Then, grasping the handle tight and putting his left foot forward, he took a deep breath and raised the great ax high above his head, the blade flashing blood red in the flames of the fire. Down it came and sliced right through the Green Knight’s neck, cutting clean through bone and flesh and skin, severing the terrible head entirely and sending it rolling hideously across the floor toward the lords and ladies at their table. And the blood was not green, as you might have imagined, but bright red like any man’s, and it spurted freely from head and body alike.
But instead of toppling over, as everyone expected, that grotesque headless body rose up onto his feet and strode across the floor to where his head lay bleeding, the eyes closed in death. Snatching the baleful head up by the hair, he went straight to his horse, set one foot in the stirrup, and swung himself up easily into his saddle as if nothing at all had happened. Suddenly those eyes opened and glared most horribly around the hall. Everyone was struck dumb with terror.
But worse was still to come, for then the mouth began to speak. “Well struck, Sir Gawain. Now I’m afraid you have your side of the bargain to keep, a promise you made freely and openly, in front of everyone here and in front of your King too. You must seek me out and find me at the Green Chapel, a year and a day from now. There I shall repay you, a blow for a blow, as we agreed. I am known everywhere as the Knight of the Green Chapel. Look into the sky as you go and follow where your eyes and your ears lead you. I shall be waiting. Be sure you come, Sir Gawain, or the world will know you forever as a coward.” He said nothing more, not one goodbye, but turning his horse about, set spurs to his side and galloped from that hall, sparks flying from the horse’s hooves as he went. Where he had come from no one knew. Where he went to no one knew. But as you can well imagine, I think, all were glad to see him gone.
It was some time before anyone in the hall found voice to speak, and then it was the High King himself who at last broke the silence. He was as amazed and horrified as everyone else by what they had just witnessed, but he did not like to see his queen and his court so downhearted on this festive evening. “Come on now. Let’s not be upset,” he said. “After all, this was just such a marvel as we were waiting for, was it not? And marvels like this are as much a part of new year at Camelot as carols and feasting. Like it or not, and I agree it wasn’t a very appetizing spectacle, you have to admit we’ve never seen anything quite like it before, have we? And best of all it means we can now begin our feasting. So hang up your ax, Gawain, somewhere where we can all see it and be reminded of your courage, and come and join us. Let’s eat, my friends. Let’s drink. Let’s be merry.” And so they were — all but Gawain, whose thoughts, as ours must now do, ran on ahead of him to New Year’s Day a year hence, to the dreaded day when he would meet that Green Knight once again at the Green Chapel.
not for you, not for me, not for Gawain. Every season must take its time. After all the fun and feasting and frolicking of the New Year is done, then comes unwelcome, fish-eating Lent, but even by now, the first snowdrops have shown their pretty heads, and the cold of winter has begun to lose its icy grip. A pale new sun drives away the last of winter’s clouds. Primrose and daffodil bring promise of longer days, and grass and leaves grow green again. Blackbirds cackle in budding gardens, and woodpeckers knock in hollow trees. The first cuckoo and the first lark tell us for sure it is spring again, and swallows and swifts bring us the hope of summer, skimming low over the hayfields, screeching around our chimney tops. Now we have mornings of soft valley mists and garden dews. Salmon rise in the rivers, and the gentle breeze of summer touches our cheeks. The earth itself warms with life, feeding the seeds that will soon grow and be feeding us. And all around us we hear now the humming of bees, the crying of lambs, the mewing of soaring buzzards. Soon enough, though, the harvest calls us to the fields and we must hurry, for we know from the chill in the evenings that autumn is almost upon us. The trees dressed so brightly, so gloriously, in brown and red and gold stand and wait in dread for the rough winds of winter that will soon make stark skeletons of them again. Now we huddle inside once more before our fires, and through rattling windows watch the leaves fly and the green of the grass turn gray before our eyes.
and the seasons came and went, it was hard for Gawain not to think from time to time of the terrible fate he must face — and sooner now, not later. Many a long night he lay awake, willing time to slow down, but time neither waits nor hurries on for any man. It was already Michaelmas moon, and he knew he must soon leave Camelot and be on his way. His spirits uplifted by the love of the King and Queen, and by his brotherhood of Knights, Gawain stayed as long as he dared, until All Saints’ Day. The last night before he was to leave they held a great feast in his honor, and everyone at Camelot, lords and ladies, squires and servants, did all they could to keep him merry. But try as they might the jokes and the laughter seemed flat and forced, the smiles thin, for all of them realized this was likely to be the last time they would dine with brave Gawain. No knight in that court was more well-loved and honored than he. Bravely but sadly, Gawain rose to his feet. “Uncle, good King, my dear friends,” he said, “the time has come for me to say goodbye. You know where I have to go, what I have to do, and that God alone can save me and bring me home again. So pray for me. It’s all you can do. Be sure that whatever happens, I will not dishonor you.”
One by one, each said their sad farewells. Sir Lancelot, Sir Galahad, Sir Bors, Sir Bedivere, every knight that was there, and Queen Guinevere too, and all the ladies of the court, many of them weeping openly at this parting. Gawain put on it as brave a face as he could. “A man must do and dare,” he said. “No more tears. I’ll be back.”
The next morning, after a sleepless night filled with fears and doubts, Gawain rose early and called for his servants to fetch him his clothes and armor. The servants put on first his doublet and fur-lined cape, which they fastened tight around his neck against the cold. They strapped on his armor, all brightly burnished, until he was covered in steel — thighs, arms, even his hands. Over it all they hung a heavy scarlet surcoat, wonderfully embroidered, and around this at his waist, they tied a silken sword belt of peacock blue. With his gold spurs at his heels and his sword in its sheath, he was as ready as he would ever be to face any foe.
From his room, Gawain went straight to the chapel to say Mass, and then at once to the courtyard to Gringolet, his waiting warhorse, who was as magnificently dressed and armored as his master. Once he was settled in the saddle, the servants handed him up his helmet. And what a helmet it was. Padded on the inside, it was polished and jeweled on the outside. The neckguard was strong enough to save him from even the most terrible of blows to the head. Once he had buckled on his helmet, he was handed his shield, with his own coat of arms embossed upon it. This was a gold pentangle, a five-pointed star, each point representing a virtue to which any true knight must aspire: loving kindness, integrity, chivalry, loyalty, and holiness. And etched on the back of the shield, where he could see it at a glance if ever his courage failed him, was the face of the blessed Virgin Mary herself.
Now as the snow fell about him, he said his last farewell to his uncle and his King, who handed him his spear. “God go with you, Nephew,” said the High King.
“Godspeed!” the servants cried, every one of them sick at heart. Not one of them believed they would ever set eyes on him again.
Once across the drawbridge, Gawain determined to put all his nagging fears and doubts behind him. He knew there was a long and dangerous journey ahead and that he would need all his wits and courage just to survive. So he spurred Gringolet on and sang out loud to give himself courage, to give himself hope. But then as he wondered which way he should go, he heard again the Green Knight’s voice in his head, “Look into the sky as you go and follow where your eyes and ears lead you.” Gawain looked up, and even as he looked, he heard above him the sound of singing, not of human voices but rather the singing of wings.
High above and ahead of him flew
a flock of geese, pointing the way north, a singing arrowhead in the sky. It was the sign Gawain knew he must follow, that would lead him sooner or later to the place he most dreaded on this earth . . . the Green Chapel of the Green Knight.
In the deep of that bitter winter, Gawain rode on through the wastelands of Britain, always keeping the flying geese ahead of him and the wild mountains of Wales to his left. At night he lay often in the open, wrapped in his surcoat with no shelter at all, with only his horse beside to protect him from the icy winds. Food in that frosty land was scarce. All he had to live on were the nuts he could scavenge — those the squirrels and dormice had not already taken. Within a few days, he found himself in the county of Wirral, where the people were as savage and inhospitable as Gawain had ever known. If he asked for food or shelter, they drove him from their hovels with curses. And if ever he asked where he might find the Green Knight of the Green Chapel, they hurled insults and stones at him and would not answer.
Far from home now and far from friends, Gawain rode, with only his guiding geese and Gringolet for company. Weakened by cold and hunger, he often had to fight off wayside robbers who lay in wait for him, or wild animals that hunted him. In the dim of dusk one evening, as he rode through a forest, he was chased by a pack of ravenous wolves. With Gringolet too exhausted to gallop, Gawain dismounted, turned to face them, and cut them down one by one as they came at him.
One time a fire-belching dragon blocked his path. Gawain at once speared him through the heart and went on his way. Wild and savage men of the woods, boars and bulls and bears, this Knight saw them all off, even the three-eyed ogre of Orall, who said he would not let him pass until Gawain had given him his horse to eat. “My Gringolet is for riding, not eating,” Gawain declared, and drawing his sword, attacked the ogre, who was twice his size. After a fierce battle that lasted all morning long, Gawain at last dealt him a deathblow, and leaving the ogre lying there, he mounted his horse again and rode on, following the geese ever northward.
But it was not these dangers that troubled Gawain most. It was the cold. Sleeping or walking, the sleeting wind cut through the armor and chilled him to the very bone. The world had frozen white and hard around him, and as he went, the knight was losing much of his strength and almost the last of his hope. He began to despair of ever finding the Green Chapel at all. There was no one to ask, no one to help him.
As he rode one day over those inhospitable hills, icicles hanging from the jagged rocks around him, Gawain looked up and saw that even his faithful geese had deserted him. “Now I will never find the place,” he said to himself. “And by my reckoning, it is Christmas Eve already.” In his misery, he prayed aloud to the Virgin Mary that in her mercy she would help him and, by some miracle, guide him to warmth and shelter that night, or he would surely die of the cold. Beneath him, Gringolet plodded on gamely through the snow, though like his master he was weary now and stumbled more than once to his knees. He had had enough. So Gawain dismounted and they walked on together, their way taking them down into a ravine overhung on both sides by wizened trees, oak and hawthorn and hazel, the whole place so dark and dank that even the birds would not sing there.
Worse was to come. Once through the ravine, they came to a swamp, where they sank so deep with every step that Gawain thought both he and Gringolet would sink altogether and never be found. Now he prayed again, even harder this time, his eyes tight shut, and crossed himself again, beseeching the Virgin Mary to save them. Then, on opening his eyes, he saw before him through the trees the towers of a wondrous castle. Out of the swamp they came, out of the shadows of the trees onto a wide sunlit plain, the great castle set in its midst.
“There’s a welcome sight, Gringolet,” he said. “Thanks be to God for it. We’re saved. But I cannot walk one step farther. Let me ride on you just this short distance and then, I promise you, you shall rest.” Gringolet stood for him, and so Gawain mounted and rode across the great plain toward the castle, which stood surrounded by a wide moat and a palisade of pointed stakes. The castle glowed gold in the evening sun — and what a castle it was! Massively built in stone, the outer walls protected a great high hall, and around this splendid hall were so many towers and turrets and pinnacles that Gawain could not count them, all of them more ornate and wonderful than anything he had ever seen.
Patting Gringolet’s neck, Gawain urged him on one last time. He rode him right to the moat’s edge, and was just about to call out when the drawbridge came down and a smiling porter appeared at the portcullis. “I wonder, good fellow,” said Gawain, “whether you might ask the lord of this fair house if I may stay awhile and rest.”
“Of course, of course,” cried the porter, “my master is not one to turn away strangers. I’m sure you can stay as long as you need to.” With that, the portcullis was raised, and at once Gawain found himself surrounded by servants, squires, and knights, all of them welcoming him most warmly. Some took Gringolet away to a stable, where that poor tired horse was rubbed down and given all the hay and straw he needed, whilst others led Gawain into the great hall of the castle, where he saw a sight to warm his heart, and his body too — a huge, crackling, roaring fire. Here, as the feeling came back to his hands and feet, they took from him his helmet and his wet surcoat and armor and gave him steaming mulled wine to drink, so hot that the cold was shivered out of him within minutes.
As he drank and warmed himself in front of the fire, into the hall strode the lord of that castle. The two knights greeted one another like old friends, though they had never set eyes upon each other before. “I thank you, good sir,” said Gawain, “for all your kindness in welcoming me like this.” Gawain felt the great strength of the man as they embraced, and saw it too in his build. Everything about him was big: his broad smile, his booming voice, his great wide shoulders, and full round face, with a bushy beard to match, thick and beaver brown.
“Fine though your clothes are,” said the lord, holding Gawain at arm’s length, “we must have you at once out of your traveling clothes and into something — how shall I put it? — cleaner.” And as they laughed together, the lord called in his servants, who led Gawain away to a bedchamber finer than he had ever known.
The walls were hung all about with the finest of tapestries. The bed curtains and coverlets were of shining silk, intricately and exquisitely embroidered with birds and flowers. Servants brought dozens of sumptuous robes, from which he could choose whichever one he thought suited him best. Then they led him back down to the great hall, where the lord and his court were all gathered to greet him. They sat him down by the fire, and at once a table was brought in and set for him. And then came the food he was longing for: thick, seasoned soups, fish of every kind — baked in salt or grilled or stewed. He ate every bit and washed it down with more mulled wine.
All this pampering had so lifted his spirits, so soothed his aching bones that Gawain soon felt completely renewed and restored. Being good hosts, the lord of the castle and his guests waited patiently until he had finished, and then at last the lord asked him what he and everyone had been longing to know. “Well, friend, will you tell us now who you are and from where you come?”
“I come from the court of the great King Arthur,” he replied, “and my name is Sir Gawain.” At this there were gasps of surprise and admiration, for Gawain’s reputation for chivalry, courtesy, and courage had gone before him. Every lord there aspired to be like him, and every lady there loved him on sight, for they could see that Gawain was as beautiful as he was brave.
By this time, it was already close to midnight, and the chapel bells were ringing, calling them to Christmas evensong. The lord of the castle led Gawain to his place of honor in the chapel and presented him to his wife, who sat opposite him across the aisle. She was a woman of such perfect beauty that Gawain found it difficult to concentrate on his prayers at all, though he knew he had much to thank his Savior for that day. She’s even more beautiful than Guinevere, Gawain thought, closing his eyes not so much to pray
as to keep himself from gazing at her in wonder. But it was impossible not to look at her. When he glanced up again, he noticed at her side a much older lady, as warty and wrinkled as the ugliest toad that ever lived. A strange pair, Gawain thought: one a wretched old hag with an evil eye, a hairy chin and a warty nose, the other a paragon of beauty with a face like an angel. But I must not let my mind think on her any further. You’re in a chapel, Gawain, and she’s another man’s wife.
But after evensong was over, Gawain could not help himself and approached the lord’s wife to converse. It was a brief meeting, long enough only for pretty compliments to be exchanged and to bid each other a fond good night. Then the lord led him to the fireside again, and the two knights drank on together happily into the small hours, reveling in each other’s company, for the two found much to love and admire in the other. “Will you stay on with us, Gawain?” said the lord, getting up to go to bed at last. “I know you’ll make our Christmas feasting all the merrier. What do you say?”
“Gladly I will,” Gawain replied. “Thank you.” And embracing one another, the two men parted and went upstairs to their beds. No knight ever slept more soundly than Gawain did that night.
So came Christmas morning, when they remembered with joy and thanks that holy child, born in a stable, who lived and died to bring peace and good will on earth. Carols there were in plenty that day, and solemn Masses sung in chapel, but chiefly it was a time for feasting and dancing. And whether dancing or feasting, Gawain found himself often drawn to the beautiful lady of the castle, like a moth to a flame. At meals they were always side by side, while the lord seemed happy enough to have the hideous old hag for company. But dazzled though Gawain was by the ravishing beauty of his constant companion, he managed to keep the talk between them polite and proper, as a good knight should. This was not at all easy, as she made it plainly obvious, to him and to everyone, that she had eyes only for him and was enthralled by every word he uttered. Thus distracted, Gawain hardly gave a thought to the fate that awaited him at the Green Chapel. But sometimes the dread of it did come over him like a dark cloud, and always the lady was there with her sparkling eyes and her infectious laughter, lifting him out of his despair, cheering his spirit.