A N N E E L I O T C R O M P T I ON
Copyright ©1997, 2010 Anne Eliot Crompton
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Dedicated to the unknown author of the medieval poem
Gawain and the Green Knight
Alone in Time your Poem stands,
A Great Hall ruling rugged lands;
Your words its walls, its hearth your heart.
Along your wall I add a room apart;
A garden door ajar; green, leafy light,
A turning trail that travels out of sight.
Contents
The Green Crown
The Green Knight
The Green Man
The Green Chapel
About the Author
The Green Crown
A great white horse stood hidden, almost invisible, on the edge of the oak grove. Its dark young rider looked across a stream to the Fair-Field. In the midst a maypole reared to the spring sky, all a-flutter with strung leaves and flowers.
So! the young man thought, or tried to think. Hunger and fatigue numbed his mind. So this must be May Day. Spring.
The endless winter he had ridden through—at first provisioned, and now starving; at first in company, and now alone—the terrible winter was over.
A crowd of merry savages milled about the maypole: uncouth men armed only with staves, bright-gowned women with flowers in their braids. Yapping children and dogs sped from one small fire to the next, from one loaded table to the next.
Loaded tables.
The young knight’s starved stomach cried, God’s blessed eyes! Meat on the spit! Heart leaped high, with all the proud confidence that was his heritage. Not for a moment did he hesitate.
Straightway he clapped heels to horse. Through the shallow, stony stream they splashed, up the bank, onto the Fair-Field. He steered straight for the nearest table.
According to God’s Natural Law this bumpkin crowd should give way promptly before a mounted knight. He could wolf down half a pig haunch before they rounded up their chief, druid or headman, to deal with him. And by then he would have his wits and manners back in order. But at this moment the smell of roasting meat overwhelmed all protocol, all courtesy. It was not as though he dealt with equals here.
But this crowd gave him no way.
Warrior, his white charger, pushed narrowly between two arguing women. A startled fellow wheeled around and grabbed for his rein.
“Make way!” The hungry young knight shouted warning. “Ho, hey, give way there!” The rasp of his own voice startled him. He had not spoken in many a day. “What are you folk? Stand back!— God’s teeth!”
The crowd closed in. He clapped hand to sword hilt.
Too late.
Hands seized Warrior’s bridle. Hands grabbed arm, foot, scabbard, and yanked. He was on the ground, men piled heavy on top. Boots stamped before his eyes. Above, hunters halloed.
Mary shield me!
Hooves tramped around his head as the crowd pushed and pulled at Warrior. He heard the sword screech out of his scabbard. Ripped off, his helmet rolled among feet.
The weight of men lifted off him. Now the sword would come down. That I should die by the hands of savages!
Hands seized him and hauled him to his feet. Maybe not yet?
Strong-twined rope pulled his arms tight. What do they want?
Warrior’s white rump disappeared into the mob.
Move. Walk. Not so fast, the way I’m trussed!…This way. The maypole.
Horns shouted. A screaming wind blew away hearing; bagpipes, too close. Now the crowd opened a path to the maypole; and all along the path merry eyes beamed and orange-green teeth gleamed through beards. Near fluttered wind-waved strung flowers and leaves. High rose the maypole into spring-morning sky. Now we’re here, what—
Horns and pipes fell abruptly silent. The jabbering mob fell silent.
At the maypole’s foot they let him go. They stood back and left him bruised, swaying in his bonds, dizzy with hunger, confused past surprise.
Three faces confronted him. A white-haired druid held with both hands a crown of flowers high over the head of a stiff-faced, pale young man. A girl held the man’s hand, a sturdy peasant girl, clad all in green, her rich red hair already flower-crowned. The three stared, astonished, at the dark young man reeling in his bonds. Slowly, the girl smiled.
Her smile lit her plain face, and the fluttering leaf-strings above, and the spring-green air all about. Her green gown flowed to her ankles, held at the hips by a green lace girdle. Gown and girdle, hands, arms, and neck were looped or studded with green- gold gems.
She smiled. She let go of the stiff-faced fellow’s hand. The white-bearded druid nodded one deep, slow nod.
Two women burst from the crowd. Joyfully, they grabbed the stiff-faced fellow by the arms and pulled him away backward. The crowd swallowed him up.
The druid stepped up to the captive. Keen old blue eyes met mystified gray young eyes. Trembling, upraised hands came down. Like an enemy’s ax, the crown of flowers descended upon the captive’s head.
Air roared again as drums rumbled and pipes wailed. Knives sliced the knight’s bonds.
The red-haired girl seized his hand and pulled him into a jigging dance. Hungered and aching, he could hardly keep up. He waddled after her like a leashed dancing bear.
Drums and pipes merged rhythms. The girl leaped, the knight lumbered. Dancers joined them around the maypole. The blowing maypole ribbons tightened as they were caught in dancers’ hands, shortened as they were twined together. Out in the field the whole crowd danced. The Fair-Field danced. Earth danced.
The knight thought, If I can but go along…
As a young child he had danced around maypoles. He began to master the step. The girl grinned over her shoulder and squeezed his hand harder. Jigging became easier than stumbling. Heart took on drum-rhythm. Pipes screeched in the blood. The girl’s loose red hair fanned his face. Something jogged down over his eyes so that he danced blind; the flower crown. A friendly hand reached from behind and straightened it. But it inched down again and flopped about his neck.
He had danced in place for a while before the girl stopped him, smiling, hands on his shoulders. Music and dance had paused. The maypole stood wrapped, bright against mild sky. A band of wild, masked men all in green now cavorted around it, waving hawthorn branches and tumbling. The crowd applauded.
Hazy, the captive found himself leaning against a table. A hand h
eld a mug of ale under his nose. He seized it and drained the contents.
Then he sneezed foam and grabbed at the table for support. A close-by voice asked a question. Though soft, the voice was uncouth, northernly accented, the words hard to understand. “What?” With the back of his hands he rubbed away foam and sweat.
The flower-crowned girl stood close.
Now he saw her clear; under all the green finery and frip-frap, a vigorous, full body; work-roughened, square hands; hard gray eyes, wide now with wonder—she might never have seen his like before.
And he had never seen her like before quite like this, face to face and equal. Softly, now; he had come into a foreign world here, almost as if he had entered Fairyland. In Fairyland there was no telling what or who it was that you saw. A toad could be a prince, a wild tribal girl could be…
Very courteously he asked her, “Did you speak to me, Lady Green?”
Laughter flashed across her peasant face. She spoke again. Listening attentively, he barely understood her.
“I asked you, What is your name?”
“My name is Gawain, Lady. I am Sir Gawain of the Round Table.”
“Sir Gawain. Aha. Are you a knight, Sir Gawain of the Round Table?”
“Surely you know—” He checked himself. “Yes, Lady Green, I am a King’s Companion.” And nephew—but no need to say that.
A face butted in between them. For a dazed moment, Gawain thought it the face of an ancient white goat. In a clearer accent than the girl’s it said, “I have heard of you, Sir Gawain, King’s Companion.” It was the old druid, the flower-crowner. “What do you here, with us?”
“I…” How best to put this? Ale fought with exhaustion on Gawain’s tongue. “My king sent me here to…see the north country.”
“Hah! To spy. Did you come here alone?”
“No, Father.” Very polite. “Three of us came, with squires and horses and packhorses bearing gifts. We came as emissaries.”
“Hah. Gladly would we see these emissaries and these gifts. Where are they?”
“Father, we met brigands.”
“Naturally. But you were armed.”
“Then we met Saxons. We were sadly outnumbered. Then there came wolves.”
“Four-legged ones.” The old man grinned. “And you alone are left?”
“I, and my horse, which should be somewhere near.” The great, valuable charger would prove his worth to these savages.
The druid would have answered, but the girl spoke up boldly, startling Gawain. Little courtesy or caution here! He understood her to say, “I never saw a knight before.” She studied him carefully, sweat-dark hair to travel-ragged boots. “But I will know you well tonight.” Her quick smile flashed.
Uncomprehending, Gawain stared.
The old druid explained. “You are crowned May King, Sir Gawain. You lie tonight with the May Queen. Did you not know?”
Gawain found his tongue. “I…Yes. I have heard of such.” But not for a while.
“Show him food,” Druid told Girl. “He’s in no shape now, but with meat in his belly…”
Once more Gawain found himself led by the hand. The Green Men still leaped and capered, the crowd still applauded; but Gawain saw nothing, was aware of nothing but roast meat and bread that smoked on the table where the May Queen led him.
Pig meat! Breads! Ale! Eating and talking, the crowd came around them. When Gawain took notice again, he saw only joyful cordiality everywhere. Men who had seized and bound him now clapped his back, all friendly. Women who had halloed over him as over a stuck pig now plied him with food. Children stared up at his flower necklace, awed, and nearly polite. Good fellowship surrounded him like springtime. Astonished dread, watchful loneliness, melted like snow. With every bite, every handclasp, more of the brave young Sir Gawain of yore strengthened and took shape in the sunlight. Spine straightened; step lightened; he knew again the familiar, dark sound of his own friendly voice.
Wandering, mug in hand, he came upon a hunk of shoulder-meat spitted over a small fire. At his feet lay shreds and scraps of bloody white horsehide. Nearby—
God’s teeth! That’s my saddle! The King’s stamped straps still on it! And there’s my pack…empty…
And this meat must be my Warrior.
His stomach turned inside out. He retched, caught himself, clapped hand to sword.
No sword. Empty scabbard.
Right. They got the sword away, first thing.
The very recent memory swam vaguely in his mind.
No more of that ale. Ech! He flung the mug aside.
Sad and sickened, he stared down at the remains. “Who is Sir Gawain, afoot and swordless? Who am I now?”
He must have murmured aloud. A voice at his ear answered, uncouth but loving. “You are our May King, Gawain. My May King. You will understand that tonight, to your joy and my own.” Warm and solid, she leaned into his shoulder. Her hair mantled his arm. The scent of her fading flower crown overwhelmed him.
Brave young Sir Gawain of yore rose to her challenge. He turned and embraced her, drew her in, caressed and kissed her, there in the crowd’s midst under spring sunlight. And forgot all else.
“Well, for sure and certain,” said Old Lady Granny, “you knew it weren’t just for the one night!”
Solid she sat on her hut doorsill, spinning. Fingers gnarled with age still twirled the thread swiftly down from distaff in her hand to the bobbin swinging at her feet. When she tossed her thick gray braid back over her shoulder the gesture was almost seductive, almost worthy of her granddaughter, Lady Green. She smiled through a map of close wrinkles at Gawain, where he sat on a stool brought out from the hut. Hens clucked and scratched around his feet. An old brindled dog sunned beside him.
“’Course you have to go on, all summer, till Summer-end itself. That’s how the grain grows, you know—with your lovin’. Your love flows into the grain, and it grows. Don’t you know nothin’, Fellow?”
Gawain forgot to repress a small shudder at her easy “Fellow.” She chuckled and glimmered at him, teasing.
He had lost track of time. He knew he had been here in this tribal village of Holy Oak for many days, more than half a moon. After May Day they had taken away his own clothes and given him theirs—rough wool tunic and cloak, hide boots that tied to the knee. His black beard had thickened to where he could chew long strands of it. He cleaned his teeth halfheartedly with alder twigs. He thought that Lancelot, or even his own brothers, seeing him, would take him for a village knave. Except for his stance. Except for his knightly walk.
He straightened his shoulders and smiled back at the old dame.
She continued. “That’s why you love in the fields, clear nights. So the love ain’t got far to go. ’Course you have to go on. Why, don’t you know nothin’, Son? Where do you come from, anyhow?”
“From the south, Lady. From King Arthur’s Dun.”
“And they don’t do nothin’ down there? How’s their barley grow, then?”
He thought on it. “Shrovetide, priests bless the fields. The villagers go through the fields in procession, singing and praying.”
“Ech, aye, that must help it grow. But is that all?”
“All that I know of. Well, no. There’s prayers for sun when it’s needed, and even for rain.”
Sniff. “Seldom knew rain to be needed! Prayer’s good, and singin’ and all. But it don’t sound like enough.”
Gawain shrugged politely. “They usually reap a good crop.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’? Aren’t you in on this yourself?”
How ignorant could even a northern savage be? “I…no, Lady Granny. I am a knight.”
“So what do you do, Knight?”
“I fight for my King.”
“All the time?”
“I hunt with my King. I feast at his Round Table. I hold myself ready to serve him.”
“And that’s all you do?”
“Lady, I am a skilled, strong fighter.”
“Aye, I can see that.” Twirl, twirl went the busy thread.
Unbidden, the child piped up. “He’s famous, Granny. There’s songs about him. Ma told me.” Her voice grated unchildishly.
“Ynis,” the old lady snapped, “mind your thread.”
Lady Green’s little girl sat on the chopping block beside the hut door. Her small, tapered fingers twirled the thread awkwardly. Even Gawain’s untrained eye observed knots and uneven, fraying sections in it.
Unused to children, Gawain put her age at six, maybe seven years. He marveled that young, fresh Lady Green was old enough to have birthed this child. Ynis was dark as her mother was bright, thin as her mother was buxom. Her round child’s face—even missing two front teeth—gave promise of beauty to surpass her mother’s. Gawain had noticed before this her awkwardness, her uneasiness with common tasks and skills.
Now she looked up from the troublesome thread and feasted her eyes on the barley field below the village.
“Feasted her eyes,” Gawain mused, was the right phrase. Her strange, unchildish gaze wondered and widened. The half-size distaff dropped unheeded in her gray wool lap.
“Look, Granny,” she said dreamily. “She’s out there now.”
Lady Granny swung around abruptly. She shaded her eyes and followed the child’s gaze. “Aye,” she breathed. “So She is.” And her bobbin hung idle.
Curious, Gawain turned on his stool to look out over the land.
The village of unkempt thatched huts squatted on a plateau looking three ways. Northward stretched pastureland, dotted with groves and herds. Northeast lay the Fair-Field, the place of concourse for this and two other villages. East along the stream straggled the all-important crops: fields and fenced patches of grains, peas, and beans, crisscrossed with trails. Now, between the trails, a soft green spread across brown, tilled earth as the seeds sprouted.
(South, behind the village, rose a great, dark oak grove where folk did not go. Lady Green kept a bower there, a wee hut where she lay with Gawain on rainy nights. From a low wing of this grove Gawain had burst so rashly upon the busy Fair-Field, ages ago. Gazing now, he thought he saw again the crowded field, the bright maypole, and himself on his white Warrior, trotting confidently into the midst, making for the nearest table. He shook his head, growled at himself, and dismissed the fancy.)
Gawain and Lady Green Page 1
