The HyperTexts
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
By an unknown fourteenth-century poet
Modern English Version by John Ridland
(Copyright © 2010 by John Murray Ridland)
[Some stanzas from Part I were published in The Dark Horse #19,
Copyright © 2007 by John Murray Ridland]
PART I: Christmas at Camelot
After the siege and the assault had been exhausted at Troy,
And the city had been broken to bits, and burnt to brands and ashes,
The man who wrought that tragedy, by means of his treasonous works,
Was brought to trial for treachery, truly the worst in the world.
It was Aeneas the nobleman and his high-and-mighty kin,
Who later oppressed many provinces, becoming overlords
Of well-nigh all the wealth in the isles that lie away to the West.
After that, Romulus, rich in rank, rushed away to Rome;
He was the first with pomp and pride to build that city up,
And he named it from his own name, which now the place still bears;
Tuscius turned to Tuscany, setting up dwellings to start with;
Under Longbeard in Lombardy houses were lifted up;
And far across the French Channel, by a man named Felix Brutus
On many broad banks our Britain was happily
Created;
To war, and woe, and wonder,
By turns we have been fated;
And here both bliss and blunder
Have flourished or abated.
And after Britain had been founded by this noble lord,
Bold men were bred up in it, who loved the clash of combat;
Time after time, as the years turned, they stirred up many troubles.
And more things to marvel at have come about in this country
Than in any other that I know of, since that ancient time.
But of all the kings that ever built and ruled in Britain here,
King Arthur was the noblest one, as I
have always heard.
And therefore I intend to present an adventure, a true tale,
Which some of those among you may think more of a miracle,
An extraordinary adventure among the Arthurian wonders.
If you will listen to this tale, just for a little while,
I shall tell it to you right away, as I heard it in the court
Being told—
Here written down in ink,
A story strong and bold,
Its letters truly linked
In our Britain as of old.
King Arthur’s court lay at Camelot as Christmastime was coming,
Attended by many gracious lords, and the worthiest of knights—
All the courtly brotherhood of the world-renowned Round Table—
With costly revelry carried on, and carefree entertainments.
At times they conducted tournaments where many men tilted,
Jousting there most joyously, these knights of gentle birth,
And afterwards rode back to court to sing and dance their carols;
For there the festivities went on full strength for fifteen days,
With all the meals and merriment that anyone could devise.
Such clamorous and gleeful noise was glorious to hear,
A delightful din all down the day, and dancing through the night,
To the heights of happiness everywhere in the halls and in the chambers
For those great lords and their grand ladies, whatever they liked best.
Indeed, with all the delight in the world, they were dwelling there together,
The most noteworthy knights that ever served, save for Christ himself,
And the very loveliest ladies that had ever lived on earth,
And their king the handsomest ruler who ever had held court,
For all these fair folk in that hall were in the flush that youth
Can give,
Since Heaven had blessed them most—
Their king superlative
In mind and will, his host
The hardiest troops alive.
While the New Year still was so very young it was only newly come in,
The court was served double helpings on the daises that day.
From the moment the king had entered the hall in the company of his knights,
After Mass had been celebrated by all with chanting in the chapel,
Loud cries were being cast aloft, by clerics and the others.
“Noël!” they shouted out anew, naming it over and over,
And next the noble men ran out and passed their presents around,
Shouting loudly, “New Year’s gifts!”, and “Guess which hand it’s in!”,
Busily bantering back and forth about the presents they gave.
Ladies laughed out loud in sport even when they were losers,
And he who won would not be sorry, you may be sure of that.
They kept on making all this mirth until it was time to feast.
Then, after they had washed their hands, they went to their seats in order,
The best-born always seated above, as it seemed proper to do.
Queen Guenevere, the fairest of all, was set in their very midst,
Taking her place on the high dais, with hangings all about:
Fine silk draperies on the walls, and a canopy overhead
Of excellent tapestry from Toulouse, and cloths from Turkestan,
Embroidered, and among the threads the finest gems were set
That could be purchased in those days, indeed at any price,
With many pence.
Breathtaking to behold,
With bright gray eyes she glanced;
A lovelier gem, we’re told,
Never held men entranced.
But Arthur would not eat his meal until all the rest had been served,
So boisterous in his youthfulness, he was even somewhat boyish.
He liked his life to lie lightly on him, and two things he disliked:
Either to lie in bed too late, or to sit still for too long,
Since his young blood and restless mind kept him busy all the time.
And also another inclination had lately become his custom:
That he in his high majesty declared he would not eat
On such a festive holiday before he had been told
A weird and wonderful account of some adventurous thing,
Of some amazing marvel that he might believe to be true,
About his ancestors and their arms, or other adventurers;
Or until some true knight sought from him a man of a similar sort
To join with in a jousting match, to lay themselves at risk,
A life for a life in jeopardy, the one against the other,
Allowing Fortune to favor one, to give that man the edge.
This was the custom for the king, when he was in his court,
At each and every splendid feast among his noble people
In the hall.
Proud in both face and figure,
He ruled them, standing tall
In the New Year, full of vigor,
Making merry with them all.
So there he stood, the spirited king, steadfast and masterful,
Chatting of gracious courtly trifles in front of the high table.
There good Sir Gawain was given a seat beside Queen Guenevere,
And Agravain of the Hard Hand sat on his other side,
Both of them sons of the king’s sister, his nephews, and trusted knights.
At their table Bishop Baldwin sat, in the place of honor, by Arthur,
And Ywain, son of Urien, shared the same platters with him.
These seated on the dais were sumptuously served,
And after them many trusty men, ranged at the long side-boards.
Then the first course was carried out to the cracking sound of trumpets—
Slung under every one of which, a brilliant banner hung;
And a new noise of kettledrums combined with the noble bagpipes,
Whose loud, wild, warbling notes wakened the hall’s echoes,
So that many hearts were lifted high as the blasts of music touched them.
Dishes came fast and furiously, piled high with many dainties,
Such an abundance of fresh meats, laid on so many plates,
That the servers had trouble finding room at everybody’s place
To set the silver platters down that held the broths and stews,
On the cloth.
Each lord took what he wished,
None grudged him, none was loath;
Each pair had a dozen dishes,
Good beer and bright wine both.
But now I will say no more about the serving of their feast,
For everybody must surely know that none would be left wanting.
Another noise, entirely new, was nearing them in a rush,
And this indeed would give the King permission to eat his dinner!
For scarcely had the ringing trumpets ceased reverberating,
And the first course been served in the court, all in order of rank,
When in there burst through the hall door a terrifying figure,
The tallest in his stature that had ever stalked the earth;
From his neck to his midsection so solid and squarely-built,
And his loins and limbs of such a length and also such a girth,
I wouldn’t find it hard to grant he was genuinely half-giant!
Nevertheless I must suppose he was actually a man,
And quite the most handsome of that bulk that could ever ride a horse;
For although his body was so broad across the back and breast,
Both his belly and his waist were most becomingly slender,
And every part of him in proportion completely followed suit
When seen.
Men marveled at the hue
That stained him with its sheen;
Charging into their view,
He was—face and all—bright green!
And his clothing, like the fellow himself, was all decked out in green:
A straight, tight-fitting tunic clinging close about his trunk,
With a handsome mantle over it, decorated inside
With fur trim around the edge where the elegant lining showed,
Shining bright as ermine, and the same was seen in the hood
That was tossed back, free of his locks, and lay across his shoulders;
Snugly fitting stockings he wore, in that same shade of green,
That hugged his calves, and he had strapped on bright spurs underneath
Of shiny gold, over silken borders, which were richly striped,
And below his shanks he wore no shoes as he came riding in.
All the rest of his vesture, truly, was also sparkling green,
Both the bars running across his belt and the other brilliant stones
That were richly spread around throughout his elegant array,
Over his person and his saddle, upon a silken backing.
It would be tedious to tell you half the bright details
That were embroidered over it, the birds and butterflies,
With gay beadwork of bright green set in amidst the gold.
The pendants of the horse’s breastplate, the splendid crupper band,
The studs on the bit, and all the metal, were coated with enamel;
The stirrups he stood up in were stained in the same way,
And the saddle-bows and saddle-skirts, were an identical shade
That gleamed and glinted, all of them, and inlaid with green stones.
The horse the fellow rode on was colored the same as he,
And grand:
A green horse huge and thick,
A steed hard to command,
In its braided bridle quick,
And well-suited to the man.
The knight was splendidly decked out, with all his gear in green,
And even the hair on his head agreed, matching that of his horse,
The flowing locks were all fanned out, enveloping his shoulders.
A mighty beard as big as a bush hung covering his chest,
That, together with the splendid hair cascading from his head,
Was clipped off in a circle at the level of his elbows,
So the upper halves of his arms were hidden, precisely in the style
Of a King’s Cappadocian cape that closes around the neck.
The mane of the man’s magnificent horse looked very much like his own,
Well-curled and combed out carefully, containing many knots
That were plaited in, with golden threads among the fair green hairs,
In every case one strand of hair aligned with another of gold.
The tail of the steed and his topknot were twined in the same fashion,
Both of them being bound about with a band of the brightest green,
And studded with expensive stones all the way down to the dock,
And then lashed tightly with a thong and an intricate knot on top,
Where many brightly glittering bells of burnished gold were jingling.
Such an animal on the earth, and such a worthy rider,
Were never seen in that hall before by the eyes of any man
Or lord.
He glanced with lightning speed,
Those who saw him swore.
No man, they all agreed,
Might stand against his sword.
Nevertheless he wore no helmet, nor chain-mail hauberk either,
No steel plate over his breast and neck, nor any hint of armor,
Neither a shield nor a spear shaft with which to thrust or strike,
But in one hand, as a sign of peace, he held a holly bough,
That tree that burns the brightest green when all the groves are bare,
And in his other hand an axe, a huge and monstrous tool,
A brute of a battle-axe to describe in words, whoever might try.
The head was as long as an ell-rod, a yard and a span in length,
The spike on the tip was hammered out of green and golden steel,
The biting blade was burnished brightly, bearing a broad edge
As finely honed for slicing as a keenly whetted razor.
The shaft and hilt of the stout staff the grim man gripped it by
Were wound about with iron straps down to the butt of the helve,
And carved all over with green designs that were pleasingly engraved;
A leather thong wrapped round the shaft and fastened at the axe-head,
Looping round and round the handle all along its length,
And many choice and splendid tassels, dangling off the strap
From buttons of a brilliant green, were richly braided there.
This splendid man reined in his horse, and riding into the hall,
Drove straight up to the high dais, undaunted by any danger.
He hailed not one of them but stood and glared high over their heads.
These were the first words that he spoke: “Where,” he said, “is the man,
In charge of all this company? I would be glad to see
That lord with my own eyes, to parley with the man who wears
The crown.”
On the knights he cast his gaze;
His eyes rolled up and down;
Paused; studied to appraise
Who had the most renown.
For a long time all the men sat looking, staring at this knight,
For each one marveled to himself what such a sight might mean
That a horseman, and his horse as well, should take on such a hue
And grow as green as the grass grows, and, it seemed, even greener,
Than green enamel painted on gold, glowing even brighter.
The servants who were standing by studied him, stalking near,
With all the wonder in the world as to what he might want to do.
For many marvels had they seen, but such as this one—never;
Therefore, people decided it was a phantom, faerie trick;
Which is why so many noble knights were afraid to answer him,
And, wholly astounded at his speech, all sat as still as stones
In a swooning silence through every corner of the resplendent hall.
As if they had suddenly slipped asleep, the noise of their voices slackened
Instantly:
I think not all from fear,
But some from courtesy—
Let him to whom all defer
Address him suitably.
Then Arthur, in front of the high dais, took in this awesome marvel,
And greeted him in appropriate fashion, for he was never afraid,
Saying to him, “Sir, you are indeed welcome in this place.
I myself am the head of this house, and Arthur is my name.
Swing down lightly from your horse, and linger here, I pray,
And whatever it is you want from us, We’ll find out in a little while.”
“No, so help me Him who sits on high!” the knight replied,
“To stop for any length of time in this house was never my errand;
But since your fame, good sir, is lauded loftily to the skies,
And your castle and your knights in armor are reported to be the best,
The sturdiest men in steel armor that ever mastered steeds,
The worthiest and manliest warriors anywhere in the world,
Proven men to play against in every noble pastime,
And this place is renowned for courtliness—so I have been told—
Well, that, indeed, is what has brought me here at Christmas time.
You may be certain by this branch of holly that I bear,
I pass into this house in peace, not seeking any peril;
For if I had traveled with companions, warlike in fighting gear,
I have a hauberk at my house and a helmet there as well,
I have a shield and a sharp spear, shining splendidly,
And many other weapons at hand, that I know how to use;
But since I wish no war with you, the weave I wear is softer.
And now, if you are really as brave as all the warriors say,
You’ll grant me, out of your good grace, the simple game I seek,
By right.”
Arthur made this reply,
”If you, Sir courteous knight,
Crave unarmed combat, why,
You won’t fail to find a fight.”
“No! I’m not asking for a fight, I tell you in good faith,
For sitting about on these benches here are only beardless boys.
If I were buckled into my armor, mounted on my high steed,
There’s no man here to match me, their might is far too weak.
Therefore, all I crave in this court
is a little Christmas game,
Since it is Yule and New Year, and here are some lively lads.
If anybody now in this house imagines himself to be
So brave, so bold in his blood, and so crazy in the head
That he’ll dare to stoutly strike a stroke and receive one in return,
I shall present him with a gift, this gorgeous long-blade axe,
This battle-axe, one of the heaviest, to handle as he likes,
And I shall await the first blow, unprotected as I sit.
If any man is fierce enough to test what I propose,
Let him step smartly up to me and snatch hold of this weapon—
I’ll quit my claim on it forever, let him keep it as his own—
And I will withstand a stroke from him, unflinching, on this ground,
So long as you grant me the right to deal him one stroke in return,
To pay
Him back: yet give him a year,
Twelve whole months and a day.
All right now, quick! Let’s hear
What anyone dares to say.”
If he had astounded them at first, then now they were even stiller,
All the liegemen in that hall, the highborn and the lowly.
The man there who was sitting his horse swiveled in his saddle,
And roughly rolled his bloodshot eyes wildly around the court;
He arched his bristling eyebrows, which were gleaming a vivid green,
And pointed with his beard, back and forth, to see who would stand up.
When none would answer him man to man, he cleared his throat too loudly,
Drew himself up to his full height, and lorded it over them thus:
“What! Is this King Arthur’s house?” the haughty fellow scoffed,
“Whose fame continually runs throughout so many realms?
Where now is your arrogant pride, and your mighty conquests,
Your great ferocity and fury, and your exalted words?
Now are the revelry and renown of the famous Round Table
Overturned with a single word from a man all by himself,
For you all cringe in your cowardice, without a blow being struck!”
With this he laughed so loudly that their lord was stung to the core;
The blood shot suddenly into his fair face and cheeks from shame
And disgrace.
He grew angry as the wind,
As all did in that place.
A king of the bravest kind,
He stepped up, face to face,
To that mighty man, and said, “By Heaven, Sir, your request is daft,
And since you have asked for a foolish thing, it is fitting that you should get it.
I know of no knight here aghast at your exalted words.
Now hand me over your battleaxe, this minute, in God’s name,
And I myself shall grant the favor that you’ve requested here.”
He stepped up lightly to that knight and snatched the axe from his hand.
Then haughtily the other man dismounted to the ground.
Once Arthur had the axe in hand, he gripped hold of the helve,
And sternly swung the thing about, preparing to deal that stroke.
The strong man stood in front of him, in all his towering height,
Taller by a head and more than any in the house.
With stern expression there he stood, and stroked his bushy beard,
And with a countenance unmoved he drew his collar down,
No more daunted nor dismayed at Arthur’s sweeping strokes
Than if someone sitting on the bench had brought him a cup to drink
Of wine.
Beside the Queen, Gawain
Towards the King inclined:
“Please, sir—I speak it plain—
Let this combat be mine.
“If you are willing, my worthy lord,” said Gawain to the King,
”To command me to come up from this bench and stand beside you there—
If I, without discourtesy, might leave my place at this table,
And provided that my liege-lady shall not take it ill—
I would come forward with this counsel, before your noble court.
It seems to me an unseemly thing, if the truth were to be told,
When such a haughty challenge is tossed aloft in your high hall,
For you, although your desire is strong, to take it upon yourself,
While so many bold, brave warriors sit about you on the benches
That, under Heaven, I believe, there are none of more proven courage,
Nor fitter on the battlefield when fighting is afoot.
I am the weakest, I well know, and my wisdom is the slightest,
And the least loss of a life would be mine, were one to tell the truth.
Only inasmuch as you are my uncle am I to be praised;
There is no goodness in my body except that it bears your blood.
And since this task is so impudent, and beneath your dignity,
And because I have been the first to ask, let it be assigned to me.
And if I speak out of order, let this noble court debate
The blame.”
The courtiers whispered together,
Then all advised the same:
To rid the King of this bother
And give Gawain the game.
Then the King commanded the knight to rise from the bench and come to him,
And Gawain instantly stood up, and modestly made his way,
And kneeling down before the King, he caught hold of that weapon.
Arthur graciously let him take it, and lifting up his hand,
He gave Gawain God’s blessing, with good cheer bidding him
Be hardy in his heart and hand, both of them equally.
“Take care, cousin,” the King admonished, “that you carve just one cut,
And if you deal it adequately, I truly do believe
That you will be able to withstand any blow he shall offer after!”
Gawain went up to the huge man, with his battle-axe in hand,
And the one who stood boldly waiting for him was not in the least dismayed.
The knight who was all garbed in green addressed Sir Gawain thus:
“Let us go over our pact again, before we proceed any further.
First, I must request of you, Sir, plainly, what is your name?
Tell me truly what it is, so that I may believe you.”
“Truly, then,” that good knight said, “Gawain is what I’m called,
Who now will offer you this blow, whatever may happen later,
And on this day twelve months from now, I will take another from you
With whatsoever weapon you wish—and not from any man else
Here below.”
The other knight replied,
“Sir Gawain, on my soul,
I am greatly gratified
That you will strike this blow.
“By God, Sir Gawain,” the Green Knight said, “it’s wholly to my liking,
That I shall be taking from your hand what I have asked for here.
And you have recited without hesitation, in precisely correct terms,
And clear through, all the covenant I requested of the King,
Except that you must assure me, Sir, and swear it on your oath,
That you will seek me out yourself, wherever you suppose
I may be found upon the earth, and there receive such wages
As those you deal to me today before this noble court.”
“Where shall I seek you?” Gawain asked, “Where is your dwelling place?
I have no idea where you live, I swear by Him who made me,
Nor, Knight, do I know either your court, or even your proper name.
But direct me faithfully to your house, and tell me what you are called,
And I shall make use of all my wits to find my way to it,
And that, I swear to you, is the truth, upon my word of honor.”
“That’s quite enough in this New Year—no further oath is needed,”
Declared the gigantic man in green to the noble-hearted Gawain.
“If I can answer your questions truly, after I’ve taken your tap
And you have deftly struck me, then immediately I’ll direct you
To my house and home, and I will tell you what is my proper name;
Then you may call on me, and thereby hold yourself to our pact.
And if I am unable to speak, then all the better for you,
You may linger on in your own land, and look for me no further!—so,
Don’t hold back!
Take up your grim tool now,
And let’s see how it hacks.”
“I’ll gladly show you how,”
And Gawain stroked his axe.
The Green Knight promptly arranged himself in position on the floor;
He bent his head down a little, uncovering the flesh,
He laid his long and lovely locks forward over the crown,
Leaving his naked neck exposed, before the business at hand.
Gawain took a grip on his axe, and gathered it up high,
He braced his left foot on the floor, a little ahead of the right,
And swiftly let the heavy axe swing down on the naked neck,
So that the sharp edge of the blade sliced down into the bones
And sank clean through the shining flesh, cleaving it in two,
Until the edge of burnished steel bit straight into the ground.
The handsome head dropped from the neck, and fell onto the floor,
Where many struck at it with their feet as it was rolling about;
The blood was spraying out of the body, gleaming all over the green.
Yet the fellow neither faltered nor fell, none the worse for all of this,
But stoutly he sprang forward at once upon his sturdy shanks
And violently he lunged out where the knights stood in their places,
Caught a hold of his shapely head, and lifted it quickly up;
And after that he hurried back to his horse, and seized the bridle,
Stepped up into the steel stirrup, swinging himself astride,
And he held his own head in his hand dangling by the hair.
The rider settled himself securely, as well-seated in his saddle
As if no mishap had troubled him, although he sat in his place
With no head.
He twisted his great trunk,
That gruesome body that bled.
Many were in a funk
When all his words were said,
For now he was holding the head in his hand, upright on his palm,
Aiming its face directly towards the nobles on the dais,
And then it lifted its eyelids up, and stared with wide-open eyes,
And out of its mouth it spoke to them, in words you may now hear:
“Look to it, Gawain, that you are ready to go as you have pledged,
And seek me faithfully, my man, until you find me out,
As you have promised in this hall, in the hearing of these knights.
Make your way to the Green Chapel, I charge you, to receive
A stroke just like the one you’ve struck—as you will have deserved—
Which will promptly be repaid to you next New Year’s Day in the morning.
Many people know me as the Knight of the Green Chapel;
And so you will never fail to find me—if you seek me out.
Therefore, come, or you’ll deserve to be called a craven coward.”
With a violent yanking on the reins, he turned his horse around
And hurtled out at the hall door, holding his head in his hand,
So fast that the fire flew from the flints struck by the horse’s hooves.
To what country he then returned, nobody there knew,
Any more than they could know the place from which he had come.
What then?
The King and Gawain shared
A laugh at him, a grin—
Yet openly they declared
It a true phenomenon.
Although King Arthur, that gracious Lord, at heart was quite astounded,
He let no semblance of this be seen, but spoke out confidently
And clearly, to the lovely Queen, in a model of courtly speech:
“Dear lady, do not be dismayed at what we’ve seen today.
Mummery such as this is to be counted on at Christmas—
With the playing of our interludes, so we may laugh and sing—
Along with courtly carols that are danced by our knights and ladies.
Nevertheless, I may indeed address myself to my dinner,
For I have certainly seen a marvel—and that I can’t deny.”
He cast a glance upon Sir Gawain, aptly directing him,
“Now, Sir, you may ‘hang up your axe,’
it has hewn enough for now.”
And it was displayed above the dais, hung on a tapestry,
Where all might look at it as a marvel, and stand in awe of it,
A testament to prove the truth of this wonder-making tale.
Then these two lords walked up together, sat down at one table,
The King himself and the worthy knight, and eagerly men served them
Double dishes of all the dainties, a feast fit for a king,
With every kind you could imagine, of food and minstrelsy both.
Thus they joyfully passed that day until it had reached its end
On the land.
Now think well, Sir Gawain,
And let your will withstand
Fear, that you may maintain
This quest you’ve taken in hand.
PART II: From Camelot to Hautdesert
Thus Arthur was handed a New Year’s marvel, a startling gift, first thing
In the young year, what he’d been yearning for: to hear a boasting challenge.
And though bold words had been lacking for him when the lords had gone to their seats,
Now they were crammed with grim, weird work, their hands stuffed full of it.
Gawain was glad enough to begin to play those games in the hall,
But if the end should turn out heavy, you need not be surprised,
For though men may be merry in mind when fortified with drink,
A year rushes by very rapidly, and never brings back its like;
The setting-out and the finishing-off seldom resemble each other.
And so this Yule passed over them, and the rest of the year followed,
And each of the seasons in its turn pursued the one before:
After the richness of Christmas come the crabbèd weeks of Lent,
That make a trial of our flesh with fish and plainer food.
But then the weathers of the world battle it out with winter,
The cold shrinks back down into the earth and the clouds lift to the loft,
Brightness is shed as the shining rain in warm and warmer showers
Falls on the fair flatlands below, where now the flowers are showing;
Both open ground and groves of trees are clad in their green garments,
Birds are a-bustle building their nests, and burst out boisterously
For the solace of the softening summer that will be following after
On the banks;
Blossoms break from their buds
By hedgerows rich and rank,
Then noble notes in the woods
Are heard as the birds give thanks.
Afterwards comes the summer season, breathing its soft breezes,
When the zephyr whistles gently through the seed-grasses and herbs.
Wonderfully beautiful is the plant that burgeons out of doors
When drops of dew have drenched it and are dripping off the leaves,
And it enjoys the blissful gleaming beams of the bright sun.
But then the Harvest hastens along, and urges the plant on,
Warning it to wax and ripen since winter is coming soon;
Autumn with its drought then drives the dust to rise in the air,
To fly up from the face of the earth, high into the heavens;
An angry wind falls out of the sky and wrestles with the sun,
The leaves are launched from the linden trees and light on the ground beneath,
And all the grasses are turning gray that were so green before;
Then every plant that first rose up now ripens until it rots,
And thus the old year rushes away in a river of yesterdays,
And winter winds itself round again, as is the way of Nature’s
Passage,
Until the Michaelmas moon
Renews its wintry pledge.
Then Gawain must think soon
Of his arduous voyage.
Yet he remained until All Saints’ Day, lingering with Arthur,
Who held a feast on that festival, for his nephew’s sake,
With much extravagant revelry in the court of the Round Table.
All those chivalrous noble knights and lovely noble ladies
Were filled with great anxiety, all for love of that lord;
But nevertheless, they carried on, chatting of nothing but mirth.
Though joyless for that gentle knight, many of them made jokes.
But after the meal Gawain went up to his uncle, much oppressed,
And mindful of the ordeal ahead, he spoke to him openly,
“Now, liege lord of my life, I ask you, give me permission to leave.
You know the conditions of this contract; I would not care to tell
Its troublesome terms all over again—that would be trifling talk—
But tomorrow morning, without fail, I am setting off for the blow,
To seek the man in green, as God sees fit to be my guide.”
At that the noblemen in the castle bowed their heads together,
Ywain, and Eric, son of Lac, and many another knight,
Sir Doddinal of the Savage Woods, and his cousin, Duke of Clarence,
Lancelot, and Lionel, and Lucan the King’s butler,
Sir Boös, and Sir Bedivere, big men both of them,
And among the many other worthies, Mador de la Port.
All these companions of his court came close around the King,
To offer counsel to the knight, from concern they felt at heart.
Much grief and sorrow were secretly being suffered in the hall,
That a man as worthy as Sir Gawain should have to go on that mission,
Doomed to endure a dreadful blow, and never lift sword to
Retaliate.
The knight stayed always cheerful,
Saying, “Why hesitate?
Whether it’s fair or fearful,
A man must try his Fate.”
He stayed at Camelot all that day and dressed himself next morning,
Asking for his armor early, and all was brought to him.
First, a red carpet from Toulouse was spread out over the floor,
And a load of gleaming golden gear was piled on top of it.
The sturdy man stepped onto the rug and handled the steel pieces,
Clad in a doublet of costly silk woven in Turkestan,
Under a well-made Cappadocian cape closed up at the neck
That was trimmed with an inner lining of bright white ermine fur.
Then they fitted the steel shoes onto the man’s feet,
Lapped his legs around the shanks in greaves of well-shaped steel
With knee guards fastened on above, polished bright and clean
And tightly attached around his knees, tied on with golden knots;
Then some fine-looking cuisses, that cunningly were closed
Over his thick, brawny thighs, were tied around with thongs;
Next, his chain-mail hauberk forged from bright linked rings of steel,
Laced to a lovely material, enveloped the man’s trunk,
And shiny burnished sleeves of steel were fitted on both arms,
Together with strong bright elbow guards and gauntlets of plate-mail,
And all the goodly gear for whatever use it could be to him
At last;
A rich coat over his armor,
Gold spurs proudly fixed fast,
His sure sword in its cover,
Girt with a silken sash.
When he had been buckled into his armor, his gear was glorious:
Even the least latchet or loop was alive with a gleam of gold.
So, dressed in armor though he was, he went along to the Mass
Offered and celebrated for him in the chapel at the high altar.
After that he came to the King and his companions at court,
Where courteously he took his leave of all the lords and ladies,
And they kissed him and escorted him, commending him to Christ.
By this time Gringolet was groomed and girded with a saddle
That gaily gleamed with many fringes of gold that dangled down,
Everywhere studded with new nails that had been forged for the purpose.
The bridle was adorned with bars, bound with the brightest gold.
The decoration of both the breastplate and the superb saddle-skirts,
The crupper band, the caparison, all matched the saddle-bows.
And all arrayed against a field of red were rich gold studs
That glittered and glinted as brightly as the sunlight gleaming off them.
Then Gawain picked his helmet up himself and kissed it quickly –
The steel was strongly stapled together, well-padded on the inside.
High up on his head it rode, and was held by clasps in back,
Attaching it to the chain-mail neck-guard with a bright silk band,
Which was embroidered and adorned with the very choicest gems
Set on the edge of a broad silk hem with birds along the seams,
Such as parrots, pictured preening in among the periwinkles,
Turtle-doves, and True-Love-Knots in blossom, scattered so thickly
It seemed that many seamstresses had been sewing for seven winters
In town.
The band of gold, of greater
Worth, circling his crown,
Had diamonds of the first water,
Both the clear kind, and the brown.
And then they presented him his shield, the field of
shining red,
Which had the pentangle painted on in the purest golden
hue;
He drew it on by its cross-belt, which he tossed around
his neck.
It suited this knight most fittingly, precisely as it
should.
And why this pentangle should pertain so perfectly to
that prince,
I am intent on telling you, though the telling makes me
tarry.
It is a sign that Solomon set down a long time ago
As a token of Integrity, which is what it rightly
means,
For it is a figure of five points inscribed with a
single line,
And each of the lines thus overlaps and locks onto the
others,
And everywhere it runs endlessly (which is why the
English call it
The Endless Knot, or so I have been told, throughout
their land).
Now here is why it matched this knight, and matched his
shining armor:
Since he was trustworthy in five ways, and five times
in each way,
Gawain was widely known for his goodness, and, like
refined gold,
Emptied of every sort of vice, and his virtues
well-defended
By moat.
The pentangle, painted fresh,
He wore on shield and coat,
This knight most true in speech,
His words of noblest note.
First, he was found without a fault in all of his five
senses,
And secondly, his five fingers had never been known to
falter,
And all his faith, upon this earth, was based in the
five wounds
That Christ was dealt upon the Cross, as we are told in
the Creed.
And wherever, in the midst of a melee, this man should
find himself,
Against all other things, his steadfast thoughts were
set on this:
That all his fortitude in fighting he took from the
five joys
That the gracious Queen of Heaven had known, delighting
in her Child.
And this was why the knight had arranged to have her
image painted
Most beautifully on the inner surface of his shield,
So that whenever he glanced at her, his courage never
failed.
The fifth five that I find this man habitually
practiced
Were his open Liberality, and beyond that, Brotherly
Love,
His Purity and his Courtesy, which never went awry,
And Compassion, above all other points. And these pure,
faultless five
Were wrapped more firmly around him than any other man.
Now all five sets of five, in fact, were fastened to
this knight,
And each one firmly linked to the rest so that none
ever came to a finish,
Fixed and established on five points, that never were
known to fail,
And though never absolutely aligned, yet never were
totally sundered,
Nor came to conclusion at any angle, as far as I can
find,
Wherever you started tracing them, or glided to an end.
That’s why the Endless Knot was fashioned on his
shining shield,
Set royally in reddish gold against the red gules
field.
This figure is called the Perfect Pentangle by the ones
who know
The lore.
Gawain, in bright array,
Caught up his spear once more
And wished them all Good Day—
He thought, forevermore.
With his spurs he prodded the steed along, and sprang
out on his way
So forcefully that sparks flew up behind them from
stones in the road.
All who saw that handsome knight sighed deeply in their
hearts,
And everyone spoke the same sad thoughts softly to one
another,
Since they cared so much for that lovely man: “By
Christ, it is a pity
That he of all lords should be lost, who has led an
exemplary life!
To find his equal upon the earth, in faith, would not
be easy.
It would have made a lot more sense to have acted with
more caution,
To have arranged for that noble fellow to be dubbed a
duke.
To be a brilliant leader of men in the land would suit
him well,
And that would have been much better than for him to be
broken to nothing,
Beheaded by a macabre monster, out of arrogant pride.
Who ever heard of a King agreeing to such advice as
this
From knights engaged in silly disputes over their
Christmas games!”
What a lot of warm water there was that weltered from
their eyes,
As that handsome-looking lord went riding away from
their home
That day.
He didn’t hesitate
But swiftly went his way,
By trails wild and desolate,
As I heard the story say.
Now that he rode through Arthur’s Britain, the southern
realm of Logres,
Sir Gawain, in the name of God, decided this was no
game.
Time after time, and all alone, he had to pass the
night
Where what he found before him was nothing he wanted to
eat.
He had no companion but his horse, through the
woodlands and the hills,
And not a soul to talk to but God as he traveled on his
course,
Until at last he made his way nearly into North Wales.
All the islands of Anglesea he passed by on his left,
And he traveled through those fords you find by the
promontories there,
Over at Holy Head, until he had reached the other bank
In the wilderness of Wirral. Very few men lived there
Whom either God or any person of good heart could love.
And always, as he pursued his quest, he asked the folk
he met,
If they had ever heard any talk of a knight entirely
green,
Or on any of the lands thereabouts was there a Green
Chapel?
And all of them said nothing but “No!”— that never in
their lives
Had they ever seen a knight who was of such a hue
As green.
The ways he took were strange,
Past many a cheerless stream;
His spirits were often to change
Before that chapel was seen.
Many cliffs he clambered over in those alien lands;
Having wandered far from his friends, he traveled as a
stranger.
At every ford or running stream which the man had to
cross over,
Unless he had unusual luck, he found a foe before him,
And one that was so foul and fierce he was obliged to
fight.
So many marvels that man met with there among the
hills,
It would be tiresome were I to tell you even a tenth of
them.
Some of the time he fought with dragons, other times
with wolves,
Sometimes with hairy men of the woods who lived in the
rugged rocks;
He battled both with bulls and bears, and other times
with boars,
And giants that chased after him along precipitous
cliffs.
And had he not been brave, long-suffering, patiently
serving God,
Doubtless he would have been dead and gone, murdered
many times over.
But though the fighting troubled him, the winter was
far worse,
When cold clear water was shed on him from the clouds
lowering above
And froze before it could even fall to the fallow,
faded earth.
Nearly slain with the sleet he was, as he slept in his
iron armor
More nights than enough, among the rough and naked
rocks,
Where the cold creek ran clattering off the edge of the
crest above
And hung high over his head in rock-hard icicles.
Thus in danger and in hardship, through such perilous
plights,
Across the countryside he rode, this knight, until
Christmas Eve,
Alone.
The man, at Christmastide
To Mary made his moan:
Direct him where to ride,
Guide him to someone’s home.
Beside a mountain on that morning he rode magnificently
Into a deep, deep forest that was exceedingly wild,
High hills rising on either half and woods lying under
them,
Hoary-gray gigantic oaks, a hundred altogether;
The hazel trees and the hawthorn bushes tightly
intertwined,
With rough and trailing rags of moss spread over
everything,
And many birds there, far from blithe, perching on bare
twigs,
Piteously piped their cries, from the pain of the
piercing cold.
Sir Gawain riding Gringolet hurried on underneath
Through many marshes and miry bogs, one man all on his
own,
And concerned for his religious duties, lest he should
not be able
To observe the service of that Lord who on that very
night
Was born of a maiden in order to quell our
disobedience.
And therefore, sighing, he prayed aloud, “I beg of you,
O Lord,
And Mary, the most merciful of mothers, and most dear,
Find me safe lodging in some house, devoutly to hear
Mass,
And then your matins tomorrow morning, I meekly ask of
you,
And to this purpose I promptly pray my
Pater and my Ave,
And Creed.”
He rode as he was praying,
And cried for his misdeeds;
He crossed himself, too, saying,
“May Christ’s Cross grant Godspeed.”
No sooner had he crossed himself, that man, no more
than thrice,
Than he became aware, in the woods, of a building
inside a moat,
Above a glade, set on a knoll, and locked in under the
branches
Of many burly tree-trunks which were growing outside
the ditch:
A castle, quite the loveliest-looking that ever a
knight owned,
Pitched on a sort of paddock, with parkland all about,
Protected by a palisade of spikes set thick together
That ran for two good miles and more, enclosing a host
of trees.
The knight regarded that stronghold from the outside,
contemplating,
Watching as it shimmered and shone through gaps in the
gleaming oaks.
Respectfully he removed his helmet, and solemnly he
thanked
Jesus and St. Julian, both of whom are kindly,
For doing him the courtesy of listening to his prayer.
“Now, good lodging,” said the man, “I beg you both to
grant me!”
Then he urged Gringolet along, prodding with
gilt-spurred heels,
And found that he, entirely by chance, had chosen the
main road
That would bring a knight directly up to the drawbridge
end
In haste.
The bridge was tight atilt,
The gates beyond, shut fast;
The walls were stoutly built—
They feared no wind’s fierce blast.
The knight drew to a halt on his horse, and paused a
while on the bank
Of the deep, double-wide ditch they had dug to enclose
the whole demesne;
The wall plunged into the dark water, down to a
wondrous depth,
And then it lifted out of the moat to a lofty height
above.
It was constructed of hard hewn stone up to the top of
the cornice,
Which jutted out under the battlements in the best
defensive style.
And watchtowers of the finest design were fashioned in
between,
With neatly cut-out loopholes that were easily
shuttered and locked.
That knight had never seen a better gatehouse
fortification.
And further inside the walls he could spot the main
hall in its height;
Turrets were erected between the ornate, thick-set
spires,
Beautiful pinnacles deftly fitted together, exceedingly
tall,
Ingeniously crowned with well-carved ornamental caps,
And chalk-white chimneys: he could make out crowds of
them up there
Topping the roofs of all the towers and gleaming shiny
white.
There were so many painted pinnacles scattered
everywhere
Among the flaring embrasures, so thickly clambering,
That it looked as if the castle were clipped completely
out of paper.
The noble rider on his steed thought he’d be fortunate
If he might manage to make his way inside the outer
walls;
To find a lodging in that house for the holy day would
be
Pleasant.
He called, and soon there came
On the wall, faultlessly gallant,
A porter, who asked his aim,
Saluting that knight errant.
“Good sir,” said Gawain, “would you kindly carry a
message from me
To the high lord of this household, that I ask shelter
here?”
“Yes, by Saint Peter,” the porter replied, “and I
thoroughly believe,
My friend, that you will be welcome here, to stay as
long as you like.”
The gatekeeper went away on his errand, and swiftly he
returned,
Along with a number of folk to greet the knight
hospitably.
They let the heavy drawbridge down, and walked out
courteously,
And bent down on their knees before him on the cold
hard ground,
To bid this same knight welcome in what they thought
worthy style.
The broad gate opened wide for him, drawn back now all
the way.
Politely he asked them all to rise, and he rode across
the bridge.
Some hostlers held his saddle for him, assisting him to
dismount,
And several strong men led his steed away to be well
stabled.
Next, the knights and squires came down, out of the
barbican,
To bring this great lord in with them, happily into the
hall.
After he lifted his helmet off, some of them hurried to
help,
Waiting upon that gracious lord, to receive it from his
hands;
Along with it they took from him both his sword and his
shield.
Then Gawain greeted graciously each of the noble
knights,
And many proud men pressed forward there, in honor of
that prince.
All fastened into his armor still, he was led to the
great hall,
Where a hearty fire was fiercely blazing on the open
hearth.
Just then, the lord of all those people came down from
his bedchamber,
To greet his guest on the floor of the hall with proper
ceremony.
He declared: “You are welcome to do what you want,
enjoy whatever you wish;
Everything here belongs to you, to command and rule as
your
Home place.”
“Thank you,” said Sir Gawain,
“May Christ reward your grace.”
Like friends who meet again,
They joyfully embraced.
Gawain gazed at the gentleman who greeted him
generously,
And thought this was a bold fellow, the one who owned
the castle,
A massive manner of man indeed, and in the pride of
life.
Broad and glistening was his beard, and reddish-brown
like a beaver;
Huge and strong, he took his stance upon his stalwart
shanks,
His face was fierce as the fire, yet his style of
speech was noble.
The man was very well suited, indeed—or so Sir Gawain
thought—
To hold the lordship in this castle over such excellent
knights.
The lord turned aside into a chamber, considerately
commanding
That Gawain be assigned a servant, to attend him with
respect,
And there were enough retainers at hand to do as their
master bade;
They led Gawain to a well-lighted room, where the
bedding was rich and splendid:
The bed curtains fresh and elegant silk, with bright
gold sewn on the hems,
The bedcovers truly elaborate, with beautiful panel
facings
Of shining white ermine above, embroidered down the
sides.
The curtains ran along on cords, hanging from red-gold
rings,
Tapestries from Toulouse and Turkestan were stretched
on the walls,
And others of a matching sort spread underfoot on the
floor.
There Sir Gawain was divested, with much good-humored
banter,
Of his chain-mail shirt and other things among his
shiny armor.
Gorgeous, costly robes were quickly brought by his
retainers
For him to consider, and change into, after choosing
the best of them.
As soon as he had made his choice and wrapped himself
in the robe,
One that suited him perfectly, skirts flowing past his
knees,
The flush of spring sprang into his face, and to tell
the truth it seemed
To nearly everyone looking at him—all the most
brilliant hues
Glowing from his handsome limbs under the clothes he
wore—
That Christ, they thought, had never made a more
attractive-looking
Knight.
Whether from far or near
He came, it seemed he might
Be a prince without a peer
In the field when fierce men fight.
A chair in front of the fireplace, where a charcoal
fire was burning,
Was pulled up for Sir Gawain, upholstered comfortably
With cushions upon quilted seats that were skillfully
stitched up,
And then a gorgeous mantle was cast around the man’s
shoulders,
Made of a brown, silky material richly embroidered
over,
And warmly lined inside with fur from the very best of
skins—
The highest grade of ermine on earth—and his hood cut
from the same.
Becomingly and richly arrayed, he settled into his
seat,
Chafing his hands together briskly, and then his
spirits mended.
Without delay, a table was neatly set on a pair of
trestles,
Covered with a clean tablecloth that shone the clearest
white,
And on it a napkin and saltcellar and a setting of
silver spoons.
When he was ready the man washed up and went to eat his
meal.
The attendants served him respectfully, exactly as he
deserved,
With various excellent broths and stews, all seasoned
delectably,
In double helpings, as was his due, and every kind of
fish:
Some of them were baked in bread, some, broiled over
coals,
Some were boiled, and some were stewed, made savory
with spices,
And all the sauces so subtly blended the knight was
truly ecstatic.
The fellow freely called it a feast, and said so over
and over,
Politely, while the knights all cheering him on in the
same style
Politely said:
“Accept this penance, please;
Soon you’ll be better fed.”
The man joked—at his ease—
For the wine had gone to his head.
Then questions and inquiries were put to him tactfully,
Probing that prince, but delicately, and so discreetly
addressed
That he must admit without vanity that he belonged to
the court
That the lord Arthur, the noble-hearted, ruled over, he
alone
Reigning majestically as the Royal King of the Round
Table,
And it was now Gawain himself who was sitting in their
house,
Having come to them that Christmastime, as chance had
brought it about.
When the lord had learned that he now held in his
keeping such a knight,
He laughed out loud at his good luck, he considered it
so pleasing,
And all the men inside his castle felt just as happy as
he
To appear in Gawain’s presence as promptly as they
could,
Since every excellence, all prowess, and the finest
chivalrous conduct
All appertained to this man’s person, for which he was
always praised;
Before all other men on earth, his honor was the
highest.
Each of them whispered under his breath to his fellow
standing by,
“Now we shall see skilled demonstrations of
sophisticated behavior,
And learn the most faultless phrases to use in courtly
conversation.
We may pick up, without pressing him, how to speak in
good company,
Since luckily we find in our midst the father of fine
breeding.
God has granted us His grace most generously, indeed,
In allowing us to receive as our guest a model such as
Gawain,
At the time when all who rejoice at the birth of Christ
will sit to praise
And sing.
Understanding of etiquette
Is what this man will bring.
Whoever listens should get
Good lessons in love-talking.”
After his dinner was done, and the noble knight had
risen,
Time had passed and the day drawn on until it was
nearly night.
The chaplains had made their way along to the chapels
and stood waiting,
Loudly ringing the bells for worship, as was their duty
to do,
For the glorious service of evensong in the highest
festival season.
The lord of the castle walked to his chapel,
accompanied by his lady,
Who daintily entered her beautiful closed-in pew at the
farther end.
Gawain happily hurried along, heading for the same
chapel,
When the lord grabbed hold of a fold in his sleeve, and
led him to sit in his.
Speaking to him familiarly, he called him by his name,
And called him the most welcome man in the whole wide
world to him.
GGawain thanked him earnestly, and the two embraced each
other;
Then they sat soberly side by side for as long as the
service lasted.
When it was over, the lady grew curious, eager to look
at that knight,
So she emerged from her closed pew, with many fair
ladies around her.
She was the fairest creature on earth, in her figure,
and her complexion,
Her proportions and her coloring, her manners and her
behavior—
More gorgeous even than Guenevere, was what Sir Gawain
thought.
Out from the chancel into the church she went to make
him welcome.
Holding her by the left hand, another woman led her,
Who was much older, indeed she seemed a venerable lady
Who was treated with great deference by the knights all
crowding around.
But these two ladies were most unlike each other in
their looks,
For if the one was young and fresh, the other was
yellow with age;
If the younger was glowing all over with a rich and
rosy pink,
Then rough and wrinkled in loose rolls, the cheeks
sagged on the other.
Kerchiefs covered with bright pearls were worn by the
young woman;
Both her breast and her bright bare throat were open to display
And shone even whiter than the snow that is shed on
winter hills;
The other lady wore a scarf that draped across her
neck,
And her black chin was swathed about in veils of chalky
white;
Silk enfolded her forehead, which was wrapped up all
around,
Framed by embroidered hems and fine-stitched
latticework of lace,
So that no part of that lady was bare, except for her
black eyebrows,
And her two eyes, and the nose between them, and her
naked lips;
And these were all so ugly to look at, the eyes so
runny and bleared,
That God knows, nobody in the world might call her a
handsome lady!
Instead—
Short, thick about the waist,
Her buttocks bulged and spread;
More delectable to the taste
Was the lady whom she led.
When Gawain glanced at that fair lady, who looked with
favor on him,
At once he excused himself from her lord, and walked
over to the two.
He paid his respects to the elder woman, bowing low to
her,
Then he lapped the lovelier lady about, though lightly,
in his arms,
Kissing her in the courtly manner, and conversing in
knightly style.
They begged the favor of his acquaintance, and
instantly he offered
To be their true and faithful servant, if that was to
their liking.
The two women took him along between them, talking, and
leading him
To a chamber, and sat him down by a fireplace, first of
all calling for
Spiced cakes, along with excellent wine mulled in the
finest way,
Which servants sped to bring them—bringing more
whenever they asked.
In friendly fashion, over and over, the lord leapt to
his feet,
And many a time reminded them all to keep on making
merry.
Ceremoniously he pulled off his hood, and hung it high
on a spear,
Challenging everyone present to gain the honor of
winning it:
It would go to whoever gave them the most to laugh at,
at Christmas time:
“And I shall be trying, upon my faith, to contend for
it with the best,
With the help of my friends, before I will ever give
this garment up.”
Thus with laughing, lighthearted words the lord himself
made merry,
In order to gladden Sir Gawain’s heart in the hall that
night with the games
He led,
And when the time was right,
”Torches!” the Master said.
Sir Gawain said good-night,
And straightway went to bed.
On the morning after, as everybody remembered this was
the time
When God was born to die for us and so take on our
fate,
Joy welled up in every dwelling on earth for our Lord’s
sake.
So did it there upon that day, through many delicacies:
For both the breakfast and the main meal, cleverly
cooked-up dishes
Were laid invitingly out on the dais by sterling
serving men.
The venerable lady sat in the highest place of honor,
The lord politely took his place beside her, I believe.
Gawain and the lovely lady were sitting side by side
At the middle of the table, where the food came first,
as always,
And after, was passed around the hall, as it was right
to do.
Until everyone present was properly served, according
to his rank.
There was so much food, there was so much mirth, so
much delight and joy,
That for me to tell the whole of it would be a
vexatious task—
If I, for instance, took great pains and described it
point by point.
But all the same, I know Gawain and the charming lady
by him
Together were taking such comfort in each other’s
company
Through their discreet conversation, in the tête-à-tête
between them
Of clean-minded, courtly dalliance, free of all filthy
phrases,
That their playful pleasure, in truth, surpassed any
nobleman’s amusement
There.
Trumpets blared, kettledrums beat,
Bagpipes warbled their airs.
Each tended his own delight,
And those two tended theirs.
A great deal of merriment was made, through that day
and the next,
And the third day, equally crowded, thronged in on the
two before.
The celebrations on Saint John’s Day were glorious to
hear,
And brought the holidays to an end, as everyone knew
they would.
The guests were to go in the gray morning, departing at
dawn next day,
And therefore some of them stayed awake, amazingly,
drinking wine
And dancing and singing their favorite carols almost
incessantly.
At last, when it had grown very late, they began to
take their leave,
Each of the visitors setting out to make his own way
home.
But when Sir Gawain began to say goodbye, the good host
grabbed him,
Led him into his own chamber, sat him down by the
fireplace,
And there detained him while he thanked him
enthusiastically
For the credit his presence had conferred on him and
all his house,
The honor he’d paid by visiting now, at this high tide
of the year,
Embellishing the fame of his court with his gracious
company.
“I know, sir, that, as long as I live, I shall be a
better man
For having had Gawain as my guest, in the season of
God’s own feast.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied Gawain, “but in good faith
it is yours—
All the honor is yours alone—and may the High King
repay you—
For I, my lord, only serve at your bidding, to act at
your behest,
As I am wholly bound to do, whether for high or low,
By right.”
The lord then took great pains
To detain that worthy knight.
To him replied Gawain:
There was no way he might.
At that the lord inquired of the knight politely, could
he say
What dreadful deed had driven him at this dear time of
year
To ride away from his King’s court, so urgently, all on his own,
Before the holidays wholly passed, to go traveling from his home?
“To tell the truth, sir,” said the knight, “what you
have said is true,
A momentous and an urgent mission has taken me from
that court,
For I am summoned to go in person and seek a certain
place—
I do not know in what direction to ride in order to
find it.
But I would not wish to be anywhere else but there on
New Year’s morning,
For all the land in Arthur’s Britain, so help me our
Good Lord!
Therefore, sir, I must ask you this, as politely as I
can,
That you might tell me truthfully: Have you ever heard
any tales
About the so-called “Green Chapel”—where on earth it
stands,
And about the knight who is colored green, and keeps it
in his charge?
There was established by solemn pact between us an
agreement
For me to meet that man at that landmark, if I should
live so long.
And now it is lacking but a little of that same New
Year’s Day,
And I would like to set eyes on that man, if God would
let me do so,
More gladly, by the Son of God, than possess any
worldly goods!
And so, indeed, with your permission, I have no choice
but to leave,
For now I have only a bare three days to go about this
business,
And I would as soon fall stricken by death as fail to
fulfill my mission.”
Then the lord said, laughing out loud, “Now you have no
choice but to linger!
For I shall direct you, in ample time, to your
appointed place.
Let the whereabouts of the Green Chapel trouble you no
more,
For you, my good man, will lie in bed, completely at
your ease,
As late as you like on that first day of the year, and then go riding
And come to that landmark by mid-morning, to do
whatever you’re there
About;
Stay on till New Year’s Day,
Then rise up and ride out.
My man will lead the way—
Not two miles by that route.”
Then Gawain was as glad as could be, and he laughed
happily,
“Now I thank you for this above my thanks for all your
other favors.
Now that my search is almost over, I shall indeed, as
you wish,
Dwell here awhile, and in everything else I will do as
you see fit.”
Then the host grabbed hold of him again, and sat him
down beside him,
And called for the ladies to be brought in, to please
his guest the better.
Off by themselves, what a time they had, the four of
them together!
The lord let loose, for friendship’s sake, such
hilarious jests,
That he seemed like a man going out of his mind, not
knowing what he might do.
And then he spoke these words to the knight—in fact,
he shouted aloud,
““You have agreed to do whatever I may assign to you.
Will you, at this very moment, hold yourself to this
promise?”
“Yes, sir, for sure,” said Gawain, who was known for
his truthfulness,
“As long as I’m lodging in your castle, I’m bound to do
what you ask.”
“You’ve had a hard journey,” said the lord, “traveling
from far away,
And lately you’ve stayed up all night with me, you’re
not yet fully recovered
Either in having enough to eat or in sleep, and I know
that’s true.
You shall linger in your room upstairs, lie sleeping at
your ease
Tomorrow until it is time for mass, and then, to eat
your meal
Whenever you like, along with my wife, who will sit
down with you
And amuse you with her company, till I return to court.
You stay,
I’ll rise before first light
And hunt throughout the day.”
Gawain, as befits a knight,
Bowed “Yes,” in his courteous way.
“Just one more thing,” the master said. “Let us make an
agreement between us:
Whatever I may win in the woods, it shall belong to
you,
While any misfortune you encounter, I shall take in
exchange.
Sweet sir, shall we make a swap like this—to answer
honestly,
Regardless what either of us receives, the worse or the
better lot?”
“By God,” said Gawain, that good man, “I agree to it
completely,
And I am as glad as I could be that you’d come up with
this game.”
“Let someone bring us a beverage, and this bargain will
be sealed,”
The lord of that company exclaimed, at which they
laughed together.
Chatting of elegant trifles, they drank and reveled
without restraint,
These courtly lovers, both lords and ladies, for quite
as long as they liked,
And next, with manners in the French style and many
fair-spoken phrases,
They stood up, and they milled about, and
confidentially whispered,
Kissed one another courteously, and at last they took
their leave.
With many light-footed serving men, who carried
gleaming torches,
Each noble lord was led at last to his chamber and his
bed
So soft.
Yet before they went to sleep,
They rehearsed their compact often.
The lord of those folk could keep
The fun and games aloft.
PART III
Quite early, before the day had dawned, the folk rose up from their beds,
The guests were eager to get on the road, and they all called for their grooms
Who hustled along in a great hurry to saddle up their steeds,
Gather their gear together and pack it, trussing it tight in their bags.
Those of the highest rank dressed first, and, well arrayed for riding,
They leapt up lightly into the saddle and caught hold of their bridles,
And every man of them went his way, wherever he wanted to go.
The well-belovèd lord of that region was not the last of the lot
To be arrayed for riding out, together with many retainers.
After he had observed mass, he hastily bolted a bite,
And with bugle calls he quickly betook himself out to the hunting field.
Before any glimmer of daylight gleamed anywhere over the land,
He and his knights on their high steeds already were setting out.
The hunters’ servants who handled the hounds leashed them together in pairs,
Unlatched and threw open the kennel doors and called the dogs outside;
Boldly on the bugles they blew a triplet of three long notes,
Which set the hounds to baying in turn, arousing a fearsome uproar,
And any dogs who’d gone chasing ahead they whipped, and turned them back.
A hundred of these huntsmen set forth, or so I have heard tell,
Of the best.
The keepers went to their posts,
Handlers unleashed their beasts.
There rose from the bugle blasts
Great uproar in that forest.
At the first crying out of the questing hounds, the creatures
quaked in the wilds;
The deer drove down and into the valley, dazed in their heads
with dread,
Or hied themselves to the high ground, but there they were fiercely met,
Restrained, turned back by the ring of beaters, who savagely shouted at them.
These let the harts with their antlered heads pass freely through their ranks
And also the brave fallow bucks, with the broad beams of their horns,
For the noble lord had forbidden them to be hunted in the
close-season,
Declaring that none should meddle at all with any of the male deer.
The Red Deer hinds, however, were halted with shouts of Hey! And Ware!
And the Fallow does with a great din were driven to the deep gullies.
There you might see, as they slipped and slid, the slanting flight of arrows;
At every turn underneath the trees, a shaft rushed whistling by
And deeply bit in the brown hides with full broad arrowheads.
What a noise they raised as they brayed and bled, and died along the banks,
And always the scenting-hounds in a race chased rapidly behind,
While mounted hunters with high-pitched horns hastened on after them
With such a cracking and echoing cry as if the cliffs had broken.
Whatever wild creature was rushing free, escaping the shooting men,
Was pulled down and then slashed apart at the receiving station;
When they’d been harried up on the heights, and herded down to the waters,
The men at the lower stations, well skilled, knew exactly what to do,
And the great greyhounds as well; between them, they seized
them immediately
And tore them down and sliced them apart as fast as a man could look,
Right away.
The lord dashed left and right,
With the joy of catching the prey,
Thus to the edge of night,
On and off his horse all day.
In this way the lord was amusing himself by the edge of the
linden woods,
And Gawain, that good man, was lying, tucked up snug in bed,
Hiding himself away in there, until daylight gleamed on the walls,
Under a clean bright coverlet, and curtained all about.
And as he lay slumbering drowsily, he heard a soft small sound,
A little rustling outside his door, which opened stealthily,
At which he heaved his head clear up from under the bed covers,
A corner of the curtaining cloth he lifted only a little,
Watching warily through the gap to make out what it might be.
It was the lady of the house, the loveliest to behold;
She drew the door closed after her as quietly as she could,
And turned herself toward the bed—the knight was deeply embarrassed,
And laid his head down craftily, pretending to be asleep.
Then she stepped forward furtively, stealing to his bedside,
Carefully lifted the curtain up, and silently crept within,
And set herself down daintily beside him on the bed,
Prepared to linger exceedingly long, looking on until he woke up.
The knight lay hiding with eyes closed for a very very long time,
Pondering in his conscience as to what this occurrence might
Either mean or amount to—to a marvel, so he thought.
All the same, he reflected to himself, “It would appear more proper
To find out by some words of speech what it is that the lady wants.”
So he made a show of waking up, shook himself, shifted toward her,
And when he unlocked his eyelids, he pretended to be astonished,
And with his hand he crossed himself—in praying thus to be made
More safe.
With her chin and cheek so sweet,
White and red blended in both,
Her demeanor was polite,
But her small lips set to laugh.
“Good morning, good Sir Gawain,” the beautiful lady began,
“You are a very unwary sleeper, if someone can slip in here!
Now you are captured in a trice! Unless we arrange a truce,
I shall bind you in your bed, you may trust to that.”
All laughingly the lady launched these jests against the knight.
“Good morning, my gay lady,” Gawain answered merrily,
“It shall be done to me as you will, at which I am well pleased,
For I surrender immediately, and cry aloud for mercy,
And that’s the best that I can do, for I judge I have no choice.”
Thus he bantered back at her with many a light-hearted laugh.
“But if you would, lovely lady, only grant to me your leave,
And now release your prisoner, and pray him to arise,
Then I’d bestir me out of bed and get myself better dressed,
Thus to derive all the more delight in conversation with you.”
“No, no, indeed, my handsome sir,” so the sweet lady replied,
“You shall not rise up out of your bed, I intend you something better:
I shall tuck you in as tight on the other side as you are on this,
And when I do I shall have a chat with my knight that I have caught,
For I know very well, I have to say, that Sir Gawain is who you are,
Whom all the world is said to worship, wheresoever you ride.
Your honor and your courtliness are courteously acclaimed
By all the lords and ladies, and by everybody alive.
And now you are here, I’m pleased to say, and we are all on our own;
My lord and his huntsmen off on their mounts have ridden far away,
While the other men are asleep in their beds, and so are my women-in-waiting.
The door is drawn shut, as you can see, and locked with a sturdy hasp;
And since I have that lord in my house whom everybody adores
I shall make the most of my time with him, for as long as it may last,
In conversation.
Welcome to all of me,
You may take your course of action.
From sheer necessity
I must yield you satisfaction.”
“In good faith,” Gawain answered, “that would be a gracious
gift,
Though I am not at all the man whom you are speaking of,
To reach to so revered a fame as you rehearse for me here;
For I am far too unworthy a fellow, as I myself well know.
By God, I would be very glad, if you should think it good
That either in service or in speech I might devote myself
To providing any pleasure to you, for it would be pure joy.”
The lively lady made reply, “In good faith, Sir Gawain,
If the prowess and the excellence that pleases all the world
Were slighted or denied by me, it would be simply rude.
But there are ladies enough in the land whom it would delight
much more
To have the dear knight in their hold, as I now have you here,
To play at love-making pleasantly, drinking in your delightful words,
Obtaining comfort for themselves, and cooling their fevered cares,
Than to have whatever treasure or gold they happen to possess.
But I—for which I praise the Lord who reigns in Heaven above—
I have that wholly in my hands which everybody desires,
Through grace.”
She made him such great cheer,
Who was so fair of face;
The knight with speeches pure
Made answer to each phrase.
“Madam,” the merry man declared, “may Mary repay you well,
For I have found, in all good faith, your generosity noble.
Other men have received from people a great deal of praise for their deeds,
But the honor that has been offered me is nothing I have deserved;
It is an honor to yourself, who comport yourself so well.”
“By Mary,” the noble lady countered, “I conceive it otherwise:
For if I were equal in my worth to all other women alive,
And all the wealth in the whole wide world were in my hands to hold,
And I could bargain to gain the best, and choose myself a lord,
For all the virtues I have found to be known in you, my knight,
Of beauty, benevolent disposition, and cheerful, blithe demeanor—
All of which I have heard of before, and now can affirm to be true—
There would be no man upon the earth I would choose ahead of you.”
“Never say so, worthy lady,” he said, “for you have chosen
much better.
But I am proud of the high price that you have put on my head,
And sincerely as your true servant, I accept you as my sovereign,
And I will become your faithful knight, and pray Christ to reward you.”
They chatted like this about many things until mid-morning had passed,
And always the lady made it appear that she loved him very much.
He conducted himself defensively, and yet in the courtliest fashion,
And though she were the loveliest lady, the man kept it in mind
That there could be less of love in his journey because of the doom he sought
So soon—
The stroke he would be receiving,
And what must needs be done.
When the lady spoke of leaving,
He gave consent at once.
She gave him Good day, and along with that she gave a laughing
glance,
And as she stood up, she astonished him with some words that were very stern:
“Now may He who blesses every speech repay you for this disport!
But whether you really are Gawain is debatable in my mind.”
“Why would that be?” the man exclaimed, quickly and questioningly,
Afraid that he had somehow failed in the forms of his utterances.
But the lady reassured him of that. “Bless you,” she said, and
then,
“In such esteem is Gawain held, and certainly rightly so,
Since the model of courtliness is contained, complete, in his own person,
He could not lightly have lingered so long as this alongside a lady,
Without requesting of her a kiss, out of simple courtesy,
Or at least by some small trifling hint dropped in at the end
of a speech.”
Then Gawain said, “So let it be done, exactly as you wish,
For I shall kiss at your command, as is right for a knight to do,
And all the more, lest he displease you, so plead it now no further.”
At once she comes even closer to him and catches him in her arms,
And bending lovingly down to him, she gives that lord a kiss.
Each of them graciously commends the other to Jesus Christ.
She goes away out through the door, without another sound,
And he readies himself to get right up, as rapidly as he can,
Calls out for his chamberlain, who comes, chooses his set of clothes,
Goes forth from his room, when he is ready, and cheerily down
to Mass;
After that, he moves on to his meal, which fitly awaited him,
And passed the day, till the moon rose, in merriment and mirth
And sport.
No man was ever shown
By two women of such worth,
The young and the older one,
Such pleasures of that sort.
And all of this time the lord of the land is bent upon
his sport,
In the woods, hunting, and on the heath, chasing the barren hinds;
Such a number of them he slew by the time the sun slanted down
Of does and other female deer, that to sum them would be a wonder.
Then proudly all the folk flocked in, en
masse, at the end of the day,
And quickly they made a pile, a quarry, of all the deer that they’d killed.
The best-born walked across to it first, with men enough for the work.
They collected together the deer in the heap that were most
filled out with fat
And neatly dismembered them, cutting them up as the rites of the task demand:
They examined them at the first assay, sampling a few of them there,
And they found at least two fingers of fat on even the leanest ones.
They slit the slot at the base of the throat, and seizing hold of the gullet,
Shaved it clean with a sharp knife, and tied it into a knot.
Next they severed the four limbs, and then stripped off the hide,
Then they broke the belly open for the bowels to be lifted out
Skillfully, so as not to loosen the binding of the knot.
They gripped hold of the deer’s gorge, and promptly pulled apart
The feeding passage from the windpipe, and tossed the guts away.
Then they sheared the shoulders free, using their sharp knives,
Hauled them out through a little hole, to leave the sides
entire.
Next they opened the breastbone and divided the breast in two,
And after that they began on the gorge, setting to work at once,
Ripped it open rapidly, right up to the fork of the forelegs,
Emptied the intestines out, and then, proceeding correctly,
All the membranes along the ribs were speedily cut loose.
So too, they cleared in the proper way the ridge bones of the back,
Trimmed them all the way down to the haunch, all of which hung together,
And lifting up the whole of the loin, they hewed it off right
there—
And that, to give it its proper name, is the “numbles”, I believe,
In a hind.
By the fork of the thighs they slice
The loose skin off behind,
Dividing it lengthwise
By the backbone to unbind.
They hewed the head and neck off the hind together in one
hunk,
And then they separated the sides swiftly away from the bones of the spine,
And the scrap they call “the raven’s fee” they tossed up into a thicket.
Then drilled a hole through each thick flank, in the region of
the ribs,
To hang the haunches of venison up, hooking the hocks of the legs,
For each man to receive his share, what it fell to him to have.
On the hide of the noblest beast, the hunters spread, to feed their hounds,
The livers and lights, the leathery tripe, the linings of the paunch,
And bread that had been bathed in blood, all mingled in together.
Boldly trumpets blew the blasts for “Capture!” The hounds bayed,
And every man picked up his meat and headed on his way home,
Sounding the bugle call stridently with many a drawn-out note.
By the time that daylight was over and done, the party had settled down
Inside the lovely castle where Sir Gawain has been waiting
Quietly,
Blissful, by a bright fire,
As the lord comes in to see;
When Gawain met him there,
He was greeted gleefully.
Then the lord commanded all his men to assemble in the hall
And bade that both his ladies come down from above, along with their women,
And join the folk on the floor below. And then he motions his men
With assurance, to fetch his venison and spread it all out before him.
Then graciously he called Gawain over, in the spirit of their
game,
And directed his attention to the tally of full-grown beasts,
Showing him the shimmering rolls of flesh they had shorn from the ribs.
“And how does this sport please you? Would you say I have earned some praise?
Have I thoroughly merited your thanks for my skill at hunting the hinds?”
“Yes, indeed,” the other answered, “for here is the finest
harvest
That I have seen taken in seven years, in the bitter season of winter.”
“And all of it I give to you, Gawain,” said the fellow then,
“For in accord with our covenant you can claim it as your own.”
“That is a fact,” the knight replied, “And I say the same to you.
What I have honorably won within the walls of this dwelling,
Indeed with equally good will, it must belong to you.”
He grasps the fellow’s handsome neck and folds it within his arms,
And kisses him as courteously as ever he could devise:
“Here, sir, take all that I have won, for I achieved nothing more,
I guarantee it completely, as I would if it were greater.”
“It is very good,” said the good man, “Many thanks for it therefore,
Though it may be such it might be better if you would declare to me
Where you have won this self-same wealth, by what stroke of wit on your part?”
“Ah, that was not in our compact,” he said, “you may question me no further,
For you have received what is due to you, you may expect no
more,
As you know.”
They laughed and they made merry,
With words praiseworthy enough.
To supper they went in a hurry
For dishes dainty and new.
And afterwards the two men sat by the chimney in the chamber,
While servants carried cups of choice wine, recharging them over and over,
And again, amongst their other jesting, they agreed that in the morning
They would continue the same compact they had completed before:
Whatever good fortune fell to their lot, they would exchange
their winnings—
Whatever new things they might obtain—at night when they met again.
They bound themselves to this covenant in front of all the court,
And the beverage was brought forth at once with jests to seal the pledge.
Then graciously they both took leave of the other at the last,
And each man hurried rapidly off to his room and went to bed.
By the time the morning cock had crowed and cackled only thrice,
The lord had bounded out of bed, and each of his knights likewise,
So that their meal and morning mass had duly been dispatched,
And the hunting party had gone to the woods, even before day broke,
To the chase:
Loudly with hounds and horns,
Through the fields they shortly pass,
Unleashing among the thorns
The dogs that headlong race.
Soon they gave tongue and the search was on along one side of
a marsh,
The huntsmen urging on those hounds that had first picked up the trail.
They shouted at them with wilder words, making a clamorous outcry;
The other hounds, hearing this commotion, hastened to join the fray,
And fell on the scent as furiously, forty of them at once.
Then such a babble of ear-splitting barks from the pack of
gathered dogs
Rose up, that the rocky hillsides rang with the uproar all around.
With both their horns and their voices, the hunters cheered the hounds on,
Then the whole assemblage moved as one, swiftly swinging down
Between a pool in the forest and a most forbidding crag.
On a rocky knoll beside a cliff, at the very edge of the
marsh,
Where the rugged rocks had tumbled down in a talus of debris,
They set about scenting out the prey, with the men in hot pursuit.
Casting about, they surrounded both the crag and the rocky knoll,
The men in a ring until they could tell for certain it was within—
The beast that thus had been announced by the bold tongues of
the bloodhounds.
Then they beat away on the bushes, bidding him to burst forth,
Until he broke cover dangerously, charging the line of men:
One, the most brutal of wild boars came bolting out of cover,
Who had long before been banished from the herd because of age,
But still he was a tremendous beast, the most massive of all
boars,
And terrifying the way he grunted. At this many men were dismayed,
For at his first rush out, he thrust three dogs down into the dirt
And sprang away at breakneck speed without doing any more damage.
They shouted at the tops of their lungs, in full cry, “Hi!” “Hey! Hey!”
They held their horns up to their lips and blasted the notes
for “Rally!”
Many cheerful calls came out of the mouths of men and hounds,
That hastened, chasing this fearsome boar, crying out with noisy clamor
For the kill.
Many times he stands at bay,
Maiming the pack at will.
He hurts some hounds, and they
Whimper and yowl and yell.
Then the men with bows pressed in around to shoot at the
savage boar,
They loosed their arrows at the beast, and these struck him most of the time
But the arrow points failed to penetrate the tough hide shield
of his shoulders
And the barbed ends of them would not bite into his brows or forehead;
Though the smooth shaven arrow shafts split apart, shivering into splinters,
The heads bounced off again and again, wherever they hit the brute.
When the blows began to pester the beast with their incessant strikes,
Then, frenzied into a fury to fight, he charges at the men,
Savagely wounding the ones that are in his path where he speeds forth,
And many were terrified at that, and quailed, withdrawing back.
But the lord of that land on a lively horse dashes on after him,
Like a bold knight on a battlefield, he blows a bugle blast,
Calling his men to “Rally!” and he rode through the brushwood
thickets
Pursuing this wild swine until the sun had begun to set.
All this day with these same deeds they spent their time in this style,
While in the castle our gracious knight is lying in his bed,
Sir Gawain, happily at home, under the bedcovers splendid
In hue.
The lady hadn’t forgotten
To come with her salute.
Quite early she was at him,
To change his mind or mood.
She comes to the curtain around the bed and peeps in at the
knight.
Sir Gawain was the first to speak, welcomed her courteously,
And she replies to him in turn, most eagerly with her words;
Sets herself softly by his side, and all of a sudden she laughs,
And with a lovingly gracious look, she delivers these words to him:
Sir, if you really are Gawain, it’s a wonder, I have to think,
That a man so well disposed to act with propriety at all times
Is so unable to understand the rules of polite behavior,
And when someone troubles to teach you them, you cast them out of your mind!
You have forgotten overnight what I taught you yesterday
By the truest lesson of any that I could show to you in speech.”
“What lesson is that?” the man inquired, “Indeed I have no idea.
If this fault that you decry is true, the blame is all my own.”
“And yet I taught you this about kissing,” the fair one then exclaimed,
“Where acquiescence is plain to see, quickly to claim a kiss
Is becoming behavior in every knight who practices chivalry.”
“Go on with that!” said the doughty man, “My dear, enough such talk,
For that is a deed I dare not attempt, for fear I should be denied.
Were I turned down, I would be wrong, indeed, to have offered to do it.”
“By my faith,” the merry wife remarked, “you would never be turned down.
You are stout enough to force your will with your strength, if
you feel like it,
Were any woman so boorishly bred that she should try to deny you.”
“Well yes, God knows,” Gawain replied, “What you say may be very true,
But threats are thought to be barbarous in the country that I come from,
And likewise any gift that is not given willingly.
I am entirely at your command, to kiss me when you like,
To seize whenever it pleases you, and let go when you think right,
Straightway.”
The lady bends herself down
To graciously kiss his face.
They talk on and on, expounding
On love, its griefs and grace.
“I would like to learn from you, good sir,” that noble lady
said,
“So long as you would not be wroth, what reason there might be
That one so young and full of valor, as you are at this time,
So courteous, and so knightly, as you’re widely known to be—
And since, of all chivalric deeds, the chief thing to be praised
Is always the loyal sport of love—along with the lore of arms;
For, in telling about the painful tasks attempted by true knights,
This is the title, sign, and text from which their works are taken:
How lords for the sake of their true loves have risked their
very lives,
And have endured—and all for love—the dolefullest of days,
And afterwards avenged themselves with their valor, banished cares,
And brought bliss to a lady’s bower, through their bountiful worthiness—
And you are known as the noblest knight of the present generation,
Your fame and honor walk before you everywhere you go,
And I have sat by your side here twice, on separate occasions,
Yet I’ve never heard a word come out from that handsome head of yours
That had a thing to do with love, not a little nor a lot.
And you, who are so courteous and so wise at keeping your vows,
You owe it to a young thing to be eager to show her how,
To teach her some of the subtle signs of the art and craft of love.
Or—Why! Can it be you do not know them, despite your high renown?
Or else that you deem me to be too dull to understand courtly talk?
For shame!
I come alone, I sit,
To learn some of the game.
Do teach me by your wit
While my lord’s away from home.”
“In good faith,” then Sir Gawain said, “And may God give you
grace,
Great is the happiness I have, and the pleasure to me is huge,
That so worthy a noblewoman as you should deign to visit me here,
And bother yourself with so humble a man, amusing yourself with your knight,
Showing him kindly looks of favor—it gives me the greatest comfort.
But to take the travail upon myself of expounding upon true love,
And to treat the themes of that difficult text, telling tales
of men in arms,
To you, whom I know very well to wield by far much greater skill
In that grand art, by at least a half, than a hundred of such men
As I am, or shall ever be, as long as I live on the earth,
Why, it would be manifold folly in me, upon my plighted word.
I would perform whatever you wish, as far as is in my power,
As I am duty bound to do, and I will evermore
Be a true servant to yourself, my lady, so help me God!”
Thus that lady made trial of him, tempting him over and over,
Tried to win him to wooing, or woe, or whatever she had in mind,
But he defended himself so fairly that no fault was to be
seen,
And nothing evil on either half, so they knew nothing at all
But bliss.
They laughed, played games of love;
At last she gave a kiss;
She courteously took leave,
And went her way like this.
Then the man bestirs himself out of bed, and gets up to go to
mass,
And after that their dinner was prepared and lavishly served.
The knight played love games with the ladies throughout the rest of the day,
But the lord was dashing back and forth, galloping over his
lands,
Pursuing his ill-fated swine, which bolted along the banksides,
Biting the best of his hunting dogs and cracking their backs in two.
There he lurked in the brush at bay till the bowmen broke it down
And forced him out of it into the open, no matter what he might do,
As the arrows fiercely flew at him, when the folk had gathered around.
But still he caused the most fearless men to flinch from him at times,
Until at last he was so worn out that he could no longer run,
But beat himself a hasty retreat, as best he could, to a hole
On a ledge beside a rocky bank where a brook was running by.
He put the bank behind his back and began to paw the ground,
The froth was foaming hideously from the corners of his mouth,
As he stood whetting his white tusks. By then all the men around,
However bold and brave they were, were beginning to feel tired
of hunting,
At annoying him from so far back, but none of them dared close in
For the risk:
He had hurt so many before,
All were about to quit
Lest his tusks tear any more,
Both fierce and out of his wits,
Until the lord of the castle charged up, spurring his courser
on,
Saw the boar biding his time at bay while his men stood ringing him round.
He swings down lightly to the ground and, leaving his horse behind,
Draws his bright sword out of its scabbard, and forcefully strides forward,
Splashing hastily through the ford to where the fierce beast waits.
Wary, the wild creature watched the man with the weapon in his
hand,
The bristles on his ridge rose up, and he snorted ferociously
So that many men were afraid for their lord, lest the boar get the better of
him.
Then the swine sets out against the man, straight for him where he stood,
So the lord and the boar fell into a heap, tangled in confusion,
In the swiftest rapids of the stream. But the beast had the
worst of it,
For the man had aimed at him accurately, as they first clashed together,
He set the sharp point of his sword in the slot at the base of his throat
And drove it in up to the hilt, so it burst the heart open,
And the snarling beast yielded up his life and was swept away downstream
In a flash.
A hundred hounds seized his flanks
And fiercely bit his flesh;
Men brought him back to the bank
And the dogs did him to death.
Then there was blowing of blasts for “Capture!”, loudly on
many a bugle,
And hearty hallooing on the heights from every man as he could;
The hounds bayed away at that beast, as bidden by their masters,
The ones who had been the huntsmen-in-chief on that Herculean chase.
Then a man who was wise in all the crafts that are practiced by a woodsman
Sets to with a will and begins to unlace the carcass of this
boar.
First he hews off the hefty head and sets it aside on high,
And then he rends him roughly asunder up the ridge of the spine,
Draws the bowels out in a braid and chars them on red-hot coals,
Blending in bits of bread with them as a bonus for his hounds.
After, he slices out the flesh in bright broad slabs of meat,
And lifts the edible entrails out, as it properly ought to be done,
And next he fastens the two halves together as one whole
And hangs them over a stout pole, finally, with pride.
Now with that same swine swaying from it, they swiftly hurry
home.
The head of the boar was borne along in front by the master
himself
Who had killed the creature in the ford, through main force of his hand,
Uncowed.
Till he saw Sir Gawain
He thought it a long road.
Called in the hall, he came
Promptly for what he was owed.
The lord burst out in boisterous speech, and laughing merrily
When he laid eyes on Sir Gawain, he spoke to him full of delight.
The good ladies were sent for and came, and the household company gathered.
He showed them the shields of wild boar meat and told them the whole tale,
Of the largeness and the length of the creature, and its ferocity,
And the war he waged with the wild swine, in the woods where he had fled.
The other knight most courteously commended his great deed
And praised it as high excellence, of which he had given proof,
For such a brawny beast, indeed, the valiant visitor said,
And such great flanks of swine flesh he had never seen before.
Then both of them held the huge head up, and the gracious knight gave it praise,
Acting as if he were horrified, to laud that lord the more.
“Now, Gawain,” that good man declared, “this game is all your own,
According to our binding compact, as you assuredly know.”
“That is the truth,” the knight replied, “and it is as surely true,
That all I have gained I shall give to you, again, as by my oath.”
He clasped that nobleman round the neck, kissed him once, courteously,
And then immediately he served him the same reward again.
“Now we are even,” the noble knight said, “once more at
eventide,
In all the covenants we compacted, since the day that I came hither,
Tit for tat.”
The lord said, “By Saint Giles
You’re the best man I have met.
You’ll get rich in a little while
If you keep trading like that!”
Then servants lifted the table tops, and laid them on the
trestles,
Tossed the tablecloths over them, and lit the brightest lights
Which kindled and wakened along the walls, as torches made of wax
Were placed by some of the serving men, while others waited on tables.
Much joyful noise and merriment sprang up within the hall
Around the open fire on the floor, and taking various forms
During the supper and afterwards, when many noble folk
Performed the old Christmas carols and the newest songs-and-dances,
With all the well-mannered sort of mirth that anyone could
imagine.
And always our amiable knight was companioned by the lady.
Such a kind eye on that mannerly man she continually cast
With sly and stealthy sidelong glances designed to delight that stalwart,
That the knight was not only quite astounded, but angry with himself,
Although, because of his good breeding, he could not gauchely
refuse her,
But dealt with her in a delicate fashion, however his actions might
Be miscast.
When they’d dallied in the hall
As long as the mood would last,
“To the chamber!” the lord called,
And to the chimney they passed.
And there they drank and chatted a while, and decided once
again
To set themselves the same conditions, on what was New Year’s Eve.
But the knight craved leave of his noble host, to ride away in the morning,
For it was nearly the time appointed when he would to have to
depart.
The lord tried to talk him out of it, and begged him to lengthen his stay;
He said, “As I am a true knight, I give you my true word,
You shall make your way to the Green Chapel, and attend to your affairs,
My dear fellow, at New Year’s dawn, long before nine o’clock.
Therefore you should just lie in your loft, left alone, and
take your ease,
While I am hunting in the woods, and holding our covenant
To exchange with you whatever I win, once I have come back home.
For I have tested your temper twice, and I find you to be faithful;
Now, Third time is the best throw: you
should think of that tomorrow.
Meanwhile, make merry while we may, and give our minds over to
Joy,
For indeed a man can take hold of Sorrow, whenever he wishes to.”
This agreement was quickly accepted, and Gawain persuaded to stay.
The drink was cheerily brought to them, and they were led to their beds
By torchlight.
Sir Gawain lay and snored,
Unstirring, snug all night;
Eager to hunt, the lord
Was up, dressed, early and bright.
After taking mass, he and his men all had just a morsel to
eat.
The morning was a merry one: the lord summons his mount,
All the nobles who ought to attend him when he goes riding out
Were dressed and ready on their hunters, outside the gates of the hall.
The earth was wondrously fresh and fair, for the frost lay clinging to it,
The sun rose, spreading a fiery red across a rack of clouds,
And then with the brightness of its light drove the clouds out
of the sky.
The handlers had unleashed their hounds when they came to the edge of a woods,
The rocky hillside in the forest rang with the blare of their horns:
Some of the dogs fell onto the track to where the fox lay in wait,
And worked across it back and forth with their customary craft.
A harrier cries, catching its scent, the huntsman calls to
him,
The rest of the pack follow his lead, hastening, panting hard.
They ran forth in a rabble rout, close on the fox’s trail,
And though he frisks and scampers ahead, they soon picked up his scent,
And when they caught sight of him with their eyes, they set out in hot pursuit,
Baying at him bewilderingly with a fearsome angry clamor.
Trickily he twists and turns through many troublesome thickets,
Doubles back and stops, listens, edging along the hedges,
And at the last by a little ditch leaps over a low fence
And steals out stealthily, running a rough path at the forest border.
And he had half-escaped from the woods by his wiliness with
the hounds
When before he knew it, he stumbled onto a well-kept hunting station
Where three great greyhounds lunged at him, straining at their leashes,
All fierce.
He blenched, and quickly whirled,
Turned boldly and reversed,
With all the woe in the world,
To the woods he took his course.
Then it was worthwhile living on earth, to hearken to the
hounds!
When all the pack had met the fox, and were mingling together,
Such curses at the sight of him they called down on his head
As if the cliffs that clambered above had come clattering down in heaps!
Here he was hallooed after when the hunters on horseback spied him,
Loudly he was greeted by them, snarled at and castigated,
He was sharply threatened in their shouts, and often cried after, “Thief!”
And hounds in relays chased at his tail, so he might never
tarry.
Often when he broke for the open, they charged at him again
And turned him suddenly back, however wily Reynard was.
He led them on a merry chase, the lord and all his men,
Strung out in a line along the hills, until mid-afternoon,
While the handsome noble knight at home lay sleeping
healthfully,
Comfortable inside his bed-curtains, on the chilly morning.
But the lady due to her love-longing would not let herself sleep late,
For fear that the purpose would be blunted that she had fixed in her heart.
She rose up rapidly from her bed and made her way to his,
Clad in a merry mantled robe that hung down to the ground
And was very finely lined with fur, on skins that had been trimmed,
No wimpled coif upon her head but a fretwork of well-wrought gems
That were set in clusters of twenty in a net that contained her tresses.
Her lovely face and open throat were laid naked to the eye,
As was her breast, all bare in front, and her back lay bare as well.
She slips in through his chamber door, and closes it after her,
She swings a window open wide and calls out to the man,
And right away she rallies him in pleasant. teasing words
Of cheer:
“Ah, man! How can you sleep
When the morning is so clear?”
Although he was drowsing deep,
He slowly woke to hear.
That noble knight lay muttering, beset by disturbing dreams,
Like a man who was deeply sorrowing from many oppressive thoughts—
How Destiny on the very next day would deal his fate to him
When he must go to the Green Chapel to meet that gigantic man
And stand there waiting for his axe-stroke without any more debate.
But when that comely creature came, he recovered the use of his wits,
And wakening, startled out of his dreams, he answers her with
haste.
The lady in all her loveliness comes to him laughing sweetly,
Bends down low over his fair face and daintily kisses him.
He bids her welcome worthily, in a well-bred cheerful manner,
But he sees her looking so radiant, and so gloriously attired,
So flawless in her features, and the perfect flush of her
face,
That joy upwelling ardently warmed him to the heart.
With gentle, genteel smiles they spoke, softly but merrily,
So that all was bliss and de bonheur
that broke between them both,
And delight.
While they chattered happily,
Their words were gay and bright,
But their souls stand perilously
Unless Mary minds her knight.
For that peerless princess kept after him so, pressing him
thick and fast,
Entreating him on to the end of the thread, to the point where
he must decide
Either to help himself to her love, or else reject it rudely.
He felt concern for his courtliness, lest he act like a churlish boor,
But more for his own soul’s misery, if he should commit a sin,
And play the traitor to his host, the lord who held that house.
“God shield me,” said the man to himself, “that this may not
befall!”
And so with a little affectionate laughter he parried and pushed aside
All the sweet speeches of special fondness springing from her lips.
For then the lady said to the lord, “Sir, you must bear much blame
If you will not give your love to the person whom you are lying beside,
Who is, before all others on earth, the most wounded in her heart—
Or perhaps you have a love of your own, a mistress whom you prefer,
A lady to whom you have pledged your word, and are fastened so firmly to,
That you never may undo that knot—and that’s what I now believe!
And if that is true, then tell me so, I pray you truly now,
For all the loves alive in the world, don’t hide the truth
from me,
Through guile.”
The knight said, “By Saint John,”
Pleasantly, with a smile,
“In faith I do have none,
Nor shall have for a while.”
“That word is a word,” said the woman then, “that is the worst
of all,
But I am answered, that is for certain, though sorely grieved, I think.
Come kiss me now in a comely fashion, and I shall hasten hence.
I can only mourn upon the earth, as a woman who loves too much.”
Sighing she stooped down over him, and kissed him in seemly
style.
And then she separates from him, and says as she stands up,
“Now, dear one, since we needs must part, do me at least this favor,
Give me some token by way of gift—your glove or some little thing,
That I may remember you as my man, to lessen the pangs of mourning.”
“Now I surely wish,” Sir Gawain said, “that I had with me here
The dearest thing that I own in the world, to offer you for your love,
For you have exceedingly often earned, to tell the truth, by rights,
Much more in the way of a reward than I can ever give.
But to deal you out in return for your love some piece of paltry value—
It would not be worthy of your honor to offer you so little,
To give you a glove as a meager keepsake, a goodbye gift from Gawain.
But I am here to fulfill a mission in a strange and alien land,
And I bring no men with bulging bags of fine and noble things.
That makes me most unhappy, lady, because of my love for you,
But every man must do as he can. I ask you, take it not ill,
Nor pine.”
“No, lord of such high honors,”
Said the lovely lady sighing,
“Though I have nothing of yours,
You shall have something of mine.”
She offered him a costly ring that was cast out of red gold,
With a stone like a staring eye of fire standing aloft in it
Which gleamed at him with glancing beams as bright as those of the sun—
You can be sure that it was worth a huge amount of wealth.
But the knight could only say No to it, and directly he declared,
“God is my witness I wish no gifts, fair lady, at this time;
Since I’ve none to give you in return, I will take none away.”
She proffered it to him more urgently, but he still refused the offer,
By swearing swiftly, on his honor, that he would not accept it.
And she was sorry that he rejected the gift, and said to him,
“If you are saying No to my ring
because it appears too costly,
And you would rather not hold yourself so highly obliged to me,
Then I shall give you my girdle-sash, since it is worth so much less.”
She quickly, lightly undid a belt that was fastened around her waist,
Tied with a knot about her tunic, under the bright mantle.
It was woven out of a green silk, the edges trimmed with gold;
Every bit of it was embroidered, and ornamented by hand;
And this she offered to the man while playfully she implored,
That even though it was so unworthy, would he be willing to take it?
At first he denied that on any account he would be willing to
touch
Either gold or any sort of treasure, before God gave him grace
To achieve the end of that adventure that he had chosen there.
“And therefore, I pray you not to be displeased at what I’ve said,
But let your business have a rest, for I vow to you I never
Can consent.
I am deeply in your debt,
Your kindness is well-meant,
And ever, through cold and heat,
I will be your true servant.”
“Now maybe you’re turning down this silk,” the lady suggested
to him,
“Because it’s so simple in itself? And so indeed it seems—
Look! it’s so little, and even less is the value of what it’s worth.
But a person who knew the properties that are knitted into it
Would appraise it at a much higher price, I have to think—perhaps.
For whatever man is girded about with this sash of lacy green,
As long as he keeps it fastened tight, and tied around his waist,
There is no warrior under heaven can hew him down to earth,
For he cannot be wounded or slain by any device in the world.”
This set the knight to pondering, and the thought came into his heart,
It would be a jewel against the jeopardy soon adjudged to him
When he had reached the Green Chapel, to be checkmated there.
Might he slip through and stay unslain, such sleight-of-hand would be noble.
So he patiently put up with her pleading, permitting her to speak on,
And she pressed the belt upon him again, and offered it earnestly,
And he acceded, accepted it, and she gave him it with good
will,
Beseeching him, for her own sake, to never let it be seen,
But to promise to hide it from her lord. The knight agrees to that,
That no other person should know of it, indeed, but the two of them,
No matter what
He thanked her, truly glad
In both his heart and thought.
By then the lady had
Thrice kissed the valiant knight.
After that act she takes her leave, and leaves him lying
there,
For more amusement from that man she was not going to receive.
When she was gone, Sir Gawain rises, and soon he dresses himself,
Arrays him richly for the day in a splendid set of clothes,
Putting the love-lace safely away that the lady had given him,
Hiding it, true to her command, where he could find it again.
Then rapidly to the castle chapel he chooses to make his way,
Where privately he approached a priest, and prayed him then and there
To listen to his life and lift it, teaching him how to live better,
In order that his soul should be saved, when he should go hence, to heaven.
There he confessed himself all clean by declaring his misdeeds,
Both the major and the minor ones, and begging the Lord for
mercy,
He called upon the priest to provide him absolution for all,
And he absolved him absolutely, sending him out as pure
As if Doomsday had been due to befall upon the following morning.
And then Sir Gawain makes himself as jolly among the ladies,
Joining in happy dancing songs, and every kind of joy,
As he never had done before that day, to the dark of night—
Sheer bliss.
Each man admires him there,
And speaking of him, says,
“He was never so merry before,
Since he came hither, as this.”
Now let us leave him in that harbor, let their love lap him
about.
The lord of the castle is still in the field, pursuing his pleasure there,
And now he has headed off the fox that he had followed so long:
As his horse was leaping over a hedge, he tried to spot the
villain
Where he’d heard the hounds in hot pursuit chasing after him at full speed,
Reynard at last came into sight, trotting through a tangled thicket,
And all the rabble in a rush racing after him right at his heels.
The lord kept his eye on the wild thing, and warily waited for him,
And drawing out his shining sword, he aimed it at the beast,
Who swerved away from the sharp blade, and would have scampered off,
But a scenting-hound seized hold of him, just before he gave them the slip,
And right in front of the horse’s feet the pack all fell on him,
Catching the wily one by the throat while raising an angry ruckus.
The lord jumps quickly down from his horse and snatches hold
of the fox,
Swiftly rips him away at once out of the mouths of the hounds,
Holds him high up over his head, hallooing lustily
While all around the grim fierce dogs keep baying up at him.
The other hunters came hurrying in, many of them with horns,
Blowing their “Rally!” call right on until they caught sight
of their lord.
When his noble company had assembled, all of them in one crowd,
The ones who had borne their bugles along were blowing them all at once,
And all the others, who had no horns, were hallooing as loud as they could,
They made the merriest clamor and baying that any hunt ever heard,
The resounding uproar that they raised for the soul of poor
Reynard—
The din!
The hounds had their reward
As they stroked and petted them,
And then they took Reynard
And stripped him of his skin.
And with that they headed for home at once, for night had
nearly fallen,
Trumpeting their triumph proudly on their strident horns.
The lord at last leaps lightly down at his beloved house,
Where he finds a fire on the open floor, and the fellow standing beside it,
Gawain, the good and noble knight, who was altogether glad–-
Among the ladies and their love he was taking great delight.
He was wearing a mantle of rich blue stuff that reached right down to the
ground;
His outer robe fitted him perfectly and was lined with a soft fur,
While his hood was cut from the same cloth and was hanging from his shoulders,
And both were trimmed around the edge with ermine or the like.
Forward he goes to the good lord, and they meet in the midst of the floor,
And full of the joy of their game he greets him; courteously he says,
“Now this time I shall be the first to carry out our compact,
That we with good results have sealed, sparing nothing in our drink.”
Then he embraces the noble lord, and kisses him three times
With all the relish and vigorousness that he can muster up.
“By Christ!” then said the other knight, “You have been a lucky man
In bargaining for this merchandise, if you’ve bought it at a good price!”
“Never you mind about the price,” the other replied at once,
“As long as the goods I deliver to you have been true and fairly paid.”
“By Mary,” said the other knight, “my goods lag far behind,
For I have been hunting all day long, and nothing to show for it
But this foul-smelling fox’s pelt—the Devil take these goods!—
And that’s a poor return to pay for three such precious gifts
As you have pressed upon me here, with three such hearty
kisses,
So good.”
“Enough,” said Sir Gawain,
“I thank you, by the Rood.”
And how the fox was slain,
He told him, as they stood.
With much mirth and much minstrelsy and with all the food they
desired,
They made themselves as merry then as any men might do,
Joined by the laughter of the ladies, and many jesting words.
Sir Gawain and the noble lord could not have been more glad
Unless the crowd had all gone crazy, or at the least been
drunk.
But the men and the members of their retinue kept on making jokes,
Until they were looking at the hour when they would have to part,
When at last the two must separate and go their ways to bed.
Then bowing deferentially the noble knight takes leave,
First of the lord, to whom he pours out courteously his
thanks:
“May the Highest King reward you for the fine sojourn I’ve had,
And the honor you have done me through these high festivities.
I’ll offer you my services for those of one of your men,
If you approve, for I must needs, as you know, move on tomorrow,
If you will let me take some man to instruct me, as you
pledged,
The way to the Green Chapel, where, as God wills, I’ll receive
On New Year’s Day the judgment He will bring down as my fate.”
“In good faith,” his good host replied, “with all good will I shall.
All that I ever promised you I am ready to fulfill.”
He assigns a servant there and then to set him on the road
And conduct him over the hills and past so that he, without delay,
Might ride there, taking the shortest route they could follow through the woods
And groves.
Sir Gawain thanked the lord[1]
For the honor he’d received;
Then of the noble ladies
The knight must take his leave.
With sadness and with kissing, he converses with them there,
And presses on them to accept his hearty, abundant thanks,
And promptly they replied to him in exactly the same style,
And then commended him to Christ, while sighing piteously.
And after that most courteously he takes leave of the household staff;
Each of the servants that he greeted, he gave him special thanks
For his dutifulness, and his kindnesses, and the troubles he had taken—
For each of them had been so busy about him, serving him;
And everyone was as sorry now to sever from him there
As if they had dwelt with that gentleman in honor all their lives.
Then with attendants carrying lights, he was led along to his room
And they merrily brought him to his bed, where he could take his rest.
Whether he slept there soundly or not, I would not venture to say,
For he had many things in mind, if he wanted to, to keep
In thought.
So let him lie there still,
Near him he has what he sought
And if you’ll for a while be still,
I shall tell how it turns out.
[1] Some translators reverse subject and object: “The lord thanked Gawain.” The line makes sense either way and is ambiguous in Middle English:
The lord Gawayn con thonk.
PART IV
Now as the New Year’s Day drew nigh, and the night before it passed,
Daylight was driving the dark away, as the Lord above commands.
But a wild weather was working up in the world beyond their doors:
The clouds cast down a bitter cold keenly onto the earth,
With enough cruel wind from the north to torment the naked flesh.
The snow fell snittering
bitterly, stinging the wild creatures;
The shrilly whistling wind whipped down upon them from the heights,
And filled the hollows of every dale full up with heavy drifts.
The knight was listening closely to this as he lay awake in
his bed,
And though he locked his eyelids shut, very little sleep did he get:
From each cock-crow throughout the night he could tell what time it was.
Hurriedly he rose out of bed before the day had broken,
For there was light enough from a lamp that was shining in his room.
He called out to his chamberlain, who promptly answered him,
And bade him bring his chain-mail shirt, and saddle up his horse.
The man obediently got up, and fetched the garments for him,
And began to get Sir Gawain dressed, in most resplendent style.
First he put on him his warmest clothes, which would ward off the cold,
And next he brought the armor out that had been carefully
stored:
Both the belly piece and all the plate had been polished as bright as bright,
The rust on the rings of his costly chain-mail shirt had been
rubbed off;
And all was as fresh as when first forged, and he was keen to thank
Them all.
He now had donned each piece—
All had been polished well—
Unmatched from here to Greece
He bade, “Bring my steed from his stall.”
While the noble knight was being dressed in his most sumptuous
clothes—
The surcoat that draped over his armor adorned with the
pentangle badge
Worked into velvet, framed around with precious, potent stones
Which were inlaid, setting it off well, along the embroidered seams;
On the inner side the coat richly trimmed with beautiful fur—
Yet he did not leave the lace behind that had been the lady’s gift;
That present Gawain did not forget, for the good of his own
self.
So, after he had belted the sword around his powerful haunches,
He carefully wrapped the love-token two times around his waist;
Quickly that knight, and delightedly, wound it about his middle.
The girdle woven of green silk well suited that splendid knight
Set off against the royal red of the cloth, which itself
looked rich.
But he was not wearing this same girdle because of its costliness,
Nor out of pride in its shiny pendants, however polished they
were,
Nor even for the glittering gold that glinted upon the fringe,
But in order that he might save his life when he was obliged to submit,
To face without dispute what he would take from the sword’s or
knife’s
Quick stroke.
Once the brave man was set,
He hurried out and spoke
His thanks to all he met,
To all the noble folk.
Then they got Gringolet ready to ride, which was a huge great
horse
That had been stabled to his liking, in snug and secure style:
That horse was in the mood to gallop, thanks to his fit
condition.
The knight walked out to where he stood, and gazed on his glistening coat,
And soberly he said to himself, swearing it on his oath,
“Here inside this moat is a company setting their minds on honor:
May joy come to the lord who maintains and manages them all;
And as for the delightful lady, may she have love in her life!
If out of charity they can receive and cherish a guest so kindly,
And offer such hospitality, may the Lord provide reward
Who rules us from the heavens on high–-and also the whole household!
And if I should go on living on earth, for even a little while,
I would quickly pay you some recompense, if I were able to.”
And then the knight stepped into the stirrup, swung his leg astride the horse;
His servant brought him out his shield, which he settled on
his shoulder,
And he dug his spurs into Gringolet, kicking his gilded heels,
The horse started forward over the stones, no longer standing still,
But pranced.
(The man was mounted by then
Who bore his sword and lance.)
“This castle I commend
To Christ against mischance!”
The drawbridge was lowered for him to pass, and the broad
gates in the wall
Were unbarred, laid open on either side, completely on both halves.
The knight crossed himself rapidly and passed along the
planks,
Thanking the porter who kept the gates, and who kneeled before the prince,
He prayed that God would save Gawain, and gave the knight “Good day.”
And he went on his way, companioned by only a single guide
To teach him the turns that would lead at last towards that perilous place
Where he was fated to receive the grievous, fearful stroke.
Their path went twisting between the hills, where the wintry boughs were bare;
They climbed and clambered along the cliffs where the cold was clinging close.
The clouds in heaven were holding high, but were ugly underneath;
The mist was mizzling on the moor and melting on the mountains.
Each of the hilltops had a hat, a huge mantle of mist.
The brooks were bubbling and foaming over, breaking above their banks,
White water shattered against their sides, as it made its way downhill.
The route was very meandering that they followed through the
woods,
Until it would soon, in that winter season, be time for the sun to break
From night.
They were on a high hillop;
On all sides snow lay white;
The man with him called, “Stop!”
Abruptly, to the knight.
“For I have brought you hither, sir, at the appointed time,
And now you are not far away from that noteworthy place
That you have sought for and asked about so very particularly.
But I shall tell you the truth now, sir, since now I know you well
And you are one man upon this earth whom I regard most highly
If you’d only act on my advice, you would be much better off.
The place you are pressing forward to is known to be perilous;
A man lives in that wasted land who is the worst in the world,
For he is strong and stern and grim and loves above all to smite.
In his massiveness he is more of a man than any on Middle Earth,
His body is bigger than four of the best and biggest knights to be found
In Arthur’s house—he is bigger even than Hector or any other—
And he is in charge of everything that happens at the Green Chapel.
Nobody passes by that place, however valiant in arms,
But he will batter him to death by dint of the strength of his hand,
For he is a man without restraint, who is utterly merciless:
Whether it be a churl or a chaplain comes riding by his chapel,
Whether a monk, or a priest who says mass, or any manner of man,
He thinks it as fine to finish him off as to stay alive himself.
Therefore I have to say to you, as sure as you sit in your saddle,
If you go there, you will be killed, if the Green Knight has his way—
Trust me, I am telling the truth—even though you had twenty lives
To spend.
He has lived a long time in this land,
And stirred up strife no end;
Against his deadly hand
It’s hopeless to defend.
“Therefore, good Sir Gawain, pray, leave the man alone
And ride away by another road, for God’s sake and your own.
Take yourself off to some other land, where Christ may give you speed!
And I shall hie me home again, and further, I promise you
this—
That I shall swear on oath ‘By God and all his hallowed saints,’
’So help me God and the holy relics,’ and other oaths besides—
That I shall loyally keep your secret, and never utter a word
That you ever tried to run away from any man that I know of.”
“Thank you so much,” Gawain replied, though he spoke with
irritation,
“Good luck, I suppose, I should wish you, man, since you care so for my welfare
And say you will loyally keep my
secret, as I believe you would.
But, though you kept it ever so close, if I hurried past this place,
Fleeing away from him out of fear, in the style that you suggested,
I would be called a craven knight and I could not be excused.
But I will go on to the Green Chapel, whatever chances to happen,
And talk things over with that knight, and tell him whatever I like;
Whether it brings me good or ill, it will only be what Fate
Has planned.
He may be grim and bold
To conquer or command,
But God shapes things to hold
His servants in His hand.”
“By Mary!” said the other man, “Now you have spelled it out
That you are bringing your own destruction down upon your head.
If it pleases you to lose your life, I will say nothing against it.
Here, put your helmet on your head, and take your spear in hand,
And ride down this rough water-course, by the side of yonder rock,
Till it brings you to the very foot of the wild and rugged valley.
Then look a little off to the left, to the glade not far away,
And you shall see, set in the dale, the very chapel you’re after,
And on its grounds the burly brute who keeps it in his care.
Now fare well, for the sake of God, Gawain the noble knight!
For all the gold there is in the earth I would not go with you,
Nor keep you company through this forest even one foot
further.”
With that, in the middle of the wood, the fellow pulled his bridle,
Hit his horse’s flanks with his heels as hard as he could spur,
Galloped him off across the glade,
and left the knight there, all
Alone.
“By God’s self,” Gawain said,
“I will neither weep nor groan.
God’s will must be obeyed,
His wishes are my own.”
Then he struck spurs into Gringolet, and followed the
watercourse:
He pushed his way in past the rock, at the edge of a small
thicket,
And rode along the ragged bank to the bottom of the dale.
Then he looked about on every side, and it seemed a wilderness.
Nowhere could he see a sign of a place where he might shelter,
Only high banks rising steeply, on either side of the dale,
And rough, knobby rocky knolls, with sharp, craggy outcrops.
It seemed to him that the lowering clouds were grazed by the jutting rocks.
Then he drew his horse to a halt and checked him for a while
As he sat him, turning this way and that, to seek where the chapel was.
He saw no such thing on any side, and that seemed strange to him,
Except that a little off in the glade was what you might call a mound,
Or a bulging barrow along a bankside swelling above the brim
Of the channel of a watercourse that was flowing freely through.
The burn was bubbling within it, as if it had come to a boil.
The knight then urged his horse along and brought it up to the knoll,
Alighted from it gracefully, and at a linden tree
Attached the reins of his noble steed to one of its rough branches.
Then he walked over to the mound and he strode all around it,
Turning over in his mind what this strange thing might be.
It had a hole in it on the end, and as well as on either side,
And it was overgrown with grass in patches everywhere,
And all was hollow on the inside–nought but an old cave
Or a crevice in an old crag? But which, he could in no way
Tell.
“Oh, Lord!” sighed the noble knight,
“Can this be the Green Chapelle?
Here the Devil, about midnight,
Might say morning prayers to Hell!
“Now,” Gawain said, “without a doubt, this is a wasteland
here.
This oratory is horrifying, overgrown with greenery—
A very fitting place for that man who wraps himself in green
To do his duty and devotions, in the Devil’s fashion.
Now I feel in my five wits that in fact it is the Fiend
Who has imposed this tryst on me, to destroy me here.
This is a chapel of mischance—may it be checkmated!—
It is the cursedest kind of kirk that ever I came into!”
With his helmet high up on his head and his lance held in his hand
He wound his way to the top of the roof above the awkward structure.
Then, standing on that high hillock, he heard, behind a hard rock,
Beyond the brook, down on the bank, a wondrously loud noise.
What! It clattered against the cliff as if it would cleave it
in two:
It sounded like somebody at a grindstone sharpening a scythe.
What! It whirred and whetted, like water through a mill!
What! It made a rushing, and a ringing, harsh to hear.
Then, “By God!” Sir Gawain said, “that equipment, I would guess,
Is being readied for me to be welcomed welcome as a knight
Should be.
God’s will be done. ‘Alas!’es
Will be no help to me.
It may be my life passes,
A noise won’t make me flee.”
With that the knight cried boldly out, as loudly as he could,
“Who is the master in this place, who holds this tryst with me?
For right now, good Gawain is walking, all around, right here.
If any man wants anything, let him come out here quickly,
It’s now or never, if he intends to get his business done.”
“Hang on!” shouted someone on the bank, somewhere over his head,
“And you will have it all in haste that I once promised you.”
Still he went on with that rushing noise, more rapidly for a while,
As he turned back to finish his whetting before he would come down.
And then he picked his way past a crag and emerged out of a
hole,
Whirling out of a nearby nook, armed with a dreadful weapon:
A Danish axe that was freshly forged to pay the blow in return,
With a mighty blade that went curving back until it touched the helve;
It had been honed on a whetstone, a full four feet in length—
No less than that if you measured it by the brightly shining belt!
And the man came out arrayed in green, as he had been at first ,
His face and cheeks, his flowing locks of hair, and his green beard,
Except that now he walked on foot, swiftly over the ground,
Setting the haft on the stony earth and stalking along beside it.
When he came to the stream, at the water’s edge he wouldn’t
wait to wade,
But hopped across it on his axe, and hurriedly strode forward,
Fiercely grim, on a broad patch of grassy ground that was cloeakd
In snow.
The knight met Gawain there,
Who bowed, but not too low.
The other said, “Sweet sir,
So—one can trust your vow.
“Gawain,” the Green Knight then went on, “May God look after you!
I bid you welcome, sir, indeed, you are well come to my place,
And you have timed your travel to it just as a true man should;
And you understand the agreement that was closed took what had fallen to you
And I, at this New Year, should promptly pay you back for it.
And here we are in this valley, which is verily all our own,
Here are no knights to part us, we may dance around as we
please.
Take your helmet off your head, and have your payment now.
Do not resist me any more than I resisted you
When you whipped my head off with a single whack of your battleaxe.”
“No,” said Sir Gawain, “by the God who granted me a soul,
I will begrudge you not a groat for any hurt that befalls me;
But hold yourself to a single stroke, and I will stand stock still
And offer no resistance at all, for you to work as you like—
Anywhere.”
He bent his neck and bowed,
And showed the white skin bare;
Acting as if uncowed,
Dread would not make him scare.
Then all in a rush the man in green got himself ready to
strike:
He grappled and raised the grim tool with which he would smite Gawain;
With all the force in his massive frame he bore it up aloft
And swung it down as mightily as if to demolish him.
If he had driven through on that stroke as relentlessly as he started,
He would have been dead from the dreadful blow, that man who was always brave.
But Gawain caught a glimpse of the axe from the corner of his eye
As it came gliding down on him to destroy him in a flash,
And he flinched a little with his shoulders, shrank from the sharp iron.
The other man suddenly checked his swing, held back the shining blade,
And then how he reproved the prince with many haughty words:
“You are not Gawain,” the Green Man scoffed, “who is held to be so good,
Who never quailed on hill or dale before an enemy horde,
And now you cringe away for fear before you are even harmed!
I never knew of such cowardice on the part of that knight before.
I neither winced nor shied away, friend, when you swung at me,
Nor invented some caviling argument in your King Arthur’s house.
My head flew off and fell to my feet, and yet I never
flinched;
But you, before you take any hurt, are scared to death in your heart.
So I deserve, without a doubt, to be called the better knight,
Therefore.
Said Gawain, “I flinched once,
And so I will no more.
But if my head falls on the stones,
It cannot be restored.
“But hurry up, man, on your honor, and bring me to the point,
Deal me the destiny that is mine, and do it out of hand,
I shall stand and take your stroke and startle no more at it,
Until your axe has hewn into me: you have my plighted oath.”
“Have at you then!” the other shouted, heaving it up aloft,
And grimacing as angrily as if he were out of his mind.
He swung at him ferociously, but he did not touch the man,
For suddenly he checked his swing before it might do him harm.
Gawain awaited the blow as he ought, and not a limb of him flinched
But he stayed as still as any stone, or rather, like a stump
That is wrapped around by a hundred roots, locked into the rocky ground.
Then once again the man in green harangued him merrily:
“So, now you have your heart whole again, it behooves me I
should hit.
May that high knighthood preserve you now that Arthur dubbed you with,
And save your neck from this next stroke, if it can manage that.”
Gawain grew more and more furious, and fiercely he lashed out,
“Why, thrash away, you fearsome fellow, you waste time flinging threats!
I suspect that in your heart of hearts you are terrified of yourself.”
“Indeed,” replied the other knight, “you speak so alarmingly,
I will no longer delay about it and hinder you on your mission—
Right now.”
He took his stance to strike,
Puckered both lip and brow.
Sir Gawain didn’t like
His chance of getting out.
The knight lifts his weapon lightly up, and lets it so deftly
down,
With the sharp blade of the cutting edge onto the bare neck,
That though he hammered with his full force, it harmed him
only so much
As to nick his neck on the one side, severing the skin,
The sharp edge sank into the flesh and through the shining fat
So the bright blood shot over his shoulders and spurted onto the earth.
And when Gawain glimpsed his own blood gleaming there on the snow,
He sprang forth more than a spear’s length and took up a
fighting stance:
He grabbed for his helmet quickly and clapped it onto his head;
With a shake of his shoulders then he jerked his shield down into place,
And drew from his belt his strong bright sword and challenged fierily.
Never since he had been a baby in his mother’s arms
Had he felt ever in this world half so happy as a man.
“You can put a stop to your bold strokes, sir, and offer me no more.
I have received one blow from you in this place, without resistance,
But if you extend me any more, I shall requite you promptly,
You may be sure that my repayment will be immediate—
And rough.
Only one stroke must fall—
The compact shaped it thus,
Sealed fast in Arthur’s hall—
And therefore, man, enough!”
The noble lord turned away from him and rested on his axe—
He set the shaft on the river bank and leaned on the sharp blade
And took a good long look at the knight who had planted his feet in the glade,
How that doughty hero stood up to him, so fearless and undaunted,
Fully armed and free of dread, that it warmed his heart to watch.
Then he addressed him merrily in his resounding voice
And with a ringing utterance he spoke like this to the man:
“Bold knight, don’t be so fierce and grim, here on this grassy ground.
Nobody has used you ill, or in an unmannerly fashion,
Nor acted except by the covenant that we shaped at the King’s court.
I pledged you a stroke, and you have it; you may hold yourself
well paid,
I release you from the rest of it, from any further claims.
If I had been more nimble, perhaps, I might have dealt you a buffet
More out of anger, one that might indeed have provoked your wrath.
The first stroke, though, I threatened you for fun, with only a feint,
Not slicing you open with a slash: in this I gave you justice
According to the agreement we crafted your first night in my castle,
Since you had faithfully fulfilled that compact and kept your word:
All of your winnings you gave to me, as an honest man should do.
The other feint I gave you, sir, because on the following morning
You kissed my wife and gave me back the kisses that you’d taken.
For those two days you took from me those two mere feigning blows,
Unscarred.
If a true man keeps his word,
Then he may go unharmed.
The third day, you fell short:
That’s how your tap was earned.
“For that is my garment you are wearing, that self-same woven
girdle.
It was my own dear wife who wove it, indeed I know it well.
And I know all about your kisses, and all your qualities too,
And as for your wooing by my wife, it was I who brought it
about.
I sent her to assay your worth, and to tell the truth, I think
You are one of the men with the fewest faults who ever went on foot:
As a pearl beside a white pea is so much more to be prized,
So is Sir Gawain, in good faith, beside all other knights.
Only here you were lacking a little, sir, and failed in
fidelity,
Though that was not out of wiliness, nor was it for making love,
But only because you loved your life, so I blame you all the less.”
The other valiant man stood still in silent thought a while,
So overcome with mortification he shuddered inside himself,
And all the blood there was in his breast met and mingled in
his face;
He winced and shied away for shame at what the knight had said.
There at that moment the first words bursting out from Gawain were these:
“A curse both upon cowardice and also covetousness!
In you are villainy and vice, that together destroy virtue.”
The good knight then caught hold of the knot, unloosened the
fastening,
And roughly flinging the whole belt to the lord who owned it, said,
“Look at it! There the false thing is, may the Fiend take it away!
Because I was anxious about your knock, my cowardice could instruct me
To accord myself with covetousness and forsake my character,
The largesse and fidelity which truly belong to knighthood.
Now I am found to be full of faults, and false, and have always behaved
With treachery and untruthfulness—and both will beget sorrow
And care!
I confess before you, knight,
My faults in private here.
May your will, if I might
Grasp it, make me beware.”
At that the other lord stood laughing, and answered amiably,
“I hold it to be wholly healed, the injury that I had.
You have confessed yourself so cleanly, absolved you of your
faults,
And have had your penance put to you at the sharp edge of my blade,
I hold you cleansed of that offence, and purified as clean
As if you had never sinned at all since the day that you were born.
And I will give you this girdle, sir, with the gold along its hems;
For it is green as my gown, Sir Gawain, and wearing it you may
Think back upon this self-same game, when you are pressing forth
Among other princes of excellence; this will be a noble token
Of the chance you took at the Green Chapel, when you’re among chivalrous
knights.
And now you shall, in this New Year, come back again to my house,
And we shall revel away the rest of this high festival
Pleasantly.”
He pressed him hard, that lord:
“I think that with my lady
We shall bring you to accord—
Your once keen enemy.”
“Indeed I cannot,” said the knight, and seizing hold of his helmet,
He doffs it out of courtesy, and offers the lord his thanks,
“I have lingered here quite long enough. Good luck to you and yours,
And may He who determines all rewards repay you generously!
Commend me to that courteous lady, your gracious, beautiful
wife,
Both to her and to that other one, my honored noble ladies,
Who so adroitly have beguiled their knight with their devices.
But it is not an unusual thing for a fool to act foolishly,
Or for a man, through the wiles of women, to be brought to grief
For in the same way Adam once was beguiled by one on earth,
And Solomon by many a woman, and Samson was another—
Delilah dealt him his destiny—and David afterwards
Was blinded by Bathsheba and endured much misery.
Now, since these were ruined by women’s wiles, it would be an enormous gain
Could we love them well, and believe them not—if any man
could do that!
For these were the favored men of old whom fortune followed after,
Excelling every man beneath the kingdom of heaven, yet they
Were confused;
And all of them were fooled
By women they had used;
Though I am now beguiled,
Might I not be excused?
“But as for your girdle,” Gawain said, “May God reward you for it!
I will wear that with all good will, though not for gain of gold,
Nor for the cincture, nor the silk, nor for the side pendants,
Nor its costliness nor its prestige, nor the wonderful workmanship,
But as a token of my transgression, so I shall see it often
When I am riding out to renown, and remember with remorse
The faultiness and the frailty that belong to the obstinate flesh,
How it tends to be easily enticed to the spots and stains of sin.
And thus, whenever my prowess in arms shall prick me on to pride,
One look at this love-lace will remind me, and humble me in my heart.
But one thing I would like to know, so long as it won’t offend you,
Since you are the lord of yonder land which I have been staying in,
So honorably looked after by you—may He repay you for it
Who holds the heavens above the earth and sits enthroned on high—
How are you called by your rightful name?—and then I will ask no more!”
“I will tell you that without deceit,” the other man replied,
“Bertilak of Hautdesert is what I am called in this land.
Through the mighty force of Morgan la Faye, who is dwelling in
my castle,
And her skill in the magical lore and crafts that she once learned so well
Through the masterful arts of Merlin himself, many of which she acquired,
For she had pleasant love-dealings over a long while
With that wise and excellent wizard—as is known to all your knights
At home.
Morgan la Faye the goddess
Therefore is her name.
Whatever his haughtiness
There’s no man she can’t tame.
“She sent me out in this disguise to assault your handsome
hall
To put your vaunted pride to the test, to see if it held true,
The great renown of the Round Table, that runs all over the world.
She sent me out as this marvel to you, to drive you out of your wits,
And to so distress Queen Guinevere that she would be startled to death
From horror at seeing that self-same knight, that ghastly
phantom speaker
Talk from the head he held in his hand, facing the high table.
She is the one who lives at my home, that ancient, agèd lady.
Even more than that, she is your aunt, half-sister to King Arthur,
She is the Duchess of Tintagel’s daughter, whom noble Uther later
Fathered Arthur himself upon, who is now your splendid sovereign.
Therefore, my lord, I now beseech you, come and visit your aunt,
Make merry once again in my house, where you are so well loved,
And I, my excellent fellow, wish you well, by my faith, as well
As any person under God, for your great integrity.”
Gawain said nothing to him but, No, he could not, by any
means.
The two knights then embraced and kissed, commended one another
To the high Prince of Paradise, and they separated right there
In the cold.
Gawain on his fair steed
Made haste to the King’s stronghold,
And the knight in brightest green
Whithersoever he would.
Gawain now goes riding over many wild ways in the world
On Gringolet, since through God’s grace he had gotten away with his life.
Often he harbored inside a house, and often out of doors,
And met with many adventures in valleys and won many victories
Which I, at this time, do not intend to tell you all about.
The hurt had healed and was whole again that he’d taken in his neck,
And he wore the gleaming belt about his body all the time,
But slantwise as a baldric that is fastened at the side;
The lace was locked under his left arm, and tied there with a knot
To mark the spot of sin—the fault—he had been taken in.
And thus he came to the King’s court, that knight, all safe and sound.
Delight was wakened in that dwelling when the noble folk were told
That good Gawain was come again: they thought it a stroke of
luck.
The King came out and kissed the knight, and the Queen kissed
him too,
And after them many a trusty knight who came to hail him there
Asked him all about his travels; he told them marvelous things.
Describing all the tribulations he’d met with since he left—
How it chanced for him at the Green Chapel, the deportment of
its Knight,
The loving behavior of the lady, and at the last, the lace.
He bared the scar of the nick on his neck in order to show them all
What he had taken at that lord’s hands for his unfaithfulness,
His blame.
It tormented him to tell;
He groaned for grief, and pain—
The blood in his face upwelled
When he showed the cut, for shame.
“Look at this, lords!” the knight declared, holding the lace in his hands,
“This is the band of the blame I bear that also shows on my neck,
This is the sign of the injury and damage I have deserved—
Through the cowardice and covetousness that both caught hold of me.
This is the token of the untruth I was taken in,
And I must keep on wearing it for as long as my life may last,
For though a man may hide his offence, he cannot be rid of it,
For once it is attached to him, it never will come loose.”
The King then tried to comfort the knight, as all the court di∂, also;
Laughing out loud at what he confessed, they amiably agreed—
The lords who belonged to the Round Table and all their ladies as well—
That each bold knight of that brotherhood should obtain a similar baldric,
A cross-belt slantwise from the shoulder, colored a bright green,
Which they all, for the sake of that good man, would follow suit and wear.
And since it contributed to the fame of the renowned Round Table,
Whoever wore it thus was honored, forever afterwards,
As is recorded, written down in the best book of romance.
Thus it came about in King Arthur’s day that this adventure occurred,
And the books of British history bear witness to it as well,
Since Brutus, the bold, adventurous knight, first made his way to these shores,
After the siege and the assault had been exhausted at Troy:
Finis.
Many strange things have been found
In Britain before this:
Now He that once was crowned
With Thorns bring us to bliss.
AMEN
[HONI SOIT QUI MAL PENCE]
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