by Sarah Zettel
I will get you out of this place, he swore silently as Ailla returned to the fire to fill the bowl once again. Gawain chose his words carefully. “My hostess has told me nothing of the Green Temple on any day.”
“Bad luck, bad luck!” Despite his words, Belinus looked quite pleased. He pushed aside the bowl of porridge Ailla placed in front of him. “To horse then, my Lord Eagle. Let us fly!”
Gawain accompanied Belinus out into the yard. His men were already mounted on their uncombed ponies and his great roan stallion was saddled and waiting for him. He swung himself up easily into the saddle, raised his hand to Gawain, who returned the salute, wheeled the horse about and cantered away into the woods.
Gawain waited where he was until the forest had closed completely about his host and the sound of hoofbeats was lost beneath the sound of birdsong. Then, he ambled toward the stable as if reaching his horse was less important than enjoying a morning where the sun shone brightly for a change and the mist was already burning away.
There was no immediate sign of the stablemaster, and Gawain did not seek him out. He examined Pol’s ankle and found that the swelling was gone, and there was no pain when he probed the spot, nor did Pol seem to be favoring it at all. He found Pol’s harness hanging on wooden pegs outside the box. Gringolet gave an anxious snort as his master began to saddle the other horse.
“Do not worry, my friend,” he said. “I will be back for you, without fail.”
You and my lady. Neither of you are staying here.
The sky was clear and taking his bearings was a simple matter. He had crossed only a handful of acres before the trees began to close about him, and he found the track Ailla had told him would be there. It was rutted and faded, but still easy enough to follow, and soon he came to a towering oak the side of which had been burnt black and flayed open almost to its heart. It would not live much longer.
As he pulled back on Pol’s reins, Ailla stepped out from behind the tree. She had come on foot and she must have run for she was flushed and breathing hard. Her eyes were brighter than he had seen them before.
She could come this far, why could she not go farther?
“How is it you are able to walk free?” Gawain could not keep himself from asking the question.
Ailla twisted her hands together. Gawain wanted to reach down and separate her hands. He feared one day she might hurt those delicate fingers with that rough gesture. “There are ways, my lord, but they will not last long.”
“Do you work magics?” Wariness rose in him, for all he at once told himself that this lady had done nothing but aid him since he had come to this strange place.
“My husband is not the only one who follows the old ways, my lord. Please, we must hurry.” She held up her hands. “We have some ways yet to go.”
Gawain reached down and pulled her up before him. She found her seat easily. It was obviously not only her lord who liked to ride.
“You must tell me where, my lady,” he said, reaching around her to take up Pol’s reins.
“Follow the track,” she said. “But I must ask you to be silent. What we need to find will take some looking.”
“As my lady says.” Gawain put his knees to Pol’s side. The horse, thoroughly tired of being cooped up for days on end, stepped up quickly and lightly.
Gawain soon found himself wishing he was at leisure to enjoy this ride. Ailla’s body was warm against his chest. Despite her silence, she seemed at ease, as if savoring the measure of freedom she gained in the greenwood. What holds you in that hall? he found himself wondering yet again. Why will you not speak to me of it?
Could Belinus be a sorcerer? There was magic here. Was her fate what Risa’s would have been had he not found her?
What Risa’s fate is. He reminded himself sternly. You have not saved her yet.
The heat of the day was growing, even beneath the forest canopy. Two days of inactivity and an interrupted night followed by the steady rhythm of a walking horse lulled Gawain into a kind of a waking sleep. For a moment he thought it was Risa he held, and he longed to take her into his arms, to remind her of his love the best way he knew how …
“There, my lord.”
Gawain’s head jerked back, and the world snapped into place around him, and Risa was gone, and Ailla was in his arms, pointing off to the left. Gawain reined Pol to a stop, and tried to see what Ailla meant to show him.
At first he saw only the trees and the rough ground between them. Then, gradually, he realized what he had at first taken for a small hillock was in fact a hovel of bark and mud, and a human figure squatted on the ground before its dark doorway.
Ailla slipped down from Pol’s back. “The one we are going to see has great power in this place, Gawain, although it will not appear so. Treat her as you would the high queen in her hall.”
Gawain nodded, tethered Pol to a tree and followed Ailla into the trees. As they approached the hovel, he saw that the human figure was an ancient woman. Her hair was lank and yellow-white. Her dress was so filthy and tattered it was impossible to tell what color it had once been. It was only the constant breeze that kept the smell of the place tolerable. Her eyes though, her eyes were still a young woman’s, sharp and watchful, and almost entirely black.
Ailla knelt before the hunched and haggish figure. Gawain, mindful of what she had told him, did the same.
“Mother,” said Ailla humbly. “I am come to beg a favor of you.”
The crone shifted her weight left, then right. She peered closely at Gawain, and Gawain could feel the power of that gaze.
“I know what you’re here for,” she said. Her voice was harsh as a crow’s, as if she were unused to speaking. “It can be bestowed only once, daughter. I’ve told you that before.”
“I know, mother.”
The dim gaze seemed to grate across Gawain’s skin, raising goosebumps. Then, she turned her head and spat. “Is he worthy of such a gift?”
Gawain opened his mouth, but Ailla spoke first. “For my sake, mother. I beg you.”
“Well. Well. So it shall be then.”
The crone shuffled into her hovel. Ailla wrung her hands in her nervousness. Gawain had to resist the urge to put his arm about her, to comfort her, to try to find some way to make her believe that he would not abandon her.
When the crone returned, she carried a roll of leather in her arms tied with a grease-stained thong. The bundle was black and cracked with age and stank from damp and mold. Slowly, she set it on the ground and slowly she knelt in front of it. Her sharp fingers worked the knot and slowly unrolled the leather wrapping.
Inside lay a sash the color of emeralds. It was a hand-span wide and looked to be half an ell long, the cloth of it as finely woven as Egyptian linen. The old woman picked it up lovingly in her crooked hands.
“The knight who wears this shall not fall before any blow, no matter who deals it out,” she said, caressing the fine fabric. Then she said sharply to Ailla, “You know the price of what you do, daughter?”
Gawain could not remain silent. “If there is a price for this, mother, let me pay it.”
The crone only shook her head and spat again. “I do this for my daughter’s sake. What she does after that is up to her.” She handed Ailla the sash, and Ailla stood only to curtsey deeply. Gawain stood beside her and bowed with all solemnity.
“Take her from here, Sir Knight,” said the crone. “And do not forget what she has done.”
“Never in life, mother.”
She nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Get you gone then.”
Thus dismissed, Gawain and Ailla walked side-by-side back to where Pol waited, nosing about the undergrowth. She did not seem inclined to talk, even when she hung the sash about her shoulders and allowed herself to be helped her up onto the horse’s back.
The day was cooler now, and the forest far dimmer. Clouds were gathering. It would rain again soon. Ailla held her peace, but Gawain felt her back and shoulders stiffen and draw tighter the closer they c
ame to her home.
When at last they reached the forest’s edge, she touched Gawain’s hand. “Let me down, my lord,” she said in a voice made husky by tears long withheld.
Gawain reined Pol to a halt. “Lady …”
But she shook her head, her jaw clenched tightly closed and dismounted.
Gawain followed suit. She was staring at the distant hall, and for the first time, he saw hatred plain on her face.
He could stand it no longer. He touched her arm. “Lady, you are free of the place now. Let me take you to Camelot.”
“No. It cannot be.” She faced him and took the sash from her shoulders. Swiftly, she wrapped it around his waist and tied it tight. As she completed the knot, Gawain felt a new well-being take him, as if he were rested and refreshed and all the world around were sun and summer. “There.” Ailla stood back. “Now, no matter where you go, no blow can harm you. You will be safe.” She turned swiftly away as if she could no longer bear the sight of him. “Go back to the hall. You must retrieve your arms, and ride at once to the Green Temple.”
But Gawain did not move. “I will not leave you in that place.”
Again she shook her head, and again he heard the tears unshed in her voice. “You cannot save me.”
This time though, Gawain was not content to leave the matter at her word. “Why not? Why is it so impossible? You know the answer, my lady, I am sure of it. Speak to me.”
“If I could …”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “You can. I will believe whatever you say, however fantastic.” She leaned close, her mouth open, longing to speak, longing to tell him all her secrets, to let him save her as she had saved him.
He was kissing her. He did not know who had moved toward whom, but she was in his arms and his mouth pressed against hers and she was warm and she was soft and she pressed herself against him with a kind of frantic need, as if he were all in the world that was good and safe. She would give herself to him, here, at once, if he would accept the gift, and he wanted her, oh, how he wanted her.
As he had wanted Pacis. As he had wanted Risa.
No.
Gawain raised his head. Ailla looked up at him, confused.
Not as he had wanted Risa. With Risa it had been heart’s tenderness, not wild desperation. With Risa it was a beginning, a promise, a gift yes, but not like this, not given in fear or desperation. He had made that promise with her. To do this now would be to break it open, to break his word, and Risa’s heart.
“My lord?” asked Ailla timidly, laying her hand over his heart.
His heart. It drummed hard against his ribs for wanting her, she was so warm, so near, so desirous of his touch and the strength and comfort that were his to give.
Gawain opened his arms, and stepped back.
“I’m sorry, my lady. I cannot give you what you ask.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. A tear trickled from her eye and she turned quickly away. “My fault.” She buried her face in her hands. “I forgot myself. I just wanted so much …”
“No, lady, it is not your fault.” But he did not move. To draw close to her again would be to smell the intoxicating scent of her, to feel her warmth again. He must not or he would be lost. “It is mine. I have promised my love to another. To take yours now would be to do so falsely.”
Hesitantly, she turned and took a step toward him. God Almighty, she was beautiful. “And if I ask nothing but this once?” she asked. “This once so that I might at least dream I have known love?”
Let me dream the dream that is you …
“No, my lady, and I am sorry.”
Ailla retreated, her eyes wide with shock. But shock melted quickly into anger, and then, to Gawain’s horror, contempt.
“Love?” She sneered. “You do not love, Gawain. You need. You want a woman to save, that’s all. As soon as your little Risa was safe and sound, you would tire of her.”
“R …” Gawain stammered. “I did not tell you her name.”
She tossed her head back contemptuously. “What does a name mean to you? One will do as well as another. It will never be enough because you can’t ever save the one you’ve already lost.”
This was impossible. This could not be happening. Ailla had loved … he had loved … it was Belinus who was …
“No,” he breathed, with that one word trying to deny so much of the truth that fell like stones into his heart.
The woman before him, the witch whatever her name might be, only smiled. “I meant to make this pleasant for us both, Gawain. It still can be.” She slipped up to him so that he must breathe in her heady perfume and remember how it had felt to have his arms around her. Her mouth was wide and red, and her eyes wide and knowing. “Come now, kiss me. Your doom is already sealed, but if you please me in this, perhaps I can make it easier for you.”
It would be so easy to do as she wanted, what he wanted. So easy to fall into that dream.
“No!”
The witch shrugged. “Very well then. That is your choice.” She retreated three steps and looking steadily at him she opened her mouth and screamed.
The terrified sound startled him and Gawain fell backward a step. Still screaming as if murder had been done Ailla ran toward the hall, clutching at her bosom.
The realization of what she meant to do hit Gawain in the pit of his stomach. Before he could think, he ran after her, tearing across the meadows all the way to the muddy yard of Belinus’s hall. But for all his desperate speed, he could not catch her, and she collapsed before the hall door, sobbing as if her heart would break. The silent servitors gathered around her as if she were some curious breed of animal.
Gawain brushed past them, and they did not move. “Stop this!” he cried seizing her by the shoulders.
She only screamed again. Tears streamed down her face and to look at her was to see only the hysteria that came with utter terror. “Let me go! Let me go!”
Then, Gawain heard the drumming of hoofbeats. He did let go, and he stood and he backed away. He cursed himself for a fool; it was all far, far too late.
Belinus and his men rode swiftly across the meadows, lashing the horses to gain speed. Ailla saw them coming and screamed once more, leaping to her feet and dashing to meet them. Belinus threw himself from his horse and ran to his wife. She threw herself into his arms.
Gawain felt all the blood drain from his heart.
“My husband! My husband!” she sobbed.
“What is it my wife?” Belinus drew her close, but he was looking at Gawain. He ought to run, before they surrounded him. He had no proof, no witness, no friend beside him. His name meant nothing here.
“I have been … he tried …” Ailla buried her face against her husband’s shoulder. “I swore I would die first … he laughed and said force would make it all the sweeter …”
With a gentleness Gawain would not have believed him capable of, Belinus set Ailla aside. He stalked forward, moving like a mountain. Over his shoulder, Gawain saw Ailla’s expression of pure triumph even as the tears dried on her cheeks.
Then Belinus stood directly before him, blocking out all other sights. He was breathing hard, as if he had just carried some great weight a long distance and his huge hands opened and closed, looking for something to seize upon in his rage.
“I have sheltered you, my Lord Gawain.” Belinus spat his name. “I have treated you fairly and with honor, and this is how you repay me, guest to host?”
I’m going to die, thought Gawain, surprised at how calm he felt now that the moment had come. Very well then.
Slowly, his back straight and proud, Gawain knelt before Belinus. “My Lord Host, I swear to you, by my life, my arm and God Most High that I have taken nothing from this woman but what she did freely give me, and here I give you all she gave me this day.” Gawain pulled the green sash from around his waist and held it up to Belinus.
Belinus bent down and stared into Gawain’s eyes. Gawain realized he could not have looked away if he had wi
shed to. Then, he realized his host’s eyes were not brown as he had thought before, but green, as forest pools, as the shadows in the wildwood …
As the Green Knight’s.
“Well,” Belinus said softly as he straightened up. “It would seem, woman, that you have failed.”
Behind him, Ailla stiffened. Slowly, as comprehension came over her, her triumph peeled back and fell away, leaving only fear.
“No,” she whispered. “No! He did as I said. He lies …”
Belinus’s green eyes glittered. “Be quiet.”
Ailla turned to run. She lifted, her foot, she set it down, and tried to raise the other, and failed. She struggled for a moment, and then she screamed, and this time the terror was real.
Roots were spreading from beneath her skirt. They burrowed eagerly as hungry worms into the earth. Her fingers lengthened and grew crooked and brown. Leaves sprouted where joints and nails had been. A skin of brown bark crept up her dress to her waist, to her torso, to her throat. She threw back her head to scream once more, but the brown bark sealed over her mouth and then her eyes. Then, there was nothing left of the woman. There was only a thorn-apple tree in full flower standing where she had been.
Gawain turned to stare at Belinus, but he saw his host for only the blink of an eye. It was not that Belinus changed, it was as if Gawain had not looked closely enough before to see the Green Knight standing before him, his fist on his hip and his great axe in his hand.
The hall and its folk was gone, the fields were gone. The wildwood crowded on every side. Behind him, instead of a gate, was a mossy mound.
The tree still stood, the tree that had been a woman.
“Well done, Gawain, Lot’s son,” said the Green Knight in a voice as soft as the whisper of wind through leaves.
