Gawain and Lady Green (15 page)

Gawain heard that. Lady? This dismal, knocked-together “hall” boasted a lady? He had thought Lord Bright and One-Eye the only natives.

“In fact! Ha-ha!” Lord Bright thumped down his mug. “Tell me, guest, how does this plan take you? I go hunting. Anything I catch, I bring it home evening time, give it to you. You stay home here. Rest. Shine up your High Honor. (Twinkle.) Anything you catch, you give me, eve ning time. Would you call that a merry game?”

“Aye, my Lord.” (Inside his swimming head, Gawain watched a real Green Knight heft his real green ax.)

“I’d call it a right entertainment, myself!”

“Aye, my Lord.”

“Keep your mind off your troubles.”

“Aye, my Lord…”

“So we’re agreed? On both our Honor.”

Gawain started. “My Lord?”

“Ha-ha, you weren’t listening. Thought so. Look you, now. For the next three days I go hunting and give you my take. You entertain yourself, and my lady, and give me your take. Is that agreed?”

“Why…aye, my Lord.”

“Agreed! Agreed!” Lord Bright’s roar brought thatch bits drifting down from the roof like snow. “One-Eye! More ale!”

Sir, wake up!

Heh?

A horn blast shattered dream. Neighs, shouts, and the tramp of hooves sounded on all sides. Gawain came wide awake in a rush.

Holy Michael! What…

Heavy eyelids tore themselves open. Bleary eyes took in blue-and-white-striped bed-curtains above and about. Spine stretched happily on a soft mattress.

Mary be thanked, I’m in a bed! In truth, a real bed! But what’s that hunting horn blaring about?

Inner Mind said,
It’s Lord Bright, Sir. Going hunting. Listen, here come the hounds.

Ah. Lord Bright.

Dimly, Gawain remembered a round, dark face, bristling black beard, genial, rumbling voice: “I go hunting and give you my take…”

My host. Lord Bright, head of this house. Ah, aye!

He remembered coming upon this house last night at the end of dusk. It had loomed out of the dark woods, a round thatched hall with thatched outbuildings close by. A brigands’ den. Or witches’ shrine.
Was there not a fence adorned with skulls in front?

Bushes, Sir. Snowcapped bushes.

Aye. He remembered the one-eyed servant admitting him, the dark silence of the bare hall, where only the snapping fire greeted him. Fire. Food. Bed!

God be thanked for this fine bed!

First in a while, Sir.

No wonder I slept like dead drunk…

First ale in a while. That northern stuff, too.

What am I doing here?

Sir, do you not remember? You have found the Green Chapel. It waits nearby.

God shield!

Gawain suppressed a mighty groan as the whole wheel of memory rolled into consciousness. Three days more to live. Three days more of light, shadow, dark, cold, heat, hunger, maybe even food. Three days more of being Gawain, guessed soul and known body, clothed in worldly respect, fame, and glory.

Take heart, Sir. Merlin will sing of you yet more grandly.

“‘Come to my chapel, or called 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.”

Hush, Fool! Let Merlin sing as he likes. Dead, I shall not hear him.

Gawain imagined his head sliced off—this dark-haired, noble-featured head, with its quick, hard gray eyes and all its thoughts roiling within, and memories, and Gawain-ness.

“Never another shall match his mien;

Gawain, the best knight that ever was seen.”

He lay still and stiff, staring up at the blue and white stripes angling down. Just outside, the horn sounded again. Dogs answered, and there was a great tramp of hooves.

Somewhere in the woods about, boar and stag must hear this uproar. Heads must rise, ears flex, hearts thump. For the first time in his life, Gawain seemed to hear horn and hunt coming after him, and almost upon him. In fleeting vision he saw himself flee in front of the hounds, he who had always chased behind.

Maybe you could use these days to repent, Sir.

Repent!

Come, Sir. Famous you are, and well deserve to be. Sinless you are not.

Gawain let his eyelids sink shut. Small, remembered sins flitted through his skull. Childish lies told to Mother’s cold face; a brother beaten up behind her kitchen house; a frightened slave girl in Uncle’s Dun; anger; more anger.

(Anger was always my Cardinal Sin.)

After Pride, Sir.

Justified Pride is no sin! We cannot all be humble cowherds and cowards. Some of us are born to rule, and humility in such men may be itself a sin.

Sir, you are turned philosopher!

A girl lay asleep in a cave on a rainy moor. Gawain took her knife and their pony, and stole away.

He groaned aloud.
Truth, for that one great sin I deserve the Green Chapel! Pray God Merlin and his ilk never find out!

Pray. Good idea, Sir.

Horn and hounds blaring, the hunt outside rumbled away.

With aching effort, Gawain rolled out of bed. Naked and freezing, he knelt on the floor and prayed softly, aloud. “Holy Mary! Ask your Son’s forgiveness for my great sin. You know how often, how bitterly, I have repented it.”

He repeated the prayer twice, then tried to stand up.
Oof! My head! How much ale did the good Lord Bright pour down me?

Momentarily flopped on the floor, he remembered Lord Bright’s words. “I go hunting and give you my take. You entertain yourself and give me your take. On both our Honor.”

Strange. What can I take here in his hall, that I should give him?

Well, Sir. If you take nothing, you need give nothing.

Right. But how did I come to this sad pass, that I can hardly lift myself off the floor?

Sir, you are mightily exhausted.

Aye. In bone, muscle, and innards.

Climb back into bed, Sir. Lord Bright himself advised that.

Dizzy and gasping, Gawain hauled himself back into the warm bed within the warm curtains. Never since childhood had he been ill—only wounded—and it never occurred to him that he might be ill now. Gratefully, he closed his eyes…

Sir! Wake up!

Heh?
Gawain started awake.

Someone at your door.

Right. A slight sound at the door.

Spy, Sir!

Gawain opened one eye and lifted a corner of curtain.

He spied while softly, the door opened. Softly, a woman entered.

Tall and lean, she was gowned and wimpled in rose-dyed wool that let no strand of hair show. In one hand she carried a tankard.

Breakfast!

But this woman was no servant, come to bring ale and take away the chamber pot. Jewels gleamed green on wrists and fingers and neck. A fine gauze veil shadowed half her face, and about her slender waist wound a green lace girdle, shot with gold. She stood and moved with a pride that somehow seemed almost familiar… but could not be familiar. Could it?

Head swimming, at a loss for right word or action, Gawain dropped the curtain corner and pretended sleep.

He heard the soft
snick
of the door closing, and a hasp drawn across. He heard a whisper of swaying robe and curtain swept aside. Morning light touched his face. He breathed slowly and relaxed his eyelids, as he had learned to fool Nurse long ago in Mother’s house. Then after Nurse went away, thinking her charges asleep, he and his brothers would jump out of bed…

He felt the woman—the lady—standing there over him. He felt her keen gaze.

To his shock, he felt the bed depress slightly as she sat down beside him. He drowned in heady perfume and a tingling physical awareness.

By Saint John, who can this be?

You know, Sir. Lady Bright. Lord Bright mentioned her at dinner.

God’s teeth! I’m expected to entertain her!

Early to start.

Maybe she wants to entertain me! What shall I do?

Wake up, Sir. For courtesy.

Gawain opened his eyes and saw the lady smiling down at him. This close she was handsome, if a bit thin. Maybe the half veil was a good idea. Her lower face looked somewhat coarse. Peasantish.

But her looks hardly mattered. Sensuality surrounded her like perfume, like a pool in which she stood thigh-deep, gazing out invitingly.

(—And I thought I was too tired to feel like this!)

In a sweet, almost southern voice—though northernly accented—she said, “Good morning, Sir Gawain! I have captured you, and I shall bind you in your bed!”

He smiled up at her. “Good morning, Lady. I yield and ask for grace.”

They smiled together. She held out the tankard she carried. He sat up to drink. The warm, overly strong ale assaulted his tongue. “I am Lady Bright, your hostess. I am here to entertain you while my lord hunts.”

Gawain gulped. “Lady, let me get up and dress. Then we can talk comfortably.” He made a weak motion to rise. Her ringed hand flashed to press down his shoulder.

“Oh, no, Sir! Nay, in truth, you shall not rise from your bed. I mean to sit here and talk with my captured knight. For I know who you are.”

“Why Lady, I am—”

“I know you are Sir Gawain of the Round Table, King’s Companion and nephew, of whom bards sing—even the great Merlin—and who is honored far and wide and everywhere he rides.”

“Well…” Gawain felt the accustomed pleasure of praise warm face and body.

“Now I have you in my house!” she continued. “Drink, Sir Gawain.” He drank again. “Now you and I are alone, and the door shut, and the hasp drawn, and my lord and his men gone hunting.”

“Aye, Lady?” Gawain was uneasily reminded of a tale Lancelot told, of being taken asleep in a wood by three Fey ladies and their enchantment-enslaved knights. This one lady needed no knights or enchantment! Her perfume, of body and mind, was enchantment enough.

“So! Since I have in my hands him whom all the world loves, I mean to use my time well while it lasts.” She took the tankard from
him and set it on the floor. Very simply she said, “You are welcome to my body. I am here to serve you.”

What!

So? This is not the first woman to creep to your bed. Look you not so abashed!

Body agreed eagerly. But Gawain thought,
God shield, this lady is Lord Bright’s wedded wife! Honor absolutely forbids.

He said, “In good faith…I think…”

“Yes?”

He collected his wandering tongue and thoughts. “In good faith, I think you mistake me for some other man. I am…” He swallowed and managed unfamiliar words. “I am unworthy of the high honor you show me. By God, Lady, in any other way I can serve you…it would be pure joy.”

“There are ladies enough in the world who would give much treasure and gold to have you in their hands, as I have you now! Sir Gawain, I would gladly do anything for you.”

“Lady, Mary save you! I admire your generosity. But it is I who should serve you.”

“I think otherwise. For believe me, if I were the richest woman in the world and could choose any lover I liked, for your beauty and fame and courtesy I would choose you.”

“You have already chosen your lord well.” Gawain thought of Lord Bright, riding hearty and hale now in the woods, and this tall, thin lady reeking of attraction, together. He thought he had spoken right; truly, they made a good pair. “But I am very proud of the worth you put on me…” He was falling asleep as he talked!
That was strong ale in that tankard. “I will be your knight, Lady, and take you for my sovereign…”

She stood up and away. From cracked-open eyelids he saw her stand against morning light, holding the bed-curtain back. To his relief, the demanding pressure of her attraction moved a little away.

“I wonder if you really are Sir Gawain, King’s Companion!”

“Lady, why so?” (Could he have failed in courtesy or shown weakness?)

“From what I have heard of Sir Gawain, he would never dally so long with a lady without asking a kiss!”

Gawain silently cursed the inventions of imaginative minstrels. But…a kiss. One harmless kiss.

Groggily, Gawain drew himself up in the bed. “Lady, gladly will I kiss you at your command, for—” She fell upon him.