Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (80 page)

“So where the hell is this dang ol’ feast, Danyel?”
Baron Grizzly drawls. “I’m starved. An’ I’m sure they’re gonna have
me announcin’ all the courses an’ shit. There better not be any of
those unpronounceable Welsh food names like we had at back at St.
Valentine’s Day Massacre.”

Duchess Danyel laughs and hands him a menu.
“Everything you need to know is here on this card, Grizz. It’s
pretty simple English fare this time around. There’s not a whole
lot you can cook in a cave, you know. Go through that red door
there and take the metal stairs down into the cavern. Those steps
are pretty narrow and slippery, so be sure to hike your skirts up,
ladies.”

“I have a real bad feeling about this,” Baroness
Barlonda says as we start down the narrow metal stairs into the
dark, damp caverns. “Who on earth ever heard of having a feast in a
cave?”

“Well, at least a cave seems pretty medieval,” I
offer.

“That usually isn’t a good thing when it comes to
feasts, though,” Baron Grizzly snarls as we reach the bottom of the
rickety staircase, which deposits us in a sort of hallway that
leads into a large cavern-room. “I’ve been to a lotta SCA feasts
over the years, and I’ve gotta tell ya—most truly medieval food is
just plain god-awful.”

“Now Grizz, don’t exaggerate,” Baroness Barlonda
says while rearranging her skirts.

“I’m not exaggeratin’,” Grizzly insists. “Barlonda,
don’t tell me you don’t remember the Fall Samnhain Festival down in
Barony of the Flame about four years ago. You know, the one where
we all ate out in the middle of the woods an’ we all got ptomaine
poisoning from the roast venison?”

“Oh, dear, now that was a
unique
set of
circumstances,” Barlonda titters, only half-serious. “They didn’t
know that if you use old rotten tree branches to roast the deer on,
it causes poisoning. That was just an honest mistake.”

“Barlonda, I spent two days in the hospital shittin’
my pants off on account of that honest mistake. I’d think you’d
remember that.”

“Grizzly—“

I leave Barlonda and Grizzly arguing in the stone
hallway and duck through a tiny, low-ceilinged opening. The cavern
isn’t at all what I expected. Unlike what I remember from my school
field trips to Ohio Caverns as a child, this section of the cave
has very few stalactites or stalagmites. Instead, the walls appear
to be covered in thick, crumbly curtains of rust. I glance down to
see that the cavern floor is covered in a smattering of iron oxide
powder that crunches under my velvet slippers, which are fast
growing damp. The place smells like old nails and dirty water, and
the cold cavern air freezes my breath into pale white clouds.

After walking for what seems like an hour through
ever-more-narrow passageways, we finally land in the high-ceilinged
cave-space where the feast will be taking place. The vault-like
limestone room is quite large, but obviously not large enough to
house the four hundred or so people who attended the event—I guess
I won’t be the only one who had trouble getting a ticket.
Old-fashioned electric light fixtures hang from fuzzy asbestos
wires somehow fastened into the stone ceiling. The room is filled
with about twenty rough-hewn wooden tables and chairs that all
appear to be at least a hundred years old. It seems Barlonda,
Grizzly and I are among the first to arrive.

“Where is everybody?” I ask. “I thought this feast
was supposed to be crowded.”

“Oh, off getting a head start on drinking, I
suppose,” Barlonda says, readjusting her skirts, which like mine,
are getting stained at the hem from the iron oxide dust that covers
everything.“Lisa, do you have any feastgear?”

“Feastgear? Uhh, I don’t think so.”

“Tell Grizzly I said it’s okay to lend you mine. I
won’t be needing it—I think I’ll lay low tonight and help out in
the kitchen. Go on now and be the Champion’s lady. All eyes will be
on you tonight, you know.”

“Okay,” I stammer. I have absolutely no idea how to
be the Champion’s lady. I slump down onto a damp wooden bench,
clueless as ever.

****

Syr Phillip still isn’t here. Even so, I’m already
finding out just how difficult the role of the Champion’s lady
really is.

For the past fifteen minutes I’ve been bowing and
curtseying to scores of SCA folk who seem as eager to meet me as
they would any Hollywood celebrity. A little girl of eight or nine
dressed in miniature Tudor outfit just asked me for my
autograph.

The good gentles seeking to gain my favor started
out as a trickle, but there is now a long line of costumed SCA folk
of all ages lined up along the rust-covered cavern wall, waiting
eagerly for their chance to shake my hand.

Me? They’re all lined up to see
me?
I still
can’t believe it. And I’m embarrassed to say that I’m already
finding my newfound celebrity somewhat annoying.

For example—

“Lisa of Winged Hills!” gushes a middle-aged redhead
in a drab, knee-length brown tunic and fringed leather workboots as
she pumps my hand up and down. “Is that your name? Why is it I’ve
never seen you at an event before?”

“Uhhhh, this is the first one I’ve been to.”

“The first one you’ve been to in the
Middle
Kingdom, right? Didn’t you just move here from Calontir? I heard
someone say this morning you’re originally from Calontir. I think
it’s
lovely
that you’ve already changed your SCA name to
reflect that your home shire is now Winged Hills!”

“Right,” I reply through gritted teeth, not sure
that I want to contradict her.

A huge black-haired man in a Naugahyde approximation
of Viking garb—complete with plastic horns—is next in line. His
hair is cut into a ragged mullet and his beard is three inches
long. “So Lisa,” he says in a voice that reminds me of pro wrestler
Hulk Hogan. “Whatareyadoin’ after the feast? I’m lookin’ fer a date
to the post-revel.”

“The what?”

“The
post-revel
,” Viking Hulk Hogan says,
rubbing his mutton chops. “It’s at this house out on Route 43. I
hear it’s got two waterbeds an’ a big stereo. I’m lookin’ fer
somebody I can take along, and uhhhh—well, you know,
revel
with.”

I don’t know what a post-revel is yet, but I do know
that I wouldn’t want to attend one with
this
guy. “Um, I
don’t think so, uhhhh, sir—“

“Name’s Paladar. Paladar the
Passionate
.”

I pull my hand out of Paladar’s sweaty deathgrip.
“I’m spoken for,” I say. “Perhaps you’d like to discuss your
interest in me with Syr Phillip Reginald of Blackstar? He’s the
Middle Kingdom Champion, you know. Quite good with a sword.”

Paladar the Passionate gets the message. He holds up
his hands in a surrender gesture and silently backs away.

I glance back at the line and notice with dread that
the next seven women waiting to greet me all lost to me in the
favor-granting contest this morning. For a split second I wonder if
maybe they’re all lining up to bitch-slap me. Confirming that fear,
I notice that Lady Ramona of North Fields is at the head of the
line. At least she’s keeping her stinky menthol cigarettes safely
between her boobs this time.

Lady Ramona walks up to me, but doesn’t shake my
hand or curtsey like some of the other gawkers have. “I see you’ve
managed to get your dress all rusty,” she seethes.

“Well—“

“Those stains will
never
come out, you know.
You might as well just throw that gown out and start over.”

“I’m sure my dress will be fine.”

“Well, maybe your
dress
will be fine, but—”
Lady Ramona gives me a menacing stare.

As if on cue, Syr Phillip finally arrives. I shoot
him a “help me” look, and in typical knightly fashion, he rushes
right over and rescues me.

“Greetings, Lady Ramona. I must say that your lord
fought very well today. Funny, I didn’t know you had granted Master
Melphus your favor. In fact, I seem to remember that
you
were vying for
my
attentions just this morning.”

“Master Melphus and I are old friends,” Lady Ramona
shoots back. “It was my honor to grant him my favor today. Once I
knew
you
weren’t interested.”

“And I’m sure Master Melphus knows the extent of
your honor and faith,” Syr Phillip retorts, never once letting go
of his gracious manners. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know all of you
are anxious to meet and greet my lady fair, but if you will just
excuse us for a moment, I need to speak with the lady Lisa of
Winged Hills privately.” To my relief, Syr Phillip guides me to the
rear of the feast hall.

“Thank you,” I breathe, throwing my arms around his
neck. “I couldn’t take much more of that.”

“You’re welcome. I’m afraid that as long as you’re
my chosen lady, though, you’ll have to go through a lot more of
this sort of thing. You’ve become a bit of a celebrity as far as
SCA newbies go.”

“I’ve discovered that. There’s already a lot of
rumors circulating about me, too. I just found out that I used to
live someplace called Calontir.”

“Really? Calontir is a kingdom to the southwest of
here. Missouri, mostly, and Arkansas. Nice place—they hold good
feasts down there. Very beautiful ladies in that kingdom, too.”

“Uh huh,” I say. Somehow I get the feeling that Syr
Phillip probably knows where
all
the beautiful ladies in the
SCA are.

“You look radiant, by the way. And all that rust on
your hem really brings out the color in your cheeks.”

I blush. “Thanks. But I’m pretty sure the dress
might be ruined.”

“I can introduce you to a good dry cleaner,” Syr
Phillip says, squeezing my hand. “Anyway, do you know when the
feast is getting underway? I’m starved.”

“I think the food will be done soon. Baroness
Barlonda is helping out in the kitchen.”

Syr Phillip grins. “Knowing Barlonda, she’s probably
only doing that so she can have first dibs on the wine.” His
expression changes from its usual manly graciousness to grim.
“Lisa, there’s something I need to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’ve been active in the Society for Creative
Anachronism for a long time. Since I was a teenager, in fact. And
in that time, I’ve had a fair number of romantic relationships with
SCA ladies. Some of them were serious, some were not. But suffice
to say, if you decide to hang around in the SCA for any length of
time, you may hear some things said about me that might not seem
very flattering. Some people may say things to
you
that
aren’t very flattering. I just want to tell you, up front, that
this is going to happen. Things will happen to you that you might
find a little embarrassing, or even strange. And I’m not saying
if
, mind you. It
will
happen. And when it does, I
want you to know that you can always count on me to help you
through it.”

This is the last thing I expected Syr Phillip to
say. All day he has struck me as the pillar of gentlemanly
courtesy—I never would have expected him to drop a bombshell about
his ex-girlfriends, least of all five minutes before we’re supposed
to sit down and eat. Suddenly Lady Ramona’s hissing comments seem
to make more sense. I blink a few times, but say nothing.

“Lisa? Lisa, are you all right?”

I look at the floor. “Fine,” I lie in a tiny
voice.

Syr Phillip pats me lightly on the back. “Good.” He
motions for me to take his arm, and I do.

“Now, we’ll go face the receiving line together,” he
says. “Watch and learn. I’ve gotten pretty good at deflecting the
most obnoxious ones. Most of the time, anyway.”

We walk down the center aisle of the feast hall
towards a gaggle of starstruck SCA folk who didn’t have a chance to
shake my hand before. We sashay along, turning heads right and left
as we go, but I notice that Syr Phillip’s palm gets cold and clammy
as he squeezes my forearm. The slightest edge of doubt creeps up
the back of my neck. Even as I’m drawn to Syr Phillip’s charm,
tenderness, knightly achievement, and supercool physique—not to
mention the celebrity he has among the local SCA folk—something
tells me I might be getting a little more than I bargained for now
that I’m the Champion’s lady.

Chapter
9

Syr Phillip and I will be formally introduced to all
the feast attendees just before the first course is slated to come
out of the kitchen. Once we’re introduced, we can officially
declare the feast “open and honored by the Kingdom Champion and his
most favored lady.”

Or something like that. I’m having a lot of trouble
keeping up with all this knight-champion-and-his-lady protocol,
which just seems to get more and more complicated as I go along.
Whatever is supposed to happen, we can’t be formally introduced—and
the feast can’t begin—until Baron Grizzly the Herald officially
presents us to all the hungry SCA folk and declares in his booming
herald’s drawl that the Head Table is served and satisfied.

And Baron Grizzly is nowhere to be seen.

To make matters worse, these SCA folk are getting
stranger by the minute. I don’t know whether it’s the homebrewed
beer and wine they’re all drinking from their wooden feastgear
mugs, the chill underground cave air, or a combination of both.

Take the couple standing in front of us now, for
instance. On our left is Lord Woadsbane, and on our right is his
wife, Lady Ragamuffylan. Lord Woadsbane is wearing nothing but a
dyed-black cotton Fruit of the Loom jockstrap and a bunch of blue
paint. Lady Ragamuffylan is wearing nothing but a tiny burlap
skirt, an even tinier burlap bra, and a bunch of blue paint. They
both smell strongly of something that resembles chocolate mixed
with cat pee.

Lady Ragamuffylan curtsies to me and her bra slips
partway off, revealing that her left breast is also covered
entirely in foul-smelling blue paint. Lord Woadsbane offers us a
blue-painted hand to shake. Syr Phillip bows and shakes it bravely,
but I just smile and nod.