz, but I guzzle the Red Bull anyway.

  “Soooo—gimme some details, Lees!” Pegeen coos, bopping me one in the left shoulder. “I’ve been itching to know all morning.”

  “What kind of details are you looking for, besides the fact that I had eleven orgasms?”

  “Oh, well, this and that. Like, how big is Syr Phillip’s thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Pegeen’s eyes go wide. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “I just didn’t get a very good look at it,” I explain. “The fact that it was inside me pretty much the whole time kind of interfered with the science of penis measurement.”

  “Well, did it feel big at least? Could you give me a ballpark estimate?”

  “I dunno—maybe six inches?”

  “That’s all? I thought an SCA knight would be at least eight.” Pegeen gulps her Red Bull with disdain. “Especially considering Arundel’s is eight-and-a-half.”

  “How do you know?” I ask. “Have you actually taken a ruler to it?”

  Pegeen doesn’t answer.

  “Well, suffice to say that sex with Syr Phillip was some of the best sex I’ve ever had,” I sigh. “And I’m looking forward to having a lot more of it with him for a very long time.”

  Pegeen tosses her empty Red Bull can into the garbage and sits down on the wooden locker room bench. “How exactly would you define a very long time?”

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Pshaw,” Pegeen snorts. “Not with Syr Phillip you’re not. I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again—he has a reputation for loving and leaving. Enjoy it while it lasts, but be ready for it to be over pretty soon.”

  I crush my own Red Bull can to a sliver with my fist and toss it angrily at the garbage can; I miss and it ends up skidding across the dingy floor tile. “Pegeen, it’s different with Syr Phillip and me. He said so himself. He’s committed to me for the long term.”

  “Don’t you believe it. Lees, as your best friend of almost twenty years, I am here to inform you that Syr Phillip is going to dump you very soon. It’s not your fault. That’s just the way men like Syr Phillip are. It’s an alpha-male thing. Alpha males are hot, manly, sexy, and generally good at beating things up—that’s why most of them end up becoming knights in shining armor. Or at the very least, famous athletes. But alpha males are also genetically programmed to spread their seed as widely as possible. Roughly translated, that means that alpha males are also, generally speaking, male whores.”

  “No they’re not! Well, maybe some of them are, but not Syr Phillip.”

  “Oh come on, Lees. Don’t get all denial-happy on me. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of examples of alpha-male romantic behavior out there. I mean look at Henry VIII and Kobe Bryant, for starters.”

  I fold my arms across my flat chest and cock my head at my best friend. “Pegeen, Syr Phillip is going to fight to save my honor at Midrealm Crown Tournament.”

  Pegeen shrieks. “Are you shitting me?”

  “No.”

  “No, you are. You are totally shitting me. Either that, or Syr Phillip is totally shitting you. Syr Phillip doesn’t want to be King. Never has, never will. He’s just leading you on to get you to sleep with him. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as long as you know that’s what he’s doing—”

  “First of all Pegeen, I am not shitting you. Second of all, Syr Phillip is not shitting me about Crown Tournament. I have independent verification from Baroness Barlonda. Syr Phillip hired her to make matching royalty garb for us. He paid her six thousand dollars, in advance.”

  “Holy guacamole,” Pegeen says, stunned. “Is that why Barlonda called here yesterday looking for you?”

  “Yep,” I say, triumphant. “She came over to my place and took measurements and showed me some fabric samples. Syr Phillip wants her to make us super-fancy matching royalty garb to wear when we’re King and Queen together.”

  Pegeen clucks. “Really. So he’s that sure he’s going to win?”

  “He’s pretty sure. Not absolutely positive, but he is quite confident.”

  Pegeen lets out a long, slow breath. “Well, Lees, you have my apologies. Maybe Syr Phillip really is serious about you. Especially if he’s going to fight Crown Tournament now that he actually has a chance to win.”

  “He told me he’s had plenty of chances to win before,” I retort, a little stung. “He said—he said he just didn’t fight before because being king is so expensive, and now that he finally makes enough money and has a steady girlfriend who’s willing to be Queen, he’s—“

  Pegeen holds up her hand and gives me a serious look. “Well, that’s partially true, Lees, but there’s another, bigger reason why he never fought in Crown—”

  “Syr Phillip did fight in Crown once before. Several years ago, when he lost in the second round.”

  “You didn’t let me finish,” Pegeen says, her tone severe. “There’s a big reason why Syr Phillip didn’t fight in Crown since the last time he fought and lost. And it doesn’t have anything to do with money, or his lack of a serious girlfriend, or anything else he may tell you. It has to do with who beat him in Crown Tournament the last time he fought. Did he tell you who beat him in the second round?"

  “No.”

  “Remember when I told you never to bring up Syr Phillip’s family to him, to never talk to him a
bout his parents, especially his dad?”

  “Yes,” I say, remembering.

  “Well, that’s because Syr Phillip’s dad—who is currently the king of Aethelmarc, mind you—is the one who beat him at the last Crown he fought in. Syr Phillip lost to his dad. Not only that, his dad won that Crown Tournament and became King of the Midrealm. Now Syr Phillip’s dad is a good fighter, but he’s also well past sixty and very overweight, out of shape, and has had at least a couple of heart attacks, so a lot of people were surprised that Syr Phillip lost to him at all. Some people say his dad only won because he cheated. I don’t know if that’s true, but Syr Phillip and his dad apparently haven’t spoken since.”

  “Are you sure, Pegeen?”

  “It’s pretty much common SCA knowledge, Lees. I heard that story at my second event. His dad beat his own son at Crown, even though Syr Phillip was only 25 at the time, had just been knighted, and was considered one of the best fighters in SCA history even then.”

  I slump weakly onto the battered wooden bench. “So, his dad beat him, huh?” Knowing the male ego the way I think I do, I can only imagine how that would have made Syr Phillip feel—especially at the age he was when he lost. “Was he so embarrassed by that he didn’t fight in Crown again for all those years?”

  Pegeen sighs. “I really don’t know much more than what I just told you, Lees. Mind you, I’ve only heard the stories third-hand, but it seems like pretty much all the SCA folk who’ve been around any length of time know them by heart. I honestly don’t know why Syr Phillip didn’t fight in Crown again until now, but I think I could probably hazard a guess.”

  “Because he has enough money now, maybe? That’s what he told me.”

  “That might be part of it,” Pegeen says thoughtfully. “But I think the real reason is because his dad moved out of the Middle Kingdom last year. He moved to Pittsburgh, I think, and that’s part of the kingdom of Aethelmarc. And about two months after Syr Phillip’s dad moved to the kingdom of Aethelmarc, he won the Crown of Aethelmarc, so that goes to show how good a fighter Phillip’s dad still is, even at his age and in bad physical shape. But to make a long story short, Syr Phillip is probably only fighting in Crown Tournament here now that he doesn’t have to worry about seeing his dad there.”