Arthur smiled and said softly, "Nor, I suspect, did you tell us half of what you did."
"But you can't make the green girdle a reward for doing a certain number of little tasks! It's to make it a treat given to trained dogs!"
Arthur looked fondly at the knights before him. "Not dogs, Gawain: children."
Gawain gave the king a curious, resigned look, and said, "Must I join the new order?"
Arthur shook his head. "Your part in it will be forgotten in a week."
The next day, King Arthur hosted the tournament. As he had promised, it was the most splendid tournament ever seen, and knights came from miles around to participate. Indeed, so many knights were present that Terence heard more than one courtier say that the winner of this contest would truly earn the title "The Greatest Knight in England." If so, then Gawain was not the greatest. He did well enough, of course, even unhorsing his renowned younger brother Gareth, but shortly thereafter was unseated himself by Sir Lancelot. Terence, watching from the end of the ladies' pavilion, could not help feeling a twinge of disappointment, but he found it hard to take a tournament joust very seriously.
A female voice at his shoulder said pleasantly, "I told him once that there was always a better knight." Terence turned to see Morgan Le Fay. He bowed immediately, but when he straightened again she looked at him sharply and said, "Now why is it that I feel that I should be bowing to you?"
"Please do not, my lady," Terence said hastily.
In a minute, Gawain joined them, holding Guingalet's reins. "Why hello, Auntie. When did you arrive?"
"In time to see you take that fall, nephew."
Gawain grinned. "Oh, ay, a lovely sight, no doubt. I can feel my reputation slipping away as we speak. I dare say in a few years I'll be the recreant knight that everyone remembers having unhorsed one time." He chuckled.
"It doesn't seem to concern you," Morgan said, lifting one eyebrow.
"Know any reason it should?"
Morgan stared at Gawain for a moment, then said, "This modesty hardly becomes someone from our family. It must be senility."
"Perhaps so," Gawain said mischievously. "I must trust your greater experience."
Morgan's eyes flashed, but she bowed to Gawain and said graciously, "I believe that takes the trick. I can only retreat."
She turned to leave, and Gawain said, "Morgan?" She glanced over her shoulder, and Gawain said, "I saw Elaine."
Morgan froze. "Little Elaine?" Gawain nodded, and Morgan said, "And?"
"It is well with her."
Morgan nodded once. "Thank you," she said softly, and then she left.
Gawain strolled into a refreshment tent, and Terence turned toward the king's pavilion, where Eileen sat as Arthur's honored guest.
"Nay, your grace," came a pleasant voice behind him. "Come this way, please." Terence recognized Robin's voice, but the demure page boy that he saw when he turned bore no resemblance to the elf. The boy smiled cherubically and said, "I told you to watch for me, didn't I? Come along. We've little time."
"Come where? Time for what?"
"Why to your tent, of course, to put on your armor."
Terence gaped. "Are you daft?"
"Come and see."
Bemused, Terence followed Robin to a silken tent set up in the visitors' section. Inside he found a brilliant suit of armor, shining like gold, such as he had never seen in his life. His eyes lit with admiration. "By heaven!" he murmured. "Whose...?"
"Yours, your grace. Come now, the jousting will be over soon."
"Do you mean...? Robin, you are dotty! I'm not going to go jousting."
"Don't you wish to defend the honor of Avalon?"
"Less of it, Robin! What does Avalon care about a child's game like a tournament joust? Tell me what's up."
Robin shrugged. "I couldn't say. I only do what I'm told." He paused and added, "Do you?"
Terence frowned. "But I can't joust! You know that!"
"I know nothing of the sort. You've received tilting instruction from the greatest of all of this world's knights."
"Yes, but Gawain—"
"I didn't mean Gawain."
Terence frowned, uncomprehending. Then he understood. "Arthur," he whispered. Robin began lacing the golden armor onto Terence while Terence tried furiously to remember the instructions that Arthur had given him so long ago, after he had defeated Terence so ingloriously in Terence's only other real joust.
The trumpeters were preparing to announce the end of the lists when Terence, astride a magnificent bay stallion, rode to the edge of the tilting yard. Terence barely had time to whisper "Don't use my real name!" before Robin rode ahead to the king's pavilion to announce him.
"O king!" Robin declared. "I come as envoy from my master, this great knight you see before you!" He waved grandly at Terence.
Arthur nodded a greeting, saying, "And has your master a name, friend page?"
Robin smiled broadly. "Of course, sire. I present to you ... Sir Wozzell!"
Terence sighed. Beside the king, Eileen started violently. She peered closely at Robin, then at Terence.
"You and your master are welcome," Arthur replied mildly. "May I serve you?"
"We have come to try our mettle against your greatest knights. I hope we have not come too late."
"Indeed, friend," Arthur said, "we were about to crown our champion, Sir Lancelot."
"Then would your champion consent to a challenge?" Robin asked immediately. "One pass to determine the greatest knight in England?"
Sir Lancelot, standing nearby and listening to the exchange, immediately declared, "My liege, if you would approve, I accept Sir Wozzell's challenge!"
Arthur nodded. "So be it. I see your master has no lance. Please tell him that he may choose a lance from our own stores."
"You are graciousness itself, O king," said Robin, bowing. He trotted back to Terence. "You heard all that, your grace?"
Terence nodded glumly. "Lancelot himself, eh? I wish you could tell me why I'm doing this. He'll break every bone I have, you know."
"Nay, it's not so bad," Robin said reassuringly. "Bones mend after time. Come on. Let's choose a lance."
At the tent of the royal armorer, Terence surveyed the court's collection of gaily painted lances through the slits in his visor. He dared not show his face, lest he be recognized. Robin suggested a lance painted all in green, and the armorer urged Terence to use a particularly long one. Both looked unwieldy to Terence. Nearby, a little boy played knight, galloping on a stick horse and waving a miniature lance, about a third the length of a real one. "Is that your son?" Terence asked the armorer.
"Yes, sir."
Suddenly, Terence grinned. "And did you make that lance for him?"
"Yes, sir. It was a good stout lance, but I broke it by carelessness, so I made it into a toy."
"That's the one I want." The armorer and Robin stared, speechless, and Terence stepped up to the boy. "Excuse me, sir knight," he said. "I could not help noticing your lance. It seems a rare weapon. May I ask you a favor? Could I borrow your weapon to use in a joust against Sir Lancelot?" The boy smiled happily and handed over the lance. Terence raised his visor so that only the boy could see his face and winked at him.
The armorer and Robin, in turns, expostulated and tried to dissuade Terence, but all Terence would say was "Didn't I say that a tournament joust was a child's game?"
Soon Terence sat on his mount at one end of the lists, facing Sir Lancelot across the tilting yard. Gawain had joined Eileen in the king's pavilion, and they were watching the strange Sir Wozzell intently. The court rippled with amazed laughter at Terence's lance, and more than one knight called for the king to disqualify the impudent challenger who so mocked the noble institution of knighthood. Arthur only looked amused and called for the joust to begin.
The trumpet sounded, and Sir Lancelot spurred his horse into a dead run. Terence gently urged his own horse into a gentle trot; what he meant to do would be easier at a slower pace. Sir La
ncelot neared, his lance aimed straight at Terence's breastplate, his body leaning forward against the expected impact. But then Terence stopped his horse, swiftly reversed the child's lance so that he held it by the tapered end. With a sharp blow, Terence parried the point of the approaching lance, then swung the heavy end of the lance as if it were a cudgel. The dull thud of Terence's club on Sir Lancelot's helmet sounded like an axe on a log. Sir Lancelot flipped neatly over his horse's hindquarters and fell heavily into the dirt.
All the court was shocked and silent. Terence tossed his lance to Robin. "Take this back to that boy, will you?" he said.
Then all the court exploded with noise. A few, like Gawain and Sir Kai roared with laughter, several cheered, but many more shouted angrily that the stranger knight had behaved dishonorably. At last the king stood and raised his hand for silence as Terence trotted up to the royal pavilion. "Sir Wozzell," Arthur said, "I declare you the winner!" A few knights protested again, but Arthur said sharply, "I know of no rule against such bravery! Would any of you have dared to face Sir Lancelot with a ... a child's toy lance?" In the ensuing hush, Arthur turned back to Terence. "I must admit, though, that I found your methods unorthodox."
Terence spoke quietly. "The best fighter is not the one who does the expected most skillfully. The best fighter is the one who takes the rest by surprise."
Arthur looked sharply at Terence; then his face cleared as enlightenment dawned, and a broad grin split his face. "Well spoken, my friend! I award you this necklace, the prize for the winner. It is yours to keep or to give away as you wish."
It was the moment when the winner of a tournament usually gave his prize to the lady of his choice. Terence looked toward Eileen, but then caught sight of Queen Guinevere. Since the joust, the queen had done nothing but stare at Sir Lancelot, now sitting up groggily in the mud. Her eyes looked empty and even frightened, like the eyes of a lost child. Terence's heart went out to her.
"Wait!" a voice called from behind Terence. Holding his dented helm in one hand, Sir Lancelot staggered forward. "My king, I beg you. Is there no way that this decision can be set aside?"
"No, Sir Lancelot. Sir Wozzell has won the day, and has earned the name of The Greatest Knight in England."
Sir Lancelot gave a deep moan. "Then I crave your permission to go away to bury my shame. I shall become a hermit, deep in the woods, living on roots and allowing myself to see no mortal man—"
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lance," the queen interrupted, with surprising vehemence. "Don't listen to him, Arthur. He's always saying stuff like that. 'Give me that rose from your gown or I'll go die in a hermitage' 'Say you'll dance with me or I'll eat dirt.' It doesn't mean a thing. Just ignore him."
Sir Lancelot's mouth opened wide. "But Peerless Perfection of—"
"Shut up! Don't call me that! I have a name, you know!"
Sir Lancelot moaned again, and sat in the dirt, staring at Guinevere in amazement. Gawain looked down and began to shake quietly. Arthur's lips quivered, but his voice was grave when he said, "Again, O knight, I present this necklace to you."
"No, O king," Terence said as loudly as he could. "I cannot accept this prize, and I am not the Greatest Knight in England. In all my vast experience as a knight—" Terence could not help grinning and was glad that the visor hid his face—"I have been unhorsed only once. And the knight who so soundly defeated me is here present. I return this prize to you, King Arthur, in honor of the time when you struck me down. Do you remember?"
King Arthur's eyes twinkled, and he said, "I remember, Sir ... Sir Wozzell. And I accept your tribute." He turned to his Queen. "Guinevere, my love, will you accept this prize from my hand?"
Guinevere smiled timidly and nodded, and Arthur placed the chain around his queen's neck. Then, tentatively, she reached out to the king, and Arthur pulled her to his breast and held her in a long embrace. All the court watched the king and queen, some with delight, some with consternation. Gawain grinned happily at his friend, and said quietly, "You can't have too many Sir Wozzells."
For her part, Eileen gazed with adoration at her knight, the Duke of Avalon, and silently mouthed the words, "Well done, my love."
* * *
Author's Note
When I was in college during medieval times, about 1982, Dr. Laura Crouch required my English literature class to read a poem called Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It was the most wonderful story I had ever encountered. I loved its brave and courteous hero, and I was fascinated by the otherworldly scene at the Green Chapel. I loved the poem so much that I wrote a long and very complicated research paper on it, and like many of those who write about literature, I managed to footnote away all the poem's charm and to make Sir Gawain and the Green Knight seem as dull and pretentious as I was.
Well, I did no irreparable damage. My paper is long forgotten, but the poem is still around. All the same, some of the things I learned while researching that paper are still interesting to me and may be to others. So, at the risk of being boring twice on the same subject (an unforgivable sin), here is some background to the original work on which this book is based.
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was written by an anonymous poet in the fourteenth century, at about the same time that the great English poet Geoffrey Chaucer was writing The Canterbury Tales. The Gawain poet, however, wrote in a completely different dialect of English than Chaucer.
Although Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is one of the oldest known Arthurian works, the story of the tit-for-tat beheading game is older still. Similar stories are told of other heroes. For instance, an old Irish story called Bricriu's Feast relates the tale of an Irish hero, Cucholinn (or Cuchulainn, or Cuchulain), who faced a test like Gawain's. Evidently, the Gawain poet adapted an old story to fit a new hero.
That's how things go with heroes, it seems, because a hundred years after Sir Gawain and the Green Knight was written, Gawain was no longer considered the greatest knight of all. King Arthur's tales were being told by French poets, and in their stories the greatest knight in the English court was an imported French chap named Lancelot du Lac. Gawain was still around in the French stories, but he was portrayed as a rude and blustering fellow with few morals and even fewer manners.
This is all nonsense, of course. To those of us who have met the courageous, courteous, and humble hero of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, Gawain will always be the perfect knight. Still, when I retold the story of Gawain's greatest quest, I purposely set it during a transitional time, when Lancelot's star was on the rise. By writing about different eras of Arthurian legend, I was able to adopt details and characters from other Arthurian stories. For example, I took the battle with the Emperor of Rome from Le Morte D'Arthur, by Sir Thomas Malory, and I've borrowed some of my minor characters from Parzival, by Wolfram von Eschenbach. And some of the people and events of this book are my own inventions—most notably the characters of my hero and heroine, Terence and Eileen.
After all, one can't have too many heroes.
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The Squire, His Knight, and His Lady Page 15