Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  “Aye,” the messenger went on.”A huge ax for felling trees—only he uses it to fell mortals. The blade is bigger than two handspans and shimmers as green as the rest of the apparition. He never misses with it, and you can hear him sharpening it anytime the wind comes down from the Perilous Chapel. I tell you, Your Highness, whether this creature is fey or demon, he is terrorizing all who go near the Wirral.”

  The man licked his lips drily, and I signaled a page to give him more ale. The boy picked up the pitcher next to Gawain, after the Orcadian refilled his own drinking horn.

  “So you’ve talked with people who’ve actually seen him?” I asked. The messenger nodded before taking another draft, then ran his tongue over his mustaches and continued.

  “For most, only their headless corpses tell the tale. But there was one, a burly little charcoal burner who lives and works in the wildwood. I was at the annual fair at Beeston Rock—that enormous, jagged chunk of mountain that rises out of the flat lands near Chester. It’s an easy landmark to find, which makes it a natural place for a market. This year everyone was talking about the Green Man—how he stalks through the forest and people flee from him in terror lest he challenge them to the Head Game. That’s his favorite pastime, they say: the game where he offers to trade blows.”

  The messenger swallowed hard as a clammy sweat beaded his forehead. Arthur leaned forward, encouraging the man to continue, and Gawain sent the page to refill the pitcher with ale.

  “Well, while everyone else was talking about how invincible the Green Man is, this little collier came up to me. Small and weathered, he had the look of the Ancient Ones. Pointing to the Dragon badge on my sleeve, he asked if I was King Arthur’s man. When I told him I was a member of the Royal Messengers, he went down on his knees and begged me to bring his story to you.”

  It seems the Green Man had accosted the collier in the heart of the woods, demanding that they play his game. The little man pointed out he carried no sword of his own, but the giant insisted, allowing that each would strike the other as hard as he could, with the mortal being allowed to deliver the first blow. He even loaned the trembling man his ax. Because the human was so short, the Green Man knelt down and bared his neck, as though for execution. Naturally the collier was used to chopping trees, so he hefted the brutal blade and brought it down clean and true on the Green Man’s neck…whereupon the giant’s head flew off and rolled across the ground, coming to rest at the foot of a birch tree.

  But instead of falling dead on the spot, the headless cadaver hopped after it and, picking up the grisly thing, tucked it under his arm and announced he expected his opponent to allow him his return blow at his own chapel on New Year’s Day. The collier was horrified at the prospect and begging the ogre for mercy, asked to be released from the dreadful game. After some thought, the Green Man decided to let him live on the condition that King Arthur’s own Champion would agree to take his place.

  “Gawain of the Round Table is much touted for his bravery,” the Green Man roared. “Let us see how much is boasting in the safety of the Hall, and how much is honest courage.”

  “And that,” the messenger concluded, “is why I rode straight here, thinking you should know of the giant’s challenge. He swore to be at the Perilous Chapel on New Year’s Day to see if the Prince of Orkney is brave enough to take the collier’s place. If so, the King’s Champion may come armed, but must not use his weapons for his own defense until after the Green Man has delivered the stroke meant for the charcoal burner.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Arthur exclaimed. “If this creature has ado with my men, let him come to Camelot and deliver his challenge in person.”

  There was a murmur of assent, but Gawain leapt to his feet, his face flushed and eyes bright with excitement. “This is a personal challenge to me, M’lord, and I intend to meet it.”

  Gawain had been quenching a mighty thirst and hadn’t stopped to think of the full scope of the challenge.

  Arthur gave him a worried look and suggested that perhaps a party of Companions might look into it. There was an immediate clamor of men volunteering to go, for the story had a strange allure. It was the sort of adventure that bards would tell of for generations to come, and as Arthur once said, there never was a Celt who could resist the promise of fame and eternal glory. No doubt that’s why so many wanted to accompany Gawain.

  But the Orcadian drained his drinking horn, then looked around the circle and shook his head.”I go alone, without even a squire,” he announced.

  “Alone?” Arthur voiced his dismay, while the rest of us stared at the redhead in disbelief.

  “Yes, alone. I will stay with you through next week while we celebrate Samhain, then go off in search of the Green Man’s Chapel.” Gawain turned to Father Baldwin. “Is it not said that the night of Samhain, when both Gods and Sidhe roam through the land of men, is followed by All Saints’ Day in the church?” The cleric nodded his assent. “Then there’s no better time to go to my fate,” Gawain declared, full of drunken bravado.

  When he sobered up the next day, he was somewhat abashed by what he’d done, but no amount of reasoning could get him to change his mind. “It’s become a matter of honor,” he declared, and I knew the die was cast.

  But as Samhain approached, the King’s Champion began to recognize the extent of his jeopardy. He took to collecting amulets and went about whispering charms, though still stoutly refusing to take even a squire with him.

  As usual, we opened the Hall to all who wished to shelter with us on the night when all men stay indoors. Whole families began to arrive well before sundown, climbing the cobbled drive with a misty, red-tinged sunset setting the sky afire behind them. Noble and peasant, servant and freeman, all came gladly welcoming the safety of human company during the time when the borders between this world and the Other grow blurred. As I greeted them, I found they all had one concern—would Gawain be with us this night? Awe of the Champion’s courage flickered among them like summer lightning in a cloudy sky.

  By the time the barley soup had been dipped out of the hanging caldrons and platters of bread and pickles put on every table, the last light of day had faded. Once the fire was roaring and the double doors had been barred against the dark, Gawain took his place beside Arthur and called for attention.

  “As you know, tomorrow I leave to go meet the Green Man,” he announced, coming right to the point. “But tonight I am still among you and would be most cheered by the ring of laughter and the sound of songs. If you would honor me, make this a party I can remember, rather than an early dirge I would rather forget.”

  There was a moment of silence, then a Scottish lad with a bagpipe stepped forward, puffing up his instrument and bowing low to the Orkney Prince. The drone of the pipe began to fill the air, and soon the Hall was alive with skirls and flourishes. Someone put down a pair of crossed swords, and Gawain began to pick out his sword dance, starting slowly at first and gradually increasing in speed as each step brought him closer to the nexus of the blades. His face shone with sweat as he concentrated on this ritual display of a warrior’s skill and stamina. As his toes flew deftly in and out of the quadrants, there was clapping and stamping and a fine hurrah, because he neither touched the sharp metal nor lost his energy, and it was the piper who slowed first.

  After that the night became one long party, full of food and song and tales of past daring well spun by Riderich the Bard. No one celebrated more heartily than Gawain.

  He left next morning at sunup. Arthur and I waited for him in the kitchen, and while my husband made him a present of a fine Welsh dagger, I shook out the new lamb’s wool cloak I had intended to give Mordred. Gawain received our gifts solemnly, and gave each of us the kinsman’s embrace. For a moment my eyes blurred with tears to see him in such peril, and I leaned against Arthur as the King’s nephew turned at the door and gave us the thumbs up. Without a word, we returned the salute.

  When he had gone, the household turned its attention to the chores
of late autumn. Yet even as we went about our work, we worried for his safety. The beekeeper spent all one afternoon sitting by his hives, telling the drowsy honeymakers about the mission of the King’s Champion. Bees must be kept informed of everything that happens in their master’s lives—not to do so invites their death or desertion and brings bad luck to the master’s house. I wondered if the keeper could explain not only the “what” of it but also the “why” of Gawain’s trip.

  Hunters, stopping by the Hall with braces of hares or pairs of red-shanked partridge, asked hopefully, “What news?” Dairymaids nodded their heads and whispered about the hero’s valor, and crones who remembered Gawain’s more rakish days sniffled over their teapots and murmured that he always was a good boy, for all that he’d once been notorious among women.

  “I never should have let him go,” Arthur fretted one evening, suddenly looking up from his chess game.

  “And how would you have stopped him, short of playing the tyrant and clapping him in chains?” Lance signaled to a page to take the board away, since neither man was able to concentrate on the game. We all knew whom Arthur spoke of, though he hadn’t mentioned Gawain by name.

  “Well, together perhaps we could have dissuaded him,” my husband mused, chewing on his mustache. “Or gone with him. At the very least he should have had Gaheris and Gareth beside him. To face such an end without even kinfolk near.”

  “He has claimed it as his moira, M’lord—and must find his own solution to it.” Lance stretched his feet toward the brazier and stared into the flames. “Every man’s shadow contains the ghost of his worst fear, whether it’s death or dishonor, cowardice or the dreaded exposure of a secret. We each do battle with our own nemesis. And considering how superstitious he is, I cannot imagine a more fitting trial for the King’s Champion than actually confronting one of the Old Gods.”

  Lance’s voice faded away, and in the silence that followed, each of us made our own separate prayer for Gawain’s survival.

  The days of December crawled slowly toward midwinter, and during the longest night we rang the bells and danced around the Yule log, clapping and singing and trying to make merry in order to lure the sun back from the north. But we only went through the ceremony for tradition’s sake, not because of any gaiety of spirit.

  When New Year’s Day arrived, there was no pretense of pleasure, for all thoughts centered on Gawain and his ordeal. Camelot was as quiet as though wrapped in a shroud.

  Slowly the days that followed crept by as we waited word of his end. Then one morning as I was counting the beeswax candles we had left between winter dark and the coming of summer, one of Frieda’s sons came pounding into the pantry, calling frantically for me.

  “Highness! Highness!” he hollered. “Come quick, M’lady—Gawain’s at the gate.”

  I dropped my tallying tablet and spun around to stare at the youngster. His freckled face radiated joy, and grabbing my hand in his, he pulled me toward the door. Together we went pelting across the Hall and out to the porch, where half the household had already gathered. The other half was escorting the redhead up the drive, laughing and clapping and hugging each other in a frenzy of relief and goodwill.

  Lance and Mordred dashed up from the stables, Arthur and Bedivere from the barn, all of them hot and sweaty and full of hope. Lance came to stand by me, while Arthur and his foster brother waited to greet their longtime friend.

  The Prince of Orkney was haggard and dirty, his clothing mud-stained, his new cape torn in several places. He dismounted at the foot of the steps, pausing for a moment to speak to the young man who accompanied him.

  The youth was dressed in pelts and homespun, and had tied back his long dark hair with a thong from which hung a clutch of kingfisher feathers. He took charge of the warhorse while Gawain turned to Arthur.

  The High King’s nephew went down on one knee as slowly and stiffly as an old man, yet beneath the years of toil and turmoil, I saw once more the impish youth who’d knelt at such a step and handed up a bouquet of wildflowers when Arthur and I were wed.

  “M’lord,” he croaked, giving Arthur a lopsided grin, “the Green Man sends greetings and compliments to Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, and to the brave men of his Round Table.”

  Arthur smiled broadly and, throwing his arms wide, bade his Champion rise. A great cheer went up around us, and Arthur asked Lucan to get out a keg of our finest beer and share it around as we listened to the Orcadian’s tale.

  In the Hall everyone gathered around Gawain, some finding chairs, others sitting on bolsters on the floor. The younger warriors pulled the benches from under the loft, and I saw Mordred, eyes bright with anticipation, rest his chin on his hand and stare admiringly at his brother.

  Gawain stood in the middle of the circle, gazing around at his friends as though he could not believe he was safely home among them.

  “I went from Camelot with a heavy heart,” he began, “and made my way toward the Welsh coast, stopping to see old friends and mending fences I had once left broken. But mostly I wanted to talk with the hermit at Saint Govan’s head.”

  He found the holy man perched on a ledge in the cliff face above the sea, contemplating the sky and clouds and wind. Gawain stayed with him through the whole of November, trying to prepare himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. The shadow of fear grew around him, but the hermit prayed with him every day, forgiving his past sins and calling down the Christian God’s powers to protect him against the Pagan fiend. Finally, just before he left, Gawain asked to be baptized.

  When he resumed his journey, he kept to the forest, avoiding both Roads and towns in order to remain pure in his resolve and not be tempted from his purpose. His only company was a lone wolf which followed his progress, skulking at the edges of his fire at night and howling at the moon when he tried to sleep.

  At the northern coast of Gwynedd he turned east, riding along the coast beside the Straits of Menai. Beyond the narrow waterway lay the Isle of Mona, sacred center of the Druids before the Legions came. He was terrified that the Old Gods would reach out and reclaim him, so he made the Christian sign, praying that the power of the cross would keep the Pagan nature of his early life at bay.

  When he reached the entrance to the region known as the Wirral, Gawain stopped at a crofter’s hut to ask directions to the Perilous Chapel. The farmer blanched and clenched his teeth tight against incautious words as he nodded toward the verge where the dark, primal wildwood began. So, with a falling heart, Gawain turned his steed into the trackless forest.

  ***

  “It was just as frightening within as without,” the King’s Champion reported, pausing to have his drinking horn refilled. “And compared with Logres, where grace and light and civilization make their home, it was a tangle of terrors.”

  His meeting with the Green Man was only three days away, and after so many weeks alone, Gawain ached for the company of other humans. Then, toward evening, he came upon a large meadow commanded by a roundhouse of wattle and daub topped by a heavy thatched roof, and his heart lifted with joy. The sound of children’s laughter ran out to greet him as the leather curtain over the doorway was thrown open and the lord of the steading came out.

  “He was short and sturdy,” Gawain recalled, “with the dark look of the Ancient Ones, and his eyes were full of mischief. He capered on the edge of the green, gesturing me to come nearer, and when he spoke, it was in a language very much like that of the Prydn.”

  The lord’s name was Bercilak, and his household was as fey and lively as he was. Nowhere in the roundhouse did Gawain see anything made of iron, for the “firstborn of the gods” distrust the metal used by “tall-folk,” relying instead on stone and wood and bronze.

  “And gold,” the Orcadian added. “Everywhere you looked there were golden vessels and plates, boxes and jewelry, utensils and baubles. Like the Prydn, they seemed to have a treasure that they loved for beauty’s sake alone.”

  I nodded silently, remembering the nigh
t Gawain had brought the Prydn Queen to our Court. Small, pert, and homely, Ragnell had altered a tunic of mine to fit her tiny frame, and on it she’d sewn coins from Roman times along with beads and bangles and woven bands of gold. She herself was adorned with armbands and amulets, torcs and diadems and dangling earrings, so that in the torchlight, she looked like a miniature Goddess covered with the precious metal. It had certainly increased the speculation that she was, indeed, one of the fey.

  Gawain’s voice cut across my reverie. “They gave me the seat of honor, and we sat around the fire-pit, dipping into the communal pot and tearing scraps of heavy bread from lumpy loaves.”

  He began to feel like one of their own, for they wrapped him in warmth and laughter, and took him to their hearts. After so many weeks of lonely fear, Gawain’s soul filled with joy.

  When the dining was over, the Champion of the Round Table explained the reason for his journey, and there was much buzzing and consultation before the host called for silence.

  “You must be a very brave man,” Bercilak said admiringly. “It’s clear you know how forfeit your life will be before the Green Man. No one escapes his magic unless he himself wills it.” There was a mumble of agreement around the circle, and the household eyed Gawain with a respect that verged on awe.

  “The Perilous Chapel is not far from here,” Bercilak’s lady said impulsively. “Why don’t you stay with us until the time of your ordeal?”

  The woman was very young and proud, and she talked as much with her hands as with words, sometimes with neat, elegant gestures, sometimes flinging her arms about impetuously. As Gawain described her, she sounded very much like Ragnell herself.

  Gawain accepted the invitation, glad of the chance to rest before going to confront his fate.

  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.