Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set

by Jill Elaine Hughes

  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.

  Your Royal Highness? “Um, pardon me?” I say.

  Duchess Danyel pats me on the shoulder. “That’s your title now, hon—I mean, Your Royal Highness. Relish it.”

  ****

  Ten minutes later, I’m antsy to leave my royal chambers and get over to the feast. It’s getting pretty stuffy in this tiny room as Barlonda, Pegeen, and Danyel all fuss and fawn over me. And I’m famished—the only thing I’ve had to eat all day is the Egg McMuffin Pegeen snagged for me by the interstate this morning. I suppose the lack of food might have contributed to my repeated fainting fits.

  Even if my stomach is growling like a dragon in heat and the walls of my tiny princess’ chambers are closing in, I can’t say that I’m too uncomfortable. After all, Pegeen/Pegonia is rubbing my feet, Baroness Barlonda is massaging my neck and shoulders, and Duchess Danyel is lovingly brushing out my hair so she can re-style it into something more accommodating of my new twenty-pound coronet.

  Pegeen finishes the foot massage and then pops open a large plastic Caboodles makeup kit. “You need a major touchup, Lees. Your mascara’s running from all those fainting spells you pulled, and you need some more lipstick and powder. You look pale today, even for you.” She starts rubbing rouge and dusting powder all over my face before I have a chance to shut my eyes, and some of the makeup lodges onto my corneas and stings.

  “Don’t get powder all over the surcoat!” Barlonda shrieks, squeezing my shoulders so hard her fingernails leave red tracks.

  “Pegonia, you at least need to let me finish up Lisa’s hairdo before you start in on the makeup!” Danyel gestures wildly with the hairbrush, ripping a clump of hair right out of my scalp in the process.

  “Ow!” I scream, and jump off the sofa. “Jesus H. Christ! Can you three harpies just leave me alone for five minutes?”

  All three women stare back at me, their faces wearing the same look a puppy gives you when you step on it accidentally. “We’re just trying to serve you, Your Royal Highness,” Barlonda finally says, her voice meek.

  “Yeah, well, the best thing you guys can do to serve me right now is to give me some fucking space, okay?” My three de facto ladies-in-waiting are stunned.

  “What’s gotten into you, Lees?” Pegeen/Pegonia snaps. “The royalty thing going to your head or something? I never pegged you for the diva type.”

  “I’m not a diva,” I shoot back, shocked at how bitchy I sound.. I pause, take a deep breath. “Look everybody, I’m sorry. But there are just a lot of things stressing me out at the moment, and as much as I appreciate all the—attention you three ladies are showering on me right now, I really need to go get some air.” I turn on my heel and head for the door, grabbing my heavy coronet from Danyel and dropping it onto the back of my head with my hair still hanging loose around my shoulders. I find that it’s actually a lot more comfortable this way. “Danyel, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll just wear my hair down from now on. Do any of you know where Syr Phillip went?”

  All three ladies exchange embarrassed glances, but say nothing.

  “Well?” I hiss. “The Crown Princess of the Middle Kingdom asked you a question,” I sing. “And Her Royal Highness expects an answer. Now.”

  “Um, sorry, but we can’t tell you,” Pegeen whispers, staring at the floor.

  “Well, why the hell not?” I demand, surprised at the harshness of my own voice.

  Duchess Danyel fiddles with her own coronet. “It’s tradition, hon—I mean, Your Royal Highness. The Crown Prince and Princess aren’t supposed to see each other before they make their first appearance at the feast as a royal couple. Sort of like a bride and groom before the wedding, you know. It’s tradition.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sounds like a pretty stupid tradition to me. I’m out of here. See you ladies at the feast.”

  I storm out of the private chamber and into the empty hallway. It appears everyone else has already gone to the feast.

  I start opening and shutting doors up and down the
hallway, searching for another “chamber” like the one I just left. So far, no dice—I’ve found two broom closets, three conference rooms, and one fire extinguisher, but no “prince’s chamber.”

  Pegeen/Pegonia and Barlonda come dashing down the hallway after me, tripping over their bell sleeves and flowing skirts. “Lisa!” Barlonda shouts. “Lisa, don’t look! Please!”

  I ignore her and keep on checking doors. There are only two more left before I reach the end of the hallway.

  “Lees, seriously, stop.” Pegeen says, her voice high and pleading. “You really don’t need to see what Syr Phillip is doing right now.” She reaches to grab my arm but I shake her off.

  I come to the last door and hear muffled voices behind it. I recognize Syr Phillip’s low, ringing baritone, but can’t make out exactly what he’s saying. My hand closes around the doorknob. It’s cool and smooth against my palm. I turn it and find it isn’t locked.

  I fling open the door, and find Syr Phillip standing in the middle of his “prince” chamber. His shirt is off, and he’s wearing nothing but the plaid boxer shorts I recognize from when he stayed over at my apartment a couple of weeks ago.

  And he’s hugging someone.

  Well, more like he’s embracing someone. Lady Ramona of North Fields, to be exact.

  Lady Ramona, who has changed out of her smelly Tudor upholstery costume and is now wearing only her corset and underskirt, is wrapping her arms around my knight and prince, and she looks about two millimeters shy of kissing him. Baron Grizzly, Paladar the Passionate, and King Fallon are there—and they’re all wearing nothing but their underwear, too. All the men stare back at me, startled, their mouths all hanging open in little matching “Os”. Lady Ramona pretends nothing has happened, and moves to kiss my lord. Syr Phillip shoves her aside at the last possible minute, but I can’t help but notice that he leaves his right hand resting on the small of her back.

  “What the hell is this, an orgy?” I hiss.

  “Lisa, sweetheart, it’s not what it looks like—“ Baron Grizzly says, stepping towards me.

  “I didn’t ask you,” I yell at the old herald. I push him out of my way and stomp up to Syr Phillip. “Well?”

  “Lisa, Grizzly is right,” he replies, softly. He’s still wearing his prince’s crown even though he’s in his underwear, and the combination seems absurd. “This really isn’t what you think it is at all. What are you doing in here, anyway? I’m not supposed to see you until the feast starts. That’s tradition.”

  I scoff. “And what the hell kind of tradition is it, huh? Hide the prince and princess from each other so the prince and his buddies can all get laid with the biggest slut in the kingdom? Because—”

  Lady Ramona gasps and turns red. Grizzly takes a hold of my elbow and tries to drag me away, but I stand firm.

  Syr Phillip’s jaw hardens. “Lisa, that was an absolutely horrible thing for you to say.”

  “What the hell else am I supposed to say? You and your buddies—and the King, for that matter—are all standing in a room half-naked with someone who has made it very clear to me on more than one occasion that she wants nothing more than to ruin my relationship with you. Isn’t that right, Ramona?”

  Lady Ramona goes even redder and stares at her feet. “I—“

  King Fallon steps forward. He’s in tighty-whiteys, but his crown is off and resting on the windowsill. He grabs it and sets it on his head. “Princess Lisa, I assure you that what was going on here was completely innocent.”

  “Hah,” I sneer. “I don’t believe you, Your Majesty. I don’t believe any of you. You men are all alike, you know. Cheap two-timing bastards, all of you.”

  King Fallon blinks and shakes his head. “Princess Lisa, as your King, I must respectfully ask that you withdraw. Immediately.” The King’s voice is harsh and stern. He jerks his head in the direction of the doorway, and I sheepishly make my exit without bothering to give the king the required curtsey. Baron Grizzly slams the door behind me.

  Barlonda, Danyel, and Pegeen/Pegonia are all waiting in the hallway, white as ghosts. They’ve seen the whole thing.

  “Lees, I told you that you didn’t need to know what was going on in there,” my best friend finally sighs. Barlonda and Danyel just stare at the fleur-de-lis carpeting.

  “Yeah, right, because you didn’t want me to see how my boyfriend is cheating on me,” I shoot back. “Some friend you are, Pegeen.” Pegeen looks crushed. “And as for you two,” I growl at Danyel and Barlonda, “thank you both so very much for lying to me in the bathroom about what you were talking about during your little gossip session. It’s nice to know what you all really think of me. You’re right, you know. I’m dumb and naïve.”

  “Lisa, dear, please just let us explain—“ Barlonda protests. Danyel keeps staring at the floor.

  “Explain my ass. How about I explain everything to you? Here’s how I see the whole situation. You all have been lying to me the whole time. Syr Phillip is a cheating, slimy womanizer who never loved me—he just wanted a pretty, well-dressed girl-toy to be his Queen. And you all knew it the whole time, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

  The three women don’t answer.

  “What’s more, all three of you had your own agendas, too. Pegeen, you just wanted the prestige of being a royal lady-in-waiting. Barlonda, you just wanted to use me to get the attention you needed for your Costuming Laurel. And Danyel—“ I stop there. The bawdy old duchess stares straight into my eyes with her trademark mixture of tenderness and abrasive humor. I think she’s even smiling a little—something that enrages me all the more. “Well, to be honest, Your Grace, I don’t know what the hell your agenda is. You’ve been Queen of two different kingdoms already, so I don’t know what more you could possibly want. But I think it goes without saying that I cannot associate with any of you any more.”

  With that, I turn on my heel and head toward the small dressing room where my belongings are being stored. I stop short and turn back around for a moment. “Oh and by the way,” I say, pulling the heavy silver crown off my head and tossing it to the floor. “Tell Syr Phillip he can have this thing back. I’m leaving.”

  PART THREE

  Chapter 23

  I have become the first Crown Princess in the history of the Middle Kingdom to abdicate before even making my first official royal feast appearance.

  Well, technically I haven’t abdicated yet. My abdication won’t be official until King Fallon and Queen Marguerite accept my resignation, something that so far, they both have refused to do.

  Three days have passed since Syr Phillip won Crown Tournament. I haven’t spoken to or seen him since I saw him standing half-naked and wrapped around Lady Ramona. And I will be perfectly content if I never see nor hear from him again.

  In fact, I think I’d be perfectly happy if I never saw anyone ever again. To think, just three days ago I was a princess. People actually addressed me as Your Royal Highness, just like I was Princess Diana or even Princess Leia from Star Wars. But today, I might as well start calling myself “Princess Doe,” the name they gave that poor unidentified woman the Dayton police found decapitated on the banks of the Little Miami River.

  I’ve been lying here in my bed ever since the taxicab that cost me two hundred bucks to hire all the way from Erlanger, Kentucky dropped me, still wearing my tournament gown, off in front of my building Saturday night. My beautiful Italian Renaissance gown is crumpled into a twisted ball on the floor of my bathroom, the same place it’s been for the past three days. I’ve been crashed out—naked—in my bed ever since I got home, only getting up to pee, order pizza, or to scavenge in my kitchen for something to nibble on in bed. I haven’t gone in to work at all, and instead of calling sick every day like I’m supposed to, I left an all-purpose voicemail message on Brad’s office phone over the weekend that somebody—I didn’t say who—in my family died and I’ll therefore be out until further notice. (I didn’t have the guts to call Brad during business hours and have a person-to-per
son call about how I’m so depressed about my knight in shining armor turned out to be a two-timing fink that I can’t get out of bed. )

  But knowing Brad, without any corroborating evidence that somebody in my family actually did die recently (and I can hardly rely on Pegeen to provide it after the way I treated her the other day), I think it’s safe to assume that I’ll soon be out of a job in addition to being out of a boyfriend and out of the right to inherit the royal queenship of the largest “kingdom” in the modern world.

  I glance around the room to survey just how pathetic my surroundings have become. My bedroom is more trashed than ever, with the remnants of the past three days’ worth of my self-pity covering almost every square inch of space.

  At least four boxes’ worth of crumpled used Kleenex. Two empty pizza delivery boxes—one from Domino’s, one from Papa John’s. Nine dirty plates, five with congealed, re-microwaved cheese baked onto them. Sixteen dirty glasses—four with dried Ovaltine dregs coating their insides, the rest stinking of two- and three-day old beer leavings. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sits on my nightstand, the milk starting to curdle into cottage cheese. But the crowning achievement of my three-day journey into self-hatred is the now-empty bottle of Jack Daniels that rolled over and spilled onto the pile of laundry under my bed at some point, making my bedroom smell like a distillery.

  Truth be told, I haven’t got a single thing going for me right now. And the saddest part is, I don’t care one bit. If things keep progressing as they are, I will be a homeless cat lady speaking in tongues in front of the Stop-N-Go within a matter of days.

  The phone rings for at least the four hundredth time since I sank into the darkest depths of my depressive funk, and just like the other three hundred and ninety-nine times it’s rung since Saturday night, I let the answering machine pick it up.

  “Lisa!” I hear Pegeen’s voice call out on the tinny answering-machine speaker. “Lisa, please, pick up. Are you there? Hell, are you still alive? Some of us here at the plant are starting to worry that you’re dead. Please, please, don’t be dead, Lees. If you’re there, at least pick up and tell me you’re not dead. You don’t have to talk to me or anything—“