Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (22 page)

Lance and Mordred dashed up from the stables, Arthur and Bedivere from the barn, all of them hot and sweaty and full of hope. Lance came to stand by me, while Arthur and his foster brother waited to greet their longtime friend.

The Prince of Orkney was haggard and dirty, his clothing mud-stained, his new cape torn in several places. He dismounted at the foot of the steps, pausing for a moment to speak to the young man who accompanied him.

The youth was dressed in pelts and homespun, and had tied back his long dark hair with a thong from which hung a clutch of kingfisher feathers. He took charge of the warhorse while Gawain turned to Arthur.

The High King’s nephew went down on one knee as slowly and stiffly as an old man, yet beneath the years of toil and turmoil, I saw once more the impish youth who’d knelt at such a step and handed up a bouquet of wildflowers when Arthur and I were wed.

“M’lord,” he croaked, giving Arthur a lopsided grin, “the Green Man sends greetings and compliments to Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, and to the brave men of his Round Table.”

Arthur smiled broadly and, throwing his arms wide, bade his Champion rise. A great cheer went up around us, and Arthur asked Lucan to get out a keg of our finest beer and share it around as we listened to the Orcadian’s tale.

In the Hall everyone gathered around Gawain, some finding chairs, others sitting on bolsters on the floor. The younger warriors pulled the benches from under the loft, and I saw Mordred, eyes bright with anticipation, rest his chin on his hand and stare admiringly at his brother.

Gawain stood in the middle of the circle, gazing around at his friends as though he could not believe he was safely home among them.

“I went from Camelot with a heavy heart,” he began, “and made my way toward the Welsh coast, stopping to see old friends and mending fences I had once left broken. But mostly I wanted to talk with the hermit at Saint Govan’s head.”

He found the holy man perched on a ledge in the cliff face above the sea, contemplating the sky and clouds and wind. Gawain stayed with him through the whole of November, trying to prepare himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. The shadow of fear grew around him, but the hermit prayed with him every day, forgiving his past sins and calling down the Christian God’s powers to protect him against the Pagan fiend. Finally, just before he left, Gawain asked to be baptized.

When he resumed his journey, he kept to the forest, avoiding both Roads and towns in order to remain pure in his resolve and not be tempted from his purpose. His only company was a lone wolf which followed his progress, skulking at the edges of his fire at night and howling at the moon when he tried to sleep.

At the northern coast of Gwynedd he turned east, riding along the coast beside the Straits of Menai. Beyond the narrow waterway lay the Isle of Mona, sacred center of the Druids before the Legions came. He was terrified that the Old Gods would reach out and reclaim him, so he made the Christian sign, praying that the power of the cross would keep the Pagan nature of his early life at bay.

When he reached the entrance to the region known as the Wirral, Gawain stopped at a crofter’s hut to ask directions to the Perilous Chapel. The farmer blanched and clenched his teeth tight against incautious words as he nodded toward the verge where the dark, primal wildwood began. So, with a falling heart, Gawain turned his steed into the trackless forest.

***

“It was just as frightening within as without,” the King’s Champion reported, pausing to have his drinking horn refilled. “And compared with Logres, where grace and light and civilization make their home, it was a tangle of terrors.”

His meeting with the Green Man was only three days away, and after so many weeks alone, Gawain ached for the company of other humans. Then, toward evening, he came upon a large meadow commanded by a roundhouse of wattle and daub topped by a heavy thatched roof, and his heart lifted with joy. The sound of children’s laughter ran out to greet him as the leather curtain over the doorway was thrown open and the lord of the steading came out.

“He was short and sturdy,” Gawain recalled, “with the dark look of the Ancient Ones, and his eyes were full of mischief. He capered on the edge of the green, gesturing me to come nearer, and when he spoke, it was in a language very much like that of the Prydn.”

The lord’s name was Bercilak, and his household was as fey and lively as he was. Nowhere in the roundhouse did Gawain see anything made of iron, for the “firstborn of the gods” distrust the metal used by “tall-folk,” relying instead on stone and wood and bronze.

“And gold,” the Orcadian added. “Everywhere you looked there were golden vessels and plates, boxes and jewelry, utensils and baubles. Like the Prydn, they seemed to have a treasure that they loved for beauty’s sake alone.”

I nodded silently, remembering the night Gawain had brought the Prydn Queen to our Court. Small, pert, and homely, Ragnell had altered a tunic of mine to fit her tiny frame, and on it she’d sewn coins from Roman times along with beads and bangles and woven bands of gold. She herself was adorned with armbands and amulets, torcs and diadems and dangling earrings, so that in the torchlight, she looked like a miniature Goddess covered with the precious metal. It had certainly increased the speculation that she was, indeed, one of the fey.

Gawain’s voice cut across my reverie. “They gave me the seat of honor, and we sat around the fire-pit, dipping into the communal pot and tearing scraps of heavy bread from lumpy loaves.”

He began to feel like one of their own, for they wrapped him in warmth and laughter, and took him to their hearts. After so many weeks of lonely fear, Gawain’s soul filled with joy.

When the dining was over, the Champion of the Round Table explained the reason for his journey, and there was much buzzing and consultation before the host called for silence.

“You must be a very brave man,” Bercilak said admiringly. “It’s clear you know how forfeit your life will be before the Green Man. No one escapes his magic unless he himself wills it.” There was a mumble of agreement around the circle, and the household eyed Gawain with a respect that verged on awe.

“The Perilous Chapel is not far from here,” Bercilak’s lady said impulsively. “Why don’t you stay with us until the time of your ordeal?”

The woman was very young and proud, and she talked as much with her hands as with words, sometimes with neat, elegant gestures, sometimes flinging her arms about impetuously. As Gawain described her, she sounded very much like Ragnell herself.

Gawain accepted the invitation, glad of the chance to rest before going to confront his fate.

Bercilak was a fine host, and he put his entire household at the redhead’s disposal. Since Gawain was stiff and sore from so many days in the saddle, on the first day Bercilak stayed home with his guest, showing him about the steading and telling him all he knew of the Green Man’s activities—although few had seen him, the stories of his ferocity were legion.

As they moved about the holding, Gawain noticed they were accompanied by a young man, taller than the rest of the fey folk and more ruddy than dark. He was both attentive and courteous, and Bercilak treated him as a member of the family, though when Gawain asked him about the lad in private, the lord of the steading shrugged.

“That’s just Gingalin. Comes from one of those nomadic branches of the clan in the north who still follow their animals from pasture to pasture. Judging from his look, I’d say he’s a half-breed; perhaps his mother was raped by a Pict or flirted away midsummer’s night with one of those Scottish lairds. No matter—he was sent to us to learn more civilized ways, and we’ve been pleased to make him honorary kin.”

That night Bercilak asked if Gawain would join him on a hunting expedition the next morning, but the Orcadian was still worn out from his trip and mindful that it was his last day before he must go to the Chapel. So he asked to stay at the steading, and Bercilak announced that was a fine idea; he would commend the guest to the care of his wife.

“But, lest you think I’ve forgotten you,” the burly warlord added with a grin, “I shall make you a gift in the evening of whatever I catch during the day, in return for your doing the same for me.” His eyes sparkled with good nature, and he tugged absently on one ear as he watched his guest. “Whatever each of us encounters shall be forfeit to the other, eh?”

The Ancient Ones are famous for their love of games and tricks, so Gawain assumed it was a custom of the place and, bowing gallantly, agreed to the conditions.

He slept fitfully that night, and his dreams were haunted by the specter of the Green Man and the memory of the nomad queen he had lost so long ago. Between the one he sought to find and the one that stalked him, he raced through a nightmare landscape, sweating and tossing on his pallet until, with a cry, he sat bolt upright, trying to free himself from the dream.

***

“That’s when I saw Bercilak’s wife.” The redhead paused and looked upward to the rafters, eyes shining, though I couldn’t tell if it was with tears or memory.

“She was standing by the window in my sleeping niche, and when she pulled the heavy drapes aside, the bright light of morning filled the room.

“‘What a wonderful day,’ she cried, running toward me with outstretched arms. She was all things glorious in life, all that I was so soon to lose, and I suddenly wanted desperately to take her in my arms and know that now, for this moment at least, I was still alive. Indeed, I had a hard time containing both our desires.”

There was a long silence, then the Prince of Orkney finished off his ale with a sigh.

“It was a wretched predicament, for as a good Christian I could not make love to my host’s wife. Yet when I refused her invitation, she chided me, saying I dishonored my oath to come to all women’s aid. So I was deeply relieved when she laughed and made a jest of it, then turned to go.”

But as she reached the door, she slipped off the girdle that bound her waist and gave it to Gawain as a gift. “It will keep its wearer from dying a violent death—and you can use it at the Green Man’s Chapel tomorrow,” she said, coming back to the bed and handing over the talisman.

Gawain took the thing in his hands. It was green and gold and worked with ornate symbols and spells that reeked of ancient magic. Perhaps, indeed, it could save him from certain death at the hands of the Old God.

He looked up at his hostess, hope for his own survival beginning to course through his blood. She stared down at him tenderly and, reaching out her hand, ran her small fingers along the scars on his cheek where Ragnell had scratched him when they parted. It touched him deeply and brought tears to his eyes.

That night there was much merriment when Bercilak came home, though the hunter confessed that the prey had eluded him during the day, and therefore he had no gift to exchange with Gawain.

“Nor I in kind,” the Champion said, thinking of what a narrow escape he’d had in bed. For a moment he wondered if he should give over the green-and-gold girdle, but fearing he would die without it, he kept that gift a secret.

The last evening of Gawain’s stay was spent in merrymaking, and after the feasting was done, Bercilak called Gingalin forward and presented him to the Champion. “He’ll be your guide tomorrow, when you seek the Chapel,” the warlord said, “and if you wish, he will act as your squire and bear your shield.”

Gawain liked the boy’s manner, so he handed over his armor and weapons to the youth, and when it was time for sleep, gave his host a farewell embrace. Bercilak wished him well and promised to ask the Goddess to temper the Green Man’s rage when they met.

This night the Champion got no sleep at all, so long before daylight he tied the magic girdle under his tunic and set off with Gingalin for the elusive chapel of the Green Man.

It was a cold, misty morning, and the squire led Gawain into the vapors and fogs that wreathed the high ground. Dampness dripped from fern and brake bracken while sharp, stony crags appeared and disappeared around them. Finally they came to the edge of a hidden valley where the forest drew back and an ancient, hoary barrow rose beside a spring which had frozen into feathery plumes of white ice, as though sculpted by the fey. The Prince of Orkney stared down on the scene with amazement.

The barrow was open at one end, and the eerie, keening wail of metal being sharpened on a grinding stone floated up from it. The sound screeched and skittered on the morning air and pulsed in Gawain’s blood like the beat of his heart.

***

“It was more a heathen place than a chapel,” Gawain recounted, crossing himself while various others in the Hall made the sign against blasphemy. “Grasses grew on its sides and over the top, and at one end was the dark hole of a doorway. I’d seen such barrows before, for the Prydn sometimes camp near them and go freely in and out of those Hollow Hills.”

When his drinking horn was refilled, the redhead slaked his thirst, then continued his tale.

“That’s when Gingalin suggested I give up my quest and return to Camelot without confronting the Green Man.”

The squire promised he would not mention it if Gawain chose to save himself instead of meeting the ogre. The instructions had not been clear, the appointed day might have been missed… “You know you don’t have to go to your death,” the boy added earnestly.

Gawain stared at the lad, who stared back at him from under a ledge of dark brows. There was something discomforting about the youngster’s look, and Gawain wondered suddenly if he was a devil, sent to keep him from proving himself.