Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set
Page 74
I’m still so stunned that I don’t reply. I just settle my head—still wearing Barlonda’s elaborate headdress, which has somehow managed to stay perfectly perched on my head despite the wild urgency of our liaison—against Syr Phillip’s still-heaving chest and moan a little dreamy sigh.
There is the distant sound of an air horn blast. Syr Phillip jerks to attention. “That’s the Earl Marshal signaling the end of the bye round. I’ve got to get back.” He turns away from me, our link separated with one quick motion. I lean back against the curve of the oak tree, trying to catch my breath as I delicately rearrange my bodice and skirts, which surprisingly have almost no creases and show not even a speck of dirt, even after such a fit of passionate outdoor lovemaking. My panties are in a torn, ruined heap on a pile of pine needles—I fling them into the underbrush, making sure to give my lord a seductive look as I do.
“I’ll be bare down there for the rest of the day, milord,” I coo. “That’s a treasure for only you to know.”
After rearranging his own clothing, Syr Phillip bends to kiss my hand. “I’ll carry that treasure close to me for the rest of the tourney, milady. And do me a favor, would you?”
“What’s that?”
“Keep everything right where I left it.” Syr Phillip pokes me playfully in the breast, and then is gone to claim his place in the fifth-round Lists.
I stay behind in the grapevine arbor for a moment, trying hard to regain my composure. Although a quick check of my garb and body reveals no trace of our liaison other than a delightful moistness between my legs, I can’t help but worry that when I return to the tournament hall, every SCA lord and lady will point their fingers at me and gasp—not because I’m wearing the most attractive gown in four kingdoms, but because they might somehow know I’ve made love with my most favored knight within full view of Interstate 75.
I make my way back into the tournament hall, where the fifth round of Crown Tournament has already begun. The Earl Marshal, a broad-shouldered elderly gentleman—also a knight, judging by his white belt and golden chains—stands on the large meeting hall’s stage in front of two elaborately carved empty wooden thrones. The Earl Marshal wears a red-and-black tabard similar in style to the one the marshal at the Blood and Roses Tournament wore, only the Earl Marshal’s garment is cut of much more expensive-looking fabric with gold trim, and it also features a metallic green dragon appliqué——the royal symbol of the Middle Kingdom. Supposedly Baron Grizzly is the tournament’s official Dragon Herald, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I take my seat on the red chaise lounge Syr Phillip brought for me. I glance at the posted list program and read that the current swordfight is between Syr Alouysious of Tree-girt-Sea—a knight from somewhere in the Illinois region of the kingdom—and Wodin Wolfsbane, an unbelted fighter from Toledo. Syr Alouysious defeats Wodin Wolfsbane with a standard blow to the head less than ten seconds after the round begins, and the Earl Marshal immediately declares that match over. A pack of knights and squires files into the room just after the round is called, all carrying their swords, polearms, and shields out in front of them. I scan the line of chivalry for Syr Phillip’s face, and don’t find it. I figure he’s probably just gone for a requisite post-coital trip to the bathroom of something. But then after taking another careful glance around the room, I’m surprised to find the tournament hall nearly empty—save for a few squires tending their knights’ armor, the Earl Marshal as he checks his clipboard for the next pair of fighters due to the Lists, and a roving photographer snapping event photos for the Middle Kingdom newsletter. I wonder where the five hundred or so other people attending this event are right now.
There is a commotion in the corridor, followed by a long, low, shout I recognize as belonging to Baron Grizzly.
“OYEZ! OYEZ! MAKE WAY, LORDS AND LADIES! MAKE WAY! MAKE WAY FOR FALLON AND MARGUERITE, KING AND QUEEN OF THE MIDDLE KINGDOM!” Although there doesn’t seem to be anybody in the king and queen’s way, something about Grizzly’s booming voice makes me think he probably has to say this upon royalty’s entrance anywhere as standard operating procedure.
There is a pounding of drums and a tweeting of panpipes from the corridor, followed by cheers. The half-dozen or so squires swiftly drop what they are doing and stand at attention; the roving kingdom photographer—whose giant Nikon clashes with her ninth-century Viking garb—positions herself just to the left of the doorway. After a pregnant pause, the couple who can be none other than King Fallon and Queen Marguerite appear. Fallon and Marguerite are both portly and stout, their features rather ordinary looking. They are both salt-and-pepper haired and in their middle forties. But even if they are physically dull, their garb and manner belie nothing but pure majesty. After taking a moment to survey the scene, the king and queen glide regally into the tournament hall as if propelled by invisible machinery hidden underneath their floor-length Saxon robes, which are both made of heavy maroon velvet with matching bands of embroidery and gemstones ringing their sleeve cuffs, hems, and keyhole-shaped collars.
But by far the most stunning part of the royal pair’s attire are their crowns. Fashioned of polished brass and decorated with gemstones and real gold leaf, the Midrealm crowns are stunning, with their front panels decorated with cloisonné medallions of the Middle Kingdom’s symbolic dragons.
King Fallon and Queen Marguerite sweep across the red fleur-de-lis carpeting toward the stage, where their thrones await them. The knights and squires bow as they pass, and following the squires’ example, I give the royal couple a deep curtsey as their robes swish pass my feet.
“Thank you, milady,” Queen Marguerite whispers, giving me a kindly nod as she and her king ascend the three steps onto the small wooden stage and settle into their thrones.
I’m still curtseying low enough to hear my knees pop when I see King Fallon make a subtle motion towards the entry door. Instantly, Baron Grizzly appears, pounding his staff.
“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! THEIR MAJESTIES ARE NOW IN RESIDENCE AT CROWN TOURNAMENT! ALL CHAMPIONS WHOM HAVE ADVANCED TO THE FIFTH ROUND, PRESENT YOURSELVES TO KING FALLON AND QUEEN MARGUERITE!”
Another group of knights and unbelted fighters files in, and this time, Syr Phillip is among them. The gaggle of knights and squires that appeared moments ago give the second group jealous stares. All at once I realize that the members of the first group were all the fighters that have already lost their tournament rounds and are now eliminated from competition.
The second group of knights and fighters advance toward the royal thrones. I blow Syr Phillip a subtle kiss, but he doesn’t see me. He and the other knights are all staring straight ahead, their eyes locked on the king and queen of the Realm they all serve in chivalry. When the knights and unbelted fighters reach the space just in front of the raised stage, they all bow and descend to one knee, their heads lowered.
King Fallon stands up. “Gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I welcome all of you to the second half of Crown Tournament. You have all fought well to advance this far. I bestow upon you all my good graces and love. I ask that before any of you proceed further at arms here today, that you reaffirm your oaths of fealty to the Crown of the Midrealm.”
“We swear to serve Your Majesty and to defend the Crown of the Midrealm, even unto death,” the eleven remaining knights and fighters chant in unison.
The Earl Marshal checks his clipboard and then whispers something in King Fallon’s ear.
King Fallon clears his throat. “Thank you, milords, for affirming your loyalty and love to the great Middle Kingdom. But it comes to my attention that we are missing someone from our group of fealty. There are only eleven of you here before me, when there should be twelve. Mayhaps one of you lords can assist me in finding Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun?”
The knights and fighters kneeling at the king’s feet all exchange bewildered glances. I notice that Syr Phillip’s face folds into an uneasy expression.
King Fallon nods in Baron Grizzly’s direction.
A murmur rumbles through the SCA folk who are slowly filing into the great hall, but there is no sign of Master Melphus or his ever-charming, chain-smoking lady, Lady Ramona of North Fields.
King Fallon whispers something in Baron Grizzly’s ear. Baron Grizzly makes a face, takes a deep breath, and shouts “OYEZ! Be it known that by order of Fallon, King by right of arms of the Middle Kingdom, that if Master Melphus does not show himself before the Crown in the next thirty seconds, he shall be disqualified from the Lists!”
I shoot a quick glance over at Syr Phillip. Although I can’t quite tell for sure, it looks like he’s grinding his teeth.
Queen Marguerite lifts the cuff of her tunic to glance at her watch. After about thirty seconds have passed, she nods at King Fallon, who makes a subtle motion to the Earl Marshal and Baron Grizzly.
The Earl Marshal makes a mark on his clipboard, and Baron Grizzly announces, “OYEZ! Be it known that due to his failure to swear fealty to the Crown, Master Melphus Mattingar the Hun is hereby disqualified from the competition!”
At this, the entire hall seems to breathe a sigh of relief. A knight I don’t recognize pats Syr Phillip on the back, and I notice that my lord and knight’s jaw has relaxed considerably.
“The Lists shall resume in five minutes!” the Earl Marshal shouts, and for a fleeting moment, the knights, squires, fighters, and general SCA populace seem to return to business as usual. Before anyone has much of a chance to breathe, however, Master Melphus dashes into the room with Lady Ramona in tow. Even from my spot on the edges of the hall, I can smell Ramona’s mothballs and menthol cigarettes mixing with Melphus’ own distinctive scent of Aqua Velva mixed with WD40.
“I’m here, Fallon!” he growls as the two of them stumble up to the king and queen’s däis on the stage. “Sorry I’m late, but somebody gave me and my lady bad directions back from the pool.” Melphus cuts Syr Phillip and the rest of the advancing knights a dirty look. Syr Phillip doesn’t react, but some of the other knights and fighters seem nervous.
“I’m sorry, Melphus,” King Fallon calls to the ill-clad master-at-arms and his upholstered, mousy-haired lady. “But you have already been disqualified for not reaffirming your oath of fealty this day.” King Fallon’s tone is slightly sardonic. “Better luck next time!”
A few of the defeated knights and fighters jeer at this.
“Fallon, you know that as a Hordesman I can’t swear fealty to you or any other king!” Melphus protests as he and Lady Ramona shove their way through the fast-growing crowd towards the throne. “Kingdom loyalty goes against everything the Great Dark Horde stands for!”
“On the contrary, Melphus,” Queen Marguerite replies, rising from her royal seat and taking her King’s hand. “His Majesty and I have good relations with your KaKhan. And according to KaKhan Shen Fu, the Dark Horde allows its members to swear fealty to the Crown of any kingdom they wish, should circumstances necessitate it. We consulted with your KaKhan on this very issue when we saw your name appear on the tournament Lists, and this is the decree Shen Fu gave to us. And with all due respect milord, fighting for the Crown of the Midrealm obviously requires fealty to the Midrealm.”
“But—“ Lady Ramona argues, her high-pitched voice squawky and forced.
King Fallon stands firm. “Melphus, if you and your lady have disagreement with your Horde’s own KaKhan, then you will need to take it up with him. In the meantime, you are disqualified. You are of course welcome to watch the rest of the tournament and to attend the Feast. Good day to you, milord!”
King Fallon and Queen Marguerite both leave their royal seats behind and begin to make their way through the crowd of SCA common folk—shaking hands, bestowing small red-ribbon favors on children, and generally acting their roles as SCA celebrities. The scores of Middle Kingdom common folk swarm the royal couple, bowing and curtseying, all hoping for a royal compliment from King Fallon or perhaps even the chance to kiss Queen Marguerite’s hand.
Master Melphus stands in the middle of the din and seethes. Lady Ramona remains at his side, but she appears remarkably calm for a woman whose hopes for serving as Queen of the SCA’s largest kingdom were dashed just moments before.
In fact, she even appears to be smirking a little.
****
The final rounds of Crown Tournament pass quickly. Syr Phillip defeats his next two opponents in less than two minutes apiece. But between all his fighting, tending his armor and weapons, and checking in with the Earl Marshal between rounds, I haven’t had a chance to be near him or even to have a moment’s conversation with my lord and knight since this afternoon’s wild liaison. Still, I’ve remained seated on the red satin chaise lounge he brought for me, cheering him on through each and every match with as much enthusiasm as any knight’s most favored lady should. In fact, I’m probably showing more dedication to my knight than any other favored lady here today. I haven’t so much as taken a break to pee.
Pegeen/Pegonia, my best friend and so-called lady-in-waiting, however, hasn’t exactly been so dedicated. I haven’t seen her (or Barlonda, for that matter) since she helped me get into my garb this morning. I figure Pegeen is probably off having a stand-up quickie tryst with Arundel in a doorway someplace, but I have no idea where Barlonda has run off to—unless she’s fallen asleep somewhere after so many late nights spent finishing my gown.
I scan the room hoping for a glimpse of my beloved knight, but see no one other than overworked squires repairing their knights’ armor, and the scores of ordinary SCA folk who’ve been sitting on the sidelines watching the tournament progress. I’m considering finally taking a much-needed potty break when Syr Phillip appears beside me out of nowhere.
“Hello, milady,” he purrs, and takes my hand into his own steel-gauntleted one so he can start sucking on my fingers.
“Oooo—I really don’t think you should be doing that in public!” I cry.
“I don’t care who sees how much I care for you,” Syr Phillip coos, and he proceeds to rain kisses all the way up my arm before he finally sits down beside me on the chaise lounge. Syr Phillip’s helm is off and tucked underneath his left arm, and I notice that his tawny hair is sweat-soaked. He smells like a delightful combination of perspiration, armor grease, and Dial deodorant soap. It’s a masculine smell, a smell that makes me wish we were alone together in the grape arbor again instead of sitting here on the Crown Tournament sidelines as every man, woman, and child in the Middle Kingdom monitors our every move.
“So, how’s the fighting going?” I finally say, hoping to break the rising sexual tension.
“Oh, pretty well I suppose. I’ve got two—maybe three—rounds to go. There’s an odd number of fighters in the final rounds since Melphus got disqualified, so that means somebody in the winners’ bracket has to fight twice. We’re going to draw straws for it. I hope to God it isn’t me.”
“Why?”
Syr Phillip runs a steel-encased hand through his damp hair. “Well, anyone who has to go through an extra round will get more fatigued than the rest of the fighters, and when you’ve gotten this far, you need all the strength you can get.” Syr Phillip guzzles some Gatorade from a leather wineskin and wipes his mouth with his wrist. I see that his eyes are a little bloodshot, and he seems preoccupied.
“Do you still think you’re going to win?” I ask.
“That remains to be seen, Lisa. But I think as long as I don’t have to fight the same round twice, I’ve got a pretty good shot. There is one strange thing, though.”
“What’s that?”
“One of the final-round unbelted fighters isn’t being identified by name for some reason. He’s the one wearing the all-black suit of armor who hasn’t taken his helm off all day. Nobody knows who he is, and the Earl Marshal hasn’t been announcing
his full name for some reason. The guy’s like, a mystery. And he’s also very, very good.”
“Which one is he?” I ask, not recalling seeing a mysterious, dark-armored fighter today. The thought of one reminds me of something out of a Sir Walter Scott novel.
“There he is.” Syr Phillip points to a tall fighter in black leather armor and a heavy black-painted helm with only the narrowest of eyeslits. I don’t remember seeing him anywhere before now. But judging by his dark, nondescript armor and plain brown tabard that almost blends right in with the paneling, I suppose he would be easy for anyone to miss.
“Oh,” I murmur. “He does look—well, mysterious. And you say he’s good?”
“As good a fighter as any I’ve ever seen,” Syr Phillip replies. “Whoever he is, I’m surprised he hasn’t been knighted by now. Hopefully, I won’t have to face him, at least not until the crown round.” Syr Phillip gives me a peck on the cheek. “It won’t be long now, Lisa. Just try to relax as much as you can for the next hour or so. Things will start to get pretty crazy during the crown round, believe me.”
The two knights currently in the bear pit— Syr Alouysious of Tree-girt-Sea and a newly belted knight named Cedric Callahan the Meek, are finishing up their match. Cedric has already “lost” both legs and one arm, and as a result is fighting kneeling and shieldless. Syr Alouysious delivers the finishing blow to Cedric’s neck, and the Earl Marshal declares the round over.
The Earl Marshall pounds his staff on the stage. “All knights and fighters remaining in the Lists present yourselves for the straw-drawing!” he shouts.
“That’s my cue,” Syr Phillip says, standing up. “I’ll see you soon, Lisa.” With that, he bounds up to the stage to draw his straw. I notice to my relief that it’s not the short one.
With Syr Phillip not due up to fight again for at least fifteen minutes, I decide to take a long-overdue bathroom break, and then go in search of my absentee lady-in-waiting. I figure that even if I haven’t needed her that much so far, Pegeen/Pegonia’s services will probably be a necessity by the crown round—assuming Syr Phillip makes it that far.