Gawain and Lady Green Page 13

  Sir—

  For God’s love! If we are enchanted, we are enchanted. We might as well die in these leaves, this bed, as in the Green Chapel. We will die easier, here!

  Gawain pulled the wool blankets over his bare shoulders and slept.

  At first dark, horns, shouts, and barks announced the return of the hunt.

  Weak and dizzy, Gawain met Lady Bright by the hall fire, even as One-Eye silently piled on wood. Quickly, briskly he worked, snapping twigs and rolling logs, looking nowhere but to the rising fire.

  For the first time in a season, Gawain wore soft indoor garments—embroidered slippers, hose, long maroon tunic and cloak—none of them his own. Waking in the afternoon, he had found these on the stool where his lousy, frost-cracked clothes and mail had lain. More important, his sword was gone.

  Inner Mind had counseled, Uncle does not allow knights to wear swords at his table, either. When you leave, your own clothes, mail, lice, and sword will surely be brought you.

  (“Leave!” The word had given Gawain a sudden, sharp neck ache. To salve it, he had drunk deeply of the full tankard left beside the stool.)

  Lady Bright fairly glowed in leaping firelight. Her scarlet gown and wimple drank light, gold bracelets and rings reflected light. Beneath her half veil her handsome (if somewhat coarse) features betrayed no fear; but Gawain sensed tension in her proud stance. He said quickly, softly, “Lady. I am Honor-bound to give your lord what I have found in his house this day.”

  She smiled gently into his face. Slightly surprised, he noticed they were nearly the same height. “Dear Sir Gawain!” she answered low, “well I know how you value your Honor. Whatever you have found in my lord’s house, give to him with my blessing.”

  Gawain scented her perfume and felt again the mighty magic of her attraction. He thought, Lord Bright may beat her…might kill her…

  But I doubt it, Sir. Her charms are a strong shield.

  Hooves thundered around the flimsy hall. Thatch fell in dusty clumps through the roof-lattice. The door burst open.

  Lord Bright filled the doorway. With knife bristling, rough hunting garb, and wild beard bloodied, he looked a likely wife-killer. White-faced Lady Bright gave him a calm glance.

  “Ho, ho, honored guest!” Lord Bright cast huge arms wide and waddled toward Gawain. “I’ve brought you gifts and more gifts! Did you rest well, guest?”

  Two great black hounds with bloodied jaws burst in after Lord Bright. Growling like bears, they trotted around the fire pit.

  “My Lord, I rested quite well—”

  “Good! Good! Come out here now and see what I have for you!” A powerful paw descended on Gawain’s shoulder and urged him to the door. Shivering in his light tunic, Gawain stepped out into cold darkness.

  A cheerful fire burned among outbuildings on the clearing’s edge. Silhouettes of men and dogs milled around it. By the door a groom held a torch. Its ragged red light shifted over a second groom, two blowing, sweat-shiny pack ponies, and their burdens of bleeding meat.

  “You should have come!” Lord Bright roared. “You should have heard our horns, chased our chase!”

  The two black hounds bounded about the ponies’ feet, snapping up at the meat. One hound leaped against Lord Bright. He caught and kneaded its ears with gloved fingers as a baker kneads bread, to its whining delight. The ponies stamped and stirred, unhappy with the heavy, wreathing blood smell.

  Gawain folded his arms tight against the cold and stood astraddle, lest his knees knock.

  “We let the antlered harts and bucks go by.” Lord Bright almost sang like a bard. “No stringy, worn-out meat for us! We drove the hinds and does down to the water. A great run, Sir! Horn and hound! Sun and wind! Bump and thump! Ech, you should have come!”

  Gawain locked his jaws lest the complaint of his chattering teeth be heard. Not much danger there. Voices of men and dogs rose now from the fire among the huts. And Lord Bright thought only of his hunt.

  “Down at the water we had men and hounds waiting, you know. Skilled and strong. So fast, they grabbed the deer in an eyeblink. Pulled ’em down. Ripped ’em up. In a breath. You should have seen how fast they butchered! All done there by the water.” Jovially, Lord Bright slapped a sack of offal. “Sorted out on the spot. No mess here!”

  “My Lord,” Gawain managed politely between chattering teeth, “I c-c-c-congratulate your hunt!”

  “Look here!” Lord Bright lifted an edge of raw, winter-gray hide. “Good as you’ve seen, I’ll wager. And look how skillfully done, not a cut on it. Top speed.”

  “I…c-c-c-congratulate…”

  “And all this, guest, is for you!” Lord Bright hurled the hound away and grabbed Gawain to his chest. “This is my own take, for my own use—three deer! Which I give you here and now, according to our covenant.”

  “Thank you, my…L-L-L-ord. Now I have something to give you…to return some p-p-part of your hospitality.”

  “Aye! I’ll wager that here at home you have taken something worth more than all this!”

  “I…m-m-m-meant to say, my Lord…I return this, your gift of m-m-meat, for your later feasting.”

  “Hah! Then shall we feast together, Sir Gawain. Later.”

  “Ah, no, my Lord. I d-d-doubt that I shall ever feast again.”

  “Come, man!” Lord Bright clapped Gawain’s two shoulders and shook him back and forth. “No need for such gloom! Sad thought brings sadness. Like the song says, Never mind mourning. Let her follow you. Ech, you are cold!”

  Gawain could no longer conceal his agony of cold. Teeth and knees and shudders proclaimed it.

  “I forgot, you are not winter-dressed. Come inside, guest! Quick, by the fire!”

  The fire burned high. Lady Bright stood in its light like a scarlet-painted church statue. Her face seemed blank, feelingless, in the shadow of her short veil. One-Eye had gone.

  Gawain did not let himself stride directly to the fire, hold out his hands, or spread his stiff-frozen gown to it. He stopped beside Lord Bright, close to the table. The two black dogs brushed between them, ran straight to the fire pit, and flopped beside it.

  “Now, guest!” Lord Bright barked cheerfully. “My gift! What you have taken today in my house is mine, by covenant!”

  With an effort, Gawain did not glance Lady Bright’s way. Somewhere in his misty head he had already decided that if Lord Bright threatened this wild, childish woman, he would intervene. He would defend her with his bare hands.

  That decision made, he turned to Lord Bright, laid icy hands on his shoulders and kissed him once, square on his surprisingly soft lips.

  Gawain stood away.

  One still moment, his eyes met Lord Bright’s open, serious gaze. He felt that in that moment he sank, or rose, into reality and faced the true Lord Bright, who wore his brusque, north-wind character like a mask. The moment passed.

  “By Saint John!” Lord Bright rubbed off Gawain’s kiss with a bloody glove. “I’ll wager you did not take that treasure by resting all day! Where in God’s name did you find it?”

  Gawain held himself erect, despite chilled bones and aching head. “My Lord, what true knight betrays a kiss? Where I come from, such matters are secret.”

  “Ech, that’s true here, too. Very true, Sir! And you are Honorable to remember it.” Lord Bright turned slightly toward his silent, motionless lady. “Wife!” he shouted like a peasant. “Order up the dinner!”

  All begrimed as he was, he strode to the table and crashed onto a stool. At his gesture, Gawain followed suit.

  God’s teeth, Sir! He means to eat like this. No wash, no comb! Bloody gloves. The man’s a lord one moment, a knave the next.

  This is the north. We know not its ways.

  Now at last Gawain let his eyes stray to Lady Bright.

  Slow and proud, she turned away and drifted to the back door.

  I swear, I’ve known someone who walked like that! Somewhere. Somewhen.

  She opened the door and called sweetly ou
t into the dark. Then she slipped through the door herself and disappeared.

  In marched One-Eye, piled trenchers in both hands. The two black dogs leaped up as he passed them and followed the trail of scent to the table. One-Eye slammed down the trenchers, went back to the fire for light, and lit the table candles. For the second time Gawain faced his host alone, across candlelight and food.

  One-Eye brought tankards of ale, placed one before each knight, and departed unceremoniously. This time Lord Bright made no remark upon his rude service, demanded no parting bow.

  Both starved knights fell to.

  In Gawain’s dream, Lord Bright raised his ruddy, beard-bushed face and smiled. In a weird, heavy accent he said, “As I am True Knight, I swear, I will send you to the Green Chapel at New Year’s daybreak. For I have tested you and found you faithful.”

  His dream-smile widened to an ogre’s grin. His ruddy face turned green. An ax whooshed down past Gawain’s closed eyes—which shot wide open.

  Pounding heart. Morning light on blue and white bed-curtains. A silky rustle.

  “Man!” said a sweet southern voice above him. “How can you sleep so on such a bright morning? The hunt just departed, and you never stirred!” Lady Bright leaned over the bed; one jeweled hand held back the curtain, one offered ale. “Drink, Sir Gawain.” Gracious smile. Outstretched tankard.

  Gawain’s heart still thumped, unhappy with the whooshing ax he had dreamed. He sighed, wiped dreams from his eyes with the heels of his hands, sat up.

  “Drink to our morning, dear Sir.”

  Gawain drank.

  “Drink deeper, for I would enjoy this fine, clear morning with the finest knight in the world!” He swallowed again.

  She bent to take back the tankard. Grasping it, she kissed his mouth. “Sir, let me tell you I am cold standing here! I’ll wager your bed is warm with wool, and fur, and your own lively self. Hold you the tankard while…” Lady Bright lifted the bedclothes and popped quietly in beside Gawain.

  Perfumes of dead summers overwhelmed confused senses. God’s bones! but she must be beautiful under gown and veil!

  Magical beauty haloed her peasant-seeming hands, her face glimpsed in veil-shadow. Under that concealing wimple, Gawain knew, her hair would be rich, fairy-spun gold. Under the rose silk gown…

  By Angel Michael, why not? If not now, when? Two days more and I die. Die, for God’s love!

  Sir, wait! Sir, consider your sacred honor!

  (“I have tested you,” said Lord Bright, “and found you true.”)

  Lady Bright arranged pillows at both their backs and plumped herself restfully against them. With a smile like Springtime’s own, she took the tankard from him, sipped, and handed it back.

  Gawain fought himself. His hands rose toward her, sank back. His breath sped, slowed.

  She said, “Sir Gawain, I think you must have a lady friend of whom the songs tell not.”

  “Why…why do you think that, Lady?” His throat closed sorely upon the words.

  “Believe me, not many men would lie so gently beside me!”

  “Lady, that is certain truth. And I mean no discourtesy—”

  “I think only a man whose heart was given away already, only one who could not even see me, or feel me, because his mind was bent on his beloved…”

  “Lady, Honor is my beloved. You are wed to my host, the generous Lord Bright—”

  “Honor! Nay, you have a true love, Sir! I know the signs. Give me another sip.”

  “Keep the ale with you.”

  “Nay, Sir, we share this morning drink!” She handed it back with some small force, so that he had to hold or spill it.

  He said, “To answer you, no; I have no lady love. Nor shall I ever have one, now.”

  She laid her head on his shoulder. Her warmth came around him like protection. “My lord told me a strange, sad tale of you.”

  “I am to die in two days.”

  “Such a dreadful fate, to die because of a Yuletide game!” Her hand moved softly on his bare chest. “That such a fine man should be lost to the world through a game! I could well weep. But I would rather make you merry, dear Sir. Do you know the new song?”

  Into his neck, stirring his beard, she sang.

  “Mirth’s a merry maiden

  To follow and pursue.

  Never mind Mourning.

  Let her follow you.”

  Deeply, then, she sighed. “I love you, Sir Gawain of High Honor.”

  “Lady,” he confessed, love-swollen throughout, “I love you!” Firmly he pushed aside her hand and straightened up. He drank one last, deep swallow for strength and said, “I love you with all my heart, and desire you with all my body. But this love we share must go no farther, for Honor forbids. You are my good host’s wife.”

  Under the little veil, her eyes went wide. She straightened beside him, staring at him, awestruck, through her veil. “Honor forbids… I would not have believed it.”

  “God forbids, Lady. In the name of all that is right—”

  “You are truly that determined, Sir?”

  He said desperately, honestly, with no courtly grace, “I am about to die. What I tell you now is true. I am determined to die with Honor. Though refusing you is the hardest thing I have ever done.”

  “Give me the tankard, Dear.” She took and set it on the floor. “Kiss me once.”

  “Lady, I am deter—”

  The kiss was long and deep.

  Sadly, then, she said, “I see truly we will make no merry today. I will go.”

  “Lady! If in truth you love me kindly, come you not back here!”

  Again, bed-curtains rustled.Nay, not the lovely Lady Bright, God shield!

  Gawain cracked open a bleary eye. Subdued, indoor noon light leaned in the curtain-crack, and a dark-cloaked, hooded figure. White hair bloomed under the hood, white beard peeped through the cloak.

  “Mage Merlin!”

  “Son Gawain, how do you here?”

  The gentle voice both calmed and stirred Gawain. To his horror, he felt tears rise in his throat. He swallowed them back. “Not well, Mage! Not well. Come you to cure me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Are you truly here? Or do you travel in spirit?”

  Merlin stood silent. Then, “In what way are you not well, Sir Gawain?”

  “In truth, I know not. I am dizzy, all the time. I am never sure if what I see is real or dream. Like yourself, now.”

  “You have come a long, cold way; you slept under icicle-falls. You fought bear and boar and brigand. Many a day you have gone hungry.”

  “True, Mage. I am tired.”

  Merlin nodded deeply. “Tired!”

  “But I think it is more. I think maybe I am…bewitched.”

  “Bewitched?”

  “Enchanted. Tell me, Merlin, do I truly lie here in a warm bed?”

  “What do you think?”

  “It might be only a heap of leaves…in an oak grove…I might be frozen dead and dreaming in spirit.”

  Merlin smiled in his beard. “You imagine wildly, Gawain!”

  “Merlin, if you are truly yourself…and here…heal me!”

  “So now once more you are ill. Not enchanted.”

  “I know not what to think!”

  “Have you thought you might be drugged?”

  Gawain sat bolt upright. “Drugged!”

  Visions of tankards swam in his head. “All that northern ale! She keeps pressing it on me—God’s teeth! I’ll drink not a drop more of that!”

  “A good way to start your cure.” Merlin dropped the curtain back in place.

  “Mage Merlin! Leave me not alone…” Gawain snatched the curtain aside. As he suspected, Merlin was gone. A handful of dust drifted where he had stood, in a shaft of light from the ill-thatched roof.

  Head in a whirl, Gawain lay back on the pillows.

  (Somewhere not far off, a young child cried. Gawain listened, interested to hear some sound from the usually silent world outsi
de.)

  Think this through.

  Lord Bright is a right good knight. Stupid he may be, to leave his wild lady all day with a guest. But he would never drug a guest! If he wished me harm, he would give me back my sword and use his.

  Swordless women resort to magic, tricks, and drugs. This must be the work of lovely Lady Bright. Lady Bright, who seems so sweetly crazed, may well be a witch. Witches abound here in the pagan north. Let me not forget, that’s where I am. And where I was once before this.

  By Saint George! She must truly want me!

  On that thought, Gawain smiled and almost slept; but first he leaned down to the bedside tankard and knocked it halfway across the floor, spilling poison all the way.

  Horn and hound announced the hunt’s return. Silent One-Eye built up the fire. Six yards apart, Gawain and Lady Bright faced the door.

  Thunder of hooves; victory hallos. The door burst open.

  In marched Lord Bright, bearing a heavy object aloft in both gloved hands. Striding into firelight, he fairly dripped blood and filth. Lady Bright gathered her gown and took a broad step away. Gawain might have followed suit, but after all, his soft, indoor garments belonged to Lord Bright. Let him be-grime them if he chose. Surprisingly undizzy, bones newly firm, Gawain stood his ground.

  Before the door closed, Bright’s two black dogs trotted in and bounded to the fire.

  Grinning and stinking, Lord Bright marched up to Gawain and presented his burden: the grinning, severed head of a huge boar, wrapped in a net of vines for easy handling.

  “My take, guest! For you!”

  Gawain looked down at slitted, blood-clogged eyes and stout, froth-slimed tusks. He did not quite retch.

  Highly thoughtless gift, Inner Mind said faintly. Unconsidered. One head for another…!

  “Meat’s out back at the kitchens,” Lord Bright bellowed merrily. “Didn’t think you’d want to handle that.”

  “As before, my Lord—”

  “We’ll feast on that together, eh? At a better time.”

  “Aye, my Lord.” No need to remind or explain.

  “But this, you can look at this while you eat!” Lord Bright swung about, strode to the table and set the boar’s head in the middle. “One-Eye! Lights here!”