The Squire's Tale

by Gerald Morris

  Gawain did not ask what Terence meant by "the feeling." He only adjusted their course and urged Guingalet on for a final race up the hill, crooning to the aughisky in a language that Terence did not understand. Guingalet's breath was labored, but he did not slow, and soon Terence could see the summit of the hill and, at the very top, a winking of firelight.

  A minute—or an hour—passed, and they burst out of the trees into the open area at the top of the hill. Terence leaped from Guingalet's back to stand between Gawain and the scene that met their eyes. Before him was a round cistern, lined with hewn stones and filled with still water. At the edge of the cistern, a black caldron bubbled over a fire, and beside the caldron knelt the woman that Terence had seen in the pond and in the night fog. Behind the woman, still silent, stood the knight who always accompanied her. The woman leaped to her feet as Terence and Gawain arrived and stared first at Gawain, still on horseback.

  "Gawain," she breathed.

  Then Terence's fears were realized, and he heard Gawain whisper, "Mother." Then the silent knight stepped forward into the firelight, and Gawain choked. "Father?" he gasped. "But I buried you myself."

  The knight did not answer, and Gawain's mother turned her attention to Terence. A light of recognition flamed in her eyes, and she hissed, "You! Who are you? I thought I knew all the great sorcerers, but who are you?"

  Terence did not speak, and at last Gawain answered, "This is my squire, Mother."

  Morgause ignored her son. "I must know," she said. "Who are you?" Her voice was almost a scream.

  "I am a servant," Terence answered. "That is all. I serve your son, and I serve King Arthur."

  The blaze of hatred in her eyes seemed to outshine the fire. Morgause spoke over her shoulder to the silent knight. "Kill him."

  The knight drew his long sword and walked around the cistern toward Terence. Terence heard Gawain dismount behind him, but he did not look back, nor did he move. "Milord?" Terence said quietly.

  "It's my father, lad. I know that armor as I know my own."

  "I need your help," Terence said.

  The silent knight stopped before Terence and raised his sword over his head. Terence turned away from the knight and looked into the spiteful eyes of Morgause. He could feel no fear of a mere sword before the more horrible, more terrifying figure of this woman. He sensed rather than saw the knight begin his swing, and then the night calm was broken by a terrific clash as Gawain stepped between them and parried the blow with the Sword Galatine. Terence stepped toward Morgause, hardly able to breathe, as the sound of steel on steel continued behind him.

  "What is your name?" Morgause whispered fiercely, almost desperately. "You are no ordinary magician."

  "I am a squire," Terence said. It was hard to speak.

  "Do you take me for a fool?" she shrieked. "I concealed myself from my own sister Morgan, from Merlin, from the whole cursed Seelie Court. Only you saw my preparations. Only you heard my plans. Are you Merlin's disciple?" Terence shook his head and stepped closer. Her fury grew. "Do you know who I am?"

  "You are Gawain's mother. Morgause," Terence said.

  "Is that all you know?" she laughed. "Have you never heard of The Enchantress?"

  Terence nodded. "Ganscotter told me," he managed to say.

  At the name, Morgause's eyes widened, and for a moment her fury was clouded by fear. Behind him, Terence heard Gawain grunt as he parried blow after blow. "Then he told you who I am?" she demanded.

  The words came to Terence, and the knot in his throat loosened. "No. How could he? How could you be The Enchantress? Look at your little pot bubbling. You are only a petty witch."

  Morgause screamed with indescribable fury, and flecks of foam appeared on her lips. "Would you like to see my little pot, then?" she shrieked. She threw a handful of dust into the caldron, and then the air filled with thick, yellowish-green smoke. Terence coughed and felt nauseated, and he heard Gawain choking in the cloud behind him. Eyes watering, Terence backed away, seeking a place where he could see. Morgause laughed shrilly, but Terence could no longer see her. The sound of sword on sword ceased, and there were only sporadic thuds from the battleground.

  "Milord!" Terence shouted, filled with horror. There was no answer.

  At last the smoke thinned and in the haze Terence saw the silent knight, huge against the night sky, holding Gawain high above his head with one hand. Both knights still held their swords, but Gawain's hung limply. Gawain's face was ashen with weariness and pain and from the gangrenous smell of the smoke. The knight stepped to the edge of the cistern and held Gawain over the black water. From across the cistern came Morgause's harsh voice, "Throw him in to die."

  Gawain raised the Sword Galatine high once more to give one final, futile blow before he died, and at that moment the sun appeared over the edge of the eastern forest. A shaft of sunlight touched the tip of the Sword Galatine and showered a rainbow of reflected light around the clearing. Before Terence's awed eyes, Gawain's strength grew. A new light flashed in his eyes, and he seemed almost to grow bigger. He tightened his grip on his sword and struck the silent knight with all the force that had just filled him. The Sword Galatine clove through the solid plate armor, from the left shoulder to the right side, and the armor collapsed in a heap, with Gawain on top of the pile. The armor was empty.

  Morgause, across the cistern, stood immobile, and in that moment Terence leaped forward to the still bubbling caldron and pushed it over. His right hand blistered on the hot iron, but he kept pushing until the pot had emptied all its contents into the still cistern. Morgause shrieked as if dying and leaped forward to save the pot, but she was too late and tumbled into the cistern herself and disappeared below the surface.

  For a moment, the pool was still. Then the waters began to roil and swirl. The surface rounded and swelled, as if boiling, and then from the very center of the cistern burst a fountain of frothy white water. Spray from the fountain freshened the air, drove away the last of the sickly yellow smoke, and reached up into the bright ray of the new sun. The cistern filled to the top with water and began to flow over the hewn stones that lined the edge. One by one, the stones loosened and fell into the expanding pool, and the spreading waters found a channel and began flowing down the hill. Of Morgause there was no sign.

  "Milord?" Terence called, stumbling over to his master's side. Gawain was breathing but unconscious. Terence pulled his master's body away from the expanding edges of the fountain pool, then watched the waters cover the crushed empty armor that Gawain had fought.

  "It wasn't really his father, you know," came a familiar voice.

  "Hallo Robin," Terence said, his face lightening. "You know, I thought it might not be. But I do thank you for telling me."

  "Oh, ay, you're such an expert now. You probably don't need me at all. I'll just take myself off, then." Robin sniffed in wounded dignity.

  "As if I could get rid of you that easily." Terence grinned. "Was that you during the night?"

  "Beside you all the way. You ride hard, young master." Robin gestured at Terence's hand. "You'll want some salve on that."

  For the next few minutes Robin anointed and bound Terence's scarred and swollen palm. When it was bandaged, Terence asked, "And what of Morgause? Is she dead?"

  "I don't know. But her spell is broken. Arthur's getting better as we speak." Robin suddenly began to chuckle. "'Petty witch' indeed! That properly floored her, it did. You've got your share of gall, young master."

  "That's twice you've called me 'young master.' What do you mean?"

  Robin smiled. "You told me once that if I ever found out who you were, I should tell you. Now I know." Terence felt still inside, and a wide gulf of waiting passed between the two friends. "Your father told me," Robin added.

  "Who is my father?" Terence whispered.

  "Have you not guessed?" Terence shook his head, and Robin said, "Ganscotter himself." And then Robin knelt at Terence's feet. "Young master, I am bidden to invite you back to your father
's court. You have done well. He says that now at last you may dwell in your own world."

  Terence felt a pure joy welling up within, but he gestured toward his unconscious master. "And Gawain?" Robin shook his head, and Terence replied immediately. "Then I shall stay here."

  Robin stood, grinning. "He said you would. He also said I might visit you now and again, if it's convenient for you, of course."

  "Huh, much you care for that," Terence retorted, but he nodded.

  "And now," Robin said, "you need a way back to Camelot. May I? I'll have you back home—and your horse, too—in a trice." With a wink and a wave, Robin disappeared. In a moment, the bright fountain at the top of the hill grew small and distant, and Terence found himself and Gawain back in Gawain's chambers at Camelot. He was damp and weary beyond words, but he bundled the still unconscious Gawain into bed and even went down to the stables to rub down the exhausted and confused Guingalet before he slept himself.

  ***

  Gawain slept most of that day, but Terence's burned hand woke him after only a few hours. He rose and changed Robin's dressing. Then he visited the kitchens and listened to the scullery maids chatter about the king's miraculous recovery. When Gawain stirred at last, Terence had a fire on the hearth and a simple meal laid out waiting. Gawain looked about his bed, bemused.

  "I've either had a very strange dream," he said, "or you've some explaining to do, lad."

  Terence's eyes twinkled. "Have you been dreaming of the bogey man, then? Shall I protect you?"

  "Faith, lad, I think you could. What happened?" Gawain sat up abruptly and said, "Arthur!"

  "He's fine, milord," Terence reassured him. "The spell is broken."

  Gawain relaxed and then, after a moment, said, "Was it my mother all along?"

  "Yes."

  "How long have you known about this spell of hers?"

  "Since sometime on our journey. But I wasn't sure it was your mother until last night."

  "And the knight I fought?"

  "Another spell. Nothing but your father's empty armor."

  Gawain closed his eyes and sighed, then asked, "Where is my mother?"

  "I don't know, milord. Her spell was broken when I pushed her caldron over into the water. She fell in too and then just disappeared." Terence told Gawain how the still black pool had become a gushing fresh fountain and stream. "But the important thing is that her enchantment was destroyed," Terence concluded.

  Gawain nodded toward Terence's bandage. "From the caldron?"

  Terence shrugged. "I hardly feel it now."

  "Of course," Gawain agreed solemnly. "And how did we come home? No, never mind. You know, but you probably can't explain it to me. After all, I only have a trace of faery blood. And you have ... have you ever found out how much faery blood you have?"

  "Half, milord. On my father's side." Terence turned to the meal he had prepared. "Shall we eat?"

  Gawain nodded, but before joining Terence by the fire he opened a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of wine and two pewter goblets. "And drink together, I think."

  Terence thought of Sir Kai's surprise at seeing Terence seated in his master's presence and said, "What if some courtier comes by and sees you drinking with me?"

  Gawain grinned. "What if some faery comes by and sees you drinking with me? Who would be more shocked?" He poured the wine, and they ate together by the fire.

  They were still sitting together an hour later when a soft knock came from the door and King Arthur entered.

  They both leaped to their feet, and Gawain said, "My liege! I am glad to see you so restored."

  In truth, Arthur looked like a different man than the tired king who had fainted at the banquet only the previous evening. The king smiled politely and said, "Thank you. I feel better than I have for weeks. Please, sit down, nephew." Gawain lowered himself back into his chair, and Terence took his position behind his master, still holding his goblet of wine. Arthur looked at the goblet, and his eyes twinkled.

  "I have come, Gawain, because I had a most curious dream last night while the doctors held my hand and argued about how soon I should die. I was delirious, no doubt, but I remember that you were in this dream. And you, too, Squire Terence."

  "Indeed, sire?" Gawain asked politely.

  "Yes," Arthur nodded. "There was also a silent knight and a ... an enchantress of some sort."

  "I have had dreams of that sort, my liege," Gawain said, nodding slowly. "Perhaps it was the brandy."

  "I shall speak to the wine steward," Arthur said gravely. "I do not know how the dream ended, for I awoke suddenly, feeling much refreshed. I suppose that you were present in my dreams because I am so very delighted to have you back in my court. Thank you both for your service."

  Gawain knelt and said, "Our service is always yours, sire."

  "Even in my dreams?" Arthur asked.

  "Especially there, O king," Terence murmured, bowing.

  As he raised his head again, Terence caught his breath. He suddenly realized that without thinking he had bowed to King Arthur slightly and from the waist only, as a great lord might bow to an equal, not deeply and bending the knees, as a servant bows to his master. He prepared to stammer an apology, but before he could speak the king returned his bow, with exactly the same inflection. Gawain raised his eyebrows, but Arthur only smiled again and took his leave.

  "I'll stir up the fire and fetch some more wine, milord," Terence said hurriedly.

  Author's Note

  Some of the best stories are the old ones, the tales that have been told by generations of storytellers. In English, the stories about King Arthur and the knights who gathered at his Round Table are among the best loved. They have been told and retold continuously for a thousand years. Among these are many that tell about Arthur's nephew, Sir Gawain. While much of this book is my own invention—the character of my hero, Terence, for instance—many of the events and characters are from a few of those old tales about Sir Gawain.

  Some of these stories I borrowed from Le Morte d'Arthur, a great volume of Arthurian legends collected in 1485 by Sir Thomas Malory. Books III and IV of Malory's collection tell about Sir Tor, about the hart and hound at the wedding feast, about the rebellion of the five kings, about the three questing ladies, and about Gawain's involvement in the love affair between Pelleas and Ettard. The story of Gawain's choice, when he was permitted to choose whether his lady should be beautiful or hideous, is another of the old tales, though it does not appear in Malory's collection.

  Of course, stories that have been recounted so often by so many tellers will take many different forms. Even familiar characters in the stories change from telling to telling. In most of the early legends, Gawain is the greatest of all of Arthur's knights. One beautiful poetic story, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, says of Sir Gawain, "Of all knights on earth most honored is he." By the time of Sir Thomas Malory's book, though, the greatest of all Arthur's knights was Sir Lancelot, and to hear Malory tell it, Gawain was a rather coarse and selfish knight of only moderate skill. (At one point, Malory even provides a helpful list of all the knights who defeated Sir Gawain in battle.)

  Now I have nothing against Sir Lancelot—well, not much—but I've never approved of Gawain's demotion. The courteous and humble knight whom I encountered and loved in such poems as Sir Gawain and the Green Knight bears little resemblance to Malory's sullen Gawain. Of course, as a storyteller, Malory is free to say what he likes about his characters, but other storytellers have the same freedom. And so, I have retold the same stories that Malory tells, but I have told them in a different way, trying to restore the reputation of this most honored of all knights on earth.

  — G. M.

 

 

 
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