Preface to my story "A Dangerous Profession Indeed":
On doing a little researching of jousting I found it is thought to have started in the 10th century. Until the 13th century, tournaments were unrestricted battles with no holds barred. After that, blunted weapons were often used and killing a man was wrong though there were unfortunate accidents. But killing a horse was considered inexcusable. In 1420, the partition wall, or tilt wall, was introduced to protect horses. King Henry VIII is said to have promoted tournaments and in his time they became a huge popular sport. It declined in the 16th century when firearms were replacing swords as state-of-the-art weapons. In 1559, King Henry II of France was killed in a tournament, and such deaths of important people also helped in the decline of jousting popularity. So jousting would not have been known in King Arthur and Lancelot's time of the 6th century. But the Arthurian legends seem to be a mixture of technology belonging to different time periods anyway. It is a marvelous fantasy, isn't it?
Many of the jousting techniques I found came from the modern sport of jousting, not the historical martial art. It is considered one of the most violent sports today, but does have quite a following. The big theme in my story is the danger of jousting. In my story I try to make the scene where Lancelot is instructing Brian on jousting techniques seem as real as possible. They watch a small tournament for young unproven knights. It reminds me of an afternoon in Mexico City years ago when I watched bullfighting done by people in training – many gorings and injuries. The danger theme in my story is introduced in the bath scene where Brian can see the physical scars of experienced knights as they sit naked enjoying the bath house pool. Then it can be seen in the actual tournament as hits are made. And it culminates in the saddest part of the story, the death of a young knight just a couple years older than Brian who Brian knows well from the squire's school at Camelot. So this story does not end on as upbeat a note as the episodes in the TV series. I am letting Brian grow up a little, as he eventually must.
A Dangerous Profession Indeed
A further adventure in the Adventures of Sir Lancelot
By Bineshii
Some people still referred to the town as Aquae Sulis and to the bath house as the Temple of Sulis Minerva. The town, now better known as Bath, still attracted those who came for health cures or just to indulge in the dying vestiges of Roman life and technology that were barely hanging on in Britain. Many of the Roman houses as well as the wall around the town had fallen into disrepair. In one bath house that was still operating, the fires were still tended and the hot steam still carried heat through tile conduits beneath the floor of the baths.
Sir Thomas shuffled along the mosaic tiles toward the hot bath. He would like to have stopped and really looked at the Roman mural he was walking over, but if he stopped, he might fall. Two more steps and he could lean on a column next to the pool. There, he made it, and without the towel warped around his waist slipping to the floor. Not that it mattered much, as only men were allowed in this part of the bath house.
He eased himself down so he was sitting on the first step of the steaming pool by holding tight to the railings on both sides. Ah, it felt good - and safer, to be sitting. Slowly, he sat on each progressive step down. But darn, he had forgotten to remove his towel which was now floating up off his body. He snatched it and flung it up on the tile deck.
"Good evening, Sir Thomas," said a young man watching him from one of the sitting benches in the pool. "May I help you over to a seat near us?"
Sir Thomas peered near-sightedly at this man. He did not recognize him. But that did not mean that he should not know him. He had forgotten the names of many men he should have known. His memory was not what it once had been, after a lifetime of impact injuries in battles and tournaments. So he said "Do I know you, Sir? If I do, pardon my asking, but my eyes...they are not as sharp as they used to be."
"Perfectly understandable, Sir Thomas, for I am a fairly new member of the Round Table knights. I am Sir Lancelot and this boy beside me is my squire, Brian. And across from us on the bench on the other side of the pool are Sir Bors and Sir Kay.
"Greetings Gentlemen," Sir Thomas nodded in their direction as Sir Lancelot came over to him through the four foot deep pool and lent his arm for Sir Thomas to lean on. They walked slowly to the bench where Brian sat and Thomas lowered himself by gripping Lancelot's forearm. Thomas sighed heavily. The warm water was a blessed relief for his arthritic joints. In a few minutes he would be able to move his arms and legs freely and without too much pain as he had not been able to do out of the water for more than ten years. Being fifty-five was very old to his way of thinking, too old to still be living. He was more than ready to leave this world.
Sir Thomas turned to Lancelot. "What brings you to Bath, Sir Lancelot, other than the waters, I mean."
"We are here to study the old Roman wall fortifications in this town, what is left of them. We have scrolls which show us the plans, but seeing the actual construction is extremely helpful even if it is in disrepair. Sir Kay and Sir Bors and I are being sent by the King to learn how to help reconstruct some fortifications up north."
"I see. I am glad our king is showing diligence in this. I wish that I could go with you but I am afraid my traveling days are over. My sons now, they would jump at a chance to go on a mission like this. You must know my son, Sir Terence. He is also a knight of the Round Table."
"Indeed we do!" Sir Kay interjected. "And you have other sons?"
"Two. Andrew and David. David just finished his training under Master Hugh at Camelot. He is as yet too young and inexperienced to apply to become a member of the Round Table, but he is no longer a squire but a knight in his own right."
"He has shown great promise," said Lancelot. "His eye-hand coordination is excellent."
Thomas beamed, his smile bright despite many missing teeth. His sons were doing him proud.
Brian sat quietly. At fourteen he was too young for the men to be evaluating him too critically yet, but he knew Lancelot was not unhappy with his own progress so far. David had been kind to him at the squire's school when other boys had showed disdain for him. He had experienced David's skill first hand, honing his own sword techniques through matches at the school with David.
Thomas continued his story "My sons are here helping me settle into a modest house we have purchased in Bath. It is one of the few Roman ones left which has not been replaced by wood or mud huts. And it is just one street away, so I can make daily visits to the baths. I don't need much space now that my dear lady wife has passed away. My boys will be taking turns living with me here and tending to our estate which is just five miles from the town."
Sir Bors leaned forward to say, "I wish my own father could come here to live near the baths. He can hardly get around anymore. Old war wounds, you understand. I sometimes think it is better for a knight to die young than to become feeble and old. Those that die young and with honor are the lucky ones. My wife says the jousting impact injuries we laugh off when we are young will come back to haunt us one day."
Lancelot frowned uneasily. He did not consider his father lucky to have died in his early thirties. At the age of twenty-three now, Lancelot had a few light scars but never considered that the few falls he had taken on the jousting fields were more serious than a day or two of mild soreness. He did not like to think about what the debilitations of old age would mean for him. Best not to dwell on anything like that because it might make a man too cautious, impairing his fighting sharpness.
Brian listened to the men talk. He was getting restless and would like to have been swimming instead of sitting. He fidgeted a bit and Lancelot gave him a brief look of disapproval. Brian sighed and sank up to his chin in the water, shifting his weight to get more comfortable and continued listening.
"There is a tournament here tomorrow," said Sir Kay. "A small one. Mostly local lads, not worth our entering, but it might be amusing to watch." Then noticing Thomas's face cloud up, he tried to become more tactful. "Are any of your sons competing?"
"Yes, one is," Sir Thomas said proudly, "David plans to enter many tournaments this year. Of course he wants to start making a name for himself."
Lancelot, who loved tournaments, perked up. "Yes of course he does! As a young knight should! Any tournament is good practice and no matter the level of competence of your opponents, you can learn something. Brian, let us go and watch this tournament! There might be much I can point out to you about good and bad technique, even if this tournament has not drawn knights from any distance."
The conversation lulled, and Brian, bored, studied the men in the pool. Looking at Sir Thomas made him want to draw back in revulsion from the man's deformed body, but he was fascinated nevertheless. Angry old scars - long thin discolored channels they were, marred the man's chest and arms. Hadn't the old man worn armor in battles and at tournaments? He must have, of course, but sharp swords sometimes pierced armor. Or, a man could be surprised by a confrontation while tending crops or working in his orchard while wearing only light armor or no armor at all. There was a hollow in the old knight's upper arm, which made Brian think that a portion of the muscle must have been hacked off. Brian winced and looked away.
Then, looking out of the corner of his eye, Brian surreptitiously as possible, studied the man's face. One deep scar crossed the frown lines on the man's forehead at an angle, cutting through his eyebrow and continued through his eye, distorting its shape, and ending half way down his cheek. When the man smiled, only one side of his face was capable of expression. Brian looked away again. He then looked at Sir Bors, a man about ten years Lancelot's senior.
Sir Bors had what would have been a ruggedly handsome face if it were not for the nose flattened by some punch or fall. His chest too, had a network of scars, one of which was V shaped as if his opponent might have been trying to cut a piece out of him. It may almost have been cut away, because it had healed in a lump.
Next to Brian, Lancelot returned an arm to the water which had been resting on the ledge. Brian noticed only one scar there, trailing down from the upper arm and onto the lower arm. He knew that had been from a battle against Round Table knights before Lancelot had first come to Camelot. Lancelot had been bound to a king by an oath he took when his own father was on his death bed. So he had found himself in a fierce fight against the very people he longed to join. There were only a few other scars, and very light ones at that, on Lancelot's body. The man had an uncanny way of avoiding injury. Brian hoped to learn how to avoid injury from Lancelot. All of his own nicks and scrapes had so far healed without scaring.
Lancelot stood up, so Brian did too. Brian had been in the water too long and was sleepy as well as getting the skin on his finger tips all puckered. Brian could see the well developed muscles in Lancelot's back down to his thighs above the level of the water as he followed him through the pool to the stairs. Lancelot looked like one of those Roman statues, slim but powerful – as Brian hoped he would someday look, and not like Sir Bors and definitely not like Sir Thomas. They climbed the stairs that led out of the pool and grabbed their towels from a nearby bench.
Lancelot turned to Sir Thomas "Do you want us to help you out of the pool before we leave?"
"No, thank you," the old knight said. "I am feeling too relaxed and at peace right now. Besides, my son will be along soon."
...
Banners fluttered from rooftops and tent poles all around the tournament grounds. The grounds were a swirl of colors on horses and men preparing for the tournament. Even the spectators looking for seats were wearing bright garb, laughing and jostling each other. It was not often that Lancelot would forego competing, but he was looking forward to evaluating young people who would possibly become future opponents for himself and also for Brian one day. He chose to climb to the top tier of the spectator seating. Brian, lugging a picnic basket, climbed up the tiers behind him. He had been out at the shops in town early that morning. They settled into seats and watched the town's people find places below them. Everyone was in a holiday mood, children running across the tournament field and being chased off by officials. Hucksters were calling out the types of wares they were selling.
"I am glad I packed a basket," observed Brian. "Those food sellers are charging way too much."
Lancelot mussed Brian's hair. "Well then it was good of my Brian to think ahead and supply us with a tasty lunch. By the way, what do we have?"
Brian pretended to be annoyed with Lancelot's mussing of his hair and patted it down. Then he opened the basket to reveal baked chicken legs, half a small wheel of cheddar cheese, a fresh loaf of bread, a blob of fresh churned butter, some pastries, several clay bottles, and a water skin.
"What is in the bottles, Brian?" wheedled Lancelot like an excited boy.
"Water, My Lord." Brian said wiping all expression off his face.
"Now, Brian. What is it really?"
Brian smiled. "Ale, Sir. And wine. And water in a skin."
"THAT is more like it, My Boy."
Some young men were warming up by swinging swords near pavilions or at the sides of the field. Here and there, spectators were talking to these men, joking, encouraging them, and wishing them well. Horses were being trotted by, led by squires on foot or riding bare back, limbering them up while the knights dressed in front of pavilions or inside them. The activity was exciting, hopeful. Then a horn announced the first contenders.
"Brian, watch closely and then tell me what was good technique or bad, especially jabbing with the lance instead of holding it steady," Lancelot said, sliding along the seat and pulling on Brian's tunic to move him to a place unobstructed by spectators on the seat in front of them.
Two horses ran towards each other, separated by the barrier wall, lances lowering, then fouling each other and breaking as the riders flew past each other.
"Neither was ready," Brian said, as the two men turned their horses and stopped briefly before spurring them on for another pass. "They swept the lances inward too much."
"A common fault of inexperience," said Lancelot. "Lack of control. Sweeping down and in too far. Ho! Now this time both unhorsed each other. Better control but only watching their target and not studying their opponent's movements."
"This is going to be a carnival show," laughed Sir Bors. "A display of what not to do. Eh, boy?" He jabbed Brian in the ribs making the boy slop a bit of ale out of the bottle held in his left hand.
"Don't injure the boy before he even gets on a tournament field," laughed Lancelot. "What do you think, Sir Kay?"
Sir Kay cleared his throat. He leaned forward looking at Lancelot from down the seat past his two squires and Sir Bors. Glaring directly at Brian he said "even a kitchen boy is likely to do better than these yokels down on this field."
Brian bit back a retort and Lancelot ignored the denigrating remark. Pointing at one of the next pair of contenders, Lancelot said "there is David. Now maybe we will see better technique or I will be withdrawing you from the squire's school, Brian, and teaching you myself."
David couched his lance properly with his arm close against his chest. He lowered it slightly as his horse lunged forward smoothly. His opponent moved his own lance down sharply then swung it widely in. David compensated just before they met, edging the trunk of his body away but keeping his lance steady on target. His opponent was hit squarely and knocked back over the tail of his horse. He hit the ground hard, but got up on his knees, then stood and walked stiffly off the field.
"David did everything right," said Brian.
"Well, not quite," said Lancelot. "He didn't need to flinch sideways because the way the other man was holding his lance; it would have come right out of his hand. Being parallel to David's chest, it would just have touched lightly and fallen away. Economy of movement, Brian, remember that."
"Oh." Said Brian. "I didn't see that."
"You must look at everything, Brian. Be aware every instant of the changing situation."
"Yes, Boy!" Said Sir Kay. "Just watch ME in the next Camelot tournament!"
Brian glanced at Sir Lancelot and noticed the pursed lips, his eyes rolled upward, and the slight shaking of his head while he said "watch me, Brian. Watch Sir Bors. Watch the King when he takes the field."
"I will," Brian said, trying to repress a smile by reaching down into his basket. "Another pastry, Sir Kay?"
"Don't mind if I do. I always trust a kitchen boy to find the best food."
The next contestants made two passes before making contact on the third. One man was hit solidly but stayed on his horse almost to the end of the barrier. Then he fell, his foot catching in a stirrup, the unguided horse veering off and dragging its rider back down the field near the spectators. Tournament officials managed to stop the horse. They disentangled the man's leg from the stirrup, and then removed his helm and breastplate.
"He's not breathing!" said Brian, standing up to see better. "Oh, now he is, they are sitting him up. He is shaking his head and vomiting. They are helping him stand but he collapsed back to the ground."
"I think he was knocked out on impact with the lance," said Sir Bors.
"I concur," said Lancelot. "He made no movement after being hit, stunned and probably not breathing, with only the horse's momentum keeping him in place for a little while."
"He is up again," said Brian, sitting down. "He is half walking, half being dragged off the field."
"Not very dignified," chortled the squire sitting beside Sir Kay.
"He probably doesn't care, with the condition he is in, poor man," mumbled Brian, sighing and clasping his hands in front of him, deep in thought.
As the tournament went on, Lancelot and Brian sat in companionable silence. At times, Lancelot would point out new things as they occurred. Brian mulled over Sir Lancelot's pronouncements on several of the matches, comparing them to memories of tournaments where the experienced Round Table knights had competed. Most of the time, in the more important tournaments, Brian had been on the ground tending to Lancelot's arms, keeping them ready for when his knight needed to select a different lance or needed a piece of armor adjusted after an impact. And there was the backup horse to keep ready when Caledon was tired. But sometimes, when another squire gave him a break, Brian was free to climb up the stands to watch Lancelot from above - from the view that the cheering and jeering fans saw the tournament.
It was a marvelous view from up in the spectator stands at those huge tournaments that drew knights from all over the kingdom. Colorful spectacles, with banners fluttering in the breeze and plumes on helmets bobbing as men charged at each other, lowering lances. The thrill of impending impact set the blood racing in both the contestants and the spectators. The big tournaments were a thing of wonder. They were a dangerous practice ground which honed skills sharply and where good technique transcended the clumsy ponderous impacts of the smaller tournaments. Small tournaments, like this one in Bath, were where most of the horrific injuries and sometimes deaths occurred, and were often what the blood thirsty spectators wanted to see. A great tournament, at its best, was like a ballet, an art form of skill and grace that was breathtaking to watch.
"I will never, never, be as good as Lancelot," Brian whispered in awe when he watched his knight at the great tournaments, a thrill of pleasure passing through him as Lancelot made the movements seem natural, easy. For Lancelot was rarely ever touched by someone else's lance. It took many passes for those of high skill to even connect slightly, so good at intense concentration and avoiding their opponent's tactics, were the great Round Table knights - totally unlike the neophytes in the small local tournaments.
Brian looked down to notice he had squeezed the fruit out of the pastry in his hands, sending it dripping down the inside of his leg. That had been in reaction to the latest fall of a young man flat onto his back, the force of impact bouncing him once off the ground before he lay still, his leg at an unnatural angle.
"That fellow is done for the day," Brian muttered.
"Indeed." Lancelot said putting his arm around Brian and squeezing his upper arm with a little too much force, making the boy wince.
"Sorry," muttered Lancelot, patting Brian's upper arm with the same hand. "Got carried away with sympathy for that young one, just as you did with your flattening of your pastry there."
Brian's shoulders shook in silent laughter. "I hoped you wouldn't notice that pastry. My Lord, this tournament is sometimes painful to watch. I have been noticing all the mistakes you have been telling me about over the past two years."
"Yes...so my boy can avoid them...or avoid most of them, one day."
Brian closed his eyes for a minute against the bright sun glinting off metal. He opened his eyes and shaded them with one hand and leaning forward, reached for another bottle of ale with his other hand.
Lancelot deftly swept the bottle out of his hand. "Water. You are now to drink just water, Brian. You have had quite enough ale."
Brian grinned. "Too much? I would think not quite enough to take more of this mayhem. They are churning up so much ground down there that it is becoming rutted and dangerous for the horses' footing. And there has been enough blood to simulate a real battle. Well, enough blood for a small skirmish anyway. I have seen enough."
Lancelot laughed in that soft teasing way he sometimes had. "What, boy? Had enough? Just wait a year or so. Things will look different when you are down there." Lancelot was in his best teasing mood, helped along by the ale he had had. "Let us see this out. The sun is descending and soon the field will be in deep shadow and they will quit for the day. But there yet may be a thing or two more for you to learn."
Then Lancelot squeezed Brian's knee fondly. Brian sighed and wiped the fruit dribbles from his leg and took up a skin of water. He was thirsty and a cool sip was, as Lancelot had indicated, just what he needed.
Soon the winner of the tournament would be decided. David was waiting, still and erect on his horse – both man and horse looking unruffled and still fresh. Confident. This is what Brian imagined Lancelot might have looked like in his first real tournament and the image Brian, himself, hoped he could project when his time came. He studied David from head to toe. Nothing out of place. He hoped David would win the top prize. There was some money and a yearling colt of good conformation – with training, a very good future knight's favorite horse, probably.
David's last opponent moved to the other end of the field and stopped, ready. David moved forward, his horse's legs now unseen on the other side of the tilt barrier. Then some drunk in the stands across the field threw an apple which thudded and splattered against the barrier. A crowd control guard grabbed the drunk by the collar and started pulling him away, but the damage had been done. Startled by the apple, David's horse reared and plunged sideways, catching David off guard. David lost his balance and fell off, hitting his neck on the end of the barrier with a loud crack. Next moment, he was lying still on the ground, his horse running off toward the stands where a spectator grabbed its reins and tried to calm it.
Lancelot moved the fastest, leaping down the seats and was running toward the stricken man before Brian or any of the people around them could react. Startled people blocked Brian's passage as he tried to thread his way through them and join Lancelot at David's side. The Tournament Marshal and Lancelot were squatting next to David when Brian came up to them. David's helm was off, but his eyes were fixed skyward, unseeing. Lancelot had two fingers against David's neck, feeling for a pulse and was shaking his head. The Marshal stood, beckoning for the men with a blanket stretched between two poles. It had seen much service today.
"No." Brian said.
Lancelot stood and walked over to stand next to Brian while the men lifted David's limp body onto the blanket and started to carry him toward a tent at the edge of the field.
"Brian, he is gone."
"No! That was an easy fall. Stupid drunk! David will be okay. Rotten luck though," Brian shouted.
Lancelot turned Brian with a strong grip on both his shoulders so the boy was facing him. "Brian, this was a freak accident. Rotten luck, yes. But David is dead."
Brian searched Lancelot's face. The man was not joking. Brian could not stand the intensity, the finality of what Lancelot was saying with his expression, with his eyes. Brian turned, wrenching his shoulders out of Lancelot's grip and ran after the men taking David away toward the surgeon's tent.
A few minutes later, Lancelot pushed aside the tent flap and entered, quietly going over to stand behind Brian. He said nothing as he could see the boy was not in a good way. Brian was standing with one hand on the tarp covering David's body which was resting on a table. When Lancelot put a hand on Brian's shoulder, Brian said nothing but did not pull away. They stood there silently for a couple of minutes.
Then Brian's shoulders lifted and fell in a painful sigh. "Why? How could this happen? He was the best of us at everything in the squires' school. All of us were envious because he made everything he did look so easy. And he was kind. He never bullied anyone. He even made a special effort to help me when others were calling me kitchen boy behind my back."
Lancelot was fishing for words, and the first he thought of, even to himself, sounded lame. "It happens. It can happen to any of us...at any time."
"It is not right!" The boy almost shouted. "Entirely unfair!"
Lancelot said nothing more, just kept his hand on Brian's shoulder and squeezed a little.
Brian's voice wavered when he spoke again. "I don't think I could stand it if...if it happened to the King. Even less, if it happened to you."
Lancelot sucked in a breath before he spoke, because he surely had to say something meaningful now. So he thought of how it felt when he had lost his father.
"Brian, you may not think you would go on with your life in the same way if someone you cared for deeply, died. But you would carry on. Maybe very sadly for weeks, months, a year or more even. It might seem like the color had gone out of life, that you were more alone, less protected. There would be a big hole in life that no one could fill. And you would want nothing around you that belonged to that person because it would remind you of the pain. But that hole gets smaller. It never goes away entirely, but at some point you can again look at things that remind you of the person who has died and smile instead of cry. You thought you lost that person so you pushed the memories away. Then one day you realize you still have that person. It is only that the person has been transformed from flesh to memories and the memories are yours to keep for the rest of your own life. That person does not really die until all the people who hold memories of him die too."
When Lancelot stopped speaking the silence weighed heavily in the tent.
"Lancelot, I may one day smile at the memories of David as you say I will. But not yet. I can't do that yet. I want to be alone now, with him, for a little while."
"Okay." Lancelot patted Brian's shoulder and removed his hand. "I understand. I really do."
Lancelot backed away a couple of steps, then turned and walked out of the tent. He realized two things. First, that Brian did not want Lancelot to see him cry. And second, that this may have been the first time Brian had not called him Sir before his name. That was okay. For sometime in the not too distant future, that would be normal.
Sir Kay and Sir Bors were standing with the Tournament Marshal when Lancelot found them.
"Bad business today, but these things happen," said Sir Bors.
"Yes, yes, certainly," said Sir Kay. "You know that Arthur is concerned about the number of men who are killed or rendered unfit for battle by injuries at tournaments. He has been considering requiring padding of lances and the use of blunt-edged swords in tournaments under his control."
"No!" Said the Marshal and Sir Bors simultaneously, in shock.
"That would take away the purpose of tournaments," said Sir Lancelot. "Tournaments hone men for battle by sharpening their skills and their wits. I am surprised that our King would even contemplate such a thing. These injuries, and even the deaths, are unfortunate consequences of necessary training."
"Of course they are," said the Marshal, now feeling absolved of responsibility for the young knight's death. "David's brother did not find any foul play here, any fault with the field or equipment or the behavior of any participant or official."
"Of course not!" Sir Kay agreed. "It was the fault of that ill-bred moron. If people like him are allowed at tournaments they should be kept behind a wall or something." Then looking at Lancelot he asked "Speaking of common folk, where is Brian? Does he have any more of that ale?"
Lancelot gave Sir Kay a disgusted stare, then glanced toward the tent and saw the flap rise and Brian coming out and start walking toward them. As he got closer, his face was a smooth mask, unreadable to most people. But there was something different in his look that Lancelot noted without being able to put it into spoken words. Lancelot's thought was that there was a piece of the boy that was now gone forever. It had been replaced by a piece of the man that Brian was in the process of becoming.
...
At dinner that night at an inn near the baths, word was going round about the death at the tournament and also about the passing of some old man at the baths last night.
"Who?" was the question everyone was asking.
A young serving girl setting plates and mugs before men as they sat down said "It was that old knight, Sir Thomas, who could barely get around anymore. A blessing, I tell you. A blessing for two reasons. One, that he is no longer in pain. And second, that he did not live to hear of his son's death in the tournament."
"It must have happened shortly after we left," Lancelot said quietly, sighing as he set down his mug.
"But he wanted to be alone. There is no fault with our leaving him there," whispered Brian, "Is there?"
"Not at all, Brian," said Sir Bors. "I think he knew his time had come and he wanted to face it alone."
"David must have known his father had died. He was staying at his house during the tournament," Brian said. "Yet he competed anyway."
Sir Bors glanced at Sir Lancelot "I will say it, okay?" Sir Bors smiled sadly at Brian. "David's father would have wanted it that way, would have wanted him to compete and then mourn later. That is our way. Much as Sir Kay teases you, you are no longer a kitchen boy. You are one of us. You would have done the same as David and no doubt you probably will some day."
Brian managed a small smile for Sir Bors. Someone else besides Lancelot and David was now including him as a member of their dangerous profession. That broken nose of Sir Bors' no longer looked so bad to Brian. Brian had chosen this life. He now knew he would accept what this life would bring.