Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (97 page)

“Goddamn it,” I mutter again as I go back into the
bathroom in search of a styptic pencil. Finding none, I just wait
five minutes and go with the toilet-paper-dot trick.

When I re-emerge from the bathroom, I find that
Pegeen has pulled my new Crown Tournament gown from one of the
overladen garment bags. She’s holding it up to the flickering
hallway light, her mouth agape with awe.

The dress is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen.

It’s a magnificent overgown made of brocade and shot
silk in royal purple, with blue and red velvet trim. The top part
of the sleeves are slashed to show the dress’ golden chemise lining
underneath, and the bottom sleeve sections are red velvet streamers
lined in the same golden fabric and trimmed with seed pearls and
tiny gold beads. The overskirt is split down the front, revealing a
velvet underskirt in contrasting deep red. The entire gown is
encrusted with hundreds—maybe even thousands—more seed pearls and
gold beads, as well as more embroidery than I’ve ever seen in one
place in my life. Closer inspection of the embroidery shows that
what looks like a basic flower design from a distance is actually
an elaborate pattern created by interlacing the letters “L” and “P”
together over and over again. Both sides of the gown bodice are
open, but have at least three different sets of complicated lacings
all interwoven with each other. I’m so stunned by the gown’s sheer
beauty that I drop my towel without realizing it and stand naked in
the hallway, my jaw dropping against my chest with a
thud
.
The sound jolts Pegeen out of her own reverie, and she turns to
face me.

“Jesus H. Christ, Lees, put on some underwear. You
don’t want to get your crotch gunk all over this dress.”

I silently step back into the bathroom and tug on my
clean panties, never once taking my eyes off the gown.

Pegeen gives me a hard glance. “I hope you
appreciate how hard Barlonda worked on this for you, by the way.
The style is Italian Renaissance, which matches your new SCA name
and persona, by the way. And Barlonda hasn’t slept for almost a
week trying to finish all that embroidery, and that was even with
two assistants helping her. And she was up until
four a.m
.
this morning hand-sewing on all those pearls.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, gingerly fingering
the butter-soft fabric of one of the slashed, pearl-encrusted
sleeves.

“
I
was one of the two assistants. I was at
her house all night long helping her finish the hem, so this
goddamned thing would be finished in time for you to wear today,”
Pegeen snaps, then takes a deep breath and shakes her head again.
“Sorry, Lees. I didn’t mean to be short with you just now—it’s just
that I haven’t been sleeping much lately either.”

All my petty anxieties melt away at the thought of
Pegeen and Barlonda slaving through the night to ensure I’m
properly outfitted for my big day. I’m so touched I can’t speak.
Despite my near nudity, I reach out to give Pegeen a big bear
hug.

“Hey, Lees!” Pegeen cries. “Let go! You’re crushing
the gown!”

I obey, but give my best friend of almost twenty
years a big, slobbery smooch on the cheek for good measure.
“Thanks, Pegeen. It really means a lot to me.”

Pegeen wipes some stray spittle off her cheek. “Hey,
it’s no problem, Lees. Least I can do for dragging you into the SCA
in the first place. Just keep the kissing to a minimum, okay?”
Pegeen drapes my drop-dead-gorgeous gown across the back of the
couch on top of the other still-stuffed garment bag. “Here,
Lees—dry yourself off and then we’ll need to try the gown on
you.”

“It looks kind of complicated to put on,” I offer.
“All those lacings.”

“Don’t worry, Barlonda trained me on how to get it
on and off you,” Pegeen says, rapidly undoing the lacings on the
gown’s left side with one hand. “It’s actually easier to get on
than it looks, because the underdress is built in, and so is the
corset. Convenient, huh?”

“What’s in the other garment bag?”

Pegeen grins. “That’s
my
gown. Barlonda made
a simpler, scaled-back version of your dress for me to wear today.
I’m your official lady-in-waiting. Now stop staring and get this
dress on, Lees. I have to make sure it fits before we leave.”

****

Twenty minutes later, Pegeen and I are speeding down
I-75 in her rusty Tercel. Our dresses are back inside the garment
bags and spread neatly across the back seat. Not surprisingly, my
gown fit perfectly. And Pegeen is fast proving an expert
lady-in-waiting. She had that complicated dress on me, checked for
proper fitting, and perfectly arranged back inside its garment
bag—without creases—in six minutes flat.

“So, where exactly is the event today?” I ask
through a mouthful of the Egg McMuffin Pegeen picked up for me just
before we got on the expressway.

“At the Drawbridge Inn, in northern Kentucky. It’s a
hotel and a convention center designed around a medieval theme.
Supposedly it even looks like a castle.”

I swallow the rest of my McMuffin and lick the
grease off my fingers. I notice that a dribble of mayo has landed
in my lap—making me thankful for Pegeen’s advice not to wear my new
gown in the car. “They actually build hotels like castles?” I say.
“I’ve never heard of that. Must be a Kentucky thing."

Pegeen laughs. “More like a seventies thing. The
place probably hasn’t been redecorated in thirty years—at least
that’s what I hear. But it’s cheap, and the hokey faux-medieval
décor is kind of cute, or so Arundel says. By the way, Arundel and
I booked a room there for tonight after the event’s over, so you’ll
have to find your own way home.”

“Oh, I’m sure Syr Phillip will be able to take care
of me,” I sing.

“I’m sure he will too, Lees. He’s probably got the
biggest suite in the place reserved for you both. By the way, as
your official lady-in-waiting, I took the liberty to pack an
overnight bag for you while you were getting dressed. It’s in the
trunk.”

“Wow. Thanks.” I’m beginning to like the idea of
Pegeen being my right-hand woman.

As if reading my mind, Pegeen shoots me a subtle
glance as she switches freeway lanes. “Which reminds me,” she says.
“Assuming that Syr Phillip does win today, you’re going to be
needing a royal support staff. Have you given any thought to that
at all?”

I blink, knowing exactly where this is going. “Royal
support staff? No, I don’t suppose I have.”

“Well, Lees, you’re going to need a full appointment
of ladies-in-waiting to help you with all sorts of things when you
become Crown Princess and then, Queen. Wardrobe management,
secretarial work, things like that. You’ll have lots and lots of
people calling you at all times of the day and night. You’ll need
to have your travel arrangements made for all the different events
you’ll be attending. Plus there’ll be all your new garb to take
care of—“

I feel a satisfied smile spread across my face.
“Sounds like you’ve done quite a bit of research into this,
Pegeen.”

“Oh, well, you know me. I just pick up my
information here and there,” my best friend sputters. “I’m not
like, trying to
force
you into picking me for the royal
household or anything like that. In fact, I’m sure that Syr Phillip
probably already has a bunch of people picked out, anyway. He’s
very well-connected you know.”

I reach out and pat Pegeen’s hand where it rests on
her sheepskin-covered steering wheel. “I’d be proud to have you as
my royal lady-in-waiting, Pegeen. Consider yourself hired.”

“AWESOME!” she cries, clapping her hands. “Thank you
so
much, Lees. I promise, I won’t let you down—“

“I’m sure you won’t, Pegeen, but would you mind
putting your hands back on the steering wheel before you get us
both killed?” I take hold of the wheel to steer us clear of an
oncoming semi just before it sheers off the back half of the
Tercel.

“Right,” Pegeen sighs.

****

Thanks to Pegeen’s ninety-mile-an-hour pace, we
arrive at the Drawbridge Inn in Erlanger, Kentucky about half an
hour later, only a few minutes behind schedule. Barlonda is waiting
for us in the circular driveway in front of the hotel—which just as
Pegeen promised, really
does
look like a castle. True to its
name, the Drawbridge Inn even has a drawbridge.
And
a
moat.

Barlonda’s dressed in probably the most complex
costume I’ve ever seen—it even makes the Elizabethan getup Mistress
Mathilda wore to the Blood and Roses Tournament seem simple. It’s
an enormous, flowing gown of emerald-green velvet that is a
complicated-yet-elegant mass of pleats and folds, with long sleeves
that are dagged in a repeating cloverleaf pattern. The dress’
stand-up collar and hem are trimmed with real foxfur, and above the
fur trim is a line of floral embroidery that looks like it just
might have been worked in 24-karat gold wire.

“Do you like it?” Barlonda says, whirling around.
“It’s called a houppelande. I finally finished it up this morning.
And the hem’s only basted up, so I’ll still have to do some more
work on it, but at least it’s wearable. I’ve been working on this
damn gown on and off for almost ten years, you know.”

“
Ten years?”
I sputter. “Wow. It’s
beautiful.”

Barlonda smiles and curtseys. “Yes, hon, I hope that
between this houppelande of mine, your Italian Renaissance gown,
and all the Kingdom Peers that will be here today to see them,
maybe I’ll finally get nominated for that darned Laurel in
Costuming I’ve been trying to win for at least
fifteen
years. Somebody’s got to give Mistress Mathilda a run for her money
around here.” Barlonda turns to Pegeen. “How did her dress fit?”
she asks, lowering her voice.

“Fine,” I answer before Pegeen can. “It’s beautiful,
by the way.” I give Barlonda a big hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Thank you so much, Barlonda. It’ll be the most gorgeous dress I’ve
ever worn in my entire life. I really, really appreciate you making
it for me.”

Barlonda smiles and blushes. “Don’t thank me, dear.
Thank Syr Phillip. After all, he paid for it.”

“Well, I’m thanking you anyway,” I say. “Let’s go
inside.”

The three of us pile into the crowded hotel lobby,
where scores of SCA types are already milling about. Some are
already in full garb, but most are still in modern dress and
pulling luggage carts and suitcases laden with armor, garb,
feastgear, archery equipment, and other medieval oddities—including
something that looks very similar to a cast-iron Spanish
Inquisition torture rack. Barlonda clucks as a stout, elderly bald
man in monk’s attire drags the strange device past us on a metal
dolly truck from U-Haul.

“My goodness, Master Julius Blackfriar has really
outdone himself this year,” Barlonda twitters. “He always comes up
with the strangest contraptions for the Crown arts and sciences
competitions. I thought he’d never top what he entered last year,
but I guess not.”

“What did he enter last year?” Pegeen asks.

Barlonda clucks. “A catapult. Complete with buckets
of boiling oil. But it got disqualified for safety reasons. I guess
Master Julius is trying again this year with that—
thing,
but
he’ll probably get disqualified anyway.”

“Why?” I ask.

“The SCA doesn’t allow potentially hazardous weapons
in the arts and science competitions,” Pegeen explains as we duck
into the ladies room, where at least twenty women are already
crammed into stalls as they put on their event garb.

“Are these arts-and-science competitions a big
deal?” I inquire, feeling more ignorant than usual.

“Yes, dear,” Barlonda says, patting me on the
shoulder. “The Crown tournament isn’t the only competition here
today.”

“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, ladies,”
Pegeen cuts in. “But we need to find a better place to get Lisa
into her gown. I don’t have enough room to
work
in here.”
Pegeen wrinkles her nose and storms out, dragging our garment bags
behind her.

I suppose Pegeen is probably the only woman on earth
who could do a diva turn as a lady-in-waiting.

Barlonda and I both laugh together and follow Pegeen
down the bustling corridor. A large wooden sign carved with the
Middle Kingdom’s royal insignia—a red-and-white shield decorated
with a gold crown and a reclining dragon—points the way towards the
Drawbridge Inn’s Canterbury Hall conference wing. I pick up a hotel
brochure from a heavily carved wooden side table and read that all
the rooms in this section of the conference center are named after
characters in
The Canterbury Tales.
The corridors are
paneled in dark, heavy oak, interspersed with stained-glass windows
containing quaint images of lords and ladies on horseback. Once we
enter Canterbury Hall’s main foyer, Pegeen ducks into the first
empty conference room she sees. A sign with Gothic lettering and
the image of a medieval farmer outside the door proclaims an
otherwise ordinary meeting space as the Ploughman’s Room. I think
back to my college English literature courses trying to recall what
exactly the Ploughman character did in the
Canterbury Tales
,
but I can’t recall anything other than the fact I had to use the
Cliff’s Notes to help me understand all the weird Middle English
spellings in Chaucer.

Pegeen spreads the garment bags and her own knapsack
on the main conference table. “Ahh, that’s better. Plenty of room
to lay out all your things, Lees. I just wish there were a mirror
in here.” She pulls an invisible thread from my gown’s hem and
tosses it aside. “We need to get Lisa garbed and ready to go. And
remember, from now on today you will need to address me as Pegonia,
the Royal Lady’s Maid.”

“I’m not royal yet,” I protest.