The Squire, His Knight, and His Lady

by Gerald Morris

  "Your nephew is not alone in that willingness, sire."

  The king nodded. "I know—Kai, Bedivere, Tor, Ywain, all of you. I am ashamed that, surrounded by such friends, I still made such a cake of myself over Guinevere." The king paused and added, "I only wish I could have learned my oversight less dearly." Arthur put his hand on Gawain's shoulder. "Do you think you will return from this Green Chapel?"

  "It would be too much to hope, sire."

  "It is never too much to hope. I will enjoy your love while you are here, and when you leave I will await your return."

  ***

  As it turned out, Gawain left earlier than anyone had expected. The court's reverence for him continued to grow until Gawain's stature reached almost mythical proportions. People spoke of him in the past tense, as if he were a hero of the misty and mystical past, like the ancient Cucholinn or the Welsh hero Gwalchmai, and told wild and improbable and utterly fanciful tales about Gawain's supposed deeds. Still worse, some began to blame Arthur for Gawain's fate. At first in hushed tones in corners, then increasingly in the open, people began to accuse Arthur of sending his best knight to certain death. Some even suggested that Gawain had trifled with Guinevere, and that this was Arthur's revenge. Finally, one late night in his chambers with Sir Kai and Tor, Gawain decided he had to leave.

  "If it's like this after three months," Gawain said, "what will it be like after six?"

  "It will get worse," Sir Kai admitted, "but will leaving make things better?"

  "I'm sure of it. The court already thinks of me as dead. As soon as I'm not around to remind them of my presence, they'll forget me."

  Tor nodded and said grudgingly, "I think you're right. When you're out of sight, the gossips will find something else to chew on. But I hate the thought of your leaving."

  "If it's not now, it'll be soon enough. You know that. Maybe once I'm out of sight, you can all get on with living. As it is, I feel I'm attending my own wake."

  Tor shook his head doubtfully, but only said, "Well, I'm going with you."

  "No."

  "Gawain—"

  "What could you do? I'm honor bound to let him take his blow at me. You wouldn't stop him, would you?" Tor shook his head. "Let me go alone," Gawain said. "Except ... except for..." He turned back to where Terence stood in the shadows. "Lad, I'll understand if you don't wish it, but if you'd come with me, I'd be grateful."

  Terence looked at his master with scorn and disbelief in his face. "Are you off your head? You just try to stop me from coming!"

  Tor's lips twitched, and he said unsteadily, "How ...how touching." Gawain chuckled, and then they all laughed—perhaps louder and longer than was warranted, but it was good to laugh.

  The king argued strenuously when Gawain told him his plans, but for the most part the court treated the announcement with relief. Three months of grieving had been hard on everyone. In the end, even the king had to admit that Gawain's reasons were good, and he gave Gawain his blessing to begin his search for the Green Chapel. Gawain even convinced the king not to hold a farewell banquet by saying he had no wish to attend his own funeral meal, so the only ceremonial recognition of Gawain's departure was the meeting of the Round Table the night before he left.

  At this meeting, the knights took turns praising Gawain's courage and unequaled brilliance with weapons and renowned courtesy and so on. One of the French knights read a sonnet he had written about Gawain's right arm. For the most part, the evening was pretty maudlin, but Terence felt his sense of humor rising unbidden, and several times he had to restrain the impulse to smile. The high point of the meeting came when Sir Lancelot rose to give his tribute to the departing champion.

  "Mes chers amis," he said, "we have gathered ourselves to give glory to one who has not need of our glories. There is no advice, no help, which we can give him as knights, for he knows all the secrets of knighthood already. He goes now to fight a battle that is of a great difference, a battle against the forces of evil. And so I bring you, Sir Gawain, one whose help you can perhaps use: my own chaplain, Father La Roche."

  From the shadows behind Sir Lancelot stepped a thin, mousy-looking priest whom Terence vaguely remembered seeing in Sir Lancelot's train. It was popular among the continental knights to have a personal chaplain. Some even took them along on quests, perhaps, as Sir Kai said derisively, to administer Last Rites to their masters. Even more than Gawain, Sir Kai held a dim view of priests. The priest held something large and round, like a huge plate, at his side.

  "Sir Gawain," he began in a sonorous voice, "as you go forth to fight the demons of the elvish world, the principalities and powers of which the Blessed Apostle spoke, whose end is yet not come though they cannot, again as the Blessed Apostle would say, separate us from the love of Our Lord, as also cannot life nor death nor else too sundry to mention here..." He trailed off and looked helplessly around him, as if somehow to discover in the room what he had been about to say.

  "As Sir Gawain goes out," prompted Sir Lancelot.

  "As I say, as you go out against divers demonish powers, you shall doubtless find your sword of no avail and your right arm of small puissance. Neither shall your massy mail of chains protect you from the forces of evil, nor indeed your great cuisses and greaves." The priest paused for breath. "Indeed, nor shall your mighty helm or shield, be it of wood or iron, stave off the breath of the flames of hellish device..."

  "May as well leave the blame stuff here, you mean?" Gawain asked sweetly. Sir Kai choked, and Father La Roche looked flustered and turned to Sir Lancelot for reassurance.

  "Give him the gift, Father," Sir Lancelot said.

  The priest collected his thoughts and continued, "And yet, we have indeed protection from these divers dire effects—in the prayers of the Blessed Virgin for our sake, that we may be mighty in her battles, doughty in her cause, single-minded in her defense, holy in her righteousness, rejoicing in her presence, early in her service, frequent in her adoration..." Father La Roche licked his lips and frowned.

  "The gift, Father," Sir Lancelot said.

  "The gift! And so, brave Sir Gawain, as the Blessed Virgin protects us, so this gift will protect you!" He produced the large plate for all to see.

  "It's a shield," Sir Lancelot said.

  "It's very nice," Sir Gawain said politely. "I thank you both."

  "But wait!" the priest said importantly. "This shield is itself of little use to you. Nor your helm nor your shield, whether of wood or of iron, shall protect you from the divers dire effects ... nor, indeed, your massy mail of ... of chains...." He turned to Sir Lancelot. "I've said this, haven't I?"

  "Most excellently well, Father," Sir Lancelot said encouragingly.

  "Then have I finished?"

  "The device on the shield, Father."

  "Oh yes! Oh, I remember. This shield cannot itself protect you, but behold the device emblazoned on its face!"

  Everyone leaned forward to see. On the front of the shield was a simple five-pointed star, made up of five connected lines without a break.

  "It's very pretty," Gawain said. "Again, I thank you."

  "Tell him about the pentangle, Father," Sir Lancelot said. He looked at Sir Gawain and explained, "It's called a pentangle."

  "Oh," Gawain said.

  "It is a sign devised by Solomon of old," the priest began. "Because never are the lines broken, it is indeed an endless knot." He paused.

  "Yes, I see that. Very clever," Gawain said.

  "Well may you wear it on your worthy arms, Sir Gawain. For ever faithful in five-fold fashion have you been. First, in your five senses you are ever faultless. Second, never have your five fingers failed you."

  "You're too kind," Gawain murmured.

  "Third, all your faith, all your dependence has ever been on the five wounds which Our Lord received on the cross."

  "The what?"

  Broken out of his rhythm, the priest looked flustered again. "The five wounds—both hands, both feet, and the side. You remember. You
have always placed your full dependence on them."

  "I see," Gawain said. Sir Kai guffawed loudly, and Gawain nodded. "Please continue, Father."

  "Fourth, whenever you battle, your mind is always stayed on the five joys which Mary the Blessed Queen of Heaven had in her child." He paused, either waiting for applause or else just for the inevitable interruption.

  Gawain blinked and said, "Terribly religious, aren't I?"

  "And the fifth of the five fives which form your life are your five virtues: first your boundless generosity, second your brotherly love, third your pure mind, fourth your pure manners, and fifth your compassion. These five fives are always signified in your peerless pentangle."

  "It's ... it's very nice. Thank you," Gawain said again.

  "Show him the inside, Father," Sir Lancelot said.

  "Ah, Sir Gawain, great will be your joy when you see the final attribute of this heavenly shield," the priest said triumphantly. "As all your dependence is ever on the aid of the Blessed Virgin, you shall behold her before you always as you go." With that, the priest reversed the shield and displayed the inside. There, delicately painted in the best French style was a picture of a woman, shown from the waist up. By the halo about her head, Terence guessed that this was supposed to be the Virgin Mary, but few women could have looked less virginal. Her loose robe gapped widely open at the breast, displaying everything that one would expect to find there. Her slight smile was positively seductive.

  "The Virgin?" Gawain asked.

  "And this shield I present to you, noblest of knights," Father La Roche concluded with a flourish.

  Gawain took it and looked at the picture for a long moment, then reverently handed it back to Terence. "Why don't you take this to our rooms, lad?" he whispered. "And take care of it."

  "I might just blot out some bits of this picture, though," Terence muttered.

  "What, this holy picture? Why, lad?" Gawain was all wide-eyed innocence.

  "To preserve that pure mind of yours, of course," Terence retorted as he carried the shield away.

  By the time Gawain joined him in their chambers after the meeting, Terence had their gear all packed. Gawain's armor was laid out, and everything else was neatly packed into leather bags. Gawain glanced at the bags with a slight smile and said, "It's time we were setting out again anyway. We've been at court too long."

  Terence nodded and said, "Said your goodbyes?"

  "Ay."

  "All right?"

  "Hard to leave Arthur like this," Gawain said. "He says that after I leave, he'll go off to that monastery of his for a while to mumble or do whatever he does there, but other than that, he seems pretty cheerful. Better than he's been for a while."

  "Think any of them will get up to see you off, milord?"

  "They said they wouldn't, but I expect some will."

  "And then you'll have to say goodbye all over again."

  Gawain nodded thoughtfully and looked at Terence. For a minute they sat together in silence, then Gawain said, "You sleepy, lad?"

  Terence grinned. "Let's go."

  An hour later they rode unobserved out of the gates of Camelot. They had never left on a quest in the middle of the night before, but this was a different sort of quest.

  IV. Questing

  Gawain and Terence rode northwest into the heavily forested Welsh hills. Of all Britain, Gawain said, this was the wildest and most dangerous region, so it seemed a likely place to seek the uncanny knight. But, despite the Green Knight's assurance that Gawain would have no difficulty, no one whom they met had heard of either the knight or the Green Chapel.

  As they traveled, Terence several times noticed Gawain looking reflectively at his squire. Finally, about a fortnight into their journey, Gawain said, "Terence?"

  "Yes, milord?"

  "You know that I may not ... ah ... be returning to Camelot after this quest."

  "Being dead, you mean," Terence said.

  "Well, yes. And the thing I'm wondering is ... if it does happen that way, what will you do?"

  "I might be dead, too," Terence pointed out.

  Gawain frowned. "True. That's true. But what I mean is, what will you do if I'm dead and you're still alive."

  Terence pondered this briefly, then admitted, "I don't know."

  "Well, that's what I've been thinking. You need a plan."

  "I could go back home to the hermit," Terence suggested.

  Gawain shook his head. "No, I've thought of that, but it won't do."

  "Why not? I had a good childhood with Trevisant," Terence protested.

  "Yes, but that's not your life anymore. You've spent too many years in the world of knights. You should go back to Camelot."

  "I won't be someone else's squire," Terence said flatly.

  "I mean you should become a knight, stupid!"

  "Oh!" Terence sighed. "Why didn't you say so to start with?"

  Gawain ignored him. "I've given it a lot of thought, Terence. You're more fit to be a knight than most of the clodpoles at the Round Table. All you need to become a first-rate knight is a bit of instruction."

  "And you want to instruct me, eh?" Terence sounded dubious.

  Gawain blinked. "You could do worse, you know. I mean, I'm not so bad."

  Terence grunted noncommittally. "Instruct me in what?"

  "Well, swordsmanship for starters. A knight always starts on the ground. Then the lance. You're already a fair horseman, but riding with a lance is a whole different matter." Gawain grew more intent on his projected lessons. "We'll have to learn something of the battle-axe and mace, though I hope you won't ever have to use them. I suppose we'll pass over the knightly graces and courtesy until last, but that's part of knighthood, too. I think that will be enough for starters."

  "Sounds delightful," Terence muttered.

  "I promise you it won't take you long," Gawain said reassuringly. "You'll be a natural. Just wait until we start sparring with swords. You'll see."

  "Did you bring a spare sword?" This was not really a question, since Terence had done the packing.

  "Don't worry, lad. We'll start with wooden cudgels, then maybe pick up a sword along the way. I'll cut some sticks in the morning." Gawain smiled in a satisfied way, and Terence stared helplessly at the road before them.

  The next morning Terence began lessons in the broadsword, using a stout ash cudgel for a sword. For protection, he used Father La Roche's indecent shield, which Gawain had brought so that no one would find it left behind and tell Sir Lancelot, but it was unwieldy and vibrated terribly when hit. When Terence complained, Gawain tried it and proclaimed it useless. After that, Terence defended himself only with his cudgel and found that he got on much better. As Gawain had predicted, years of watching swordplay had given Terence a natural eye and instinctive reactions. His only weakness—or so Gawain said—was an unwillingness to attack. Finally, Gawain dropped his sword arm after a stroke and left Terence a wide opening. Terence made no move. "Look here, Terence," Gawain said, stopping, "you can't afford to let openings like that pass by."

  Terence stepped prudently out of Gawain's reach and said, "How do I know you weren't setting a trap for me?"

  "Nobody sets a trap that obvious. You could have thumped me a good one."

  Terence took a breath. "But I don't want to thump you a good one, milord. I don't want to thump you at all."

  Gawain looked at him curiously. "Not even to see if you could?"

  "Why would I care if I could do something that I don't want to do to begin with?"

  "All right. So you don't want to thump me. But what if I were someone else?"

  "Who, for instance?"

  "Who would you like to thump?"

  "How about Guinevere?" Terence asked hopefully.

  "Terence, you can't go around thumping women. Especially her."

  "There, you see? What's the sense of being a knight? I have to thump the people I don't want to thump, and I can't thump the people who would really be better off for a good thumpin
g."

  "How about Sir Lancelot? You'd like to thump him, wouldn't you?"

  Terence thought about this. "No, I'd like to hang him by his toes over the edge of the North Tower."

  Gawain paused, struck by this. "In a cold wind?"

  "In armor, without underclothes," Terence added.

  Gawain's lips quivered, but he pressed on. "But wouldn't you like to thump him too?"

  "While he's hanging helpless like that? Certainly not! Wouldn't be chivalrous."

  "No, I mean if you couldn't hang him by his toes, wouldn't you like to thump him instead?"

  "Well, it won't be the same, but I suppose I could give it a go."

  "Good. Pretend that I'm Sir Lancelot."

  "What? You? Impossible. Your clothes are muddy. And there's no lace on your shirt."

  "Terence, I only mean—"

  "And couldn't you wear a feather somewhere? In your belt or braided through your hair maybe?"

  "Terence—" Gawain shook his head in amused exasperation and covered his eyes with his left hand.

  Terence thumped him. "Take that, Sir Lancelot, thou recreant knight," he said.

  A week later, in the woods near the village of Lowchres, Gawain and Terence came upon the first knight they had seen in almost a month. He sat on horseback at a crossroads, wearing spotless armor with a bright sash wound around the waist. He raised his lance in what could have been either a challenge or a greeting.

  "Hello, sir knight," Gawain hailed him, assuming it was a greeting.

  "You shall not pass, O knight," the knight replied.

  "Challenge," Terence muttered.

  "Very well, I won't," Gawain said pleasantly. "I only want some information. Have you ever heard of a knight clad all in green who lives at one Green Chapel?"

  The knight hesitated, then said, "Don't you want to pass?"

  "Only if that is the way to the Green Chapel. Do you know?"

  "Sir knight," the knight said haughtily, "perhaps you do not realize it, but I have offered you a challenge."