So naturally a hundred or so knights come boiling out of Castle Orgulous, ready to avenge their fallen comrade. Breunor realizes he’s in over his head, so he carefully ties his horse up just outside Castle Orgulous, then goes back inside and starts fighting the hundred knights. It’s okay, says Malory: he manages to get into a doorway, such that they have to come at him one at a time. The alternative, he figures, is more time spent with Marcie, whom he has begun to tire of.
This particular doorway leads to the bedroom of a lady-in-waiting at Castle Orgulous, let’s call her Avery. Avery is just chilling in her room, doing a little needlepoint, in bursts Breunor and all these knights trying to kill him. The scene piques Avery’s interest, so she watches him for a bit, then decides to help him out.
Avery goes out the back door of her room (don’t think about it too much, Malory didn’t) and finds Breunor’s horse. She leads the horse to her own bedroom window, and calls to Breunor through it.
“Psst! Sir Stranger! In my bedroom! Psst! You’re doing an awesome and sexy job fighting all these knights, but eventually you’re going to die. So come out and get your horse! I know, you don’t want to flee, but think about it this way — obviously the only way you can get over here is if you fight your way out the front, which is as manly and heroic a deed as any!”
Breunor sees the logic in this, so he fights his way forward and pushes through a wad of knights. After he slays two at one stroke the rest flee, and he’s able to mount up and ride off. Avery, for whatever reason, decides to visit Camelot and tell Arthur and everyone there how Breunor totally killed like a dozen guys in a massively knightly series of deeds.
Outside the castle Marcie and Mordred are getting bored. Marcie complains that by now Breunor is probably dead, and they should just get going.
“Not so fast!” cries Breunor, as he rides up. “It is I, Sir Ill-Fitting Suit! I fought my way past a hundred knights and killed like a dozen of them!”
“No way,” says Marcie,
“Way, Ill-Speaker! I did that!”
“I doubt it, Sir Ill-Fitting Suit. I doubt it very much,” she huffs.
“Tell you what,” says Mordred. “I’ll settle this argument by going to check.”
So Mordred rides over to the castle, where the hundred or so knights are licking their wounds and caring for their dead. Everybody there is entirely willing to confirm Breunor’s version of events. Some compare him favorably to Sir Launcelot or Sir Tristram.
Marcie hears this, she just pouts.
“Your attitude isn’t nearly as charming as you think it is, Ill-Speaker,” warns Mordred. “Sir Ill-Fitting Suit here is a good knight, and I think that I, Sir Mordred, know a thing or two about knightliness. If I vouchsafe him, that’s a sign you should stop talking smack about him all the time. I mean, yes, he’s been dehorsed a few times, but what knight hasn’t? Even Sir Launcelot, in his salad days, was often dehorsed. I tell you, Palamides and Bleoberis declined to fight him on foot because they weren’t so confident in their ability to trounce a strapping kid like him. In summation, you’re wrong.”
Marcie is unconvinced, but Mordred is prepared to speechify for as long as it takes; he just keeps on in that vein, defending Breunor, while the trio take to the road again.