Bercilak was a fine host, and he put his entire household at the redhead’s disposal. Since Gawain was stiff and sore from so many days in the saddle, on the first day Bercilak stayed home with his guest, showing him about the steading and telling him all he knew of the Green Man’s activities—although few had seen him, the stories of his ferocity were legion.
As they moved about the holding, Gawain noticed they were accompanied by a young man, taller than the rest of the fey folk and more ruddy than dark. He was both attentive and courteous, and Bercilak treated him as a member of the family, though when Gawain asked him about the lad in private, the lord of the steading shrugged.
“That’s just Gingalin. Comes from one of those nomadic branches of the clan in the north who still follow their animals from pasture to pasture. Judging from his look, I’d say he’s a half-breed; perhaps his mother was raped by a Pict or flirted away midsummer’s night with one of those Scottish lairds. No matter—he was sent to us to learn more civilized ways, and we’ve been pleased to make him honorary kin.”
That night Bercilak asked if Gawain would join him on a hunting expedition the next morning, but the Orcadian was still worn out from his trip and mindful that it was his last day before he must go to the Chapel. So he asked to stay at the steading, and Bercilak announced that was a fine idea; he would commend the guest to the care of his wife.
“But, lest you think I’ve forgotten you,” the burly warlord added with a grin, “I shall make you a gift in the evening of whatever I catch during the day, in return for your doing the same for me.” His eyes sparkled with good nature, and he tugged absently on one ear as he watched his guest. “Whatever each of us encounters shall be forfeit to the other, eh?”
The Ancient Ones are famous for their love of games and tricks, so Gawain assumed it was a custom of the place and, bowing gallantly, agreed to the conditions.
He slept fitfully that night, and his dreams were haunted by the specter of the Green Man and the memory of the nomad queen he had lost so long ago. Between the one he sought to find and the one that stalked him, he raced through a nightmare landscape, sweating and tossing on his pallet until, with a cry, he sat bolt upright, trying to free himself from the dream.
***
“That’s when I saw Bercilak’s wife.” The redhead paused and looked upward to the rafters, eyes shining, though I couldn’t tell if it was with tears or memory.
“She was standing by the window in my sleeping niche, and when she pulled the heavy drapes aside, the bright light of morning filled the room.
“‘What a wonderful day,’ she cried, running toward me with outstretched arms. She was all things glorious in life, all that I was so soon to lose, and I suddenly wanted desperately to take her in my arms and know that now, for this moment at least, I was still alive. Indeed, I had a hard time containing both our desires.”
There was a long silence, then the Prince of Orkney finished off his ale with a sigh.
“It was a wretched predicament, for as a good Christian I could not make love to my host’s wife. Yet when I refused her invitation, she chided me, saying I dishonored my oath to come to all women’s aid. So I was deeply relieved when she laughed and made a jest of it, then turned to go.”
But as she reached the door, she slipped off the girdle that bound her waist and gave it to Gawain as a gift. “It will keep its wearer from dying a violent death—and you can use it at the Green Man’s Chapel tomorrow,” she said, coming back to the bed and handing over the talisman.
Gawain took the thing in his hands. It was green and gold and worked with ornate symbols and spells that reeked of ancient magic. Perhaps, indeed, it could save him from certain death at the hands of the Old God.
He looked up at his hostess, hope for his own survival beginning to course through his blood. She stared down at him tenderly and, reaching out her hand, ran her small fingers along the scars on his cheek where Ragnell had scratched him when they parted. It touched him deeply and brought tears to his eyes.
That night there was much merriment when Bercilak came home, though the hunter confessed that the prey had eluded him during the day, and therefore he had no gift to exchange with Gawain.
“Nor I in kind,” the Champion said, thinking of what a narrow escape he’d had in bed. For a moment he wondered if he should give over the green-and-gold girdle, but fearing he would die without it, he kept that gift a secret.
The last evening of Gawain’s stay was spent in merrymaking, and after the feasting was done, Bercilak called Gingalin forward and presented him to the Champion. “He’ll be your guide tomorrow, when you seek the Chapel,” the warlord said, “and if you wish, he will act as your squire and bear your shield.”
Gawain liked the boy’s manner, so he handed over his armor and weapons to the youth, and when it was time for sleep, gave his host a farewell embrace. Bercilak wished him well and promised to ask the Goddess to temper the Green Man’s rage when they met.
This night the Champion got no sleep at all, so long before daylight he tied the magic girdle under his tunic and set off with Gingalin for the elusive chapel of the Green Man.
It was a cold, misty morning, and the squire led Gawain into the vapors and fogs that wreathed the high ground. Dampness dripped from fern and brake bracken while sharp, stony crags appeared and disappeared around them. Finally they came to the edge of a hidden valley where the forest drew back and an ancient, hoary barrow rose beside a spring which had frozen into feathery plumes of white ice, as though sculpted by the fey. The Prince of Orkney stared down on the scene with amazement.
The barrow was open at one end, and the eerie, keening wail of metal being sharpened on a grinding stone floated up from it. The sound screeched and skittered on the morning air and pulsed in Gawain’s blood like the beat of his heart.
***
“It was more a heathen place than a chapel,” Gawain recounted, crossing himself while various others in the Hall made the sign against blasphemy. “Grasses grew on its sides and over the top, and at one end was the dark hole of a doorway. I’d seen such barrows before, for the Prydn sometimes camp near them and go freely in and out of those Hollow Hills.”
When his drinking horn was refilled, the redhead slaked his thirst, then continued his tale.
“That’s when Gingalin suggested I give up my quest and return to Camelot without confronting the Green Man.”
The squire promised he would not mention it if Gawain chose to save himself instead of meeting the ogre. The instructions had not been clear, the appointed day might have been missed… “You know you don’t have to go to your death,” the boy added earnestly.
Gawain stared at the lad, who stared back at him from under a ledge of dark brows. There was something discomforting about the youngster’s look, and Gawain wondered suddenly if he was a devil, sent to keep him from proving himself.
“I will not have it said that the Prince of Orkney lacks the courage to face an Old God now that he’s found the new one,” he answered brusquely as they circled the green sides of the burial mound and came to a halt before the narrow opening.
“Come forth,” the Orcadian shouted, trying to make himself heard above the whine of the stone. “Come forth and see that Gawain of the Round Table accepts your challenge, in the name of King Arthur and the White Christ.”
The whine of the stone stopped abruptly, but no one emerged, so after a bit Gingalin spoke up again. “You’ve met the conditions of the challenge, M’lord. Surely if the Green Man refuses to come out, you can go home.”
But Gawain was not satisfied, and girding up his courage, he pushed his way between the two rough stones that formed the doorway slot.
***
“The inside was much bigger than I’d expected,” the King’s Champion recalled. “A torch guttered at the far end, casting shadows and gleamings across a scatter of gold on the floor. A skeleton was laid out in one corner, and several piles of bones near the doorway looked new enough to have come
from recent encounters. But the thing that held my attention was the crouched form of a little man testing the edge of an ax against his thumb. He was as much covered with leaves and branches as he was with hair, and when he stood up, he grew in size until his head nearly touched the ceiling.”
“Ah, you have come to face your death,” the creature cried, his voice rumbling hollowly through the tomb while his shadow towered above Gawain. “For that I pay you honor.”
In the guttering light the ogre bowed formally, seeming to shrink again to less than normal size. Gawain kept a firm grip on his sword hilt, reminding himself and the Christ that it was cast in the shape of a cross.
“The agreement was a return stroke on my part, I think” the Green Man said casually, “that altar will make a suitable block.” Gawain’s glance followed the little man’s gesture toward an ancient stone that stood in a dark corner, its sides blackened by countless spillings of blood. “Please extend your neck.”
For a moment a savage thought raced through the Champion’s mind—Old God or no, when the Green Man was shrunken like this, anyone with a lick of sense and half a sword-arm could cleave him in two. Gawain’s hand twitched to draw his blade, and his ears rang with the sound of laughter and relief.
***
“But the White Christ stopped me,” the King’s Champion said softly. “He reminded me that I was there on a matter of honor, so I knelt before that accursed altar and I stretched my neck out, waiting for the Green Man to deliver his blow. The Old God came to my side, and I could see his shadow cast against the barrow wall, flickering in the torchlight. He stretched and lengthened into gigantic form, his two-handed ax held aloft, and when the curved blade began to swing downward, I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, praying the end would be quick.”
Gawain let out a long sigh, but we held our breaths, waiting for him to go on.
“The giant checked his swing at the last second, and rocking back on his heels, hooted with laughter. ‘You flinched,’ he cried. ‘I saw you—you flinched. Sir Gawain—you’ve a coward’s heart, after all.’”
I gaped at the Orcadian, thinking that anyone would do the same. Arthur leaned toward his nephew and asked incredulously, “He laughed?”
“Aye, great, gusty bouts of demoniacal laughter, as though it was some fine joke. By then I thought I was as much in danger from a madman as from a giant of the Otherworld. But we went through the same ritual again, only this time I did not flinch, and the ax completed its fall. The blow came down beside my neck, not on it.”
“That, my good sir,” roared the Green Man, “is for not telling me my wife had given you her girdle.”
The ogre had shrunk back to mere human size, and when Gawain slowly raised his head, it was Bercilak’s gleeful laugh that filled the barrow. “Thought you’d protect yourself with a little Prydn magic, eh? Well, I can’t blame you,” he allowed, carefully checking the blade of the ax to make sure it had not been nicked when it hit the stone altar. “But by rights you should have given it to me last night, you know. Honor and all that stuff.”
Amazement was turning into relieved laughter among the Companions, and Gawain stood shamefaced in the middle of it. “So in the end, I lost my honor by keeping the secret of the lady, even though I met the challenge of the lord.”
“Nonsense,” Arthur exploded. “You put too fine an edge on the matter.”
The laughter was turning to a cheer, and Gaheris jumped to his feet to toast his brother. “To the bravest, and most courteous Companion of all,” he cried as everyone joined in the merriment.
“But why would Bercilak set up such an ordeal?” I asked
Gawain looked aside and answered slowly. “He said it was to fulfill the last wish of a Prydn queen who had died in childbirth. She had sent her mixed-blood infant to Bercilak with the request that he raise the youngster until he should be old enough to act as squire to his father…but only if the man proved courageous to the end. I’m not sure that I deserve the honor,” the Orcadian concluded, “but the lad has taken the notion that I am his sire and begged me to bring him back to Camelot. May I present him now—Gingalin, whom I am pleased to call son.”
I looked more closely at the dark-visaged youngster, thinking he might well be Ragnell’s offspring. There was an impudent bravado in the way he answered the questioning stares of the Companions, and Gawain gave him a fond grin. “Besides, he’s proved himself an excellent squire.”
So there was more cheering and a toast for the newfound son, and our Hall was filled with joy for the better part of the night. To have the hero home again after such an encounter was miracle enough, but to have acquired a son as well was a pure wonder.
So you met the challenge, O Prince of Orkney, and the fame it has brought you is more than a little deserved. May your prayers help me meet mine on the morrow with an equal dignity.
Chapter XVIII
The Next Generation
After Gawain’s confrontation with the Old God, a kind of sea-change occurred in the men of Camelot. Many who in the past had gone adventuring with cheerful mien and high spirits now began to talk of wanting quests that reflected noble purposes.
“Something that lasts, if you know what I mean, M’lady,” Ironside explained as he escorted me across the springy turf to the sheep market at Priddy. “A cause with glory in it, that gives the bard something grand to sing about.”
I suspected the old warrior was more interested in being immortalized in song than in noble causes, but there was no denying his fervor on the subject.
“Why,” he allowed, “I might even get myself a new mail jerkin if something really important came up…”
Nor was Ironside the only one; Gaheris, feeling that he’d been cheated of taking part in the adventure with the Green Man, began looking for more notable endeavors. And handsome, cold Agravain became more picky about his choice of quests, ranging farther afield and coming back with more grisly tales. Some of these adventures kept him away for quite a time, and I wondered if he weren’t slipping in visits to Morgan le Fey.
News of the Lady of the Lake was moderately peaceful—her Sanctuary now served nothing but women, all the rest of the Druids having left. She seemed to have no interest in life beyond being High Priestess and made no discernible effort to keep in touch with either her husband, Urien, or her exiled son, Uwain. In spite of that, when he returned to Britain, Uwain sought her out before coming to see us.
“The Prince of Northumbria, recently of Brittany,” Lucan caroled at dinner one night, giving the title a deep, resonant sound. He’d have accompanied the announcement with a flourish on the trumpet, if one had been handy.
All eyes turned to the entrance of the Hall as both food and goblets were lowered, forgotten, to the table. It had been more than ten years since Arthur sent Uwain away, and many felt they’d waited overlong for the fellow’s return.
The man who strode into the Hall was surrounded by a smartly turned-out entourage. Lieutenants, warriors, and squires—in short, all the panoply of a bachelor noble—accompanied him as he moved forward to greet the High King.
Tall, elegant, and supremely confident, Urien’s son had grown into a striking man. His long hair and heavy, drooping mustaches were reminiscent of his father, though he had Morgan’s sea-green eyes. Yet for all that the mixture of his parents was evident, there was about him a sense of his own identity shaped beyond—or in spite of—his heredity.
“Well come, nephew,” Arthur intoned when the younger man bowed to us. “It is a pleasure to see you back in Logres again.”
Uwain gave his uncle a diplomatic nod, but his face was taut. He might have accepted Arthur’s apologies for having banished him, but he had not forgotten the unfairness of it. The smile of friendship was saved for me—a fine, open-hearted grin that made even his eyes twinkle.
“M’lady, I bring you greetings from across the Channel, where your name and reputation grow apace.”
“How gracious of you,” I murmured, wondering what
they could possibly be saying. “What brings you back to Britain?”
“A matter of some concern to my father. New boatloads of Angles have landed on the Northumbrian coast. So far there is no armed conflict, but the people in the villages are getting nervous.”
Startled, Lance looked up, and our eyes met. Joyous Gard lies in the northern reach of that windswept coast.
“We’ll give you whatever support you need,” Arthur immediately offered, but Uwain’s response was cool.
“I have no doubt we can manage on our own.”
For a moment I thought the King would take umbrage at the snub, but instead he insisted that new trestles be set up and the kitchen find enough to serve both our guest and his followers. I blessed the fact that I’d had a dovecote built, as it assured a quick supply of birds when Cook needed to create extra meals in a hurry.
The evening went pleasantly enough, with Gawain and his brothers delighted to have their cousin in their midst again. He brought with him a young Frank he had befriended on the Continent, and once the Orcadians discovered that Colgrevance had several sisters in tow, there was much eagerness to get to know him.
The girls caused quite a flurry among the Companions. They had charming manners and brought a new sort of flirting to our squires and young warriors: the sweep of eyelashes as a demure little lady suddenly flashed up a very knowing look; an impudent shrug or long, slow smile full of half-hidden promises. Compared with the forthright lasses of Britain, these new damsels were like catnip to our boys.
“Silly fellows,” Uwain noted when he came to sit next to me after the meal was over. “They could learn more from an older woman than from a pretty youngster.”
My eyebrows went up, and the Prince of Northumbria laughed. “My first love was a woman well into her prime, and she taught me not only about trusting the heart and warming the bed, but many a military strategy as well.”
“Military?” It used to aggravate me considerably that once the Romans came, British women ceased to be taught the arts of war. Perhaps on the Continent there were still a few Celtic queens who wielded the old power of leading armies.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 22