Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (99 page)

After we bask in the afterglow for a moment or two,
Syr Phillip turns my head to face his and kisses me tenderly. “My
love, my rose, my Queen,” he whispers. “I will fight to make you
Queen today, but even if I lose, you will always be the queen of my
heart, Lisa Marie Smith. I love you, darling. I mean it. I do.”

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.

Grizzly takes a deep breath and fidgets with his
yellow-and-green herald’s tunic. After taking a heaving sigh, he
shouts, “OYEZ! OYEZ! MASTER MELPHUS MATTINGAR THE HUN! YOUR
PRESENCE IS REQUESTED BEFORE THE CROWN!”

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.