And at his coming, they gave back and scattered, their feet leaving no track upon the puddled snow; and Sir Lancelot passed through them and entered the chapel.
Within, the place was dimly lit by one lamp that hung from the vaulted roof; and beneath the lamp, a dead man lay upon his bier, covered by a pall of crimson silk. And it seemed to him that the cold of that place was ten times deeper than the raw winter’s cold outside, for it ate into the very soul.
He drew his sword and, stooping beside the bier, cut a long strip from the crimson silk that covered the stark shape. And as he did so, the pavement tilted under him as though the earth had quaked beneath the chapel, and the lamp swung on its chain, casting weird shadows about the place so that for the moment it seemed full of dark wings, and almost it was as though Sir Gilbert’s body stirred beneath the crimson pall. And Sir Lancelot’s heart sprang racing into his throat.
But the earth steadied and the lamp hung quiet once more; the dark wings were gone, and the dead man lay still beneath his pall. And Sir Lancelot sheathed his blade, and as he did so, saw a splendid sword lying beside the bier. He took it up, and with the strip of crimson silk crumpled in his shield hand in the hollow of his shield, he stepped out into the grey light of the snowy churchyard.
The black knights still stood there, waiting among the yew trees; and they spoke to him in one voice, and that a terrible one. ‘Knight, Sir Lancelot, lay down that sword, or you shall die!’
‘Whether I live or die,’ said Lancelot, ‘words shall not win this sword from me. Fight me for it, if you will.’
And as they had done at his first coming, they fell back before him, leaving no tracks in the snow; and so he came again to the gate where his horse was tied. But beside his horse, a strange damosel waited for him, nothing of her face showing in the shadow of her hood but the darkness of her two great eyes. And she said in a voice as soft and cold as the snow, ‘Sir Lancelot, pray you leave that sword behind you; you will die for it else.’
‘I leave it not, even for your pleading,’ said Sir Lancelot.
And the damosel gave a little laugh with music in it like the chiming of icicles. ‘How wise you are! For if you had left that sword at my pleading, you would never have come to Arthur’s court nor seen Queen Guenever again. Now, in token that there is no ill-will between us, do you kiss me but once, and go your way.’
‘Nay!’ said Sir Lancelot, already reaching for his horse’s bridle. ‘God forbid!’
Then the damosel let forth a high wailing cry, and seemed to grow thin and shaken as though the wind blew through her very bones. ‘Alas! I have had all my labours in vain. For many times I have seen you in my dreams, in running water by day and in the fire at night, and grown to love you; and it was I who raised the Chapel Perilous to entrap you and web you round with my spells as the spider webs the blundering crane-fly with her silk; and had you kissed me, you would have lain this moment dead in my arms, and been mine for all time, you who are the flower of all King Arthur’s knights. But there is that in you which is too strong for me, and you have torn through all my spells. Have pity on me, now that I am torn and broken …’
Then Lancelot guessed that she must be the sorceress Allewes, of whom Sir Meliot’s sister had told him; and he crossed himself strongly. ‘Now God preserve me from your subtle crafts,’ he said, and rounding from her to his horse, mounted and rode away.
He followed the track by which he had come, until at last he found Sir Meliot’s sister standing where he had left her. And when she saw him she clasped her hands and wept for joy. Then she set her hand, lightly this time, on his horse’s bridle, and led him to her brother’s castle nearby, where Sir Meliot lay upon his bed with the physician and his squires standing helplessly about him, and the red life-tide still ebbing from the wound in his flank.
Sir Lancelot crossed to the bedside, and drawing the sword that he had brought from the Chapel Perilous, laid the blade against the streaming wound, then wiped and cleaned it with the strip of crimson silk, and at once the blood-flow ceased and the edges drew together, and Sir Meliot sighed, and sat up on the bed as well and whole as ever he had been.
And for one shaken heartbeat of time, Sir Lancelot wondered whether this was his miracle; the miracle that he had prayed so long and hard that one day God would allow him to perform. But then he knew that this was something of quite a different sort. This was magic and enchantment. And it came to him also, that if ever he were allowed to work his miracle he would know it by something in himself, some knowledge that the power of God had passed through him like flame and a high wind.
He had broken a spell, no more than that.
But still, he was glad that he had saved Sir Meliot, his fellow of the Round Table. And the three of them were joyful together, and he remained with them several days. But when the snow melted, he said to Sir Meliot, ‘I must be on my way; for it ill befits one on a quest to sleep seven nights in a goose-feathered bed; and there are matters yet to be adventured before I return to Arthur’s court at Eastertide. Come you back to court also at that time, that we may meet again.’
Far and wide through the forest country rode Sir Lancelot, and by marshways where the land was half water and flamed at sunset under the crying and calling of the geese as they began their northward flight, and up into the high moors and the mountains of the West, and back to the forest ways again, while the world woke from winter into spring around him, and the celandines starred the wayside banks and the wild cherry foamed into blossom, and the larks tore his heart with the sweetness of their singing high above the cultivated land. And he met with so many adventures that if a weaver of tales were to tell them all, the telling would never be done. And he made for himself a name on men’s lips, though he was still but nineteen, a name like a banner, such as men weave into a harp-song for warriors and women to tell their children by the fire.
And in the last days before Easter, he rode back to Camelot.
When he came into the Great Hall, bareheaded but still in Sir Kay’s armour, Sir Gawain and Sir Ector of the Marsh, Sir Uwaine and Sir Segramour saw indeed who it was who had felled them all with one spear, and there was a gale of laughter among them. And then Sir Kay, with his colour making two red spots on his cheekbones, told how Sir Lancelot had rescued him, and of the exchanging of their armour and how he had ridden home in peace, none daring to interfere with him in Sir Lancelot’s harness. He could not find laughter, as the others could, in the story against himself, but he told it none the less; and Sir Lancelot felt as though he had been forgiven for something, and laid his arm for a moment across the Seneschal’s shoulders.
And then came in King Bagdemagus, and Sir Meliot de Logure, and behind them the knights whom Lancelot had rescued from Sir Tarquine, and the knights whom he had overcome and bidden yield themselves to King Arthur or to the Queen, until there was scarce room for all of them in the Great Hall.
It should have been the proudest and most triumphant moment of Sir Lancelot’s life, as he came forward and knelt to the High King. But the Queen had also come into the Hall to welcome him back and to receive the freed captives and vanquished knights who he had sent to her; and she sat beside the King in a gown of golden damask, her eyes brighter in the torch-light than the jewels about her neck.
‘We have heard of your deeds these many months past,’ said the King. ‘You have indeed proved yourself, and no man now will question your right to receive knighthood so young.’
And the Queen leaned forward a little, and said, ‘The time has seemed long while you were away, and we are glad that you are come home.’
And Lancelot moved to kneel before her with a suddenly pounding heart. It was for her that he had ridden away on his year-long quest, and now the year was over, and he had come back; and Guenever was still here, and nothing was changed.
7
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
OF ALL THE knights who had their places at King Arthur’s Round Table, Sir Gawain seemed always to be
the one who had something strange about him. Gawain of the flaming red hair, and the temper that flamed to match it, as swift as fire to spring up and as dangerous, but as swift to sink again. He was of the Old People, the Dark People, but then so was Gaheris, and Agravane their younger brother who by now had also joined the court. So was his cousin Uwaine, and so was Arthur himself on his mother’s side. It was more than that. Strange stories were told about Gawain; the country folk said that his strength waxed and waned with the sun. So it was fitting that one of the strangest adventures ever to befall the knights of the Round Table should come to him.
On the Christmas that Sir Lancelot was still away upon his own quest, Arthur held his court at Camelot, for the time had not yet come when he kept his Christmases at Carlisle. Yuletide went by with many festivities, and it came to New Year’s Eve. Now Christmas was chiefly a matter for the Church, but New Year’s Eve was for banqueting and merrymaking, and so when dusk came, the whole court gathered to their feasting in the Great Hall; the knights of the Round Table each in their places; the lesser knights and the squires at the side boards. Even the Queen and her ladies had come to join the feast and look on from under their silken canopy at the upper end of the Hall, for there would be dancing after the banquet was done. Already the serving squires were bringing in the great chargers of goose and venison, and swans and ships and towering castles made of almonds and honey. The wine glowed red in crystal goblets and the Hall leapt with torchlight and lilted with the music of the harper who sat at the Queen’s feet.
The boar’s head was brought in, wreathed in scented bay leaves and heralded by trumpets and carried high on the shoulders of four pages. But just as it was set on the table, the great doors of the Hall flew open, and a gust of wind burst in, making the torches stream sideways and the flames of the huge log fires crouch down upon the hearths. And a little snow eddied in on the dark wings of the wind.
The harper fell silent between note and note. The voices of the revelling company fell away, as every face turned towards the door and the night beyond. And a great silence took the Hall, where the cheerful sounds of merrymaking had been.
And into the silence came the clang and bell-clash of horse’s hooves upon the frostbound courtyard stones, and out of the darkness into the torchlight and firelight that steadied and leapt as though in greeting, rode a great man, almost a giant, upon a warhorse that was of a fitting size to carry him.
At sight of him a long gasp ran through the Hall, for he was the strangest sight that any man there had ever seen, mighty of limb and goodly of face and holding himself in the saddle like a king, wearing no armour but clad from head to heel in the fierce fine green that is the colour of the Lordly Ones and not of mortal men. His jerkin and hose under his thick-furred cloak were all of green, and green was the jewelled belt that circled his waist. His saddle was of fine green leather enriched with gold, so were his horse’s trappings which chimed like little bells as the great beast moved. Spurs of greenish gold sparked the heels of his boots that were the colour of moss under ancient oak trees. Even his thick crest of hair and his curling board were of the same hue, and the great horse beneath him green from proud crest to sweeping tail, its mane fantastically braided and knotted up with golden threads. In one hand he carried a huge axe of green steel inlaid with the same strange greeny-gold; and high in the other a young holly tree thick with berries that sparked like crimson jewels in the torchlight. But save for the holly berries of Christmas, all else, even the sparks that his horse’s hooves struck from the stone pavement as he rode up the Hall, was green; blazing and fiery green; the living green of springtime itself.
When he came halfway up the Hall, he reined in, and flung down the holly tree upon the floor, and sat looking about him on all sides. And it seemed to everyone there, from the King himself to the youngest page, that the golden-green eyes, like the eyes of some proud and mighty forest beast, had looked for a moment directly and deeply into his own.
Then he cried out in a voice that boomed from wall to wall and hung under the roof and brought a startled spider down out of the rafters, ‘Where is the lord of this Hall, for I would speak with him and with no other!’
After the thunder of his voice, for three heartbeats of time all men sat as though stunned, and there was no sound save the whispering of the flames upon the hearths. Then Arthur said, ‘I am the lord of this Hall, and I bid you right welcome to it. Now pray you dismount, and while my stable squires tend to your horse, come and feast among us, this last night of the Old Year.’
‘Nay, that I will not,’ said the stranger. ‘I have not come to feast with you; nor have I come in war. That, you may see by my lack of armour, and by the green branch that I bear. But word of the valour of your knights has reached me in my own place; and for a while and a while I have been minded to put it to the test.’
‘Why, then,’ said Arthur, ‘I doubt not that you will find enough and to spare among my knights willing and eager to joust with you if that is your desire.’
‘That is as may be,’ said the Green Knight, ‘but for the most part I see here only beardless bairns who I could fell with one flick of a bramble spray! Nay, it is a valour-test of another kind that I bring here for a Yuletide sport. Let any man here stand forth as champion against me, and he may take from my hand this axe which has no equal in the world for weight and keenness, and with it strike me one blow. Only he must strike the blow in the place of my choosing. And he must swear to yield me the right to strike the return blow in the same place, if I am yet able, a year and a day from now.’
And again there was silence in the Hall; and the knights looked at each other and away again, and here one drew a quick breath, and there one licked his lower lip. But none dared to take up the challenge of the beautiful and terrible stranger.
Then the Green Knight laughed, long and loud and mocking. ‘Not one of you? Is this indeed King Arthur’s Hall? And you who feast here but dare not take up a simple challenge, are you indeed the knights of his Round Table? The flower of chivalry? Nay, let you go hang your heads in shame, I see I have had a bootless journey!’
Arthur sprang to his feet, though well he knew that it was not for the High King to take up such a challenge, and flung his shout of defiance in the stranger’s face. ‘Yes! One! Off your horse now, give me your axe and make ready for the blow!’
But almost in the same instant, Sir Gawain also was on his feet. ‘My lord the King, noble uncle, I claim this adventure, for still I carry with me the shame of the lady’s death whose head I cut off, and I have yet to prove my worthiness to sit at the Round Table!’
He seldom called Arthur ‘uncle’, for they were almost the same age, and so when he did, it was as a jest between them. And now the familiar jest cut through the King’s rage and reached him, and he knew that what Sir Gawain said was true. And so he drew a deep breath and unclenched his hands, and said, ‘Dear my nephew, the adventure is yours.’
Then as Sir Gawain left his place and strode into the centre of the Hall, the Green Knight swung down from his horse, and so they came together. ‘It is good that I have found a champion to meet me in Arthur’s Hall,’ said the Green Knight. ‘By what name are you called?’
‘I am Gawain, son of Lot, King of Orkney, and nephew to my liege lord King Arthur. By what name do men call you?’
‘Men call me the Knight of the Green Chapel, in my own North Country,’ said the stranger. ‘Swear now to the bargain between us; that you will strike the one blow in the place of my choosing, the one blow only. And that in a year and a day you will submit yourself to my blow, the one blow only, in return.’
‘I swear by my knighthood,’ said Gawain.
‘Take the axe, and be ready to strike as I bid you.’
Gawain took the mighty and terrible axe in his hand, and stood swinging it a little, feeling its weight and balance; and the Green Knight knelt down on the floor, and stooping, drew his long flame-green hair forward over the top of his head to lay bare his neck
.
For a moment all things in the Hall seemed to cease, and Gawain stood as though turned to stone.
‘In the place of my choice,’ said the Green Knight. ‘Strike now.’
And life moved on again, and Gawain in a kind of fury swung up the great axe with a battle yell, and putting every last ounce of strength that he possessed into the blow, brought it crashing down.
The blade sheared through flesh and bone and set the sparks spurting from the pavement as though from an anvil; and the Green Knight’s head sprang from his shoulders and went rolling along the floor almost to the Queen’s feet.
There rose a horrified gasp, and while all men looked to see the huge body topple forward, the Green Knight shook his shoulders a little, and got to his feet, and walked after his head. He caught it up and, holding it by the hair, remounted his horse that stood quietly waiting for him. Holding his head high, he turned the face to Sir Gawain, and said, ‘See that you keep your oath, and come to me a year and a day from now.’
‘How shall I find you?’ asked Gawain, white to the lips.
‘Seek me through Wales and into the Forest of Wirral; and if you bring your courage with you, you shall surely find me before noon of the appointed day.’
And he wheeled his horse and touched his spurred heel to its flank, and was away out into the darkness and the eddying snow, his head still swinging by its long hair from his hand. And they heard the beat of his horse’s hooves drumming away into the winter’s night.