Florida Knight (14 page)

Flaunting their virility? Raven wondered. If he was going to be around very long . . . Okay, so he was tempted. Sorely tempted. He hadn’t appreciated the speculative look in Brocc’s blue eyes.

Next to the leather crafts were the knives. Every size from dainty ladies’ daggers featuring semi-precious stones to . . . Raven frowned.  In the back, well out of reach of casual hands, were two of the nastiest-looking knives he’d ever seen. Ten inches of razor-sharp saw-back Bowies, each with a wooden grip so highly polished it almost looked like bronze. The sheaths were made of heavy leather, plain and functional. As were the knives. Good for hand-to-hand combat or slitting throats in the stealth of night. What had he gotten himself into?

Pasting a look of naive interest over his scowl, Raven moved on to the armor in the next booth. “M’lord.” The stalwart vendor in green tunic and tights blended perfectly into his environment. With dark curly hair, brown eyes, the shoulders of a blacksmith, he could have passed for an ancient Celt or one of Robin Hood’s Merrie Men. He watched in silence as Raven frowned over the items laid out on the table.

“I know what a helmet is,” Raven ventured, “but—“

”Helm.”

“Helm,” Raven acknowledged. “And I can’t miss a chainmail hood.”

“Coif.”

Raven clenched his teeth. “And the cup?” he ventured.

“Codpiece. You got the function right,” the vendor granted.

Not the friendliest sort, Raven thought.  “I’m new,” he admitted. “I may need to get a whole outfit someday soon. Why don’t you tell me what I’m looking at.”

The vendor looked pained. Odd. Surely the bonhomie expected from salesmen was one of those things that didn’t change through the ages. Raven raised one of his heavy black brows. Waited.

In rapid succession—as if deliberately trying to confuse his potential customer—the dark-eyed vendor tapped his wares. “Gorget, pauldron, cuirass, rerebrace, elbow cop, vambrace, clamshell gauntlet, cuisse, knee cop, half greave.”

Raven gave the defiant vendor a long look. “Isn’t this stuff sort of out of period?” he inquired, trying to sound as if he knew what he was talking about.

“Renaissance,” the vendor shot back. “Fifteenth century. Our fighters need lots of protection.”

“Against bamboo poles and duct tape?” Raven was having a hard time remembering he was a lowly newcomer known as Cat’s man.

The vendor sneered. “Fight, and you’ll understand.”

“You got a card?” Raven asked, striving for casual when he was tempted to drag the guy out from behind the counter and toss him like a lance.

Almost sullenly, as if it were too much trouble to reach for it, the vendor handed Raven a card. Alfric the Armorer, with an address in
Clearwater
, e-mail, and—surprise!—a web site. With a curt nod, Raven moved on to the next booth. At the moment he devoutly wished that the surly Alfric was the man he was looking for. He’d love to toss the bastard in irons.

Shit!
Less than twenty-four hours in LALOC, and he was thinking like them. The madness must be catching.

Raven examined each of the jewelry booths with care, finally selecting a pair of earrings with elaborate Celtic knotwork. He slipped them into the leather pouch Cat had provided to hang from his belt, then looked around for the fighters’ field.

Lyst Field, Raven corrected. That’s where Cat said he could find her.

Chapter 9

“For honor and glory, lay on!” The Marshal’s shout rang out as Raven approached the Lyst Field. He winced. The words reminded him all too clearly of the joust at the Manatee Bay Medieval Fair. Yet here there were no gaily caparisoned horses, no rings, no lances, though most of the fighters were as handsomely garbed as Mark and the other Knights of Entertainment who traveled the Medieval Fair circuit. Surcoats of every conceivable style and color blazed brightly in the noontime sun. Heraldic devices decorated each shield, some magnificent, others painted by hands as ungifted in art as his own. Raven narrowed his eyes against the strong
Florida
sun, looked again. The edges of each shield were heavily padded with a silvery gray something which looked suspiciously like . . . duct tape? He shifted his attention to the fighters’ weapons.
We confine our violence to rattan poles padded with duct tape.
Weird, but evidently true. Each fighter’s sword was a three-foot stick of rattan, mummified in duct tape. Most had elaborate metal grips—Raven recognized one of the mysterious pieces of metal he had just seen in the Alfric the Armorer’s display.

Very strange, these LALOC warriors. Raven could only wonder if any of them owned stock in companies manufacturing duct tape. Surely they must use enough of it to keep at least one factory going around the clock. Momentarily forgetting his search for Cat, he paused to watch the tourney.

“There’s room on our blanket.”

Raven glanced down, nodded to the two young women on his left. One of them gathered up the spreading fullness of her dark blue gown, offering him a space beside her. Well, hell, it would be churlish to refuse. “My ladies.” Raven sat, wondering at himself as they smiled their way through introductions; one girl shy, the other boldly giving him the eye. He hid his surprising unease by turning his attention to the field. He wasn’t up for bids, he already had a girl.

A pavilion had been erected at the edge of the combat area. Under the canopy were two high-backed wooden thrones flanked by four chairs, each draped in tapestry cloth. At the moment only one of two thrones was occupied. Those must be the damn chairs he was supposed to bow to even if empty, Raven grumbled to himself. And the burly guy wearing a gold crown had to be the king. A multitude of attendants hovered behind the throne. Sourly, Raven spotted the tight-assed flunky who had shut the royal door in his face the night before. Too bad he couldn’t have set the little prick down in the midst of one of those fountaining sprinklers.

Raven continued his scan of the Lyst Field. A second pavilion, set up at a respectful distance from the royal enclosure, housed a table topped by two huge insulated jugs of liquid. “Water and Gatorade,” the bolder of the two girls supplied as she saw what had drawn Raven’s attention.

He nodded his thanks while repressing a chuckle. The only thing the two pavilions had in common was an elaborate canopy. Evidently, the Authenticity Nazis kept well clear of the fighters’ pavilion. The two glaringly plastic jugs sat on the table like squat orange lighthouses, wholly a product of twenty-first century
America
. Presumably, the fighters didn’t want to hunt for their liquid refreshment under the drooping folds of a tapestry disguise.

Okay, Raven conceded, there was something about LALOC that made it difficult for him to stay scornful. These were basically good people, decent people, trying to find an escape from the modern world’s hectic pace. LALOC rules—and the good-natured breaking of them—were part of what made this society work. Who could knock good manners, colorful clothing, a chance to learn the craft of your choice—from leather work to fighting on the Lyst field? Not to mention the delightful bevy of comely and friendly fair maidens. For a moment, Raven’s personal crusade wavered. Anger was hard to sustain in the face of innocent pleasure, an almost naive tolerance of other people’s idiosyncracies.

Hell, no!
The s.o.b. who hurt Mark was here somewhere. He was sure of it.

From inside the fighters’ pavilion a hand as large as a ham waved at him. A deep voice bellowed his name. Max. Raven flashed a broad smile, returned the wave. Cat had explained that Max wasn’t allowed to fight. The Earl Marshal of the Kingdom had told the giant ex-biker it was because no one else would have a chance if he took the field. Truthfully, everyone was terrified his already wounded head was vulnerable to further damage. A royal decree, backed by LALOC’s Florida Board of Directors had put Clay Culpepper permanently on the sidelines. As Raven watched Max hand out cups of liquid to each fighter who came panting up to the pavilion, he couldn’t help but wonder if Max resented his banishment.

Raven scanned the remainder of the sidelines. The other spectators were mostly women. Wives, children, girlfriends, would-be girlfriends. Evidently, the Lyst Field served a dual purpose. In addition to allowing the fighter jocks to beat each other’s brains out; it was also Matchmaker Central. After all, what was a Lyst without Fair Maidens?

Raven did his part to maintain his cover, chatting easily with the girls while keeping his attention on the field. He tried to identify Brocc and Thor, but it was hopeless. Each fighter’s face was completely anonymous behind the helm’s face plate. A few had classic moveable visors; more common were a series of curved bars welded to each side of the helm, forming a solid cage in front of vulnerable facial features.

“Salute the Crown, your Lady, your Opponent. For honor and glory, lay on!” Before each two-man bout the Marshal repeated his instructions. Dutifully, each fighter obeyed, bowing to the Royal Pavilion, his Lady, then to the man he was about to fight.

Some ceremony for a sixty second fight! Raven grumbled. For that was about how long each bout lasted until one of the fighters whacked the other in one of the places acceptable to LALOC rules and the defeated fighter rolled over and played dead. At least some of them did. Raven couldn’t repress a smile at a few of the elaborate death throes enacted on the Lyst Field before the fighter scrambled to his feet and jogged toward the sidelines. Or, frequently, toward Max and the jug of Gatorade. Others, less accepting of their loss, stomped off the field in high dudgeon.

Gradually, one fighter began to stand out from the rest. Outweighed by fifty to eighty pounds, his movements were lightning-fast, graceful, even elegant. Darting and weaving beneath the guard of his brawny opponents, the fighter was recalled to the field several times as he continued to move up in the ranks of the round-robin tourney. At the end, the honors were down to two—a well-muscled jock Raven suspected was Brocc and the lithe and elegant fighter who had managed to outmaneuver men half again his size. Raven’s instant animosity toward Brocc the night before played little part in his hope the smaller fighter would win. He couldn’t help but admire the gallant fight put up by the man whose shoulders looked positively fragile compared to most fighters in the tourney. The match seemed more like David and Goliath than Medieval hand-to-hand combat.

“For honor and glory, lay on!” As the marshal ended his admonitions with his most ringing tones of the day, Raven found he was wholeheartedly rooting for the smaller fighter.

This was no sixty-second match. The two fighters were matched in skill, if not in physical size. Each swing of a rattan sword was followed by a hard thwack as the other fighter caught the blow on his shield. For a moment, each stepped back, circled, moved in for another round. The next flurry of blows was so fast Raven couldn’t follow the action, but the final move stuck in his mind with the clarity of a high-speed photo. The larger fighter seemed to stumble. He went down on one knee, then turned the end of his rattan sword upward, jabbing it hard into the smaller fighter’s belly. Raven’s favorite went down like a stone.

Raven came off the blanket as if on a spring. He was six steps toward the field when he saw Max had beat him to it, making a flying tackle that was a credit to his high school football coach. Brocc—Raven was sure it was Brocc—disappeared under Max’s onslaught. The marshal and several other fighters, seemingly oblivious to the wrestling match, turned their attention to the smaller knight, who now had one hand braced on the ground while waving off help with the other.
Stupid prideful bastard!
The winded fighter struggled into a sitting position, watching—as did everyone else—while Max dragged off his opponent’s helm, slinging it halfway across the Lyst Field, so he could deliver a few well-aimed blows to the jaw.

Raven was sincerely sorry when the marshal finally decided—after an infinitesimal nod from the king—that a fist fight was not part of the Dream that was LALOC. A wave of the marshal’s hand, and the two men were dragged apart. Raven seriously considered finishing up where Max left off. After all,
he
wasn’t a member of LALOC. And, besides, he’d be willing to bet brawls between knights were far from uncommon in Medieval times.

Several fighters helped Raven’s favorite to his feet. A cup of water was offered. The fighter tugged off his helmet, accepted the cup with a small nod of thanks. Catriona MacDuff raised the cup to her lips and drank.

Ten feet away at the edge of the Lyst Field, Raven stood stock still, unable to sort out his emotions. Horror, rage, nausea. Visions of Mark covered in blood. Cat—
his
Cat—her magnificently sculptured features equally damaged. The
insanity
of Cat daring to be a fighter. O
f challenging a bull like Brocc one-on-one.

The vision of a bloody Cat was replaced by the satisfying clarity of Brocc beaten to a bloody pulp. By Raven. Cat’s man.

Raven broke his trance, strode onto the field. It was part of his cover, right? This was
his
woman, his to protect and defend. His to revenge. Putting his arm around her shoulders, claiming her for his own, felt good. Odd . . . she didn’t protest, didn’t turn on him. A faint smile; she leaned into him as if grateful he was there.

As he walked Cat off the field, Raven finally realized why he’d had the feeling he was Catriona MacDuff’s prize of war. She truly was the warrior knight, he the lowly hanger-on trailing in her wake. Well, the damned scenario was about to change. Cat might be a warrior, but her battle prize was about to turn into more than she could handle.