Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (101 page)

“Well, whatever’s causin’ it hon, you’re holdin’ up
the show. Everybody’s waitin’ on you.” Danyel pulls me the rest of
the way up.

And even as I get the feeling I’m nothing more than
a lamb being escorted to slaughter, Pegeen, Barlonda, and Danyel
half-escort, half-carry me down the aisle of the tournament hall,
where a nervous-looking Syr Phillip is waiting for me in the bear
pit, his helm under his arm and his sword at his feet.

Chapter
22

Everything that happens next is kind of a blur. My
walk down the aisle toward my favored knight and lord seems to
happen in slow motion. Hundreds of Middle Kingdomers chant my name
as I pass them.

“LEE-SA! LEE-SA! LEE-SA!” Someone throws rose petals
at my feet as I stumble onto the stage, and I almost banana-peel
out on one of them. But Syr Phillip’s strong hand catches me just
in time.

“I understand you’ve been falling down a lot today,”
he whispers in my ear, his voice seeming very far away. “How about
you save the lying down for our celebration tonight, milady?”

I don’t answer him. It’s all I can do just to keep
standing.

Baron Grizzly announces our names and presents us to
the King and Queen. Somehow, I remember that I’m supposed to
curtsey. Then Syr Phillip puts on his helm, picks up his sword and
shield, and goes to stand in the bear pit to await his opponent.
Somebody—I think it’s Pegeen but I’m too dazed to know for
sure—guides me over to my red satin chaise lounge, which has been
moved to just downstage left of King Fallon and Queen
Marguerite.

Baron Grizzly goes back to his spot in front of the
bear pit and he begins pounding his staff. I start to feel faint
again, so I stretch out on the chaise lounge as much as I can
without actually lying down. I’m just getting comfortable when I’m
stunned by Baron Grizzly’s words.

“OYEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! BE IT KNOWN THAT SYR PHILLIP
REGINALD OF BLACKSTAR’S CHALLENGER FOR THE CROWN OF THE MIDREALM IS
MASTER STEPHEN BLACKHAWK OF THE TWO SHIRES, FORMERLY OF THE KINGDOM
OF AETHELMARC, WHO FIGHTS TO SAVE THE HONOR OF LADY FIONA OF MIDDLE
MARCHES!”

A collective “huh?” erupts from the crowd, followed
by silence. Some of the older SCA members, including Barlonda and
Danyel, start whispering furiously to one another.

Meanwhile, the mysterious black-armored fighter—who,
apparently, is none other than Syr Phillip’s own brother, Master
Stephen—strides into the bear pit with a pale, thin woman who must
be Lady Fiona at his side. She gives the crowd a feeble wave just
as Master Stephen pulls off his heavy black helm and shoots Syr
Phillip the enigmatic love-meets-hate look that only a
long-embedded sibling rivalry can create.

Syr Phillip drops his sword.

Master Stephen—I notice that he’s now wearing a
white master-at-arms baldric, something he left off during the
earlier competition—gives his older brother the most charismatic of
smiles and puts his helm back on. I wonder what he’s doing here
fighting for the Crown of the Midrealm, considering that just two
weeks ago he was spying for the kingdom of Aethelmarc.

It seems Syr Phillip is wondering the same thing,
because he just dropped his shield, too. It lands on his
steel-encased foot with a
clang
. He stands in the middle of
the bear pit, weaponless, shieldless, and frozen solid.

Master Stephen picks up his own sword and shield,
taking a preparatory stance. Syr Phillip doesn’t move.

The Earl Marshal taps Syr Phillip on the shoulder.
“Milord?” the old knight asks. “Are you all right, sir?”

Syr Phillip shakes his head back and forth rapidly,
as if coming out of a trance. “Yes,” he mutters from underneath his
helm, and after a long moment he goes to pick up his sword and
shield.

The Earl Marshal steps forward. “Good gentles of the
Midrealm!” he shouts, his voice roughened with age but still quite
loud. “The final round of Crown Tournament is upon us! This will be
a traditional sword-and-shield, single-elimination round! The first
fighter to land a fatal blow shall win the Crown of the Middle
Kingdom and he and his lady shall immediately become Crown Prince
and Princess of the Midrealm. Gentles, I must respectfully ask for
total silence during this fight. Please keep your cheers for the
end. Before you stand the two best fighters in the kingdom, and
they both must concentrate on the task at hand. Baron Griswold
shall announce when the populace may cheer the winner. Until then,
only he and I may speak.”

The Earl Marshal steps to the rear of the bear pit,
just outside its boundaries. “Milords, prepare to engage!”

Syr Phillip and Master Stephen are already frozen in
strike posture. They both nod at the Earl Marshal, who shouts, “Lay
on!”

The two brothers start circling each other in the
ring, but neither seems willing to make the first strike. After
they spend almost a full minute dodging one another, the Earl
Marshal intervenes. “Milords, I must implore you, please begin the
duel. The feast is scheduled to begin in half an hour.”

Syr Phillip finally makes the first move. He swings
his sword in a textbook parry that easily lands itself on Master
Stephen’s shoulder, “severing” his younger brother’s shield arm.
Master Stephen drops his shield in accordance with SCA fighting
procedure, and then Syr Phillip easily locks rattan with him,
ricocheting his sword’s hilt off his brother’s wrist.

Remarkably, Master Stephen doesn’t seem to be doing
much of anything to block his older brother’s blows. Or fight back
much at all, for that matter. Syr Phillip is doing all the
attacking, and Master Stephen’s parries are feeble at best. Within
another minute, Syr Phillip has “severed” both his younger
brother’s legs. Master Stephen is now reduced to fighting on his
knees with only one arm, his defeat appearing inevitable.

Syr Phillip raises his sword over his head to strike
the final blow. Master Stephen raises his own sword in defense only
slightly, seemingly accepting his fate.

Before my lord and knight lands the final blow, he
pauses, his sword frozen in midair. “This one’s for Holly, you
bastard,” Syr Phillip hisses through the steel grating of his helm,
and brings his sword down squarely on his younger brother’s
head.

Wham.

The Earl Marshal steps forward. “Master Stephen
Blackhawk of the Two Shires, you have received a decapitating blow
to the head. You are now dead. Please die, milord.”

Master Stephen topples over onto the floor with
great ceremony. Syr Phillip sets down his sword and shield and
pulls off his helmet, revealing a huge grin. The Earl Marshal
raises Syr Phillip’s right arm in a victory salute. “Winner!” he
shouts, and pats Syr Phillip firmly on the back. Master Stephen
stands up, pulls off his helm, and goes to embrace his older
brother in a huge bear hug. Stunned and stiff, Syr Phillip doesn’t
hug him back.

Baron Grizzly starts banging his staff on the floor.
He’s smiling from ear to ear, too. “Behold your new Crown Prince,
good gentles of the Midrealm!” he shouts. “Syr Phillip Reginald of
Blackstar and his most-honored lady, Lisa Ladonna di Abbigliatura,
shall ascend to the Throne of the great Middle Kingdom!”

Syr Phillip rushes to my side and drags me off my
satin couch. In one swift motion, he scoops me into his arms and
threshold-carries me onto the stage, where King Fallon and Queen
Marguerite are waiting to receive us.

The crowd goes wild. Somehow, Syr Phillip bows
deeply before the royal couple without dropping me on the floor. I
start feeling dizzy again, and the faces in the crowd are all
blending together into a fuzzy, colorful human quilt. It’s probably
a good thing my lord and knight is carrying me. The king and queen
approach us, and I vaguely notice through the deepening haze that
King Fallon is waving a very real metal sword around over our
heads. Syr Phillip sets me gently down on my feet, and then nudges
me lightly in the side.

“Kneel down, Lisa, so King Fallon can crown you,” he
whispers.

Crown
me? I get to wear a crown?

Hmm. I guess that’s why they call it
Crown
Princess.

Baron Grizzly appears out of nowhere carrying an
elaborate red velvet pillow, on which two heavy silver
crowns—slightly smaller, less elaborate versions of the golden ones
that rest on King Fallon’s and Queen Marguerite’s heads—rest. King
Fallon picks up the larger of the two and holds it over Syr
Phillip’s head.

King Fallon’s rich, deep voice booms over the
silent, awestruck tournament hall. “I, King Fallon, King by right
of Arms of the Middle Kingdom, do enshrine you, Syr Phillip
Reginald of Blackstar, as Crown Prince by right of Arms of the
Middle Kingdom.”

I cast a sidelong glance at Syr Phillip as King
Fallon places the crown on his head and see that my lord and knight
has tears in his eyes.

Now it’s my turn. King Fallon picks up the Crown
Princess coronet and holds it over my head. “I, King Fallon, King
by right of Arms of the Middle Kingdom, do enshrine you, Lisa
Ladonna di Abbigliatura, as Crown Princess Consort of the Middle
Kingdom.”

With that, the gentle-voiced monarch places the
crown on my head, carefully balancing it on top of my elaborate
padded headdress.

Ow!
What the hell does this thing weigh,
twenty pounds?

It’s all I can do to hold my head upright under the
weight of my new adornment as hundreds of “POOHBAHS!” shake the
room. Syr Phillip stands up and tugs at me to follow him. I stand
up and instantly feel like a very unstable, metal-headed lollipop.
With as heavy as the princess crown is, I am going to have to look
into some serious neck-strengthening exercises.

****

Fifteen minutes later, I’m relaxing with a bottle of
ice-cold Evian on a leather sofa in the hotel’s “bride’s chamber”
off the main corridor. Just after Syr Phillip and I were crowned,
Queen Marguerite informed me of the longstanding Middle Kingdom
tradition of having the new Crown Princess “retire” alone to her
“chambers” before appearing at her first SCA feast as Crown
Princess. Pegeen/Pegonia, Duchess Danyel, and Baroness Barlonda are
all there fussing over me. I’ve pulled off my ridiculously heavy
crown for now, giving my throbbing temples a rest.

“I have no idea how anyone can wear one of these
crowns all day long,” I mutter, stretching out full-length on the
sofa and kicking off my satin slippers. “That thing is killing me
after only five minutes.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it, hon,” Duchess Danyel
replies, tapping her own duchess’ circlet. “Try wearing it at home
while you do housework. Leave it on for longer and longer intervals
each day. In a week or two you’ll build up the calluses you need
and your neck will be a hell of a lot stronger. And believe me,
you’ll need it. If you think the one you’ve already got is heavy,
the Queen’s crown weighs almost thirty pounds.”

“Oh, it does not!” Baroness Barlonda chuckles. “My
Baroness crown is pretty heavy, but I’ve weighed it, and it’s only
nine pounds. It just feels heavier because it’s on your head.”

Duchess Danyel frowns. “I should know how much that
damn Queen’s crown weighs, Barlonda. I was Queen of this damn
kingdom
twice!”

Barlonda rolls her eyes at this.

“Consider yourself lucky, Lisa,” Danyel goes on.
“The East Kingdom’s crown is even heavier. I got permanent whiplash
from wearin’
that
thing around.”

I loosen the strings on my bodice a little bit and
close my eyes. “How long do I have until the feast starts?” I
groan. “I really need to take a nap.” I feel myself starting to
doze off already.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Pegeen/Pegonia shrieks, shaking
me. “You need to get your feast garb on.” I sit bolt upright and
see that Pegeen is carrying something that looks like a kind of
Renaissance bathrobe. Barlonda is fingering its blue velvet
material proudly.

“What’s that?” I stammer.

“It’s a Spanish surcoat, hon,” Barlonda explains.
“You wear it over your gown for evening. It’ll help keep you warm
as the temperature drops, and it’ll also protect your good
tournament gown from crumbs and wine spills and such. The fabric is
a polyester velour, and it’s washable.”

Danyel and Pegeen/Pegonia help me pull the Spanish
surcoat over my gown. The garment fits me like a sleeveless pup
tent. The gold-streamered sleeves are now the only part of my
beautiful tournament gown not covered by the surcoat. I go to check
the look in the full-length mirror.

I hate to say it, but it’s hideous. Even with its
lovely embroidery and Barlonda’s typically high-quality
construction, the Spanish surcoat makes me look about eighteen
months pregnant with an elephant.

“Well, dear, do you like it?” Barlonda asks, giddy.
“I’m hoping that the surcoat will be my crowning costuming
achievement for the day—if you’ll pardon the pun.”

Pegeen/Pegonia makes a face. “Is it
supposed
to look like that on her?”

“Oh, yes,” Barlonda bubbles. “The Spanish surcoat is
a very flowing, yet very
practical
, garment. And this is
one-hundred-percent authentic, too. I copied it directly from a
1496 portrait of Queen Isabella.”

I make a mental note to complain directly to Queen
Isabella on her choice of attire if I ever run into her during the
afterlife.

I finally sigh and smooth out the front of the
surcoat. Much as I can’t stand the thing, I don’t want to hurt
Baroness Barlonda’s feelings, either. She really wants to win that
Laurel in Costuming, after all. I plaster a big fake smile on my
face and say, “It’s very nice, Barlonda. Thank you for making it
for me. I hope it helps you win your Laurel.”

In a move that shocks me, Barlonda curtseys deeply
and bows her head. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” she coos.