"For your love, my liege, it is already forgotten."
Arthur stood and congratulated the victor, thanked all the participants, and declared the games concluded. The crowd cheered lustily for Sir Lancelot, and the queen beamed as if they were applauding her instead of the knight at her feet.
Within two weeks, all that the court could talk of was the queen and Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot's eyes were seldom away from Guinevere, and his gaze spoke clearly of abject worship. As for Guinevere, she was in the brightest of moods, laughing and enjoying the hero's adoration. Many considered this situation appalling and nearly wept to see the king's gentle kindness to his lady received so. Others though—particularly the continental knights and courtiers—seemed to find the whole affair exceedingly romantic. For some reason, Sir Lancelot's love for Guinevere was thought more true than Arthur's. Terence even heard a French minstrel sing that true Courtly Love must always be for the wife of another. To Terence, raised by a holy man in a hermitage, such a theory was astounding, but to the French courtiers it seemed only logical.
In the end, this difference of opinion divided Camelot. Two distinct camps arose: one that honored the French ideal of Courtly Love—with Guinevere and Sir Lancelot as its embodiment—and another that honored loyalty to Arthur and condemned the affair. The first group, by far the larger, collected around Sir Lancelot, and the second coalesced around Sir Kai and Gawain. This second group gathered in Gawain's chambers, an extension of his late-night drinking sessions.
Only the king refused to identify himself with either group, and only in his unifying presence could both groups meet without discord. Terence found his respect for the king growing every day. Surrounded by those who openly celebrated his betrayal by his wife, still he ruled all with justice and compassion. His humanity may have been wounded, but his kingliness remained untouched.
Only a very few saw how deeply he was hurt. One misty dawn on the wall of the castle, Gawain and Terence caught one of these rare glimpses. Word had come to Camelot that Sir Tor was finally returning from his long quest, and they had gone up to the wall to look for him. There they found Arthur quietly gazing across the fields. In the grey distance, two figures on horseback met by the edge of the woods. No one could mistake Lancelot's white charger and Guinevere's grey mare. Arthur watched them until they disappeared in the woods, then wearily looked up.
"Hello, nephew. Terence."
Gawain nodded. "My liege."
Arthur took a deep breath. "I'm glad to see you, Gawain. For some time I've wished to speak with you."
"I am at your service, sire. Terence, wait for me below."
Arthur smiled. "Quite unnecessary. I feel sure that Terence knows more than either of us about the goings on of the court. And I know I can trust him." Gawain nodded, and Arthur continued. "I've always had the impression, Gawain, that you understand better than others the heart of a maiden."
"No, sire. But I know something of the pain of love." Gawain's eyes clouded, as they always did when he thought of Lorie, the faery princess whom he loved across the worlds.
"Does Guinevere love him?"
Gawain hesitated, then spoke gently. "Forgive me, sire, but I do not think the queen is able to love anyone very deeply."
"Anyone?"
"No, sire. For her, love is the trappings of love—love letters, whispered compliments, gifts. It is like Sir Griflet's notion of knighthood—strong on armor and banners and riding peacocky horses in tournament parades, but short on honor and sacrifice. I do not think that Guinevere has ever known love as you have known it."
Arthur looked absently at the forest. "And I am not easy to love, am I?"
"No. You are the king, the master of all you behold, the servant of none."
"And Lancelot?"
"He is her slave."
Slowly, a tear formed in Arthur's eye, then rolled down his cheek. Terence, ashamed to look on his king's grief, turned away. His own eyes misted. Gawain's eyes, too, were bright with tears. "Am I a fool to love her, Gawain?"
"If so, it is a divine foolishness," Gawain said. Gawain's tears flowed more freely, and he gazed into the morning mist as if looking into the Other World. The King of all Britain and the Maiden's Knight mingled their misery in the growing day.
That afternoon Tor and Plogrun returned to Camelot, and with them, on a silky white palfrey, rode Morgan Le Fay. As was usual when a knight returned from a quest, the king called for a meeting of the Round Table to hear Tor recount his adventures. His tale was full, and Tor made the most of it. He had traveled the length of the island and defeated many wandering knights; he had fought the fierce Redshank Danes, seafaring marauders from the east and, as he put it, had seen "many sights near too wondrous to believe and far too wondrous to recount." Even the French minstrels admitted that Tor had told his tale well.
After the official telling, though, Tor and Plogrun went with Gawain, Terence, and Morgan to Gawain's chambers for a private reunion. Tor told of packs of hounds with human faces—"The Conn Annown," Morgan said, nodding—and a ghostly wooden banquet hall decorated with the grisly limbs of defeated enemies, where each night food and strong drink appeared and each morning disappeared again, eaten by no one knows whom. Morgan listened with interest and said, "I had heard of this hall, but had hardly believed it real." It was clear to Terence that Tor's quest had taken him, if not actually into the Other World, at least to its threshold, and he was glad that his friends had tasted the wonders of that realm.
After a while, Tor broke off his account suddenly and said, "Say Gawain, I don't know if you've heard: old Marhault's dead." Years before, Gawain and Tor had set out on a quest together and had been joined there by a great Cornish knight named Sir Marhault.
Gawain shook his head. "How did it happen?"
"I'm not sure. We just found his marker in Cornwall one day. It said he was killed by one Sir Tristram."
"I've heard of Tristram," Gawain said reflectively. "But Marhault was one of the best. I didn't think the knight lived who could do it."
"There's always a better knight, Gawain," Morgan said. Terence couldn't tell if she meant to warn her nephew or to mock him.
"Speaking of better knights, who's this popinjay Lancelot I hear about," Tor asked.
"Don't you know?" Gawain replied. "He's the greatest knight in England."
"Ay, that's what I hear. That's what they say in Cornwall about Tristram, too. And it's what I've always said about you, Gawain. You can't all be the greatest knight in England."
"Why not?" Gawain smiled suddenly. "It makes for better stories that way."
Tor grunted. "Well, is this latest greatest knight as good as they say?"
"He is. That's the galling part of it. He's a wizard with a lance."
Tor hesitated, then said, "And is the rest of it true?"
"The rest of what?"
"Guinevere."
"It's true," Gawain said.
Morgan leaned forward with sudden interest, "And Arthur?"
"Unhappy. Can you doubt it?"
She shook her head. "He deserves a better lady than Guinevere. If only—" She broke off.
"If only?" Gawain asked.
She smiled ruefully. "Like Lancelot, I find that the forbidden love is the sweetest."
"Poor Morgan," Gawain said simply.
"But where Lancelot's love is forbidden by custom, mine is forbidden by blood," she said. "And even an enchantress is bound by blood." Gawain nodded.
Tor smiled, but without rancor. "So, the beautiful woman who has captivated so many men, finds herself a captive to love."
Morgan glanced at him briefly, without comment. "Is there some way to help my Arthur?" she asked, and no one answered.
By Christmas, still none of them had found an answer. Morgan left the court, and Terence envied her escape. Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere grew more obvious every day, and the king showed his misery in the weary lines at his eyes. In his throne room, he was solemn and correct, seldom showing the quiet humo
r that had distinguished his court before. At the meetings of the Round Table, he was silent and morose. He began to leave the court every now and then to meditate and pray alone at a nearby abbey, often for a week or more. Remembering the peace of the hermitage where he was raised, Terence thought he understood the king's retreats, but Gawain did not. Gawain had known few priests or monks whom he could honor, and he saw Arthur's need for religious exercise as a sign of weakness. In any case, Arthur always seemed invigorated when he returned.
The preparations for the annual Christmas feast began, but seldom had Terence felt less festive. Sir Lancelot and Guinevere spent hours together, planning their wardrobes for the feast, which always lasted from Christmas Eve until the New Year. On the first night, Gawain sat at the king's table, with Guinevere, Sir Kai, and Sir Lancelot. To everyone except Sir Lancelot, gazing enraptured at the queen, and Guinevere, basking in his attentions, the feast was oppressively slow. Even the king commented on the dullness of the banquet, saying that he almost wished that the Emperor of Rome would send another delegation with a challenge.
By way of entertainment, a bard told a heroic tale about the ancient hero Cucholinn, which lightened the air somewhat, but this bard was followed immediately by a French minstrel who sang a long ballad about Sir Tristram of Cornwall and his love affair with Queen Isoult, the wife of King Mark of Cornwall. The king listened politely, but grimly, and at the end of the evening all the company wished they did not have to return the following night. They did, though, and each night's banquet seemed longer than the last. Terence suggested that they go off questing before the next long feast, and Gawain heartily assented.
Excitement finally arrived on the seventh night. As the fourth course was being cleared, a muffled exclamation came from the kitchen, followed by an eerie silence. A moment later the wide kitchen doors flew open so violently that they splintered against the wall. Then, through the gaping doorway rode the largest man that Terence had ever seen, mounted on the largest horse, and from the top of the man's head to the horse's hooves, they were both as green as the grass in June. He wore no armor and was bareheaded, but no one could doubt that this giant was a knight, for his fierce, bearded face was noble, and in his right hand he held a wicked-looking axe. The green knight stopped in the center of the room, gazed around him, then spoke in a rumbling voice, "Where is the chief of this crowd? Long have I wished to see so famed a sire."
Arthur stood and said, "I bid you fair welcome, good knight. I am the chief of this assembly—Arthur, by name. Come join our celebration, I pray you, and on the morrow we shall hear your purpose."
The knight examined Arthur's face, then nodded, as if to himself. "Nay, I thank you, O king, but the high lord who sent me did not intend me to tarry. My errand is to test this high court, whose praises are so puffed off, called so peerless in passage of arms and in courage so complete."
"If it is a fight that you wish, you shall surely not go away unrequited," Arthur said, "though I should have to fight you myself."
Gawain started to stand, but the knight said, "I come to seek no combat, O king. I see none at this board but beardless children, pitiful and puny before me. I offer but a New Year's game for their amusement."
Arthur frowned at the insult to his knights, but he said only, "What manner of game, O knight?"
"Stroke for stroke!" The green knight looked around the room for a third time. "With this axe! I shall bide the first blow, and then exactly one year from today, the knight who chooses to play my New Year's game shall take a blow from me. Who shall play?"
"He's daft," Gawain said amid the resulting hubbub. "And anyone who'd play a game like this with a faery knight is even more daft."
Arthur nodded in agreement, and opened his mouth to speak, but the green knight spoke first. "What, is this truly Arthur's house? Whose fame is spread so far? Where are all those doughty knights of whom I have heard? Are these they, these who cower and quake before any cut is given?"
Arthur's eyes flashed, and Sir Lancelot spoke up eagerly. "Your highness, let me challenge this ruffian to single combat!"
Guinevere started from her seat and exclaimed impulsively, "Lance! No! I couldn't—" She trailed off and looked at the king, wide-eyed.
The lines in Arthur's forehead deepened, and for a second he looked at his queen without expression. Then, in a low voice, he said, "I accept your challenge, O knight. Give me the axe."
The green knight dismounted and all in the hall saw how huge he really was, at least a head taller than any knight present. As Arthur stepped around the table, the knight gave him the axe and knelt before him, ready to take his blow. Arthur lifted the giant axe above his head. No one moved: the green knight waited in unflinching patience, and the rest of the assembly stared transfixed. The queen gazed at Arthur with horrified incomprehension. Then, just as Arthur raised the axe to its highest point, Gawain spoke. "My liege, I beg you, before all these present, to let this knight's challenge be mine."
Terence's throat tightened. Arthur paused, then lowered the axe to the floor. "No, nephew," he said.
"My king, I ask you to be ruled by this company. I honor your wish to face your court's trial yourself, but you must not. You are the heart of this land."
Arthur looked weary beyond words. "And you," he said, "are the greatest of all my knights."
"My only honor, O king, is that I serve you. Give me the axe." Gawain turned to the rest of the assembly and said, "Which of us shall it be?"
One by one the knights of the Round Table indicated Gawain. Tor's face twisted with grief, and Sir Kai's deep eyes looked empty, but both of them pointed at Gawain.
King Arthur heard his court's judgment and without a word laid the axe at his feet and returned to his seat. Gawain looked quickly at Terence and whispered, "I'm sorry, lad." Terence felt suddenly, unreasonably calm. He nodded, and Gawain walked to the axe.
Through all of these proceedings, the green knight had waited patiently. Now he spoke. "Before going further, tell me your name, O knight."
"I am called Gawain."
The knight's eyes lit with unmistakable satisfaction. "Sir Gawain! By Gog, I am wondrous pleased it should be you! And in one year's time, you will come to me for the answering blow?"
"I will. Wherever you say."
"I am the Knight of the Green Chapel, and I am known by many. You shall have no difficulty finding me." With that, the faery knight bowed his head and bared the nape of his neck. Gawain looked at it grimly, then raised the axe and struck with all his power. The knight's head flipped cleanly from his shoulders, and his body sprawled limply on the floor. Bright red blood poured from the severed neck, startling in its contrast to the green head and body. Ladies moaned weakly, and more than half of them fainted or pretended to. Among the knights there was an audible sigh of relief, but the sigh broke off abruptly. Slowly the green knight's arms began to move. They braced themselves and pushed the headless trunk from the floor. On hands and knees, the knight's body groped for a second until it found its head. Then, holding the still dripping member, the body stood. While all the court stared in horror, the green eyelids flickered open and blinked as the eyes beneath focused on Gawain.
"Do not forget, Sir Gawain. One year from today at the Green Chapel. You have this day richly deserved that your neck should have my blow next New Year's Eve."
And with that, the Knight of the Green Chapel vaulted easily onto his giant horse and galloped away, leaving a trail of flinty sparks where his horse's hooves struck the hard and bloody floor.
III. Setting Off
Gawain's next three months at Camelot were wretched for everyone. The moment that the Green Knight disappeared, Gawain became the center of the court's attention. It seemed to occur suddenly and simultaneously to all the court that Gawain had done something surpassingly courageous, and knights who for months had given all praise to Sir Lancelot realized that when it had been a question of the king's life or his own, it had been Gawain who had acted. All treated Gawain
with hushed and awed respect, quietly stepping aside to make way for him wherever he walked—"As if I were a blamed ghost," Gawain commented to Tor, chuckling.
Terence did not enjoy the court's renewed respect for his master, since it arose primarily from Gawain's imminent death. No one at Camelot doubted that Gawain had but a year to live. Only an elf-man or a wizard could have survived decapitation, as the Green Knight had, and Gawain was neither. Gawain's comment about being treated as if he were a ghost was more correct than he intended: in the eyes of many, he was the next thing to a ghost already.
Gawain himself, perhaps as a perverse response to the court's morbid awe, was cheerful, almost jovial. Much against his inclination, Terence vowed to follow Gawain's example, at least in public. Arthur, too, seemed to be in better spirits than before. No longer did the king openly brood over Guinevere and Sir Lancelot. He dealt with affairs of state with something like his former zest, and he spent much time with Sir Kai, Gawain, Sir Bedivere, and other particular friends and advisors. Terence did not know what it was, but something had happened to Arthur at that feast to renew him.
One dark morning, on his way to the stables, Terence saw a solitary figure on the castle wall. Recognizing the king, Terence returned to his chambers and told Gawain. Gawain's forehead creased, and he said, "Let's go see."
It was indeed the king, at the same post where they had seen him before, looking out into the blackness. He heard them coming and looked up. "Hello, Gawain. Good morning, Terence."
"Good morning, my king," Gawain said. Terence bowed.
"Come to check on me?" Gawain nodded. "I'm all right," Arthur said.
"Are they out there again?" Gawain asked.
Arthur looked into the dark, then shook his head. "I don't know. I was just wondering myself." Terence was close enough now to see the king's face, and in it was none of the barely submerged pain that had been there the last time they had met on this wall. The king shrugged and said, "It will always matter to me whether my wife loves me, but her love is not the only love in the world." The king smiled. "My nephew, it seems, loves me enough to die for me."
The Squire, His Knight, and His Lady Page 3
