Gawain and Lady Green

by Anne Eliot Crompton

  Merry sits up away from his tree. “Hah?”

  “I call this song, ‘The Green Knight.’ ”

  “By all Gods, Druid Merlin, sing it!”

  “This way it goes…. Ahem.”

  “To Arthur’s Dun on New Year’s Day

  Came noble knights with ladies gay

  To feast and fun, to sing and play…”

  The Round Table sat down to feast. But Arthur would not let one bite be bit, until a New Year’s omen should appear. Abruptly, Enchanter whangs and thumps. Dace in his basket throws out startled, tiny arms and scowls.

  “Into the hall there charged a charger,

  Greener, grimmer, loftier, larger…”

  Merry leans forward, silent laughter loud in his face. His aura spreads and shimmers, entranced.

  Niviene meets my eye and smiles her closed-mouth smile.

  “This ogre, green ax hefted high,

  And his green charger, prancing nigh,

  They must be Fey! But such have never

  Darkened the door of King’s Hall, ever!

  Never would dare those pagan sprites

  To breach this hall of Christian knights.”

  Knowing pours into my mind, like spring water into a pool. Niviene’s careful closed-mouth smile hides sharp-filed incisor teeth.

  Small, dark Niviene is of the fearsome Fey. She comes here to us from the depths of an enchanted forest, from which no adventurer returns.

  Ech, well. No such great surprise. After all, Druid Merlin himself is said to be a Demon’s child. How many hold that against him?

  Not all of us choose our parents wisely.

  “‘Come to my chapel, or coward be.

  Knight of the Green Chapel, all men know me.

  Seek me and find me, my chapel at morn.

  Your head will my chapel fitly adorn.’

  Gawain leaned on his ax, with Fey blood all green.

  No grief or fear in his face to be seen,

  No fear or grief in his heart to be found,

  Gawain, the best knight that ever trod ground.”

  Niviene tilts her head. Her eyes squint, then widen. I’ll wager she is studying my aura. With an effort I pull it in close, damp down any flaming color it may show.

  With a final triumphant twang, Enchanter falls silent. Merlin twinkles at Merry. “You’re sure you’ve got no ale buried like gold?”

  Merry grunts as his awakened aura collapses in around him. “Water.” He feels for the water bottle behind him, hands it across.

  Merlin drinks deep. “Hah! Singing is thirsty work.” He wipes his beard on his richly embroidered sleeve. “Let me tell you, the knight is wonderfully brave under this doom. He eats, drinks, and jousts. In truth, he does not laugh. And his famous temper is a trifle edgy.”

  Merry proclaims through his teeth, “No more than he deserves! Famine must have followed his cowardly escape.”

  “True. That Tribe is thinner than before. But it survives. Even some of its herds survive! Indeed, led by an unknown chief, Demon or God, that Tribe is training an army!”

  “Most likely to ward off the Saxons. They are becoming seasonal pests.”

  Merlin agrees. “Most likely the army is for the Tribe’s own defense. But its intent agrees well with King Arthur’s intent.”

  Merry shrugs. “Lynx and cat seize the same prey.”

  Niviene speaks softly, abruptly, to me. I am a trifle slow to follow her strangely accented words. A moment I stare into her wide, perceiving eyes. Then the words catch up with me. “Gwyneth. I suppose you know that a Demon haunts you.” She sees the Demon in my aura. Merry once said he saw it.

  “My grandmother said—”

  I bite my tongue. Even now, Midsummer second morning, I will not mention death, or the dead.

  A voice in the deep back of my mind whispers, Get that May King back for us, Gwyn. We make you more powerful than Niviene.

  That would be Power, indeed.

  Gently, Merlin asks, “Your grandmother saw this Demon?” He squints at me, and shudders, seeing it himself. Both Merlin and Niviene expand their sparkling auras to guard against my Demon.

  “Aye,” I mumble uneasily. “Gran—she warned me against it.”

  Niviene says, “She was right to warn you. That Demon could take you over entirely, Gwyn. Own your soul. Your anger invites it.”

  “That’s what…she said.”

  “Do not feed it on anger. Once in its power, you could never be the Goddess again. You would be good only to blast unborn babes and crops, to call in plague and nail heads on oaks.”

  “It…it promises me power.”

  “Power to use for its purpose. Not yours.” Niviene sits straight and still, even-lengthed fingers laced in lap. She has hardly moved since we sat down here. Only her violet aura shifts and shines, warding away my Demon.

  Certainly, Niviene is powered by no Demon! Goddess Light gleams about her.

  Merlin whangs Enchanter’s strings again. His hands seem as restless as Niviene’s are nerveless. “Gwyneth, I wish you could see Gawain, King’s Companion, when he thinks himself unseen! Then he turns so dark and dour, merriment would drive that Demon straight out of your heart.”

  Merry laughs. Niviene and I smile. But I know well that Gawain’s dour-dark misery would only whet my Demon’s appetite.

  Niviene remarks in her Outland accent, “You have a beautiful daughter.”

  We turn and follow her gaze.

  Whiteness gleams among oak trunks, shines in shadow. From the deep grove walks Ynis, erect and calm in her white festive dress (put on front in front, and almost clean). Her little hand rests on the neck of a white fallow doe that ambles beside her. Their two auras mingle and overlap, the child’s huge white mist and the doe’s small green mist.

  Both feel us watching. Both look our way, and start. They stop still, side by side, heads high. Their joined aura flares up. A long moment they exchange glances with us. Ynis raises a hand to brush back her loose, dark hair. Then they move gently away.

  Merlin comments. “Despite all, I see you still have your magic white deer; that promises prosperity.”

  Merry says, “Their numbers began to rise. But this year they are seldom seen.”

  “Did maybe hunger diminish the white deer?”

  “Nay! Folk would as soon eat their children as those deer.”

  “Ah, well. One bad year in ten bountiful…” Enchanter ripples.

  Niviene remarks to me, “A wonderfully talented child. You must give thanks for her every day.” If any other woman spoke, I would suspect envy in her voice.

  “Aye, Niviene. I give thanks for so much!”

  Giving thanks in my heart, I look out over Fair-Field. The Midsummer sun stands high. Now, smoke and folk are rising. The children who ran with the dogs have returned to their breakfast fires; the dogs circle, waiting for crumbs.

  These are my folk. I am thankful to be theirs. Despite my dreadful secret, I am still their honored witch. I give thanks for the powers for which they value me. I give thanks for the world around me, summer-vibrant, for my body, my soul’s home, already healing and rebuilding itself after the famine. I give deep thanks for my children.

  Ynis’s gesture just now, brushing back her hair, is Granny’s gesture of mild surprise. It has a seductive look, unsettling in a child—and in a very old lady.

  In his basket, Dace whimpers, stretches and wiggles pink toes. I gather him up in one arm and pull down my green gown.

  Niviene murmurs, “He is not swaddled.”

  “Nay. My—I was advised against swaddling my children. It would bind up their spirits.”

  “Ah. Your beautiful daughter was never swaddled.”

  “Never.”

  Gently, she nods. “Where I come from, children are left unbound from birth. They go entirely free younger than your daughter. It troubles me to see one bound up in his cradle.”

  I swallow fear and whisper, “Where you come from…?”

  “Very far from
here, Gwyneth.” We let it go at that.

  The men talk soft man talk, mumbling and snorting laughter. Niviene watches Dace and me. In any other woman’s face those deep, watching eyes would signal jealousy, but Niviene’s gaze is more like a blessing.

  Merlin Song

  At Summerend, when ghosties go

  Grieving and grumbling to and fro,

  When food for them is spread on table,

  Prayers prayed for them; and agile, able

  Folk dare the dark, fearful of fable,

  In mask and mien to fright the devil;

  At Summerend, when rowdy revel

  Reels in the road; but laughter’s hollow,

  And feebly flickers flame in tallow;

  At Summerend was grim Gawain

  Fevered to find his fated bane.

  “I know not where the place may be,

  This Chapel Green where waits the Knight.

  I must be near there, brave to see,

  Buckled and bold, by Christmas night.

  I must be there on New Year morn,

  To die before the year’s well born,

  Or for a coward be forgot,

  Among the faint and failed my lot.

  Merlin Mage, point me the way!

  I must be there on New Year Day.

  North?

  You say North?

  I must go North?

  Not North! Not North! Not North!”

  The Green Chapel

  Lady Mary,” prayed Gawain. “Queen of Heaven, Christ’s holy Mother, guide me!”

  He knelt in snowy dusk beside his chestnut charger, Gringolet. Thinner, much hungrier than when they set out, man and horse hung heads and turned backs to the moor wind.

  “You know, Lady, the course of my travels. But you know it from heaven. Let me tell you from here on earth, how it has been.

  “Lady, for weeks I have ridden north as Merlin bade me, not toward cursed Holy Oak and Satan’s Dun, preserve me! But east of there. The Green Knight claimed to be known. ‘Ask for the Green Chapel, you cannot fail to find me.’ I have asked for the Green Chapel everywhere. Everywhere I meet with shrugs and shaken heads.

  “At every ford I have found foes waiting, foul and fierce. I have struggled with wild men, with bear and bull and boar. Truly I know, you have preserved me! Had I not served you and your Son since boyhood, I would now be dead many times over.

  “Yet, Lady, I am a King’s Companion. These fights and struggles have not worried me much. For this journey I am well armed and was well provisioned.

  “But now Christmas is past, and my provisions are long exhausted. Winter worries me—freezing rain, snow, and sleet. Half dead from cold I have slept many nights in my armor, sometimes under icicle caverns by hillside springs.

  “Lady, in heaven you know no cold, no snow, no hunger. Have you forgotten these small trials? Lady, mercifully remember and help me!”

  Beside Gawain, Gringolet shifted and blew. His ears turned forward.

  “Lady Mary! Show me the Green Chapel. If I cannot find it, that will not be my fault! Yet Merlin will never sing of me again. Men will call me coward.

  “Finding it, I find Death and Honor.

  “Lady, you know my Honor is besmirched. You know I broke a promise. I left my helpless love asleep in a cold cave on a barren moor like this one. You saw that from heaven, but here on earth it is still secret. It may be I have been led back up north here to atone for that very sin. As to that, you know the answer.”

  Gringolet stretched his snow-maned neck and whinnied. He pawed hard earth with an unshod front hoof. All four shoes were long lost on the moor.

  “Lady Mary, I pray to you, lead me to the Green Chapel! Or at least to shelter for this night. I have not strength left to build a fire! Amen, dear Lady, Amen!”

  Gawain looked up at the restless horse. “What ails you? Heh?”

  Hope struck like a ray of heavenly light. “Angel Michael! You see something!”

  Suddenly desperately strong, Gawain almost jumped up. Heedless of aching bone and worn-out muscle, he mounted Gringolet.

  “Lady Mary! Queen of Heaven! I did not see that forest line before. And what is that, all white under dark trees?”

  Gawain strained to see through fast-gathering, snowing dark. Quickly his trained eyes picked out the white shape, even to the twitch of ears and tail, the prance of slender legs.

  “God’s teeth, it’s a white fallow deer! Maybe sent by Holy Mary to guide me. Or at least to stave off starvation!”

  Not for the first time, Gawain galloped toward a tree line and a flitting white shadow.

  Sir. (said Inner Mind.) This hall seems odd. Strange. Outland.

  So. This is Outland. This is the north.

  I liked it not from the outside. Hidden in forest. Thatch from rooftree to ground, like a peasant hut.

  Worry, worry! Feel this good fire! Gawain hastened to stand close by it.

  And not a sound from here, nor from the outbuildings! Silent as…

  I smell pork!

  Sir, I tell you true; when I saw this strange hall through the trees, I almost saw a fence of skulls around it. And that one-eyed servant who let us in…

  He startled me, too. Looked almost familiar.

  Aye, that’s it! And the way he said, “Stand by the fire. Open no door.” Why did he say that?

  Look, I care not who or why. Just so they bring on the pork!

  Never saw I hall so bare!

  Gawain glanced about the large, very simple hall. He stood alone by a dug, unlined fire pit in the middle. Flickering firelight showed him a large trestle table set ready for dinner with two trenchers, two mugs, and burning candles. Other than this and two stools, the large room offered no furniture.

  The dim hall was round, shaped like a summer pavilion or peasant hut. Carelessly laid thatch bunched down through a lattice of bent boughs. The floor-rushes covered trampled dirt. There were no windows.

  Four closed doors there were: the front door, through which he had come; a door through which—even closed—came stomach-rending food smells; and two doors opposite each other.

  Sir, I think this hall has been knocked together in a great hurry.

  God-thank! Smell that roasting pork!

  Sir, tremble not with eagerness! Conceal. Control. Preserve a seemly dignity.

  Right. You are right. I will stand like a wooden statue.

  That one-eyed fellow…Look you—what secret hides behind these doors?

  I care not, so our stomach be filled! And, Mary be praised, feel that good fire! Holy Mary brought us here, remember. Worry no more.

  Sir. On guard.

  One of the opposite doors opened. The large, dark, fur-clad figure that waddled into firelight opened both arms wide and grinned through a bushy black beard. “A visitor! God’s truth, we get few of those here! Be welcome, guest!”

  He advanced upon Gawain. No taller, he yet outweighed Gawain as a bear outweighs a hound. Gawain was glad he did not actually embrace him as a bear might. They might both have toppled into the fire.

  “I am Lord Bright, head of this house.” A proud sweep of a pudgy, gloved hand indicated the round, bare room. “Come, guest, tell me your name!”

  The smell of pork seeping through the back door overwhelmed Gawain. For a moment, he hardly knew his name.

  Sir! Dignity! Courtesy!

  He pulled himself together. “Lord, I am Gawain, Knight of the Round Table, King’s Companion.”

  “Heh? What say, what say?” His rotund host took his elbow and marched him to the table. “Sit you here, Sir.” Gawain crashed onto the proffered stool. “And I will sit here.” Bright took the opposite stool. “You are Gawain Who?”

  “I…” Gawain’s head swam. “Knight of the Round Table…”

  “And what table’s that?”

  “…King’s Companion…”

  “To what king, Sir?”

  The back door opened.

  In marched the one-eyed servant with a blast of
winter-night air. He bore the steaming, black-crackled pork in one trencher, breads in another. He slapped both trenchers on the table between host and guest, turned, and stomped out the door. In a moment he was back with two skin bottles of ale. He thumped these down and turned to leave again.

  “Harrumph!” His master snorted through his beard.

  The one-eyed servant paused, turned, and offered an awkward, hasty bow to each knight. Then he departed, apparently for good, banging the door behind him.

  God’s teeth! Never seen such sloppy service! What sort of lord can this Bright be?

  Gawain heard neither his host’s voice nor that of his Inner Mind. His being flowed from him and wrapped itself around the pork.

  “Never mind all that now,” Lord Bright boomed. He pushed the trencher toward Gawain. “Dig in, Sir! You’ve had a cold ride to get here.”

  “Now”—Lord Bright wiped his mouth and beard vigorously on his sleeve—“now, Sir…Gawain, I have a question for you.”

  Fed and warm, Gawain looked at his host with almost steady eyes. “I’ll try to answer, Lord Bright.”

  “You came in here starved off the moor. I won’t say drooping. Ha-ha! I’m glad to see you raise up now, like rain-crushed barley when the sun shines.”

  Gawain said a bit stiffly, “That is due to your hospitality, Lord Bright.”

  “Good! Ha-ha! But your spirit still lies crushed.”

  Caution! “My Lord, are you one of those who see the spirit?”

  “See the spirit…Oh, no! Not me. No, I’m not one of those. But sorrow is plain to see in your face, Brother.”

  Gawain winced—first at the easy “Brother” spoken to a King’s Companion and then to think that his sorrow was plain to see. He thought he had learned to mask it the moment the headless Green Knight thundered out of King’s Hall.

  Well. He had to ask the dread question, anyhow.

  “My Lord…” He let Lord Bright refill his mug. This northern ale was altogether strong and strange, but his Lady Green of Doleful Memory had taught him to like it. “My Lord, you see not sorrow in my face, but the constraint of hard duty.”

  “Heh? Hah?” Lord Bright leaned forward, bristling interest.