Barlonda coughs. “Lisa, I promise you, we’ve never been involved in anything like that. Sure, Grizz and I are known to take a toke of Mary Jane occasionally, and yes, we’ve sometimes bought a nickel bag or two from Ramona or Melphus or one of his buddies. We’ve been doing it for years and never once had a single problem. But I swear to you, Lisa, we aren’t drug dealers. We’d never even think of get mixed up in anything that risky, especially with what Grizz does for a living.”
“What does he do, anyway?” I set my jaw and stare deep into Barlonda’s eyes, searching for any deception that might be hidden there.
Barlonda sucks in her cheeks before answering. “He’s a chauffeur. He drives limos for one of the livery companies down at the Cincinnati Airport. He’s just finished up a shift on Sunday right before we came to the meeting—that’s why he was wearing the suit. They do a lot of background checks on the drivers, so of course he can’t get mixed up with anything—you know, criminal. So please, don’t worry, dear. You have to understand, Lisa, that the SCA attracts a lot of odd characters with odd personalities. You can’t expect all of those odd personalities to get along with each other perfectly all the time. What happened the other night was nothing but a simple misunderstanding. Master Melphus is still probably a little shaken up over what happened at Lady Ramona’s, that’s all. Everyone is, in fact. I mean, the poor woman’s house burned down.”
“But—it just seems that there’s a lot of strange things happening. Even Syr Phillip thinks so. He—“
Barlonda holds up one hand. “I know Syr Phillip’s probably got you asking more questions of more people than you need to be,” she says, her voice soft and calm. “Take some advice from me, hon. Stop asking so many questions about gossip and petty SCA politics. Your number-one priority for the next week is to get yourself ready for Crown Tournament. Once Syr Phillip wins—and he will—you’ll have an entire year of your life to deal with nothing but gossip and petty SCA politics. I suggest you stop being so nosy and just enjoy the last week of peace and quiet you have left. Now hold still, hon. I have to get this skirt fitted to your waist or it won’t hang properly.” Barlonda gathers up the pins from the carpet and begins fussing with my dress again.
“Barlonda’s right,” Grizzly shouts from the hallway as I hear the toilet flush. He emerges from the hall and steps into my cluttered cubbyhole of a kitchen, grabs the last Pabst Blue Ribbon from my battered Kelvinator, and hands it to me. “Drink that nice and slow. It’ll relax you. By the way Lisa, has anyone ever told you that your bathroom is too goddamned little?”
I chuckle. “Yes, it is a little on the cozy side,” I admit. Although cozy is probably too kind a word for my bathroom. With as tall as Grizzly is, his knees were probably grazing the tops of his ears when he was using my facilities. “This building is from the late 1800s, and predates bathrooms,” I explain. “My landlord told me once that my apartment’s toilet used to be a coal closet.”
“I can believe that,” Grizzly snorts. “Oh, and by the way, when I was in the john I came up with the perfect SCA name for you. I guarantee nobody else in SCA has ever had it, past or present.”
“What’s that?” I sigh. “That Lisa di Napoli name, or whatever it was?”
“Even better than that. I hope you don’t mind, Lisa, but I thought of it on the can. Your official SCA name from now on will be Lisa Ladonna di Abbigliatura.”
“Wow. That’s really pretty.” I say. “Does it mean anything?”
“Yep. Literally, it means Lisa, the Lady of the Little Toilet. Lucky for you though, most folks in the SCA don’t know Italian, so to them it’ll just sound like a pretty name. Consider it a private joke, just among the three of us.”
“A lot of SCA folk have inside jokes for names,” Barlonda says as she finishes up her fittings on me for the night. “I do. My full SCA name is Baroness Barlonda Maria, La Dona Qui Caro Tocino.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, taking a long sip of beer.
Baron Grizzly grins. “It’s Spanish. It means Barlonda Marie, The Woman Who Loves Bacon.” Grizzly gives his wife a playful slap on her ample behind, and they both laugh together, helping to ease the tension.
We all share a good laugh, and I feel a little better. But even so, I can’t help but wonder why whenever there are strange goings-on in the SCA, they all seem to have at least something to do with Syr Phillip.
Chapter 20
On the morning of the 36th Annual Middle Kingdom Crown Tournament, I rise early.
Extremely early. My alarm jolts me awake at four-thirty. Well, not quite awake. More like just semi-conscious enough to throw my alarm clock against the wall so hard it shatters.
I finally wake up for real around five forty-five when I hear Pegeen pounding on my front door, screaming so loud it wakes up Mr. Watkins next door—who promptly starts pummeling my front porch with his metal garbage-can lids.
“Lemme in, Lees!” I hear Pegeen scream from the porch as I finally roll out of bed and land on a pile of clean laundry. “Mr. Watkins is trying to kill me out here!”
I make it to the front door and let Pegeen in just as she narrowly misses another aluminum projectile. She’s still in modern dress, but has two thick garment bags slung across her back.
“I’ve been banging on this door for twenty minutes, Lees. You were supposed to be up and ready to go by now. I have to make sure your gown fits and telephone Barlonda to be on deck for any last-minute adjustments once we get there, remember?”
“Sorry, Pegeen,” I mutter, heading straight for my bathroom as I vaguely recall something about Barlonda making her umpteenth adjustment to my gown’s cleavage-maximizing bodice two nights before. “I just haven’t been sleeping much the past couple of days.”
“Having phone sex with Syr Phillip again?” Pegeen scoffs from the living room as I sit down on my tiny toilet for a pee. “I warned you about that, you know. Too much phone sex dilutes the power of the real thing.”
“No, we just did that the one time,” I answer as I flush the toilet and start running water for my shower. “I’ve been a little anxious, that’s all.” I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and see that there are industrial-sized bags under both my eyes.
Pegeen pokes her head in the bathroom door. “Why?” she asks, and hands me a fresh pair of underwear that she must have plucked from the laundry pile next to my bed. I notice that her own eyes look drawn and bloodshot, although I can’t imagine why. It’s not like she has anything to be anxious about.
I step under the shower stream, and find that the water is still running too cold. I stay under it anyway and dump half a bottle of Pantene on my head in hopes that the icy water and heavy shampoo fragrance will somehow force me into full consciousness. “Well, there is the little matter of me probably becoming Crown Princess of the Middle Kingdom sometime in the next twelve hours,” I groan.
“You should be happy about that, Lees. Hundreds of women throughout the SCA are insanely jealous of you right now, you know.”
I rummage around in my shower caddy looking for my razor, find it, and hastily start to shave my legs and underarms without bothering to soap them first. Within seconds I shred my left underarm and right thigh to ribbons.
“Goddamn it,” I mutter and toss the dull razor aside in favor of a quick-and-dirty shower. I rinse my hair, rub on a little body wash, and step out of the shower still semi-covered in suds. I wrap a raggedy towel around myself and go to face Pegeen in the hallway.
“Pegeen, it’s not that I’m not happy about the possibility of becoming Crown Princess. I am, believe me. It’s just that it’s going to be this huge responsibility. It’s going to take up tons of my time. I might have to quit my job, too. Or at least take an extended leave of absence, because as you know, Brad isn’t too keen on me missing any work. I have no idea how I’m going to pay my bills if I have to quit my job, or worse yet, get fired. Plus, everybody I know in the SCA is acting really weird about a lot of things right now. Syr Phillip especially
. The whole thing has got me kind of spooked.”
Pegeen looks me up and down and shakes her head. “You’re bleeding all over the carpet, Lees. You should probably do something about that before you put on this dress.”
I look down and see she’s right. The razor nicks on my left thigh are gushing a crimson tide of blood, soap, and water all over the floor, and the cuts in my armpit are quickly staining my towel.
“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 whe
el 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.
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