VIII. The Testing of Sir Bors

"Can't you see that she was using you?" Ellyn snapped at Sir Bors. "The whole thing was a plot to get you on her side against this White Knight!"

"Then why didn't she say so at once? She didn't have to go through all this handkerchief business; I would have helped her anyway. Any of Arthur's knights would," replied Sir Bors mulishly.

"Maybe, but without your vow you might have asked a few questions first. As it is, she's got you under oath, and she won't let that advantage go to waste. You'll see that hanky again, and soon."

Sir Bors scowled but did not reply, and the three continued down the path toward the rocks where Sir Bors had lost Lady Orgille's horse. There was a sharp bend ahead, where the road curved around a massive dome of rock, and as they came to this curve they heard a burst of raucous laughter from around the corner. Sir Bors smiled and loosened his sword in its sheath. "Perhaps I will have another chance at these knights," he said. He seemed pleased by the prospect. In light of the way the first two meetings had turned out, Beaufils wasn't sure why.

Rounding the bend, the three beheld a piteous sight. In an open area among the boulders stood three knights, and tethered nearby were five horses. One of the horses was Sir Bors's old horse, Beaufils noticed, but Lady Orgille's beloved Ginger was not there. The fifth horse, he decided, must belong to the fourth man in the clearing, who was stretched out face-down on the path, his hands and feet tied and staked to the ground. Below the waist he wore armor, but he was naked from the chest up, and his back was covered with blood. The three knights who stood around him had removed their helms and iron gauntlets and each held in his bare hand a long branch covered with thorns. Clearly, they had been beating the man on the ground with these thorny switches.

"You three are despicable," Sir Bors said, drawing his sword and riding into the middle of the clearing. "You don't deserve the name of knight. Release that man and draw your swords."

A faint drumming sound from behind came to Beaufils's ears. Someone was riding toward them on the path—one horse. At that moment, the bound and bleeding man lifted his head, with effort, and looked up at Sir Bors. "Bors?" he groaned.

"Lionel!" gasped Sir Bors. "By all that's holy, you men shall pay for this!" The three knights glanced at each other nervously and took a step back, reaching for their weapons. Sir Bors already had his blade ready and was about to charge into the three, but suddenly a liveried servant on horseback pounded into the clearing.

"Sir Bors!" the servant shouted.

"I'll be with you in a moment," Sir Bors said calmly, never taking his eyes from the three knights.

"You must come with me at once!" the servant said.

"I said you'll have to wait."

The servant replied in a ringing voice, "This handkerchief says otherwise!"

Sir Bors froze, then glanced quickly over his shoulder at the little square of cloth that the servant was waving. "Oh, blast," he said.

Beaufils's heart sank as he saw what was about to happen. Sir Bors, with his rigid sense of honor, would not break his solemn promise to Lady Orgille.

"Bors?" gasped Sir Lionel.

Sir Bors's face was blank, but his eyes were filled with anguish. "Lionel, I..."

"Help me," Sir Lionel said.

"The thing is ... there's this lady..."

"Bors!"

Sir Bors set his jaw. "I'll be back for you, Lionel." Then he whirled his horse and galloped away with the servant.

"Bors!" shouted Sir Lionel furiously. The three knights grinned and looked at Beaufils and Ellyn.

"Now that young lady is quite an eyeful," said one of them, stepping forward.

"Beaufils?" Ellyn said.

Beaufils saw at once that they couldn't run. The knights' great horses would catch them easily. Beaufils grasped his cudgel and slipped from Clover's back. He stepped between Ellyn and the knights, then walked toward them.

The nearest knight, the one who had spoken first, gave a grunt of laughter. "The boy's going to fight three of us with a stick?"

"I don't want to fight," Beaufils replied, stepping still closer.

"I'll wager you don't," chortled one of the other knights. "But it makes no—"

Beaufils was now only a few feet away from the nearest knight, who reached for the sword at his side: Beaufils immediately bashed the knight's bare hand with his cudgel. "Ouch!" the knight shouted, snatching his hand away from his sword. The next knight reached for his sword, and Beaufils smashed his hand in the same way. The second knight screamed and put his fingers in his mouth while Beaufils ducked under a ponderous punch from the first knight and rapped the third knight's fingers with his cudgel, as he had the first two.

"Now you should let this man go," Beaufils said, stepping away from the pack.

This time the knights all went for their swords at the same time. Beaufils was able to smash the first one's hand again, but the other two got their swords free and began swinging at him. Beaufils ducked under one blade and stepped out of reach of the second. It was harder to hit the knights' hands now that they were waving swords, but he managed to bash one knight's free hand, making him howl with pain. The first knight, who still hadn't drawn his sword, came within range, and though he was still unarmed Beaufils no longer had leisure to pick his targets or to aim at hands. With all his strength, he clubbed the knight in the back of the head. The man made a soft sound—something like "blk"—then fell on his face in the dust, tripping one of his companions, who was rushing at Beaufils. To evade another swing from the third knight, Beaufils had to throw himself sharply to one side. A stone rolled under his foot, and he sprawled in the dirt behind Clover and Ellyn's horse. The third knight charged toward him, roaring with glee, then stopped and stood triumphantly over Beaufils's prone form. He raised his sword above his head and then, to Beaufils's considerable surprise, appeared to jump a foot in the air and fling himself against a rock, where he dropped his blade and crumpled in a ball on the ground, moaning.

Beaufils didn't understand this last bit, but he didn't object. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to face the last knight again, only to see him kneeling at the feet of Sir Lionel, who held a sword to his throat. Ellyn, still holding the knife with which she had cut Sir Lionel's bonds, stood just behind them.

"Mercy?" whispered the kneeling knight.

"You're asking mercy from the knight you just flogged with wild rose branches?" Sir Lionel replied.

"It was just a bit of fun, sir," the knight said helplessly. "Meaning no harm."

"You know what I think would be fun?" Sir Lionel answered.

"Letting me go?" the knight suggested plaintively.

Sir Lionel drew back his sword, then brought the haft down on the knight's head with a dull thump. The knight pitched forward on his face, and Sir Lionel said, "Meaning no harm, of course." He turned toward Beaufils and managed a smile. "Beaufils," he said, "I didn't know you at first, but I recognized your knack with that club. Thank you." Then he turned to Ellyn. "And thank you, my lady."

All seemed to be well, which permitted Beaufils to satisfy his curiosity on another matter. "Say," he said. "What happened to the fellow who was about to kill me? He just seemed to fly against that rock all at once."

A dimple appeared on Ellyn's cheek. "Besides being a recreant knight, he wasn't very clever. He didn't even know not to stand behind an agitated mule."

Beaufils's eyes widened with sudden sympathy. "Clover kicked him all that way? I hope he isn't too badly hurt." He stepped over beside the fallen knight, taking care to toss the knight's sword out of reach, then knelt beside him. "Where did Clover kick you, sir?" he asked.

The knight only groaned and writhed. Ellyn stepped up beside Beaufils and examined the knight dispassionately. "Must have gotten him somewhere he didn't have armor," she said. "He looks as though he'll survive, though."

Seeing nothing else to do, Beaufils stood and turned back to the others. "Well, what do we do now?"

"First of all, Beaufils," Sir Lionel said, "will you introduce me to your enchanting friend?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Sir Lionel, this is Lady Ellyn of Carlisle. Ellyn, this is Sir Bors's brother, Sir Lionel."

"His brother?" Ellyn exclaimed. "He ran off and left his own brother?"

"Oh, did you notice that too?" said Sir Lionel bitterly.

"It had to do with that hanky," Beaufils explained to Sir Lionel. "You see, he had made a vow to drop everything and go help this lady whenever she sent him that token. He must have thought he had to honor his promise."

From their expressions, Beaufils could see that neither Sir Lionel nor Ellyn thought much of Sir Bors's priorities. Beaufils sympathized with them. Why was it so hard to admire Sir Bors's commitment to his oath?

For the next few minutes they discussed what to do with the three incapacitated knights. At last they decided to break their swords, which Sir Lionel said was a disgrace to a knight, then take away their armor and horses, thus stripping them of all signs of knighthood. As Beaufils and Ellyn and Sir Lionel rode off, leading the other four horses, Beaufils said, "Shall we go see if Sir Bors needs help?"

Sir Lionel laughed harshly. "And why should I care?" he asked.

"I don't know," Beaufils said. "But I do. Will you come with me?"

Sir Lionel shook his head. "Somehow," he said bleakly, "I just can't see going to help Bors right now." With that, he gave his own horse a kick and trotted away without a backward glance.

Beaufils glanced inquiringly at Ellyn.

"Let's see if he needs us," she said. "He's an ass, but I don't wish him harm."

When they arrived at Orgille Hall, the gates were open and the courtyard empty. If it weren't for the distant sound of shouting from the far side of the castle, Beaufils would have thought it was entirely deserted. "What's going on?" he wondered aloud.

"Let's take all these horses to the stable, then go see," Ellyn suggested.

They rode to the stable, where one elderly hostler limped out to them. "Brought them home, have you?" he wheezed, glancing at the horses behind them. Then he nodded at Sir Bors's old horse. "With a new one, I see. Where are Rufus, Caron, and Brock?"

Ellyn's jaw tightened. "You mean the three knights who ride these horses? Do they live here?"

"When they ain't running errands for My Lady," the old groom said, taking the reins of the knights' horses from Beaufils's hand. "Come on in, boys."

Beaufils stopped the hostler. "Just a moment, old man," he said. "Can you tell us where everyone is?"

The old man shrugged. "Likely they're all up on the back wall watching the fight."

"What fight?" Ellyn demanded.

"My Lady's managed to finagle another knight into fighting Sir Erskine," the groom replied. "Third one this month. Don't know why anyone's bothering to watch."

"Who's Sir Erskine?" Beaufils and Ellyn inquired together.

"He's the brother of the old lord, the one who died sudden-like a week or two after he took My Lady in as his mistress. By rights, Erskine's the owner of the castle, but My Lady's held him off so far."

"I suppose Sir Erskine wears white armor," Ellyn said, nodding to herself.

"That's the fellow. Me, I don't care much either way. I take care of the horses and let the lords and ladies fight as much as suits them." With that, the man disappeared into the stable, leading the knights' three horses.

"What do we do?" Ellyn asked.

"Let's go see if we can help Sir Bors."

"And maybe help Sir Erskine," added Ellyn.

"That too."

Beaufils wasn't sure what to do, but as they rode, leading Sir Bors's horse up to the field where two knights fought with swords, he decided that whatever else happened, Sir Bors needed to know the true state of affairs. So, at the edge of the field, he dismounted and began to call, "Sir Bors! Sir Bors!"

"He can't hear you out there, with all that banging," Ellyn said.

"And with his helm on, too," Beaufils said. "I'll have to get closer." For the second time that day, he drew his cudgel from his gear and strode toward a fight.

When he was about five yards from the combatants, he realized that Sir Bors and Sir Erskine were speaking to each other, in gasps. "I know," Sir Bors was saying. "But I took a vow."

Sir Erskine swung an overhand blow at Sir Bors, which was easily parried. "Must you keep a vow to a woman like that? She would keep no vow to you."

"It makes—" Sir Bors broke off to lash out at Sir Erskine. He missed and staggered briefly. "—no difference! If I break my vow it dishonors me, not her."

"Excuse me," Beaufils said.

"We're busy, boy," Sir Erskine said.

"Beaufils?" gasped Sir Bors.

"Yes. How are the two of you doing?"

"Go away," the two knights said in unison.

"Sir Erskine?" Beaufils continued. "How do you do? My name is Beaufils, or at least that's what I go by."

Sir Erskine rushed at Sir Bors, using his shield as a weapon, trying to drive his opponent to the ground by sheer weight. Bors managed to evade the brunt of the blow, but he staggered to one side and barely managed to block a thrust from Sir Erskine's sword.

"I said that my name is Beaufils," Beaufils continued.

Sir Erskine whirled about, his sword at the ready. "Charmed, I'm sure," he said, panting.

"I'm a friend of Sir Bors, but I'd like to help you too, if I can."

The two knights crossed swords, then ran together, just like two boars fighting over territory. Beaufils had to step quickly out of their way, but he didn't back off. When they separated, Sir Bors said, "I don't see how ... you can help us both, lad ... We're fighting."

"Yes, I noticed that. The thing is, you were tricked into fighting Sir Erskine here."

"Think I don't know that, lad?" Sir Bors said, swinging a heavy blow at Sir Erskine's legs that was parried only at the last second.

"How do you know?" Beaufils asked.

"When I got here ... to the castle ... I saw Lady Orgille's horse in the stable."

"Ginger?"

"Ay," Sir Bors said. "The one she lent—" He had to break off to meet another lunge of Sir Erskine's. They grappled, both of their swords useless at close range, then toppled over and began rolling on the ground. Beaufils skipped out of their way, then approached them from the other side.

"That makes sense," Beaufils said, nodding. "It turns out that those three knights who kept taking horses from you work for Lady Orgille."

From the pile of armored legs and arms came a response from Sir Bors. It was muffled, but it might have been, "Fascinating."

"So anyway," Beaufils said. "I was thinking that maybe you shouldn't be fighting Sir Erskine here."

Sir Erskine managed to draw his knee up between himself and Sir Bors and thrust him away, breaking each man's grip on the other. Both knights immediately swung their swords at the other, but both missed. They scrambled to their feet.

"I swore an oath!" Sir Bors rapped out grimly. Sir Erskine attacked again, and again Sir Bors fought off the assault.

"Yes, I know," Beaufils said. "But look at it this way. You promised to fight the White Knight. Well, you've fought him now. You can stop anytime."

"You know very well that when I made my promise, I meant—"

"Look here, fellow," interrupted Sir Erskine. "Are you even paying attention to me? Who is this boy?"

"Didn't I introduce myself?" Beaufils said. "Yes, I'm sure I did. Twice, in fact. I said my name is Beaufils, and you said that you were charmed. It's very nice to meet you, too."

"Yes, yes," Sir Erskine said. He and Sir Bors were circling each other just out of sword's reach, so Beaufils began to trot next to Sir Erskine. "I remember now," the knight said. "It's just that this isn't the best time for me, you know?"

"I'd rather meet you now than wait until you've been killed," Beaufils said. "That wouldn't be very pleasant at all."

"Maybe I won't be killed," Sir Erskine said. "I hadn't planned on it."

"Neither had I," retorted Sir Bors at once.

"There, you see? It's a hopeless case," Beaufils said reasonably.

"I will not break my vow," Sir Bors repeated doggedly.

"But if you won't stop fighting, then the only way to keep your vow will be to kill Sir Erskine. Do you really want to do that?"

"No!" Sir Bors said. "But I have no choice."

"What a silly thing to say!" exclaimed Beaufils. "You could lay down your sword and say you're sorry and that you made a mistake."

"I most certainly cannot!" Sir Bors declared with revulsion.

"Why not? On the way here you told us all about your sins. Why is it easier to confess to us than to apologize to Sir Erskine?"

"I would lose my honor!"

"But you wouldn't lose it by killing a man for no good reason?"

"No!"

"This honor stuff is very confusing," Beaufils complained, still trotting around the outside of the circling knights. "And I'm not sure it's very helpful. Why is keeping your honor more important than Sir Erskine keeping his life?"

The knights probed each other with their swords, but their thrusts were weak. Beaufils continued. "I know, Sir Bors, that you always try to do what's right. It's one of the things I like about you. But you don't have a choice between right and wrong here. Either you break your promise or you kill an innocent man."

"I don't know why you're so sure Sir Bors here will win," Sir Erskine said suddenly. "I'm not so bad. I beat the last two knights that Orgille sent against me, didn't I?"

"Maybe that's the solution," Sir Bors said in a low voice. "Maybe I should be killed. Then Sir Erskine keeps his life and I keep my honor."

"That's a terrible idea!" Beaufils said. "You're daft."

"He is, isn't he?" Sir Erskine said, lowering his sword. "Look here, fellow. I respect the fact that you made a promise and want to keep it. But I don't want to fight you anymore."

Sir Bors lowered his sword. "Why not? Are you afraid?"

"It's just that my mother taught me to be kind to idiots," Sir Erskine retorted.

"You'll pay for that insult!"

Sir Erskine lifted his head high but kept his arms at his side. "Go ahead, then. Hit me. I won't stop you."

"You won't?" Sir Bors asked. He lowered his own sword. "I can't hit you while you're just standing like that!"

"Let me guess," Beaufils said. "You would lose your honor if you did?"

"That's right."

"I figured there'd be a rule about that," Beaufils said. "You know what I think? I think you have too many rules."

"So you think I should hit him?" Sir Bors demanded.

"No," Beaufils replied patiently. "I think you should go tell Lady Orgille that you've changed your mind and you're not going to keep your silly promise after all. Then I think you ought to ride away with Ellyn and me on your own horse, which we brought with us."

Sir Bors stood very still, his sword arm limp at his side. Then he took a deep breath and said, "All right, blast you both. All right."

Sir Bors was morose and silent again as they rode away from Orgille Hall, and Beaufils was beginning to wonder if there was some way that he and Ellyn could part from their moody friend. His fierce gloom cast a shadow over what would otherwise have been a splendid day for a ride, and squelched all conversation. Beaufils and Ellyn hadn't even felt able to tell him that his brother Lionel was all right, and Sir Bors hadn't asked.

Sir Bors was probably ruminating on his painful interview with Lady Orgille. As Beaufils had suggested, he had walked to the foot of the wall from which the lady and her court were watching the battle and called up that he was not going to kill Sir Erskine for her after all. Then Sir Bors had stood stoically beneath the wall while Lady Orgille had called him a villain and a coward and a great many other things, mostly involving words that Beaufils didn't know. Sir Bors had made no answer, but when at last the storm of abuse had ended, Lady Orgille having exhausted either her voice or her vocabulary, Sir Bors had simply bowed once more, mounted his horse, and ridden away. Now, an hour later, he still had not spoken.

Beaufils was starting to feel bored and had just about decided to begin talking normally to Ellyn again regardless of Sir Bors's scowls when they came to an austere cottage in the midst of a small, cleared area. Beaufils heard Ellyn sigh. "A hermit," she said softly.

From the hut came a thin man with a long neck. He was wearing the plain brown robe that seemed to be the standard uniform of holy men, although Beaufils noticed that this particular robe looked as if it was much more comfortable than others he had seen. Sir Bors brightened at the approach of the hermit. "A holy man!" he breathed thankfully.

The hermit looked aloofly at the three travelers. "Am I to have no peace in which to meditate?" he asked querulously.

"Father," Sir Bors said, nearly throwing himself from his horse. "I need to confess."

"You sound like that Galahad fellow," the hermit complained. "Wouldn't even let me finish my supper, he was in such a blazing hurry to confess, just as if he'd committed every mortal sin in the book, which he hadn't. Then that other fellow, earlier today, nearly kicking the door in asking for food, though I'd like to know where he thought I'd get food. Some people think that all we holy men do with our lives is store up food to hand over to every jackanapes that wanders by. Why not? What else does a hermit have to do? Let me tell you, it takes nearly all my time just to keep up with my prayers. And the wood isn't chopped, and the roof needs work, too. Well? Are you going to confess or just grovel?"

Beaufils and Ellyn exchanged glances at this speech, but Sir Bors evidently saw nothing amiss and plunged at once into a full description of the recent events in his life, starting with his foolish vow to Lady Orgille, continuing through his leaving Lionel to his tormentors, and concluding with his breaking his promise and riding away. Listening to this account, Beaufils wasn't sure which of these events Sir Bors regarded as sins and which he did not. Maybe he was hoping the hermit would tell him. When he was done, the holy man gazed silently at Sir Bors, a speculative light in his eyes. "Please, Father," Sir Bors said, sinking to his knees, "give me my penance—anything!"

"You want penance?" the hermit grumbled. "How about going away and leaving me alone?"

Sir Bors hesitated. "That's not much, is it? Shouldn't you make me do more? After all, I left my own brother to die."

"Er, Sir Bors," Beaufils began, "about Sir Lionel—"

But Sir Bors pressed on. "I heard once about a knight who had to wear a hair shirt under his armor for years as a penance, just like a hermit. Or rather, I mean ... is that a hair shirt you're wearing?"

"I can't wear hair shirts!" the hermit snapped. "I have sensitive skin! You want penance? Fine! Go cut some wood for me!"

Sir Bors bowed his head obediently. "Yes, Father. And will that be all?"

The hermit suddenly looked thoughtful. "Er, no, that's not all," he said slowly. "Dear me, no. You have been very bad, haven't you? I shall have to pray about this. Yes, I have it! Sir Bors, you must renounce your arms for the space of one, no, two years, and must assume the humiliation of being a servant! Right here, so that I—your Father Confessor—can keep an eye on your soul's health. You must cut wood and carry water and keep a garden and hunt wild game—all to humble your soul, that you might be spared from this most horrible sin."

Sir Bors looked up slowly at the hermit's face, his own expression a mixture of grief and doubt. "So to cleanse my soul I need to become your slave for two years?"

"It's not like that," the hermit said hastily. "It will be a trial to me, as well. I daresay you'll disturb my life of meditation awfully with all that work."

Gravel crunched from the far side of the little clearing, and Beaufils looked up to see the swiftly striding figure of Sir Lionel himself. He crossed the yard in a flash, then drew back his ironclad foot and kicked Sir Bors with great force in the part of his hindquarters without armor, launching him forward into the hermit's legs.

"Ouch!" shouted Sir Bors, whirling around. "Who the devil ... Lionel?"

"Who'd you think, you stupid sod!"

"I thought you were dead!"

"If I'm not, it's no thanks to you," Sir Lionel retorted wrathfully. "Here, let's see if I feel like a ghost, shall we?" He kicked at his brother again, but Sir Bors scrambled backward on his hands and feet, and only received a glancing blow.

"Lionel, listen to me!"

"Go ahead," Sir Lionel said, striding forward. "I'll kick you a bit while I listen, shall I?" He got another solid kick in, but this time his armored foot only clanked harmlessly against the iron cuisse on his brother's left thigh.

"I was wrong!" Sir Bors shouted. He was still on his back, but he had raised himself up on his hands and feet and was scuttling backward, his bottom hanging beneath him, where it would be difficult to kick. "I should have helped you!"

"Oh? And you think this is a new idea to me?" Sir Lionel snapped, circling his brother, looking for an opening. "Guess what? I always thought you should have helped me, you blithering block!"

"Dash it, Lionel, I said I was wrong, didn't I?" Sir Lionel kicked him again, but again he missed the soft spot he was aiming for. "You always did fight dirty!" Sir Bors said.

"At least I fight," Sir Lionel rapped back, chasing his brother's beetling retreat.

While all this was going on, the hermit had picked himself up and dusted off his cloak. Now, staring furiously at Sir Lionel, he stepped between the brothers. "Stop!" he declared. "This man is my servant."

Sir Bors looked up from his bottom-defending crouch and said, "No, I'm not. This is my brother, the one I thought I'd killed."

The hermit looked sharply disappointed at this, but didn't give up. "No, it isn't!" he said. "It's ... it's an apparition! A fiend from hell who has taken your brother's shape! Fiends can do that, you know."

Both knights stared at the hermit for a second; then Sir Bors rolled his eyes and said, "Shut up, you old poop."

Now Sir Lionel gaped at his brother. "Bors? Did you just call a religious man a ... a poop?"

"Well, he is!" Bors said defensively. "You should have heard the twaddle he was trying to sell me before you came, trying to make me do his work for him."

"Oh, I don't deny his poopness," Sir Lionel said. "I'm just surprised to hear you admit it."

The hermit still stood between the brothers, towering over the crawling Sir Bors. Now he raised his arms in the air and said in a fierce voice, "Both of you are in grave danger at this moment."

Sir Lionel lifted one finger and poked the hermit in the chest. The holy man stepped backward, tripped over Sir Bors, and sat hard in the dirt. Sir Lionel extended his hand to his brother and said, "Why don't you get up, Bors? You look a proper ass crawling about like that."

Sir Bors took his brother's hand and, grinning, stood. Beaufils smiled. He'd never seen someone forgive his brother, but it was worth watching.

Unfortunately, the hermit was less impressed. Shaking with fury, he rose to his feet. "It needed only this!" he rapped out. "No food in the larder, no wood for the fire, leaks in the roof, and chinks around the windows. Villagers dropping by day and night with their problems—'Oh Mr. Hermit! Won't you tell me what to do with my rotten little boy?' As if I cared!" The hermit's voice was growing shrill. "And now I've been assaulted by a knight!"

"Assaulted?" repeated Sir Lionel.

"Assaulted, I tell you!"

"All I did was poke you in the chest." Sir Lionel glanced at Beaufils and Ellyn. "Do you think I assaulted him?"

"Well," Beaufils said thoughtfully, "he does have sensitive skin."

Ellyn began to giggle, and the hermit shrieked, "Now you're laughing at me! That's it! I'm done! Let somebody else have this hermitage, and see how they like it!" Struggling out of his hermit's robe, he threw it angrily on the ground and stomped down the trail away from the hut, wearing nothing but his linen underdrawers.

"Does this mean he's not holy anymore?" Beaufils asked.

"He's as holy as he ever was," Ellyn replied.

They camped that night at the now deserted hermitage, while Sir Bors and Ellyn tended to the cuts on Sir Lionel's back. Sir Bors and Sir Lionel had clearly forgot ten their differences, and Beaufils enjoyed watching their banter and good-natured squabbling. Sir Bors was still the serious one, and Sir Lionel still the carefree one, and Beaufils reflected that he liked both of them more when the other was around than he did when they were alone.

Everything seemed to have worked out nicely for his two friends, but Sir Bors had one more test to face. Late that evening, after they had all been asleep for hours, a faint sound woke Beaufils. Ellyn was sleeping inside the hermitage, and Sir Lionel had stretched out at the far side of the clearing, but Beaufils and Sir Bors were sleeping in the yard before the hut, not far from the path, and Beaufils heard the unmistakable sound of a horse drawing near. He rose silently and slipped into the darkest shadows just before the horse entered the clearing.

The horse stopped, and Beaufils could make out the black outline of its rider against the gray sky: it was a woman. Sir Bors stirred, then sat up in his blankets. "Who's there?" he said in a husky whisper.

The rider sighed mournfully and said, "A poor destitute woman who has been cast from her childhood home and left to roam the darkness, prey to every danger that awaits a friendless female."

"I know that voice," Sir Bors said slowly. "Lady Orgille?"

"Sir Bors?"

"So Erskine kicked you out of the castle, did he? I thought he would."

Lady Orgille dropped from the saddle, walked over to where the knight lay, and knelt beside his prone form. "It was horrible!" she said, her voice cracking. "That man threw me from my home, giving me nothing."

"Looks like he gave you a horse, at least," commented Sir Bors, who was edging away from Lady Orgille.

She leaned closer. "But I would have left the castle anyway, dear Sir Bors," she said. "When you rode away this afternoon, I watched you go and my heart broke in my bosom, and I knew that I would never be happy without you and your love. That's why I'm here. I've come looking for you."

"Have you, then?" Sir Bors said. His voice was flat.

"Could you ... could you ever forgive me and take me back? I could ask no greater happiness than to ride at your side, to care for you, to sleep in the warmth of your presence, to—"

She got no further. Sir Bors rose abruptly and nearly dragged Lady Orgille by the wrist back to her horse. "Get up," he said.

"Sir Bors!"

Setting both hands on Lady Orgille's waist, Sir Bors practically threw her up into the saddle. "Off you go."

"Sir Bors, don't you ... don't you think I'm beautiful?"

Sir Bors looked at her in the moonlight for a second. "No," he said at last. "You only look like it. Now get out of here, you viper." Then Sir Bors slapped Lady Orgille's horse in the haunches, startling it into a gallop. He watched until the horse's shadow had been swallowed up by the larger darkness and the last echo of its hooves had died away, then returned to his blankets and rolled up in them. Beaufils watched from the shadows, grinning.

"Damn, that felt good," Sir Bors muttered as he went back to sleep.