Under A Velvet Cloak by Piers Anthony

that was not necessary. The warning sufficed.”
    It had, indeed. Kerena’s knees felt weak; it was just as well that she was mounted. She had just seen another side of this supremely polite knight. There was iron under that courteous demeanor.
    They returned to the farmer, who had seen the action from a distance. “You didn’t kill them.”
    “I dislike pointless bloodshed. Send a messenger after me, should they return, and I will destroy them. But I doubt it will be necessary.”
    The farmer nodded, agreeing.
    They had an excellent night, beginning with a feast of a meal. Kerena was given a bed in the servant’s quarters, while the knight had a room to himself. The horses were well fed and stabled. Her only problem was that her inner thighs were sore from the unaccustomed riding.
    “I do see the way of it,” Kerena said as they resumed travel next day. “It was a fair trade.”
    “That is as I prefer.” He glanced across at her. “How are your legs?”
    “Stiff,” she said. “But I will handle it.”
    “Is there abrasion?”
    “Some.”
    “I regret not realizing. I have some balm that should help.” He dismounted, reached into a saddlebag, and produced a glob of something. “Raise your leg.”
    She lifted her right leg. He mashed the gob between his hands, then smeared it on her inner thigh, reaching up almost to the juncture of her legs. Then he walked around to the other side and repeated the process for her left leg.
    Kerena sat and let him do it. Any other man would be slavering at such intimate touching, but he was methodical. Almost immediately the discomfort diminished; the balm was helping. “Thank you.”
    “Now you must learn to guide the horse.” He set a cloth bit in the horse’s mouth with reins coming back to her hand. “Be gentle, always; Service knows the signals. Draw right to turn him right, left to turn him left. Draw both to make him halt. Shake them to make him start.”
    She tried the signals, and they worked; the horse was well trained and responsive. She was in charge now, at least to the extent the horse allowed.
    As afternoon came, they sought another farmstead. An old woman came out to meet them. “Let me handle this,” Kerena said. She slid off the horse, utilizing a maneuver she had recently learned by observation, and approached the woman. “My master the knight would like food for us and the horses. What is there we can do for you to earn it?”
    “I am a poor widow. I have no wood for my hearth. My food is unworthy. All I have is beans.”
    “Maybe we can bring in some wood from the forest. Beans will do. May the horses graze the night in your fields?”
    “Welcome. The fields are part of the commons.” The commons was land held in common, available to anyone for use. But locals could get annoyed if folk not of their village made too free with it.
    They went into the forest and tied small dry fallen branches together so the horses could drag them. By dusk they had a considerable pile beside the house. The widow was thrilled.
    They turned the horses loose to graze on the rich weeds, and settled down to a big pot of beans. They were good enough, but had a gastric effect. They endured it. They spent the night comfortably in the widow’s haybarn. Kerena’s legs were tired, but the balm had alleviated the soreness. She remembered Sir Gawain’s strong, competent, gentle hands stroking them. He had not even looked at their juncture. That impressed her as much as anything else.
    Next day they moved on through the forest. Things were fine until a sudden thunderstorm came up. They barely had time to get off the horses and huddle under a tarpaulin Sir Gawain produced. It wasn’t quite watertight, but was a lot better than the drenching rain outside it. It also wasn’t really large enough for two; she curled up and he put his arms around her, holding the tarp in place. Again, there was no untoward contact; the man was either saintly or sexless.
    It became routine as the