At the Crossing Places (22 page)

M
Y STONE FLARED LIKE A DYING CANDLE, LIKE SUN-
light swiping one of the little glass windows in the solar. Rose-gold first: then silver, freezing and blue.

It's beginning to snow. How strange to see sky-feathers in my stone, when today the sun never blinked and I baked a hen's egg on the flat stone in the middle of the river.

I can see Arthur-in-the-stone, entering the great hall at Camelot with Guinevere. The whole company rises to greet them.

Sir Erec, Sir Fergus, and Sir Gawain. Sir Helain, Sir Ither, Sir Joram, and Sir Kay. Side by side and shoulder to shoulder, each knight is as high and as low as all his peers. The Round Table shines like a water lily.

“You know my rule,” the king calls out. “It's New Year's Eve and I won't eat one mouthful of this feast until I see or hear of some marvel. Something to sharpen the appetite!”

Now the trumpeters try to raise the hall rafters, and the pipers point the way to love, the drummers pound their stretched skins. Together they play this New Year's promise and its resolution.

But now there's a loud banging and the hall's dark mouth swings open. A huge knight rides in.

He's as large as a troll and green! Completely green. His skin, his surcoat and tunic and boots, they're grass-green and willowgreen, first-dawn, rosemary.

He's wearing a silken cloak, and now he's so close I can see it's embroidered with hundreds of birds and butterflies—all of them green. No sword or spear. No shield. In his left hand he's holding a branch of holly, and in his right hand a battle-ax.

The green blade is more than three feet long. The spike's inlaid with gold studs.

The Green Knight slowly rolls his bloodshot eyes, so that everyone in the hall has to meet his gaze or avoid it. He clears his throat and spits on the rushes. “Who's the kingpin here?” he demands in a deep voice.

Arthur-in-the-stone stands up. “I am Arthur,” he says. “You're welcome here. Will you sit at our feast?”

“Heaven help me!” booms the Green Knight. “I'm not staying that long. But I've heard your court is the bravest, the very best on this middle-earth, so I thought I'd come and see for myself. I haven't come to pick a fight.” The Green Knight glares around him. “Anyhow, there's no one here worth fighting. I could beat all these beardless boys with my eyes shut. No, I come in peace. You can see this holly. All I hope is that you'll play a Yuletide game.”

“Name it!” the king says.

“I'll name it, but who dares play it?” the Green Knight asks. “Which man here dare exchange blows with me? I'll give him this ax and he can strike me once, if he promises to stand and take my blow. Not today! No! A year and a day from now.”

No one says anything at all. The Green Knight laughs, a hard, biting laugh. “I see,” he says. “And this is King Arthur's court?”

The king looks at his knights and not one of them meets his gaze.

“What are you all made of?” the Green Knight demands. “Sawdust? Feathers?”

Arthur half-rises from his chair and leans on the edge of the table until his wrists stretch tight. “No one here is scared by you,” he says. “I'll strike you myself. Give me your ax!”

Now Sir Gawain leaps to his feet. “Never!” he shouts. “That's not fitting.”

The Green Knight smiles and swings down out of his saddle. He's a whole head taller than anyone else in the hall. “That's more like it,” he growls.

“Sire,” Sir Gawain says to the King, “give me this quest. I'll strike the blow.”

“Cut off his head,” Arthur says. “That'll keep him quiet!”

“Tell me your name,” the Green Knight says, his eyebrows bristling, “so I know I can trust you.”

“Gawain.”

“Very good!” says the Green Knight, his voice deep inside his throat.

“But where will I find you?” Sir Gawain asks. “I don't even know your name.”

“All in good time,” the Green Knight replies. “Strike me first, and then I'll tell you!”

Now the Green Knight leans right forward. I can see the nape of his neck.

Sir Gawain places his left foot a little in front of his right. He grips the huge ax, and with a shout cuts off the Green Knight's head.

The head rolls over the hall floor, right up to Guinevere's feet.
But the Green Knight's body doesn't fall over. No! It strides after its own head and bends down and picks it up.

Now the Green Knight mounts his horse and holds up the head by the hair. He turns it to face Sir Gawain, and the head slowly clears its throat.

“I am the Knight of the Green Chapel. Keep your word, Gawain! Come to the Green Chapel on New Year's morning.”

Now the head chuckles, and its bloodshot eyes glare at Sir Gawain. And with that, the Green Knight rides out of the hall.

My whole stone is sparkling. Hoarfrost! Thick, white hoarfrost. Each grass blade, each twig: The whole world is wearing dazzling, spiky armor.

Now I can see Sir Gawain again, one year later, and he's riding Kincaled north through wild hill country. They're making their way into a freezing forest. Tangled trees. Gruff rocks and hillocks of long-haired moss.

A ragged army of sparrows hops from branch to branch ahead of Sir Gawain, peeping and squeaking, and now he crosses a quagmire to the base of a waterfall. It's curtained with icicles, but water's still cascading into the pool.

Sir Gawain dismounts and kneels on the bone-hard ground.

“It's Christmas Eve,” he says. “Mary, Mother of Jesus, show me where in the morning I can hear Mass.”

For a while Sir Gawain stares into the seething pool and the freezing air hanging over it. He sighs and crosses himself. And as soon as he remounts and takes Kincaled's reins, he sees the outline of a castle through the trees.

High white walls. Towers and turrets. Peep windows, parapets,
clusters of pinnacles. They look as if they've been cut out of parchment and fastened to the pale blue sky.

Sir Gawain rides up to the moat, and a man looks down from a parapet.

“God's greetings!” Sir Gawain calls. “Will you ask your lord to give me shelter?”

Before long, the same man lets down the drawbridge, and Sir Gawain rides into the castle courtyard. One servant leads Kincaled away, two more take Sir Gawain's helmet, sword, and shield, and a fourth leads him to his room, to disarm and wash and put on fresh clothing—a maroon mantle, lined with ermine.

When Sir Gawain enters the hall, he sees the lord of the castle standing in front of a blazing fire, rubbing his large red hands. He's a large, well-built man, and his beaver beard looks like a spade. His face is fiery.

Sir Gawain walks up to him and embraces him.

“You're most welcome,” says the lord. “All the more so on Christmas Eve.”

Near to the fire, there's a trestle table covered with a pressed linen cloth and laid with a napkin and a saltcellar, a silver spoon, and a knife.

“You must be ravenous,” the host says. “We've eaten already. We eat early here, up in this wilderness.”

First, a bowl of fish broth. Now, grilled trout and salmon baked in fine pastry, both of them served with tasty sauces.

“A feast!” says Sir Gawain.

“Fast, more like!” replies his host. “We'll feast tomorrow. Eat up now!”

Once Sir Gawain has eaten, his host asks him where he has come from.

“The court of King Arthur,” Sir Gawain replies.

“King Arthur!” exclaims the host. “King by blood and king by deed! The best of young men!”

“He is,” Sir Gawain says.

“You've ridden all that way? Two hundred miles! What was your business there?”

“I serve the king. I'm his nephew.”

“You!” bellows the host, and he thumps the table so hard the saltcellar jumps in alarm. “King Arthur's nephew?”

“I'm a knight of his Round Table.”

The host explodes with delight. He waves his arms in the air, and the salmon and trout stare at him with bulging eyes. “A knight of the Round Table,” he chuckles. “Think of that! A knight of the Round Table at our humble Christmas feast. You do us great honor.”

Sir Gawain shakes his head.

“Will you tell me your name now,” the host asks, “or can I guess it?”

“Gawain.”

The host leaps to his feet and gazes at the rafters. “God be praised!” he calls out. “Sir Gawain here, in my uncouth castle!”

At this moment, two ladies enter the hall. The host's wife is extremely beautiful, even more so than Guinevere, and I can see Sir Gawain thinks so too. She has laughing grey eyes and a broad brow, and the most lovely full lips.

The other lady is three times as old, maybe even older. Her skin's as wrinkled as parched barley, and it's grey.

“Just in time!” the host exclaims. “Do you know who this is?”

Sir Gawain and the two ladies greet one another, and the host's wife asks, “What brings you here, so far from court, on Christmas Eve?”

“I've no choice,” replies Sir Gawain. “I gave my word to go to a place I don't even know how to find. On New Year's morning. Have you ever heard of the Green Chapel? The Green Knight?”

The host leans back and laughs. “The Green Chapel!” he bellows. “That's only a couple of miles away.”

Sir Gawain stares at his host, amazed.

“You're exhausted,” the host says, “and no wonder. You need food and drink and sleep, and plenty of them. I'll tell you what. On the last three days of the year I always go hunting, but you stay here. Sleep late, and when you rise my wife will keep you company.”

The host's young wife smiles at Sir Gawain.

“Not only that!” the host exclaims. “Let's make a bargain. Whatever I win out in the forest, I'll give to you. And whatever you win, here in the castle, you must give to me. How about that?”

“Gladly,” says Sir Gawain.

At once a servant steps forward and pours more wine. Christmas Eve grows old and yawns. Two servants with flaming brands lead Sir Gawain away to his own room.

I
RAN UP THE STONE STEPS, THREE AT A TIME. I HURLED
myself onto the window ledge in the evening sunlight, and broke the wax seal, and unrolled the little square of parchment:

Winnie to Arthur
on the fifteenth day of August

To my well-beloved friend

I greet you and send you God's blessing. I am not skilled at writing like you because you write everything and this is the first letter I have written so can you read my words.

You know I placed the sprig under my pillow. I did see the person, Arthur. If I agreed, I wonder whether you would agree. What do your head and heart say. You will inherit Catmole so I can speak to my father and he likes you I know.

If you want to know how I am, I am heartsick and I will be till you write to me. Please let me know when you are leaving.

May the Blessed Virgin Mary keep you safe. Written at Verdon

BY YOUR LOVING WINNIE

A
LMOST AS SOON AS I'D READ WINNIE'S LETTER, MILON'S
messenger arrived from Champagne. Then Oliver rode in from Caldicot, and early yesterday morning we left for Wenlock, so I don't know when I'll be able to reply to Winnie's letter.

Anyhow, what am I going to say?

Would I agree?

It's all a tangle. I won't know exactly what I'm going to write until I'm holding my quill and fingering the piece of parchment. Then my head and heart will start to speak my words to me.

“It's all agreed,” Lord Stephen told me later in the evening. “We'll leave for Soissons one month from today: the seventeenth day of September. Milon will arrange for us to meet Count Thibaud—and that's when we'll take the Cross.”

The most important thing in my whole life. The day when I dedicate myself. My own crossing-place.

“Before that, there's our harvest to bring home,” Lord Stephen went on, “and the extra precautions in case any Welshmen do show their faces, and your visit now in Wenlock, and then Caldicot, and we must plan all the day stages of our journey, and attend to our horses and armor, and our clothing.”

“How long will we be away, sir?”

“No more than six weeks,” Lord Stephen replied. “But from
now until the day we leave, you'll find each day passes more quickly than the previous one.”

Oliver and Miles and I were in the saddle for most of the day, and Oliver kept beaming at me and gently sighing to himself. He's just the same as ever.

“What about your reading and writing?” Oliver asked. “You are practicing each day?”

“I was.”

“What does that mean?”

“With Haket.”

“Ah, yes!” said Oliver. “Disgraceful! There's always a rotten apple somewhere in the barrel, and it has to be dug out. What about the girl?”

“Rowena,” I said. “She's all right now. She's helping Gubert in the kitchen.”

“Anyhow,” Oliver went on, “why can't you read with Miles?”

“We're going to,” I said. “Aren't we, Miles? But first there was the harvest, and now—”

“The only time is now,” Oliver said. “The person who thinks he can put things off until tomorrow will never reach the gates of paradise.”

“I'm not putting things off,” I said indignantly. “I'm riding with you to Wenlock so I can learn about writing and painting.”

Oliver patted his stomach and beamed at me. “Very true, dear boy,” he said. “And about time too.”

I do like Oliver. I like arguing with him, and although I often disagree with what he says, he always makes me think. By the time we rode into the priory, he had delivered his opinion on a hundred
subjects, and we'd talked about the Saracens, whom Oliver despises, and about Merlin. I know Oliver says he is a heretic, but all the same, I think he still misses him.

Before I knew Sir John had arranged for me to be Lord Stephen's squire, I was worried in case he meant me to be a priest or a schoolman, or even a monk.

I'm glad he didn't. For most of the day, monks here at Wenlock are not allowed to talk to one another, and they have to get up in the middle of the night to sing Matins. I sometimes feel lonely at Holt, but it would be much worse if I were a novice monk. I wouldn't be able to see Winnie.

The old monk in the cell next to mine has stopped me from getting to sleep. First he kept snorting like a wild boar, and then I think a nightmare must have ridden him, because he started to yell. He's quiet now, but I'm wide awake, and I've been pretending to be a novice here at Wenlock:

We're allowed to speak
between None and the supper bell
if we need to,

but slowly each monk grows
to love
his own silence.

I talk to Winnie half the time
in my head
but I can't always
hear her answers.
The prior says time will be my friend.

You can never hear all the words
read during supper in the refectory,
but tonight
there was not much chewing
and the wind stopped whistling.

Darius sealed Daniel in the lair
but an angel came in the blue hour
and shut the lions' mouths.

Most nights there are sudden yelps
in the cells near mine,
horrid mutterings and gasps.

I am excused Matins
because, the prior says,
green bones need growing time.

Little Brother of the Watches,
speak to me.

Miles has visited this priory several times before, and in the scriptorium this morning, old Brother Austin and Brother Gerard treated him like a friend. In fact, Brother Gerard embraced him, and Miles's long white face turned quite pink!

I don't know why Miles didn't become a monk. He doesn't think he'll ever get married, and his books are his best friends. His beard hair is silky and he's so light-footed I never hear him until he's standing beside me.

The moment you climb up to the scriptorium, which is quite warm because it's above the kitchen, it's like entering a world inside our world, with its own language and methods, even with its own time.

Or rather, you leave time outside the door. If you're a scribe, each stage takes just as long as it must take. And if you try to rush it, you will wreck everything. I often get impatient, so I don't think I would have made a good scribe.

“Is it true two novices work with you?” I asked the brothers.

Brother Austin shook his head, and I noticed that it's somehow too large for his body. “It was true,” he said. “We've still got Greg—he's doing the dirty work—but Crispin's in the infirmary.”

Brother Austin and Brother Gerard caught each other's eye.

“More than one month now,” Brother Gerard said. “It's was dreams first. The devil got inside him and howled. And now he's wasting. Just wasting!”

“Betony,” said Oliver. “The only cure.”

“We've tried that,” said Brother Austin. “And jasper.”

“Take it to bed with you,” Oliver said. “Hold it tight and it should drive out the dark ones.”

Brother Austin sighed. “We need him here,” he said, “but he's halfway to God. His skin's like goat parchment.”

He pointed at a goat's pelt stretched on a hoop-frame to dry. It was grey, brownish grey.

“You see these pegs?” said Miles. “You turn them each day to stretch the skin while it's drying.”

“Is that when it tears?” I asked. “The parchment I write on always has holes in it.”

“That was Crispin's job,” said Brother Gerard. “Checking for tears and stitching them up. You have to do that while the skin's still damp.”

“Look at this piece!” complained Brother Austin, pointing to a second frame. “Like a slice of cheese after the mice have got at it.”

“Another trouble with goat,” added Brother Gerard, “is that it's so thin: It curls easily. Very poor parchment, really.”

“But some vellum—” Miles began.

“Vellum?” I asked.

“Any kind of parchment,” Miles said. “Some vellum is almost furry, and some almost shines…some's thin, and some too thick to fold…At Holt I have one piece with ghost-branches inside it—”

“Deerskin,” said Brother Gerard at once. “That's the blood that was inside the skin when the beast died.”

“Some pieces have ridges,” said Miles.

“They do,” said Brother Austin. “Where the backbone has run under the skin.”

Soaking the skin in lime and water and scraping away all the hair and stretching the skin on a frame and shaving it…rubbing it all over with pumice-bread…sewing together the gatherings…ruling the pages with a scraper but being very careful not
to cut right through them: all this and more before you even begin to cut your quills and make your inks and blacken them.

“Two inkhorns,” said Brother Gerard. “One for black, one for red. Black for the text, red for headings and initials.”

“And red-letter days,” Brother Austin said, smiling.

“I love making ink,” I said. “It's a kind of magic. Ink is the words' blood.”

We had to leave the scriptorium for Terce and then for Sext, and after that there was dinner. Brother Almund is so short he could only just peer over the reading-desk, and he read so quietly I could scarcely hear him.

When we returned to the scriptorium, Brother Austin led us to a sloping desk with an unfinished page on it, its weights dangling over the edges.

“Now, Arthur!” said Brother Austin. “Sit down!”

The burnished gold leaf and vermilion and blue of the initial
A
! The height of the writing-space matching the width of the page! The words, purplish. The lettering, so simple and stately, but a little larger at the bottom of the page than at the top…

“All this to the glory of God!” said Oliver grandly. “Truly, the art of the scribe is a sacrament!”

“Read the words!” Brother Austin told me.

“
A,
” I began. “Arthur!”

Arthur? I looked up and saw the monks and Miles were smiling.

“Arthur,” I read, “you need a chair with high arms and a backrest, and a footstool. You need a knife to shape your quill, and don't
forget to scrape out the fuzzy part on the inside. You need pumice-bread or a boat's tooth to polish the parchment, so that the ink does not run…”

Oliver puffed himself up and sighed rather noisily. I could tell he thought the monks had been wasting their time, and their precious parchment, but at least he didn't say anything.

“I copied it very early this morning,” Brother Gerard said. “We are lost to the world here, and sometimes the world forgets us. But take this with you, and you'll remember us.”

“I will!” I cried. “I write words each day, and now it will all be different. And when Lord Stephen and I join the crusade, and have to fight, I'll remember the peace in this scriptorium.”

“
Deo gratias!
” announced Brother Austin. “Come on, or we'll be late for None.”

“And if we are,” Brother Gerard added, grinning from ear to ear, “Prior Humbert will castrate us!”

Late this afternoon, Lady Marie de Meulan arrived here with three servants, and they're staying in the prior's own lodgings.

Brother Gerard told me that she writes story-poems that are recited in courts and castles all over England. The first time she came to Wenlock, she recited one about two lovers and it wasn't really Christian at all.

Lady Marie is French, and quite tall and lean, and she has piercing blue eyes. She seems rather proud and expects people to defer to her, but Brother Gerard says she's kind and she has already visited Crispin in the infirmary.

This evening, I saw her on her own in the prior's garden. She
stretched out her right hand and held it very still, and then—
chook! chook! chook!
—a nightingale flew out of a willow bush and nestled into it.

She isn't a saint, is she?

I heard the bell toll the second hour, and now all the monks have come back from Matins, flip-flopping down the passage to their own cells.

Quite soon, the choir of birds will be clearing their throats and singing their own sweet offices. Makers of light!

Is there a prayer for sleep? Words that dawdle and begin to forget themselves?