by Sarah Zettel
He struggled to rise, but his head was too heavy and his arms were too weak.
I have been here before. I have done this before. I have come home then as now.
At last, Gawain pushed himself onto his knees. Up ahead, he heard the sounds of hooves, and the mist curtains parted to let through a horse and rider. Gawain blinked up at him, struggling to rise, but the trees were moving again, leaning close to hear what he had to say, raising their branches so the birds and the beasts might have a better look at this comical stranger covered in dirt and calling a woman’s name.
Oblivion rose, and Gawain fell forward, and for a long time he knew nothing more.
Chapter Eighteen
Gawain started awake, clammy from his own sweat. Stone walls illuminated by pale rushlight surrounded him. Furs covered his nakedness and thick feather pillows raised his head.
He struggled to sit and after a time managed to do so. He was weak as a kitten, but at least his eyes were clear and if his head throbbed, it was an easier pain than he had known before.
He was on a wooden bed in a small windowless room. Rushes and more furs covered the floor. His clothes lay on a carved chest with his boots, sword, shield and saddlebags beside them. There was a chair and table, and little else beside. Past the foot of the bed, was a plain wooden door, tightly closed.
Gawain swung his feet over the side of the bed, ignoring the sudden wave of dizziness that washed through him. He planted them on the floor, but they seemed to grow further away as he stared at them.
The door opened. A fair-haired woman carrying a wooden tray took two steps into the room, and stopped, apparently surprised at seeing a naked man attempting to climb from his bed and not quite remembering the required motions.
Gawain did, however, remember something of modesty and pulled himself back under the bed coverings.
“I am glad to see you awake.” She set the tray down on the small table. It held a basin of steaming water, a clean towel and a wooden noggin. “We were …”
Although it was poor manners, Gawain interrupted. “How long have I been …?”
“One night only. Rest, my lord. You are not well.” She held out the noggin.
Thirst itched in Gawain’s throat. He drank. It proved to be nothing more than water with just enough wine to make it palatable. “I cannot rest. I have … I must …”
“You cannot,” said the woman firmly, paying back his interruption with another. “Your horse is lame and you are ill. Stay where you are, or you will do one of us an injury.”
The fact that she was able to push him back onto the pillows so easily much more than her words convinced Gawain to do as she said.
His head began to swim again. He drained the noggin and felt somewhat better. “My horse is lame?”
“The black. The white is merely … perturbed.” Seeing Gawain’s alarm, she held up both hands. “Do not fear, my lord, our men are expert with horses. They are both well-cared for. The black only needs a poultice. Our stable master will see him to rights.”
Relief rallied Gawain’s wits. “I thank you, my lady. It is certain you have saved my life. Will you do me the courtesy of telling me …”
Before he could finish the question, the door slammed open and a bluff, dark man sailed into the room like a hearty thundercloud
“So!” He planted his fists on his hips. “This is the young eagle who has fallen from the nest and set all the ladies hearts aflutter with tender feelings!” He laughed heartily. Gawain saw the blue tattoos on his hands, complex knots faded with time and overgrown with hair.
He was, in fact, one of the hairiest men Gawain had ever seen. A rich brown thatch sprouted from his head and overran most of his face and neck.
And they call Arthur ‘the bear’, he thought, and then reminded himself that he had already known this man’s hospitality and had better show his manners.
The man, however, spoke first. “Well, my lord, I am Belinus and this is my hall and my woman here who nurses you so diligently is called Ailla. That is who we are. Who might you be and what is so important you must seek it in my lands in the rain and dark?”
Gawain gave his name and titles. Belinus did not look impressed. Gawain added. “As to what I seek, I seek the Green Temple, or any man who can tell me where it might be found.”
Belinus pursed his thick lips. “The Green Temple? A strange name. Is it something you’ve heard of, my wife, with all your women’s lore?”
Ailla just looked at her hands in her lap. “If my lord has not heard of it, then I most surely have not.”
“There you are, I fear, my Lord Gawain. But now, the morning had turned fair and I must be away to the hunt with my men. You rest here as long as your please. Speak with my wife. Perhaps something will jog that lazy memory of hers, and I will ask after this Green Temple of yours among those of my lands. I promise to give you whatever I gain when I return, if you will do the same for me, eh?”
It was an odd request, but from the way the man was looking at him, Gawain realized his host expected an answer. “Surely, my Lord Host.”
“Well then.” He slapped his hands together, satisfied. “To the hunt! Take good care of our young eagle, Ailla. Rest well, Gawain.”
As swiftly as he came, Belinus departed, letting the door slam shut behind him. Ailla winced and Gawain’s face creased in sympathy. That was a harsh man to be paired with so delicate a lady.
As soon as Belinus left, Ailla rose to her feet. She filled a basin with water and took up a cloth. Quickly, lightly, she began to dab his face. It was most refreshing. “Why do you ask of the … this Green Temple, my Lord Gawain?”
How to explain? “I have an errand there that must be completed, a matter of honor.”
“I wish you success then.” Ailla took up her basin and turned from him, but as she did, he thought he saw some deep sorrow on her face.
“Lady?” She looked back over her shoulder at him. Her face was bland, but her eyes were haunted.
She does know of this place. She does. “You will consider the name, will you not? To see if you can remember what you might have heard of it?”
“I know nothing that my lord does not, Sir,” she repeated. “I must let you rest now.”
She closed the door behind her and Gawain was alone.
Gawain slammed his fist against the bed covers, and that sudden movement seemed to drain away all the strength his arm had left. He was still feverish, damn it, damn him, damn the Green Knight and Euberacon Magus and Rygehil of the Morelands all. He fell back on the pillows.
But, he was in a place where the Green Temple was known, if he could convince the lady to speak of it.
But why should I? Why am I not out seeking Risa instead? There is time enough to die after she is found and safe.
Because he had made a bargain with the fantastic, and such must always be kept, even if Arthur had not stood surety for him before so many witnesses. If he did not keep to his word … he might curse Risa so that she could never be found, he might break the very treasure he sought to cherish.
And perhaps, just perhaps there would yet be a way through this thing. The Green Knight knew of Risa, he was sure. He had taunted Gawain deliberately. Perhaps there was some way for him to survive this challenge, and then he and the Green Knight might have a more even contest, and he could compel his answers …
Kindling his hope in his heart, Gawain drifted awhile into a light sleep. He thought he heard the rush of the wind in the trees, and felt the rocking of a horse’s gait beneath him. Ahead, he saw the hunched back of a black boar, crashing madly through the trees. Soon it would turn, soon it would fight. Soon there would be blood and death and life and promise and all would begin again …
Gawain started awake. The door to his room was opening, the wood scraping over the rushes, and Ailla was coming in again with a tray holding a bowl, a cup and a lump of bread. Still befuddled by his dream, it seemed for a moment the sides of the bowl ran bright red with blood, but he blinked
hard, and the vision was gone.
“My Lord Gawain?” She set the tray down swiftly and laid her hand on his head. “You are white. Do you feel worse?”
“No, no, my lady. It was a dream, a dream only.” Her hand was cool against his brow, and she smelled of something sweet … at first he thought it might be sandalwood, but it was not. Something sweet and smoky.
“Your fever is gone,” she announced with satisfaction as she straightened up. “You will feel weak for awhile yet. Broth and bread will help strengthen you.” She deposited the tray on his lap. “Tomorrow you should be able to walk without help.”
“Tomorrow I must continue with my quest.” The broth was rich and flavorful and smelled of sweet venison and onions. Gawain drank it gratefully.
Lady Ailla shook her head. “If you do, you will do so without your horse. He will not be fit to travel for another day at least. If he is ridden too soon, the swelling will start again, so says our man. You must compose yourself to patience, my lord.”
Gawain dipped the good bread in the broth and chewed on it to keep his aggravation silent. Patience was not what he wished for right now, but he could not complete his quest for the Green Temple or for Risa on foot.
“I will leave you to your rest.” Ailla dipped him a small curtsey and moved toward the door.
“Stay awhile, lady, if it please you,” said Gawain quickly. “I have some questions I would ask, if you will permit.”
An odd look flickered across her face, as if she were both concerned and relieved at the same time. “I will answer as I can, Sir.” She took the chair beside the bed, folding her hands, waiting politely for the questions.
Gawain sopped some more broth, looking in the bottom of the bowl for a place to start. “I fear my fever took my sense of direction from me. I do not even know where I am.”
“You are in Caer Ceri. Two days ride north and you will come to Calchfynedd.”
He had come that far? Gawain found it suddenly difficult to swallow his bread. He must have been fevered longer than he knew.
He collected himself. “Lord Belinus is not a name I have heard of before.”
“No.” It was a soft statement, almost a sigh.
Gawain cocked his head as if it might help him see her better. “He calls the High King his liege, though.”
But Ailla just looked away. “Who my lord calls liege is a delicate question.”
“I see.”
“No, my lord, you cannot.” She bowed her head quickly, biting her lip. “I should not have said that.”
Gently, gently, Gawain. This one is a fragile spirit. Press to hard and she will only break. “I cry you mercy, lady. I am being hopelessly rude. What would you speak of to pass the time with your invalid?” He settled back on the pillows and smiled in what he hoped she would find an encouraging fashion.
She did not answer for a time, but he saw her slip a glance at him. At last, she seemed to take courage and lifted her head. “You have come from the hall of the High King?” Gawain nodded. “Tell me of Camelot.” She whispered its name, and Gawain was not certain whether she thought it a word of blessing or a curse.
Whatever it was to her, Gawain was glad to oblige her request. He told her tales of the proudest names, of Arthur, Lancelot and Bedivere. She asked him shrewd questions that told him she’d heard some of the wilder stories and sensibly doubted their veracity. He was pleased to be able to tell her the far finer truths. He spoke of feasts and pageants, and of the queen, of course. All the while, he saw Risa’s image before him, how she stood so fair and proud beside Guinevere, how she kept her face so solemn as she made some jest, how she held her own even with Kai playing against her.
But this lady knew something. There was something about her lord that kept her from speaking even though she knew he could not hear. If he could make her his friend, if he could bring her to trust him, she would speak. If she could tell him what she feared, he would help, and in return she would tell him where the Green Temple was.
Where, despite all his hopes and his pride, he would face his death.
Gawain’s tale faltered.
Ailla rose from her seat, leaning toward him. “Is your fever returning, Lord Gawain?”
“No, lady.” He held up his hand, although it would have been pleasant enough to feel her hand on his brow again. “It was … an unwelcome thought.”
She sank back into her chair. “Because you seek the Green Temple?”
“Yes my lady.” What made you ask that, my hostess?
Flustered, the lady looked down again at her hands. Her fingers twisted tightly together. “It is only … such a place as that must be … no one would seek such a place save for some great and terrible need.” She stood abruptly. “I must see to the ordering of dinner. I will have one of my women bring you your meat.” She turned her back to him, and Gawain suddenly felt that she did not want to have to look at him anymore.
“Then let me bid you goodnight, my hostess, since I am not to see you again.”
Her shoulders sagged for a moment and then straightened. “God be with you this night, Lord Gawain.”
She was gone, and Gawain was alone with a rushlight and the remains of the broth and the bread and his own uneasy thoughts. He tried again to stand, but he made it no more than two steps from the bed before his knees began to buckle under him. He could do nothing but lie in his bed and stare at the boards and buttresses over his head, and wonder — what did his hostess know, and where did Risa bide, and what did she suffer.
Be brave, be brave my love. God grant me my strength again. Let me find her whole.
There was no way to tell how much time passed before he heard the thudding of bootsoles on stone. The door slammed open and Belinus strode up to the bed, a bloody bone in his hand.
Without concern or ceremony, he tossed the object onto the bedcovers. It was a boar’s curling tusk.
“The whole of the beast is in the yard. I did not think my lady would like me to drag it up to the sick room!” He bellowed with laughter at his own joke. “A poor thing, skinny from winter and not yet fat for summer, but fought like a tiger. I’ve a man who will be showing his scars to his grandchildren.” He folded his arms in great satisfaction. “That is what I have gained today, my lord. And you?”
“Several hours fine conversation with my most courteous hostess,” said Gawain promptly. “I will do my best to return them to you my host, but I may have to beg you to have mercy on my weakness.”
Belinus laughed heartily at that. “We must get you well soon, my lord, I should dearly love to hear how you spoke to my wife! But although I’ve hunted a boar today, I’ve an appetite like a bear and my meat waits in the hall. Goodnight, my Lord Gawain. We will talk soon, you may be sure of it!”
When he was gone, and the door was closed, Gawain picked up the tusk that had been left to decorate his sick bed. It was warm, as if it had been freshly torn from the new-dead beast. It had an edge that could cut a man’s hand were he not careful. The place where the tusk had lain was spattered with drying blood, reminding Gawain of the blood he had imagined on the edge of his bowl of broth, and the blood he’d smelled in his dream. It seemed to him that the smears and spatters shifted beneath his sight, and he fancied that if he looked long enough, he might read them like old runes.
Gawain rubbed his eyes. What is happening to me? That fever is not so far gone as my lady promised.
Setting the tusk carefully on the table so he would not be seen to show disrespect to his host’s token — though in truth he would have tossed the grim thing aside if he could — he lay back on his pillows to wait for supper and then for sleep and to pray for tomorrow and strength and health and after that … and after that …
After that, for life.
That night, Risa dreamed. The door to her cell was diffuse, like mist. The threshold around it sagged unevenly and was made of only rough and broken stones. Risa started forward, only to realize her wrists and ankles were weighted down with chains of
iron, so heavy she could barely move. She struggled, against the chains and against the profound weariness that filled her. She had to climb the stairs, she had to. So she walked out into the corridor, which was black and dank and solid. She toiled up the worn stairs, her chains scraping on the stones, a harsh grating noise.
Outside, the courtyard was nothing but a ruin. Yet, she could still discern hints of Euberacon’s palace. The memory of clean and gleaming marble coated the filthy, tumbled stones like a silver mist. The tiles were the barest hint of color gleaming thinly across a churned sea of clay and mud. The fountain was a muck-filled bowl in which a little dirty water bubbled up fitfully. The jagged ends of roofbeams lay beneath the moon like a giant’s broken bones. Only one tower stood whole, a thick, inelegant edifice, built for keeping watch against some enemy.
Risa stood there, gaping, at a loss as to what to do next.
Then, she saw a woman trudging toward the broken fountain. In her hand, she carried a sieve made of wood and hair. Her face was sunken with woe and despair. She dipped the sieve into the dirty water and watched, tears running down her face as the water ran out onto the muddy ground. Risa saw then that she had no eyes. She had only pearl-grey spheres where her eyes should have been, spheres to cry and to suffer, but not to see.
