Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

The poem of which the following pages offer a prose rendering is

contained in a MS., believed to be unique, of the Cottonian Collection,

Nero A. X., preserved in the British Museum. The MS. is of the end of

the fourteenth century, but it is possible that the composition of the

poem is somewhat earlier; the subject matter is certainly of very old

date. There has been a considerable divergence of opinion among scholars

on the question of authorship, but the view now generally accepted is

that it is the work of the same hand as _Pearl_, another poem of

considerable merit contained in the same MS.

Our poem, or, to speak more correctly, metrical romance, contains over

2500 lines, and is composed in staves of varying length, ending in five

short rhyming lines, technically known as a bob and a wheel,—the lines

forming the body of the stave being not rhyming, but alliterative. The

dialect in which it is written has been decided to be West Midland,

probably Lancashire, and is by no means easy to understand. Indeed, it

is the real difficulty and obscurity of the language, which in spite of

careful and scholarly editing will always place the poem in its original

form outside the range of any but professed students of mediæval

literature, which has encouraged me to make an attempt to render it more

accessible to the general public, by giving it a form that shall be

easily intelligible, and at the same time preserve as closely as

possible the style of the author.

For that style, in spite of a certain roughness, unavoidable at a period

in which the language was still in a partially developed and amorphous

stage, is really charming. The author has a keen eye for effect; a

talent for description, detailed without becoming wearisome; a genuine

love of Nature and sympathy with her varying moods; and a real

refinement and elevation of feeling which enable him to deal with a

_risqué_ situation with an absence of coarseness, not, unfortunately, to

be always met with in a mediæval writer. Standards of taste vary with

the age, but even judged by that of our own day the author of _Sir

Gawain and the Green Knight_ comes not all too badly out of the ordeal!

The story with which the poem deals, too, has claims upon our interest.

I have shown elsewhere[a] that the beheading challenge is an incident of

very early occurrence in heroic legend, and that the particular form

given to it in the English poem is especially interesting, corresponding

as it does to the variations of the story as preserved in the oldest

known version, that of the old Irish _Fled Bricrend_.

[a]“The Legend of Sir Gawain,” Grimm Library, Vol. VII. (Chapter IX. Sir

Gawain and the Green Knight).

But in no other version is the incident coupled with that of a

temptation and testing of the hero’s honour and chastity, such as meets

us here. At first sight one is inclined to assign the episode of the

lady of the castle to the class of stories of which the oldest version

is preserved in Biblical record—the story of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife;

a _motif_ not unseldom employed by mediæval writers, and which notably

occurs in what we may call the _Launfal_ group of stories. But there are

certain points which may make us hesitate as to whether in its first

conception the tale was really one of this class.

It must be noted that here the lady is acting throughout with the

knowledge and consent of the husband, an important point of difference.

In the second place, it is very doubtful whether her entire attitude was

not a _ruse_. From the Green Knight’s words to Gawain when he finally

reveals himself, “I wot we shall soon make peace with my wife, who was

thy bitter enemy,” her conduct hardly seems to have been prompted by

real passion.

In my _Studies on the Legend of Sir Gawain_, already referred to, I have

suggested that the character of the lady here is, perhaps, a

reminiscence of that of the Queen of the Magic Castle or Isle, daughter

or niece of an enchanter, who at an early stage of Gawain’s story was

undoubtedly his love. I think it not impossible that she was an integral

part of the tale as first told, and her rôle here was determined by that

which she originally played. In most versions of the story she has

dropped out altogether. It is, of course, possible that, there being but

a confused reminiscence of the original tale, her share _may_ have been

modified by the influence of the _Launfal_ group; but I should prefer to

explain the episode on the whole as a somewhat distorted survival of an

original feature.

But in any case we may be thankful for this, that the author of the most

important English metrical romance dealing with Arthurian legend

faithfully adheres to the original conception of Gawain’s character, as

drawn before the monkish lovers of edification laid their ruthless hands

on his legend, and turned the model of knightly virtues and courtesy

into a mere vulgar libertine.

Brave, chivalrous, loyally faithful to his plighted word, scrupulously

heedful of his own and others’ honour, Gawain stands before us in this

poem. We take up Malory or Tennyson, and in spite of their charm of

style, in spite of the halo of religious mysticism in which they have

striven to enwrap their characters, we lay them down with a feeling of

dissatisfaction. How did the Gawain of their imagination, this

empty-headed, empty-hearted worldling, cruel murderer, and treacherous

friend, ever come to be the typical English hero? For such Gawain

certainly was, even more than Arthur himself. Then we turn back to these

faded pages, and read the quaintly earnest words in which the old writer

reveals the hidden meaning of that mystic symbol, the pentangle, and

vindicates Gawain’s title to claim it as his badge—and we smile,

perhaps; but we cease to wonder at the widespread popularity of King

Arthur’s famous nephew, or at the immense body of romance that claims

him as its hero.

Scholars know all this, of course; they can read the poem for themselves

in its original rough and intricate phraseology; perhaps they will be

shocked at an attempt to handle it in simpler form. But this little book

is not for them, and if to those to whom the tale would otherwise be a

sealed treasure these pages bring some new knowledge of the way in which

our forefathers looked on the characters of the Arthurian legend, the

tales they told of them (unconsciously betraying the while how they

themselves lived and thought and spoke)—if by that means they gain a

keener appreciation of our national heroes, a wider knowledge of our

national literature,—then the spirit of the long-dead poet will

doubtless not be the slowest to pardon my handling of what was his

masterpiece, as it is, in M. Gaston Paris’ words, “The jewel of English

mediæval literature.”

Bournemouth, _June 1898_.

[Illustration: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight]

CONTENTS

I 1

Of the making of Britain 1

How Arthur held high feast at Camelot 2

New Year’s Day 3

Of the noble knights there present 4

The coming of the Green Knight 5

The fashion of the knight 5

Of the knight’s steed 6

The arming of the knight 7

Of the knight’s challenge 9

The silence of the knights 11

How Sir Gawain dared the venture 12

The making of the covenant 13

The giving of the blow 15

The marvel of the Green Knight 16

II 19

The waning of the year 19

Sir Gawain bethinks him of his covenant 21

The arming of Sir Gawain 22

Wherefore Sir Gawain bare the pentangle 24

How Sir Gawain went forth 25

Of Sir Gawain’s journey 26

How Sir Gawain came to a fair castle on Christmas Eve 29

How Sir Gawain was welcomed 31

Sir Gawain tells his name 34

The lady of the castle 35

Of the Christmas feast 37

How the feast came to an end but Gawain abode at the

castle 38

Sir Gawain makes a covenant with his host 41

III 43

The first day’s hunting 43

How the lady of the castle came to Sir Gawain 45

How the lady kissed Sir Gawain 49

How the covenant was kept 51

Of the second day’s hunting 52

Of the lady and Sir Gawain 54

How the lady strove to beguile Sir Gawain with words of

love 55

How the boar was slain 57

The keeping of the covenant 59

Of the third day’s hunting 61

How the lady came for the third time to Sir Gawain 62

The lady would fain have a parting gift from Gawain 64

She would give him her ring 65

Or her girdle 65

The virtue of the girdle 66

How Sir Gawain took the girdle 67

The death of the fox 68

How Sir Gawain kept not all the covenant 69

How Sir Gawain took leave of his host 71

IV 72

The robing of Sir Gawain 73

How Sir Gawain went forth from the castle 74

The squire’s warning 75

Of the knight of the Green Chapel 76

Sir Gawain is none dismayed 77

The finding of the chapel 79

The coming of the Green Knight 80

How Sir Gawain failed to stand the blow 81

Of the Green Knight’s reproaches 82

How the Green Knight dealt the blow 83

Of the three covenants 84

The shame of Sir Gawain 85

How Sir Gawain would keep the girdle 87

How the marvel was wrought 88

How Sir Gawain came again to Camelot 89

Sir Gawain makes confession of his fault 90

The knights wear the lace in honour of Gawain 90

The end of the tale 91

Notes 93

[Illustration: Illustrated drop-cap]

Of the making of Britain

After the siege and the assault of Troy, when that burg was destroyed

and burnt to ashes, and the traitor slain for his treason, the noble

Æneas and his kin sailed forth to become princes and patrons of

well-nigh all the Western Isles. Thus Romulus built Rome (and gave to

the city his own name, which it bears even to this day); and Ticius

turned him to Tuscany; and Langobard raised him up dwellings in

Lombardy; and Felix Brutus sailed far over the French flood, and founded

the kingdom of Britain, wherein have been war and waste and wonder, and

bliss and bale, oft-times since.

And in that kingdom of Britain have been wrought more gallant deeds than

in any other; but of all British kings Arthur was the most valiant, as I

have heard tell, therefore will I set forth a wondrous adventure that

fell out in his time. And if ye will listen to me, but for a little

while, I will tell it even as it stands in story stiff and strong, fixed

in the letter, as it hath long been known in the land.

How Arthur held high feast at Camelot

King Arthur lay at Camelot upon a Christmas-tide, with many a gallant

lord and lovely lady, and all the noble brotherhood of the Round Table.

There they held rich revels with gay talk and jest; one while they would

ride forth to joust and tourney, and again back to the court to make

carols;[0] for there was the feast holden fifteen days with all the

mirth that men could devise, song and glee, glorious to hear, in the

daytime, and dancing at night. Halls and chambers were crowded with

noble guests, the bravest of knights and the loveliest of ladies, and

Arthur himself was the comeliest king that ever held a court. For all

this fair folk were in their youth, the fairest and most fortunate under

heaven, and the king himself of such fame that it were hard now to name

so valiant a hero.

New Year’s Day

Now the New Year had but newly come in, and on that day a double portion

was served on the high table to all the noble guests, and thither came

the king with all his knights, when the service in the chapel had been

sung to an end. And they greeted each other for the New Year, and gave

rich gifts, the one to the other (and they that received them were not

wroth, that may ye well believe!), and the maidens laughed and made

mirth till it was time to get them to meat. Then they washed and sat

them down to the feast in fitting rank and order, and Guinevere the

queen, gaily clad, sat on the high daïs. Silken was her seat, with a

fair canopy over her head, of rich tapestries of Tars, embroidered, and

studded with costly gems; fair she was to look upon, with her shining

grey eyes, a fairer woman might no man boast himself of having seen.

But Arthur would not eat till all were served, so full of joy and

gladness was he, even as a child; he liked not either to lie long, or to

sit long at meat, so worked upon him his young blood and his wild brain.

And another custom he had also, that came of his nobility, that he would

never eat upon an high day till he had been advised of some knightly

deed, or some strange and marvellous tale, of his ancestors, or of arms,

or of other ventures. Or till some knight should seek of him leave to

joust with another, that they might set their lives in jeopardy, one

against another, as fortune might favour them. Such was the king’s

custom when he sat in hall at each high feast with his noble knights,

therefore on that New Year tide, he abode, fair of face, on the throne,

and made much mirth withal.

Of the noble knights there present

Thus the king sat before the high table, and spake of many things; and

there good Sir Gawain was seated by Guinevere the queen, and on her

other side sat Agravain,[1] _à la dure main_; both were the king’s

sister’s sons and full gallant knights. And at the end of the table was

Bishop Bawdewyn, and Ywain, King Urien’s son, sat at the other side

alone. These were worthily served on the daïs, and at the lower tables

sat many valiant knights. Then they bare the first course with the blast

of trumpets and waving of banners, with the sound of drums and pipes, of

song and lute, that many a heart was uplifted at the melody. Many were

the dainties, and rare the meats, so great was the plenty they might

scarce find room on the board to set on the dishes. Each helped himself

as he liked best, and to each two were twelve dishes, with great plenty

of beer and wine.

The coming of the Green Knight

Now I will say no more of the service, but that ye may know there was no

lack, for there drew near a venture that the folk might well have left

their labour to gaze upon. As the sound of the music ceased, and the

first course had been fitly served, there came in at the hall door one

terrible to behold, of stature greater than any on earth; from neck to

loin so strong and thickly made, and with limbs so long and so great

that he seemed even as a giant. And yet he was but a man, only the

mightiest that might mount a steed; broad of chest and shoulders and

slender of waist, and all his features of like fashion; but men

marvelled much at his colour, for he rode even as a knight, yet was

green all over.

The fashion of the knight

For he was clad all in green, with a straight coat, and a mantle above;

all decked and lined with fur was the cloth and the hood that was thrown

back from his locks and lay on his shoulders. Hose had he of the same

green, and spurs of bright gold with silken fastenings richly worked;

and all his vesture was verily green. Around his waist and his saddle

were bands with fair stones set upon silken work, ’twere too long to

tell of all the trifles that were embroidered thereon—birds and insects

in gay gauds of green and gold.

Of the knight’s steed

All the trappings of his steed were of metal of like enamel, even the

stirrups that he stood in stained of the same, and stirrups and

saddle-bow alike gleamed and shone with green stones. Even the steed on

which he rode was of the same hue, a green horse, great and strong, and

hard to hold, with broidered bridle, meet for the rider.

The knight was thus gaily dressed in green, his hair falling around his

shoulders, on his breast hung a beard, as thick and green as a bush, and

the beard and the hair of his head were clipped all round above his

elbows. The lower part of his sleeves were fastened with clasps in the

same wise as a king’s mantle. The horse’s mane was crisped and plaited

with many a knot folded in with gold thread about the fair green, here a

twist of the hair, here another of gold. The tail was twined in like

manner, and both were bound about with a band of bright green set with

many a precious stone; then they were tied aloft in a cunning knot,

whereon rang many bells of burnished gold. Such a steed might no other

ride, nor had such ever been looked upon in that hall ere that time; and

all who saw that knight spake and said that a man might scarce abide his

stroke.

The arming of the knight

The knight bore no helm nor hauberk, neither gorget nor breast-plate,

neither shaft nor buckler to smite nor to shield, but in one hand he had

a holly-bough, that is greenest when the groves are bare, and in his

other an axe, huge and uncomely, a cruel weapon in fashion, if one would

picture it. The head was an ell-yard long, the metal all of green steel

and gold, the blade burnished bright, with a broad edge, as well shapen

to shear as a sharp razor. The steel was set into a strong staff, all

bound round with iron, even to the end, and engraved with green in

cunning work. A lace was twined about it, that looped at the head, and

all adown the handle it was clasped with tassels on buttons of bright

green richly broidered.

The knight halted in the entrance of the hall, looking to the high daïs,

and greeted no man, but looked ever upwards; and the first words he

spake were, “Where is the ruler of this folk? I would gladly look upon

that hero, and have speech with him.” He cast his eyes on the knights,

and mustered them up and down, striving ever to see who of them was of

most renown.

Then was there great gazing to behold that chief, for each man marvelled

what it might mean that a knight and his steed should have even such a

hue as the green grass; and that seemed even greener than green enamel

on bright gold. All looked on him as he stood, and drew near unto him

wondering greatly what he might be; for many marvels had they seen, but

none such as this, and phantasm and faërie did the folk deem it.

Therefore were the gallant knights slow to answer, and gazed astounded,

and sat stone still in a deep silence through that goodly hall, as if a

slumber were fallen upon them. I deem it was not all for doubt, but some

for courtesy that they might give ear unto his errand.

Then Arthur beheld this adventure before his high daïs, and knightly he

greeted him, for discourteous was he never. “Sir,” he said, “thou art

welcome to this place—lord of this hall am I, and men call me Arthur.

Light thee down, and tarry awhile, and what thy will is, that shall we

learn after.”

Of the knight’s challenge

“Nay,” quoth the stranger, “so help me He that sitteth on high, ’twas

not mine errand to tarry any while in this dwelling; but the praise of

this thy folk and thy city is lifted up on high, and thy warriors are

holden for the best and the most valiant of those who ride mail-clad to

the fight. The wisest and the worthiest of this world are they, and well

proven in all knightly sports. And here, as I have heard tell, is

fairest courtesy, therefore have I come hither as at this time. Ye may

be sure by the branch that I bear here that I come in peace, seeking no

strife. For had I willed to journey in warlike guise I have at home both

hauberk and helm, shield and shining spear, and other weapons to mine

hand, but since I seek no war my raiment is that of peace. But if thou

be as bold as all men tell thou wilt freely grant me the boon I ask.”

And Arthur answered, “Sir Knight, if thou cravest battle here thou shalt

not fail for lack of a foe.”

And the knight answered, “Nay, I ask no fight, in faith here on the

benches are but beardless children, were I clad in armour on my steed

there is no man here might match me. Therefore I ask in this court but a

Christmas jest, for that it is Yule-tide, and New Year, and there are

many here. If any one in this hall holds himself so hardy,[2] so bold

both of blood and brain, as to dare strike me one stroke for another, I

will give him as a gift this axe, which is heavy enough, in sooth, to

handle as he may list, and I will abide the first blow, unarmed as I

sit. If any knight be so bold as to prove my words let him come swiftly

to me here, and take this weapon, I quit claim to it, he may keep it as

his own, and I will abide his stroke, firm on the floor. Then shalt thou

give me the right to deal him another, the respite of a year from to-day

shall he have. Now pledge me thy word, and let see whether any here dare

say aught.”

The silence of the knights

Now if the knights had been astounded at the first, yet stiller were

they all, high and low, when they had heard his words. The knight on his

steed straightened himself in the saddle, and rolled his eyes fiercely

round the hall, red they gleamed under his green and bushy brows. He

frowned and twisted his beard, waiting to see who should rise, and when

none answered he cried aloud in mockery, “What, is this Arthur’s hall,

and these the knights whose renown hath run through many realms? Where

are now your pride and your conquests, your wrath, and anger, and mighty

words? Now are the praise and the renown of the Round Table overthrown

by one man’s speech, since all keep silence for dread ere ever they have

seen a blow!”

With that he laughed so loudly that the blood rushed to the king’s fair

face for very shame; he waxed wroth, as did all his knights, and sprang

to his feet, and drew near to the stranger and said, “Now by heaven

foolish is thine asking, and thy folly shall find its fitting answer. I

know no man aghast at thy great words. Give me here thine axe and I

shall grant thee the boon thou hast asked.” Lightly he sprang to him and

caught at his hand, and the knight, fierce of aspect, lighted down from

his charger.

Then Arthur took the axe and gripped the haft, and swung it round, ready

to strike. And the knight stood before him, taller by the head than any

in the hall; he stood, and stroked his beard, and drew down his coat, no

more dismayed for the king’s threats than if one had brought him a drink

of wine.

How Sir Gawain dared the venture

Then Gawain, who sat by the queen, leaned forward to the king and spake,

“I beseech ye, my lord, let this venture be mine. Would ye but bid me

rise from this seat, and stand by your side, so that my liege lady

thought it not ill, then would I come to your counsel before this goodly

court. For I think it not seemly that such challenge should be made in

your hall that ye yourself should undertake it, while there are many

bold knights who sit beside ye, none are there, methinks, of readier

will under heaven, or more valiant in open field. I am the weakest, I

wot, and the feeblest of wit, and it will be the less loss of my life if

ye seek sooth. For save that ye are mine uncle naught is there in me to

praise, no virtue is there in my body save your blood, and since this

challenge is such folly that it beseems ye not to take it, and I have

asked it from ye first, let it fall to me, and if I bear myself

ungallantly then let all this court blame me.”

Then they all spake with one voice that the king should leave this

venture and grant it to Gawain.

Then Arthur commanded the knight to rise, and he rose up quickly and

knelt down before the king, and caught hold of the weapon; and the king

loosed his hold of it, and lifted up his hand, and gave him his

blessing, and bade him be strong both of heart and hand. “Keep thee

well, nephew,” quoth Arthur, “that thou give him but the one blow, and

if thou redest him rightly I trow thou shalt well abide the stroke he

may give thee after.”

The making of the covenant

Gawain stepped to the stranger, axe in hand, and he, never fearing,

awaited his coming. Then the Green Knight spake to Sir Gawain, “Make we

our covenant ere we go further. First, I ask thee, knight, what is thy

name? Tell me truly, that I may know thee.”

“In faith,” quoth the good knight, “Gawain am I, who give thee this

buffet, let what may come of it; and at this time twelvemonth will I

take another at thine hand with whatsoever weapon thou wilt, and none

other.”

Then the other answered again, “Sir Gawain, so may I thrive as I am fain

to take this buffet at thine hand,” and he quoth further, “Sir Gawain,

it liketh me well that I shall take at thy fist that which I have asked

here, and thou hast readily and truly rehearsed all the covenant that I

asked of the king, save that thou shalt swear me, by thy troth, to seek

me thyself wherever thou hopest that I may be found, and win thee such

reward as thou dealest me to-day, before this folk.”

“Where shall I seek thee?” quoth Gawain. “Where is thy place? By Him

that made me, I wot never where thou dwellest, nor know I thee, knight,

thy court, nor thy name. But teach me truly all that pertaineth thereto,

and tell me thy name, and I shall use all my wit to win my way thither,

and that I swear thee for sooth, and by my sure troth.”

“That is enough in the New Year, it needs no more,” quoth the Green

Knight to the gallant Gawain, “if I tell thee truly when I have taken

the blow, and thou hast smitten me; then will I teach thee of my house

and home, and mine own name, then mayest thou ask thy road and keep

covenant. And if I waste no words then farest thou the better, for thou

canst dwell in thy land, and seek no further. But take now thy toll, and

let see how thy strikest.”

“Gladly will I,” quoth Gawain, handling his axe.

The giving of the blow

Then the Green Knight swiftly made him ready, he bowed down his head,

and laid his long locks on the crown that his bare neck might be seen.

Gawain gripped his axe and raised it on high, the left foot he set

forward on the floor, and let the blow fall lightly on the bare neck.

The sharp edge of the blade sundered the bones, smote through the neck,

and clave it in two, so that the edge of the steel bit on the ground,

and the head rolled even to the horse’s feet.

The marvel of the Green Knight

The blood spurted forth, and glistened on the green raiment, but the

knight neither faltered nor fell; he started forward with out-stretched

hand, and caught the head, and lifted it up; then he turned to his

steed, and took hold of the bridle, set his foot in the stirrup, and

mounted. His head he held by the hair, in his hand. Then he seated

himself in his saddle as if naught ailed him, and he were not headless.

He turned his steed about, the grim corpse bleeding freely the while,

and they who looked upon him doubted them much for the covenant.

For he held up the head in his hand, and turned the face towards them

that sat on the high daïs, and it lifted up the eye-lids and looked upon

them, and spake as ye shall hear. “Look, Gawain, that thou art ready to

go as thou hast promised, and seek leally till thou find me, even as

thou hast sworn in this hall in the hearing of these knights. Come thou,

I charge thee, to the Green Chapel, such a stroke as thou hast dealt

thou hast deserved, and it shall be promptly paid thee on New Year’s

morn. Many men know me as the knight of the Green Chapel, and if thou

askest thou shalt not fail to find me. Therefore it behoves thee to

come, or to yield thee as recreant.”

With that he turned his bridle, and galloped out at the hall door, his

head in his hands, so that the sparks flew from beneath his horse’s

hoofs. Whither he went none knew, no more than they wist whence he had

come; and the king and Gawain they gazed and laughed, for in sooth this

had proved a greater marvel than any they had known aforetime.

Though Arthur the king was astonished at his heart, yet he let no sign

of it be seen, but spake in courteous wise to the fair queen: “Dear

lady, be not dismayed, such craft is well suited to Christmas-tide when

we seek jesting, laughter and song, and fair carols of knights and

ladies. But now I may well get me to meat, for I have seen a marvel I

may not forget.” Then he looked on Sir Gawain, and said gaily, “Now,

fair nephew, hang up thine axe, since it has hewn enough,” and they hung

it on the dossal above the daïs, where all men might look on it for a

marvel, and by its true token tell of the wonder. Then the twain sat

them down together, the king and the good knight, and men served them

with a double portion, as was the share of the noblest, with all manner

of meat and of minstrelsy. And they spent that day in gladness, but Sir

Gawain must well bethink him of the heavy venture to which he had set

his hand.

[Illustration: Illustrated drop-cap]

This beginning of adventures had Arthur at the New Year, for he yearned

to hear gallant tales, though his words were few when he sat at the

feast. But now had they stern work on hand. Gawain was glad to begin the

jest in the hall, but ye need have no marvel if the end be heavy. For

though a man be merry in mind when he has well drunk, yet a year runs

full swiftly, and the beginning but rarely matches the end.

The waning of the year

For Yule was now over-past,[3] and the year after, each season in its

turn following the other. For after Christmas comes crabbed Lent, that

will have fish for flesh and simpler cheer. But then the weather of the

world chides with winter; the cold withdraws itself, the clouds uplift,

and the rain falls in warm showers on the fair plains. Then the flowers

come forth, meadows and groves are clad in green, the birds make ready

to build, and sing sweetly for solace of the soft summer that follows

thereafter. The blossoms bud and blow in the hedgerows rich and rank,

and noble notes enough are heard in the fair woods.

After the season of summer, with the soft winds, when zephyr breathes

lightly on seeds and herbs, joyous indeed is the growth that waxes

thereout when the dew drips from the leaves beneath the blissful glance

of the bright sun. But then comes harvest and hardens the grain, warning

it to wax ripe ere the winter. The drought drives the dust on high,

flying over the face of the land; the angry wind of the welkin wrestles

with the sun; the leaves fall from the trees and light upon the ground,

and all brown are the groves that but now were green, and ripe is the

fruit that once was flower. So the year passes into many yesterdays, and

winter comes again, as it needs no sage to tell us.

Sir Gawain bethinks him of his covenant

When the Michaelmas moon was come in with warnings of winter, Sir Gawain

bethought him full oft of his perilous journey. Yet till All Hallows Day

he lingered with Arthur, and on that day they made a great feast for the

hero’s sake, with much revel and richness of the Round Table. Courteous

knights and comely ladies, all were in sorrow for the love of that

knight, and though they spake no word of it many were joyless for his

sake.

And after meat, sadly Sir Gawain turned to his uncle, and spake of his

journey, and said, “Liege lord of my life, leave from you I crave. Ye

know well how the matter stands without more words, to-morrow am I bound

to set forth in search of the Green Knight.”

Then came together all the noblest knights, Ywain and Erec, and many

another. Sir Dodinel le Sauvage, Launcelot and Lionel, and Lucan the

Good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere, valiant knights both, and many another

hero, with Sir Mador de la Porte, and they all drew near, heavy at

heart, to take counsel with Sir Gawain. Much sorrow and weeping was

there in the hall to think that so worthy a knight as Gawain should wend

his way to seek a deadly blow, and should no more wield his sword in

fight. But the knight made ever good cheer, and said, “Nay, wherefore

should I shrink? What may a man do but prove his fate?”

The arming of Sir Gawain

He dwelt there all that day, and on the morn he arose and asked betimes

for his armour; and they brought it unto him on this wise: first, a rich

carpet was stretched on the floor[4] (and brightly did the gold gear

glitter upon it), then the knight stepped on to it, and handled the

steel; clad he was in a doublet of silk, with a close hood, lined fairly

throughout. Then they set the steel shoes upon his feet, and wrapped his

legs with greaves, with polished knee-caps fastened with knots of gold.

Then they cased his thighs in cuisses closed with thongs, and brought

him the byrny of bright steel rings sewn upon a fair stuff. Well

burnished braces they set on each arm with good elbow-pieces, and gloves

of mail, and all the goodly gear that should shield him in his need. And

they cast over all a rich surcoat, and set the golden spurs on his

heels, and girt him with a trusty sword fastened with a silken bawdrick.

When he was thus clad his harness was costly, for the least loop or

latchet gleamed with gold. So armed as he was he hearkened Mass and made

his offering at the high altar. Then he came to the king, and the

knights of his court, and courteously took leave of lords and ladies,

and they kissed him, and commended him to Christ.

With that was Gringalet ready, girt with a saddle that gleamed gaily

with many golden fringes, enriched and decked anew for the venture. The

bridle was all barred about with bright gold buttons, and all the

covertures and trappings of the steed, the crupper and the rich skirts,

accorded with the saddle; spread fair with the rich red gold that

glittered and gleamed in the rays of the sun.

Then the knight called for his helmet, which was well lined throughout,

and set it high on his head, and hasped it behind. He wore a light

kerchief over the vintail, that was broidered and studded with fair gems

on a broad silken ribbon, with birds of gay colour, and many a turtle

and true-lover’s knot interlaced thickly, even as many a maiden had

wrought them. But the circlet which crowned his helmet was yet more

precious, being adorned with a device in diamonds. Then they brought him

his shield, which was of bright red, with the pentangle painted thereon

in gleaming gold.[5]

Wherefore Sir Gawain bare the pentangle

And why that noble prince bare the pentangle I am minded to tell you,

though my tale tarry thereby. It is a sign that Solomon set ere-while,

as betokening truth; for it is a figure with five points and each line

overlaps the other, and nowhere hath it beginning or end, so that in

English it is called “the endless knot.” And therefore was it well

suiting to this knight and to his arms, since Gawain was faithful in

five and five-fold, for pure was he as gold, void of all villainy and

endowed with all virtues. Therefore he bare the pentangle on shield and

surcoat as truest of heroes and gentlest of knights.

For first he was faultless in his five senses; and his five fingers

never failed him; and all his trust upon earth was in the five wounds

that Christ bare on the cross, as the Creed tells. And wherever this

knight found himself in stress of battle he deemed well that he drew his

strength from the five joys which the Queen of Heaven had of her Child.

And for this cause did he bear an image of Our Lady on the one half of

his shield, that whenever he looked upon it he might not lack for aid.

And the fifth five that the hero used were frankness and fellowship

above all, purity and courtesy that never failed him, and compassion

that surpasses all; and in these five virtues was that hero wrapped and

clothed. And all these, five-fold, were linked one in the other, so that

they had no end, and were fixed on five points that never failed,

neither at any side were they joined or sundered, nor could ye find

beginning or end. And therefore on his shield was the knot shapen,

red-gold upon red, which is the pure pentangle. Now was Sir Gawain

ready, and he took his lance in hand, and bade them all _Farewell_, he

deemed it had been for ever.

How Sir Gawain went forth

Then he smote the steed with his spurs, and sprang on his way, so that

sparks flew from the stones after him. All that saw him were grieved at

heart, and said one to the other, “By Christ, ’tis great pity that one

of such noble life should be lost! I’ faith, ’twere not easy to find his

equal upon earth. The king had done better to have wrought more warily.

Yonder knight should have been made a duke; a gallant leader of men is

he, and such a fate had beseemed him better than to be hewn in pieces at

the will of an elfish man, for mere pride. Who ever knew a king to take

such counsel as to risk his knights on a Christmas jest?” Many were the

tears that flowed from their eyes when that goodly knight rode from the

hall. He made no delaying, but went his way swiftly, and rode many a

wild road, as I heard say in the book.

Of Sir Gawain’s journey

So rode Sir Gawain through the realm of Logres, on an errand that he

held for no jest. Often he lay companionless at night, and must lack the

fare that he liked. No comrade had he save his steed, and none save God

with whom to take counsel. At length he drew nigh to North Wales, and

left the isles of Anglesey on his left hand, crossing over the fords by

the foreland over at Holyhead, till he came into the wilderness of

Wirral,[6] that is loved neither of God nor of man, and there he abode

but a little time. And ever he asked, as he fared, of all whom he met,

if they had heard any tidings of a Green Knight in the country

thereabout, or of a Green Chapel? And all answered him, Nay, never in

their lives had they seen any man of such a hue. And the knight wended

his way by many a strange road and many a rugged path, and the fashion

of his countenance changed full often ere he saw the Green Chapel.

Many a cliff did he climb in that unknown land, where afar from his

friends he rode as a stranger. Never did he come to a stream or a ford

but he found a foe before him, and that one so marvellous, so foul and

fell, that it behoved him to fight. So many wonders did that knight

behold that it were too long to tell the tenth part of them. Sometimes

he fought with dragons and wolves; sometimes with wild men that dwelt in

the rocks; another while with bulls, and bears, and wild boars, or with

giants of the high moorland that drew near to him. Had he not been a

doughty knight, enduring, and of well-proved valour, doubtless he had

been slain, for he was oft in danger of death. Yet he cared not so much

for the strife, what he deemed worse was when the cold clear water was

shed from the clouds, and froze ere it fell on the fallow ground. More

nights than enough he slept in his harness on the bare rocks, near slain

with the sleet, while the stream leapt bubbling from the crest of the

hills, and hung in hard icicles over his head.

Thus in peril and pain, and many a hardship, the knight rode alone till

Christmas Eve, and in that tide he made his prayer to the Blessed Virgin

that she would guide his steps and lead him to some dwelling. On that

morning he rode by a hill, and came into a thick forest, wild and drear;

on each side were high hills, and thick woods below them of great hoar

oaks, a hundred together, of hazel and hawthorn with their trailing

boughs intertwined, and rough ragged moss spreading everywhere. On the

bare twigs the birds chirped piteously, for pain of the cold. The knight

upon Gringalet rode lonely beneath them, through marsh and mire, much

troubled at heart lest he should fail to see the service of the Lord,

who on that self-same night was born of a Maiden for the cure of our

grief; and therefore he said, sighing, “I beseech Thee, Lord, and Mary

Thy gentle Mother, for some shelter where I may hear Mass, and Thy

mattins at morn. This I ask meekly, and thereto I pray my Paternoster,

Ave, and Credo.” Thus he rode praying, and lamenting his misdeeds, and

he crossed himself, and said, “May the Cross of Christ speed me.”

How Sir Gawain came to a fair castle on Christmas Eve

Now that knight had crossed himself but thrice ere he was aware in the

wood of a dwelling within a moat, above a lawn, on a mound surrounded by

many mighty trees that stood round the moat. ’Twas the fairest castle

that ever a knight owned;[7] built in a meadow with a park all about it,

and a spiked palisade, closely driven, that enclosed the trees for more

than two miles. The knight was ware of the hold from the side, as it

shone through the oaks. Then he lifted off his helmet, and thanked

Christ and S. Julian that they had courteously granted his prayer, and

hearkened to his cry. “Now,” quoth the knight, “I beseech ye, grant me

fair hostel.” Then he pricked Gringalet with his golden spurs, and rode

gaily towards the great gate, and came swiftly to the bridge end.

The bridge was drawn up and the gates close shut; the walls were strong

and thick, so that they might fear no tempest. The knight on his charger

abode on the bank of the deep double ditch that surrounded the castle.

The walls were set deep in the water, and rose aloft to a wondrous

height; they were of hard hewn stone up to the corbels, which were

adorned beneath the battlements with fair carvings, and turrets set in

between with many a loophole; a better barbican Sir Gawain had never

looked upon. And within he beheld the high hall, with its tower and many

windows with carven cornices, and chalk-white chimneys on the turreted

roofs that shone fair in the sun. And everywhere, thickly scattered on

the castle battlements, were pinnacles, so many that it seemed as if it

were all wrought out of paper, so white was it.

The knight on his steed deemed it fair enough, if he might come to be

sheltered within it to lodge there while that the Holy-day lasted. He

called aloud, and soon there came a porter of kindly countenance, who

stood on the wall and greeted this knight and asked his errand.

“Good sir,” quoth Gawain, “wilt thou go mine errand to the high lord of

the castle, and crave for me lodging?”

“Yea, by S. Peter,” quoth the porter. “In sooth I trow that ye be

welcome to dwell here so long as it may like ye.”

How Sir Gawain was welcomed

Then he went, and came again swiftly, and many folk with him to receive

the knight. They let down the great drawbridge, and came forth and knelt

on their knees on the cold earth to give him worthy welcome. They held

wide open the great gates, and he greeted them courteously, and rode

over the bridge. Then men came to him and held his stirrup while he

dismounted, and took and stabled his steed. There came down knights and

squires to bring the guest with joy to the hall. When he raised his

helmet there were many to take it from his hand, fain to serve him, and

they took from him sword and shield.

Sir Gawain gave good greeting to the nobles and the mighty men who came

to do him honour. Clad in his shining armour they led him to the hall,

where a great fire burnt brightly on the floor; and the lord of the

household came forth from his chamber to meet the hero fitly. He spake

to the knight, and said: “Ye are welcome to do here as it likes ye. All

that is here is your own to have at your will and disposal.”

“Gramercy!” quote Gawain, “may Christ requite ye.”

As friends that were fain each embraced the other; and Gawain looked on

the knight who greeted him so kindly, and thought ’twas a bold warrior

that owned that burg.

Of mighty stature he was, and of high age; broad and flowing was his

beard, and of a bright hue. He was stalwart of limb, and strong in his

stride, his face fiery red, and his speech free: in sooth he seemed one

well fitted to be a leader of valiant men.

Then the lord led Sir Gawain to a chamber, and commanded folk to wait

upon him, and at his bidding there came men enough who brought the guest

to a fair bower. The bedding was noble, with curtains of pure silk

wrought with gold, and wondrous coverings of fair cloth all embroidered.

The curtains ran on ropes with rings of red gold, and the walls were

hung with carpets of Orient, and the same spread on the floor. There

with mirthful speeches they took from the guest his byrny and all his

shining armour, and brought him rich robes of the choicest in its stead.

They were long and flowing, and became him well, and when he was clad in

them all who looked on the hero thought that surely God had never made a

fairer knight: he seemed as if he might be a prince without peer in the

field where men strive in battle.

Then before the hearth-place, whereon the fire burned, they made ready a

chair for Gawain, hung about with cloth and fair cushions; and there

they cast around him a mantle of brown samite, richly embroidered and

furred within with costly skins of ermine, with a hood of the same, and

he seated himself in that rich seat, and warmed himself at the fire and

was cheered at heart. And while he sat thus the serving men set up a

table on trestles, and covered it with a fair white cloth, and set

thereon salt-cellar, and napkin, and silver spoons; and the knight

washed at his will, and set him down to meat.

The folk served him courteously with many dishes seasoned of the best, a

double portion. All kinds of fish were there, some baked in bread, some

broiled on the embers, some sodden, some stewed and savoured with

spices, with all sorts of cunning devices to his taste. And often he

called it a feast, when they spake gaily to him all together, and said,

“Now take ye this penance, and it shall be for your amendment.” Much

mirth thereof did Sir Gawain make.

Sir Gawain tells his name

Then they questioned that prince courteously of whence he came; and he

told them that he was of the court of Arthur, who is the rich royal King

of the Round Table, and that it was Gawain himself who was within their

walls, and would keep Christmas with them, as the chance had fallen out.

And when the lord of the castle heard those tidings he laughed aloud for

gladness, and all men in that keep were joyful that they should be in

the company of him to whom belonged all fame, and valour, and courtesy,

and whose honour was praised above that of all men on earth. Each said

softly to his fellow, “Now shall we see courteous bearing, and the

manner of speech befitting courts. What charm lieth in gentle speech

shall we learn without asking, since here we have welcomed the fine

father of courtesy. God has surely shewn us His grace since He sends us

such a guest as Gawain! When men shall sit and sing, blithe for Christ’s

birth, this knight shall bring us to the knowledge of fair manners, and

it may be that hearing him we may learn the cunning speech of love.”

By the time the knight had risen from dinner it was near nightfall. Then

chaplains took their way to the chapel, and rang loudly, even as they

should, for the solemn evensong of the high feast. Thither went the

lord, and the lady also, and entered with her maidens into a comely

closet, and thither also went Gawain. Then the lord took him by the

sleeve and led him to a seat, and called him by his name, and told him

he was of all men in the world the most welcome. And Sir Gawain thanked

him truly, and each kissed the other, and they sat gravely together

throughout the service.

The lady of the castle

Then was the lady fain to look upon that knight; and she came forth from

her closet with many fair maidens. The fairest of ladies was she in

face, and figure, and colouring, fairer even than Guinevere, so the

knight thought. She came through the chancel to greet the hero, another

lady held her by the left hand, older than she, and seemingly of high

estate, with many nobles about her. But unlike to look upon were those

ladies, for if the younger were fair, the elder was yellow. Rich red

were the cheeks of the one, rough and wrinkled those of the other; the

kerchiefs of the one were broidered with many glistening pearls, her

throat and neck bare, and whiter than the snow that lies on the hills;

the neck of the other was swathed in a gorget, with a white wimple over

her black chin. Her forehead was wrapped in silk with many folds, worked

with knots, so that naught of her was seen save her black brows, her

eyes, her nose, and her lips, and those were bleared, and ill to look

upon. A worshipful lady in sooth one might call her! In figure was she

short and broad, and thickly made—far fairer to behold was she whom she

led by the hand.

When Gawain beheld that fair lady, who looked at him graciously, with

leave of the lord he went towards them, and, bowing low, he greeted the

elder, but the younger and fairer he took lightly in his arms, and

kissed her courteously, and greeted her in knightly wise. Then she

hailed him as friend, and he quickly prayed to be counted as her

servant, if she so willed. Then they took him between them, and talking,

led him to the chamber, to the hearth, and bade them bring spices, and

they brought them in plenty with the good wine that was wont to be drunk

at such seasons. Then the lord sprang to his feet and bade them make

merry, and took off his hood, and hung it on a spear, and bade him win

the worship thereof who should make most mirth that Christmas-tide. “And

I shall try, by my faith, to fool it with the best, by the help of my

friends, ere I lose my raiment.” Thus with gay words the lord made trial

to gladden Gawain with jests that night, till it was time to bid them

light the tapers, and Sir Gawain took leave of them and gat him to rest.

Of the Christmas feast

In the morn when all men call to mind how Christ our Lord was born on

earth to die for us, there is joy, for His sake, in all dwellings of the

world; and so was there here on that day. For high feast was held, with

many dainties and cunningly cooked messes. On the daïs sat gallant men,

clad in their best. The ancient dame sat on the high seat, with the lord

of the castle beside her. Gawain and the fair lady sat together, even in

the midst of the board, when the feast was served; and so throughout all

the hall each sat in his degree, and was served in order. There was

meat, there was mirth, there was much joy, so that to tell thereof would

take me too long, though peradventure I might strive to declare it. But

Gawain and that fair lady had much joy of each other’s company through

her sweet words and courteous converse. And there was music made before

each prince, trumpets and drums, and merry piping; each man hearkened

his minstrel, and they too hearkened theirs.

How the feast came to an end but Gawain abode at the castle

So they held high feast that day and the next, and the third day

thereafter, and the joy on S. John’s Day was fair to hearken, for ’twas

the last of the feast, and the guests would depart in the grey of the

morning. Therefore they awoke early, and drank wine, and danced fair

carols, and at last, when it was late, each man took his leave to wend

early on his way. Gawain would bid his host farewell, but the lord took

him by the hand, and led him to his own chamber beside the hearth, and

there he thanked him for the favour he had shown him in honouring his

dwelling at that high season, and gladdening his castle with his fair

countenance. “I wis, sir, that while I live I shall be held the worthier

that Gawain has been my guest at God’s own feast.”

“Gramercy, sir,” quoth Gawain, “in good faith, all the honour is yours,

may the High King give it ye, and I am but at your will to work your

behest, inasmuch as I am beholden to ye in great and small by rights.”

Then the lord did his best to persuade the knight to tarry with him, but

Gawain answered that he might in no wise do so. Then the host asked him

courteously what stern behest had driven him at the holy season from the

king’s court, to fare all alone, ere yet the feast was ended?

“Forsooth,” quoth the knight, “ye say but the truth: ’tis a high quest

and a pressing that hath brought me afield, for I am summoned myself to

a certain place, and I know not whither in the world I may wend to find

it; so help me Christ, I would give all the kingdom of Logres an I might

find it by New Year’s morn. Therefore, sir, I make request of ye that ye

tell me truly if ye ever heard word of the Green Chapel, where it may be

found, and the Green Knight that keeps it. For I am pledged by solemn

compact sworn between us to meet that knight at the New Year if so I

were on life; and of that same New Year it wants but little—I’ faith, I

would look on that hero more joyfully than on any other fair sight!

Therefore, by your will, it behoves me to leave ye, for I have but

barely three days, and I would as fain fall dead as fail of mine

errand.”

Then the lord quoth, laughing, “Now must ye needs stay, for I will show

ye your goal, the Green Chapel, ere your term be at an end, have ye no

fear! But ye can take your ease, friend, in your bed, till the fourth

day, and go forth on the first of the year, and come to that place at

mid-morn to do as ye will. Dwell here till New Year’s Day, and then rise

and set forth, and ye shall be set in the way; ’tis not two miles

hence.”

Then was Gawain glad, and he laughed gaily. “Now I thank ye for this

above all else. Now my quest is achieved I will dwell here at your will,

and otherwise do as ye shall ask.”

Then the lord took him, and set him beside him, and bade the ladies be

fetched for their greater pleasure, tho’ between themselves they had

solace. The lord, for gladness, made merry jest, even as one who wist

not what to do for joy; and he cried aloud to the knight, “Ye have

promised to do the thing I bid ye: will ye hold to this behest, here, at

once?”

“Yea, forsooth,” said that true knight, “while I abide in your burg I am

bound by your behest.”

“Ye have travelled from far,” said the host, “and since then ye have

waked with me, ye are not well refreshed by rest and sleep, as I know.

Ye shall therefore abide in your chamber, and lie at your ease to-morrow

at Mass-tide, and go to meat when ye will with my wife, who shall sit

with ye, and comfort ye with her company till I return; and I shall rise

early and go forth to the chase.” And Gawain agreed to all this

courteously.

Sir Gawain makes a covenant with his host

“Sir knight,” quoth the host, “we will make a covenant. Whatsoever I win

in the wood shall be yours, and whatever may fall to your share, that

shall ye exchange for it. Let us swear, friend, to make this exchange,

however our hap may be, for worse or for better.”

“I grant ye your will,” quoth Gawain the good; “if ye list so to do, it

liketh me well.”

“Bring hither the wine-cup, the bargain is made,” so said the lord of

that castle. They laughed each one, and drank of the wine, and made

merry, these lords and ladies, as it pleased them. Then with gay talk

and merry jest they arose, and stood, and spoke softly, and kissed

courteously, and took leave of each other. With burning torches, and

many a serving man, was each led to his couch; yet ere they gat them to

bed the old lord oft repeated their covenant, for he knew well how to

make sport.

[Illustration: Illustrated drop-cap]

The first day’s hunting

Full early, ere daylight, the folk rose up; the guests who would depart

called their grooms, and they made them ready, and saddled the steeds,

tightened up the girths, and trussed up their mails. The knights, all

arrayed for riding, leapt up lightly, and took their bridles, and each

rode his way as pleased him best.

The lord of the land was not the last. Ready for the chase, with many of

his men, he ate a sop hastily when he had heard Mass, and then with

blast of the bugle fared forth to the field.[8] He and his nobles were

to horse ere daylight glimmered upon the earth.

Then the huntsmen coupled their hounds, unclosed the kennel door, and

called them out. They blew three blasts gaily on the bugles, the hounds

bayed fiercely, and they that would go a-hunting checked and chastised

them. A hundred hunters there were of the best, so I have heard tell.

Then the trackers gat them to the trysting-place and uncoupled the

hounds, and the forest rang again with their gay blasts.

At the first sound of the hunt the game quaked for fear, and fled,

trembling, along the vale. They betook them to the heights, but the

liers in wait turned them back with loud cries; the harts they let pass

them, and the stags with their spreading antlers, for the lord had

forbidden that they should be slain, but the hinds and the does they

turned back, and drave down into the valleys. Then might ye see much

shooting of arrows. As the deer fled under the boughs a broad whistling

shaft smote and wounded each sorely, so that, wounded and bleeding, they

fell dying on the banks. The hounds followed swiftly on their tracks,

and hunters, blowing the horn, sped after them with ringing shouts that

well-nigh burst the cliffs asunder. What game escaped those that shot

was run down at the outer ring. Thus were they driven on the hills, and

harassed at the waters, so well did the men know their work, and the

greyhounds were so great and swift that they ran them down as fast as

the hunters could slay them. Thus the lord passed the day in mirth and

joyfulness, even to nightfall.

How the lady of the castle came to Sir Gawain

So the lord roamed the woods, and Gawain, that good knight, lay ever

a-bed, curtained about, under the costly coverlet, while the daylight

gleamed on the walls. And as he lay half slumbering, he heard a little

sound at the door, and he raised his head, and caught back a corner of

the curtain, and waited to see what it might be. It was the lovely lady,

the lord’s wife; she shut the door softly behind her, and turned towards

the bed; and Gawain laid him down softly and made as if he slept. And

she came lightly to the bedside, within the curtain, and sat herself

down beside him, to wait till he wakened. The knight lay there awhile,

and marvelled within himself what her coming might betoken; and he said

to himself, “’Twere more seemly if I asked her what hath brought her

hither.” Then he made feint to waken, and turned towards her, and opened

his eyes as one astonished, and crossed himself; and she looked on him

laughing, with her cheeks red and white, lovely to behold.

“Good morrow, Sir Gawain,” said that fair lady; “ye are but a careless

sleeper, since one can enter thus. Now are ye taken unawares, and lest

ye escape me I shall bind you in your bed; of that be ye assured!”

Laughing, she spake these words.

“Good morrow, fair lady,” quoth Gawain blithely. “I will do your will,

as it likes me well. For I yield me readily, and pray your grace, and

that is best, by my faith, since I needs must do so.” Thus he jested

again, laughing. “But an ye would, fair lady, grant me this grace that

ye pray your prisoner to rise. I would get me from bed, and array me

better, then could I talk with ye in more comfort.”

“Nay, forsooth, fair sir,” quoth the lady, “ye shall not rise, I will

rede ye better. I shall keep ye here, since ye can do no other, and talk

with my knight whom I have captured. For I know well that ye are Sir

Gawain, whom all the world worships, wheresoever ye may ride. Your

honour and your courtesy are praised by lords and ladies, by all who

live. Now ye are here and we are alone, my lord and his men are afield;

the serving men in their beds, and my maidens also, and the door shut

upon us. And since in this hour I have him that all men love, I shall

use my time well with speech, while it lasts. Ye are welcome to my

company, for it behoves me in sooth to be your servant.”

“In good faith,” quoth Gawain, “I think me that I am not he of whom ye

speak, for unworthy am I of such service as ye here proffer. In sooth, I

were glad if I might set myself by word or service to your pleasure; a

pure joy would it be to me!”

“In good faith, Sir Gawain,” quoth the gay lady, “the praise and the

prowess that pleases all ladies I lack them not, nor hold them light;

yet are there ladies enough who would liever now have the knight in

their hold, as I have ye here, to dally with your courteous words, to

bring them comfort and to ease their cares, than much of the treasure

and the gold that are theirs. And now, through the grace of Him who

upholds the heavens, I have wholly in my power that which they all

desire!”

Thus the lady, fair to look upon, made him great cheer, and Sir Gawain,

with modest words, answered her again: “Madam,” he quoth, “may Mary

requite ye, for in good faith I have found in ye a noble frankness. Much

courtesy have other folk shown me, but the honour they have done me is

naught to the worship of yourself, who knoweth but good.”

“By Mary,” quoth the lady, “I think otherwise; for were I worth all the

women alive, and had I the wealth of the world in my hand, and might

choose me a lord to my liking, then, for all that I have seen in ye, Sir

Knight, of beauty and courtesy and blithe semblance, and for all that I

have hearkened and hold for true, there should be no knight on earth to

be chosen before ye!”

“Well I wot,” quoth Sir Gawain, “that ye have chosen a better; but I am

proud that ye should so prize me, and as your servant do I hold ye my

sovereign, and your knight am I, and may Christ reward ye.”

So they talked of many matters till mid-morn was past, and ever the lady

shewed her love to him, and the knight turned her speech aside. For

though she were the brightest of maidens, yet had he forborne to shew

her love for the danger that awaited him, and the blow that must be

given without delay.

Then the lady prayed her leave from him, and he granted it readily. And

she gave him good-day, with laughing glance, but he must needs marvel at

her words:

“Now He that speeds fair speech reward ye this disport; but that ye be

Gawain my mind misdoubts me greatly.”

“Wherefore?” quoth the knight quickly, fearing lest he had lacked in

some courtesy.

And the lady spake: “So true a knight as Gawain is holden, and one so

perfect in courtesy, would never have tarried so long with a lady but he

would of his courtesy have craved a kiss at parting.”

How the lady kissed Sir Gawain

Then quoth Gawain, “I wot I will do even as it may please ye, and kiss

at your commandment, as a true knight should who forbears to ask for

fear of displeasure.”

At that she came near and bent down and kissed the knight, and each

commended the other to Christ, and she went forth from the chamber

softly.

Then Sir Gawain arose and called his chamberlain and chose his garments,

and when he was ready he gat him forth to Mass, and then went to meat,

and made merry all day till the rising of the moon, and never had a

knight fairer lodging than had he with those two noble ladies, the elder

and the younger.

And ever the lord of the land chased the hinds through holt and heath

till eventide, and then with much blowing of bugles and baying of hounds

they bore the game homeward; and by the time daylight was done all the

folk had returned to that fair castle. And when the lord and Sir Gawain

met together, then were they both well pleased. The lord commanded them

all to assemble in the great hall, and the ladies to descend with their

maidens, and there, before them all, he bade the men fetch in the spoil

of the day’s hunting, and he called unto Gawain, and counted the tale of

the beasts, and showed them unto him, and said, “What think ye of this

game, Sir Knight? Have I deserved of ye thanks for my woodcraft?”

“Yea, I wis,” quoth the other, “here is the fairest spoil I have seen

this seven year in the winter season.”

How the covenant was kept

“And all this do I give ye, Gawain,” quoth the host, “for by accord of

covenant ye may claim it as your own.”

“That is sooth,” quoth the other, “I grant you that same; and I have

fairly won this within walls, and with as good will do I yield it to

ye.” With that he clasped his hands round the lord’s neck and kissed him

as courteously as he might. “Take ye here my spoils, no more have I won;

ye should have it freely, though it were greater than this.”

“’Tis good,” said the host, “gramercy thereof. Yet were I fain to know

where ye won this same favour, and if it were by your own wit?”

“Nay,” answered Gawain, “that was not in the bond. Ask me no more: ye

have taken what was yours by right, be content with that.”

They laughed and jested together, and sat them down to supper, where

they were served with many dainties; and after supper they sat by the

hearth, and wine was served out to them; and oft in their jesting they

promised to observe on the morrow the same covenant that they had made

before, and whatever chance might betide to exchange their spoil, be it

much or little, when they met at night. Thus they renewed their bargain

before the whole court, and then the night-drink was served, and each

courteously took leave of the other and gat him to bed.

Of the second day’s hunting

By the time the cock had crowed thrice the lord of the castle had left

his bed; Mass was sung and meat fitly served. The folk were forth to the

wood ere the day broke, with hound and horn they rode over the plain,

and uncoupled their dogs among the thorns. Soon they struck on the

scent, and the hunt cheered on the hounds who were first to seize it,

urging them with shouts. The others hastened to the cry, forty at once,

and there rose such a clamour from the pack that the rocks rang again.

The huntsmen followed hard after with shouting and blasts of the horn;

and the hounds drew together to a thicket betwixt the water and a high

crag in the cliff beneath the hillside. As the rough rocks were ill for

riding the huntsmen sprang to earth and hastened on foot, and cast about

round the hill and the thicket. The knights wist well what beast was

within, and would drive him forth with the bloodhounds. And as they beat

the bushes, suddenly over the beaters there rushed forth a wondrous

great and fierce boar, long since had he left the herd to roam by

himself. Grunting, he cast many to the ground, and fled forth at his

best speed, without more mischief. The men hallooed loudly and cried,

“_Hay! Hay!_” and blew the horns to urge on the hounds, and rode swiftly

after the boar. Many a time did he turn to bay and tare the hounds, and

they yelped, and howled shrilly. Then the men made ready their arrows

and shot at him, but the points were turned on his thick hide, and the

barbs would not bite upon him, for the shafts shivered in pieces, and

the head but leapt again wherever it hit.

But when the boar felt the stroke of the arrows he waxed mad with rage,

and turned on the hunters and tare many, so that, affrighted, they fled

before him. But the lord on a swift steed pursued him, blowing his

bugle; as a gallant knight he rode through the woodland chasing the boar

till the sun grew low.

So did the hunters this day, while Sir Gawain lay in his bed lapped in

rich gear; and the lady forgat not to salute him, for early was she at

his side, to cheer his mood.

Of the lady and Sir Gawain

She came to the bedside and looked on the knight, and Gawain gave her

fit greeting, and she greeted him again with ready words, and sat her by

his side and laughed, and with a sweet look she spoke to him:

“Sir, if ye be Gawain, I think it a wonder that ye be so stern and cold,

and care not for the courtesies of friendship, but if one teach ye to

know them ye cast the lesson out of your mind. Ye have soon forgotten

what I taught ye yesterday, by all the truest tokens that I knew!”

“What is that?” quoth the knight. “I trow I know not. If it be sooth

that ye say, then is the blame mine own.”

“But I taught ye of kissing,” quoth the fair lady. “Wherever a fair

countenance is shown him, it behoves a courteous knight quickly to claim

a kiss.”

“Nay, my dear,” said Sir Gawain, “cease that speech; that durst I not do

lest I were denied, for if I were forbidden I wot I were wrong did I

further entreat.”

“I’ faith,” quoth the lady merrily, “ye may not be forbid, ye are strong

enough to constrain by strength an ye will, were any so discourteous as

to give ye denial.”

“Yea, by Heaven,” said Gawain, “ye speak well; but threats profit little

in the land where I dwell, and so with a gift that is given not of good

will! I am at your commandment to kiss when ye like, to take or to leave

as ye list.”

Then the lady bent her down and kissed him courteously.

How the lady strove to beguile Sir Gawain with words of love

And as they spake together she said, “I would learn somewhat from ye, an

ye would not be wroth, for young ye are and fair, and so courteous and

knightly as ye are known to be, the head of all chivalry, and versed in

all wisdom of love and war—’tis ever told of true knights how they

adventured their lives for their true love, and endured hardships for

her favours, and avenged her with valour, and eased her sorrows, and

brought joy to her bower; and ye are the fairest knight of your time,

and your fame and your honour are everywhere, yet I have sat by ye here

twice, and never a word have heard of love! Ye who are so courteous and

skilled in such lore ought surely to teach one so young and unskilled

some little craft of true love! Why are ye so unlearned who art

otherwise so famous? Or is it that ye deem me unworthy to hearken to

your teaching? For shame, Sir Knight! I come hither alone and sit at

your side to learn of ye some skill; teach me of your wit, while my lord

is from home.”

“In good faith,” quoth Gawain, “great is my joy and my profit that so

fair a lady as ye are should deign to come hither, and trouble ye with

so poor a man, and make sport with your knight with kindly countenance,

it pleaseth me much. But that I, in my turn, should take it upon me to

tell of love and such like matters to ye who know more by half, or a

hundred fold, of such craft than I do, or ever shall in all my lifetime,

by my troth ’twere folly indeed! I will work your will to the best of my

might as I am bounden, and evermore will I be your servant, so help me

Christ!”

Then often with guile she questioned that knight that she might win him

to woo her, but he defended himself so fairly that none might in any

wise blame him, and naught but bliss and harmless jesting was there

between them. They laughed and talked together till at last she kissed

him, and craved her leave of him, and went her way.

How the boar was slain

Then the knight arose and went forth to Mass, and afterward dinner was

served, and he sat and spake with the ladies all day. But the lord of

the castle rode ever over the land chasing the wild boar, that fled

through the thickets, slaying the best of his hounds and breaking their

backs in sunder; till at last he was so weary he might run no longer,

but made for a hole in a mound by a rock. He got the mound at his back

and faced the hounds, whetting his white tusks and foaming at the mouth.

The huntsmen stood aloof, fearing to draw nigh him; so many of them had

been already wounded that they were loth to be torn with his tusks, so

fierce he was and mad with rage. At length the lord himself came up, and

saw the beast at bay, and the men standing aloof. Then quickly he sprang

to the ground and drew out a bright blade, and waded through the stream

to the boar.

When the beast was ware of the knight with weapon in hand, he set up his

bristles and snorted loudly, and many feared for their lord lest he

should be slain. Then the boar leapt upon the knight so that beast and

man were one atop of the other in the water; but the boar had the worst

of it, for the man had marked, even as he sprang, and set the point of

his brand to the beast’s chest, and drove it up to the hilt, so that the

heart was split in twain, and the boar fell snarling, and was swept down

by the water to where a hundred hounds seized on him, and the men drew

him to shore for the dogs to slay.

Then was there loud blowing of horns and baying of hounds, the huntsmen

smote off the boar’s head, and hung the carcase by the four feet to a

stout pole, and so went on their way homewards. The head they bore

before the lord himself, who had slain the beast at the ford by force of

his strong hand.

It seemed him o’er long ere he saw Sir Gawain in the hall, and he blew a

blast on his horn to let all men know that he was come again to take his

part in the covenant. And when he saw Gawain the lord laughed aloud, and

bade them call the ladies and the household together, and he showed them

the game, and told them the tale, how they had hunted the wild boar

through the woods, and of his length and breadth and height; and Sir

Gawain commended his deeds and praised him for his valour, well proven,

for so mighty a beast had he never seen before.

The keeping of the covenant

Then they handled the huge head, and the lord said aloud, “Now, Gawain,

this game is your own by sure covenant, as ye right well know.”

“’Tis sooth,” quoth the knight, “and as truly will I give ye all I have

gained.” He took the host round the neck, and kissed him courteously

twice. “Now are we quits,” he said, “this eventide, of all the covenants

that we made since I came hither.”

And the lord answered, “By S. Giles, ye are the best I know; ye will be

rich in a short space if ye drive such bargains!”

Then they set up the tables on trestles, and covered them with fair

cloths, and lit waxen tapers on the walls. The knights sat and were

served in the hall, and much game and glee was there round the hearth,

with many songs, both at supper and after; songs of Christmas, and new

carols, with all the mirth one may think of. And ever that lovely lady

sat by the knight, and with still stolen looks made such feint of

pleasing him, that Gawain marvelled much, and was wroth with himself,

but he could not for his courtesy return her fair glances, but dealt

with her cunningly, however she might strive to wrest the thing.

When they had tarried in the hall so long as it seemed them good, they

turned to the inner chamber and the wide hearth-place, and there they

drank wine, and the host proffered to renew the covenant for New Year’s

Eve; but the knight craved leave to depart on the morrow, for it was

nigh to the term when he must fulfil his pledge. But the lord would

withhold him from so doing, and prayed him to tarry, and said,

“As I am a true knight I swear my troth that ye shall come to the Green

Chapel to achieve your task on New Year’s morn, long before prime.

Therefore abide ye in your bed, and I will hunt in this wood, and hold

ye to the covenant to exchange with me against all the spoil I may bring

hither. For twice have I tried ye, and found ye true, and the morrow

shall be the third time and the best. Make we merry now while we may,

and think on joy, for misfortune may take a man whensoever it wills.”

Then Gawain granted his request, and they brought them drink, and they

gat them with lights to bed.

Of the third day’s hunting

Sir Gawain lay and slept softly, but the lord, who was keen on

woodcraft, was afoot early. After Mass he and his men ate a morsel, and

he asked for his steed; all the knights who should ride with him were

already mounted before the hall gates.

’Twas a fair frosty morning, for the sun rose red in ruddy vapour, and

the welkin was clear of clouds. The hunters scattered them by a forest

side, and the rocks rang again with the blast of their horns. Some came

on the scent of a fox, and a hound gave tongue; the huntsmen shouted,

and the pack followed in a crowd on the trail. The fox ran before them,

and when they saw him they pursued him with noise and much shouting, and

he wound and turned through many a thick grove, often cowering and

hearkening in a hedge. At last by a little ditch he leapt out of a

spinney, stole away slily by a copse path, and so out of the wood and

away from the bounds. But he went, ere he wist, to a chosen tryst, and

three started forth on him at once, so he must needs double back, and

betake him to the wood again.

Then was it joyful to hearken to the hounds; when all the pack had met

together and had sight of their game they made as loud a din as if all

the lofty cliffs had fallen clattering together. The huntsmen shouted

and threatened, and followed close upon him so that he might scarce

escape, but Reynard was wily, and he turned and doubled upon them, and

led the lord and his men over the hills, now on the slopes, now in the

vales, while the knight at home slept through the cold morning beneath

his costly curtains.

How the lady came for the third time to Sir Gawain

But the fair lady of the castle rose betimes, and clad herself in a rich

mantle that reached even to the ground, and was bordered and lined with

costly furs. On her head she wore no golden circlet, but a network of

precious stones, that gleamed and shone through her tresses in clusters

of twenty together. Thus she came into the chamber and set open a

window, and called to him gaily, “Sir Knight, how may ye sleep? The

morning is so fair.”

Sir Gawain was deep in slumber, and in his dream he vexed him much for

the destiny that should befall him on the morrow, when he should meet

the knight at the Green Chapel, and abide his blow; but when the lady

spake he heard her, and came to himself, and roused from his dream and

answered swiftly. The lady came laughing, and kissed him courteously,

and he welcomed her fittingly with a cheerful countenance. He saw her so

glorious and gaily dressed, so faultless of features and complexion,

that it warmed his heart to look upon her.

They spake to each other smiling, and all was bliss and good cheer

between them. They exchanged fair words, and much happiness was therein,

yet was there a gulf between them, and she might win no more of her

knight, for that gallant prince watched well his words—he would neither

take her love, nor frankly refuse it. He cared for his courtesy, lest he

be deemed churlish, and yet more for his honour lest he be traitor to

his host. “God forbid,” quoth he to himself, “that it should so befall.”

Thus with courteous words did he set aside all the special speeches that

came from her lips.

Then spake the lady to the knight, “Ye deserve blame if ye hold not that

lady who sits beside ye above all else in the world, if ye have not

already a love whom ye hold dearer, and like better, and have sworn such

firm faith to that lady that ye care not to loose it—as I scarce may

believe. And now I pray ye straitly that ye tell me that in truth, and

hide it not.”

And the knight answered, “By S. John” (and he smiled as he spake) “no

such love have I, nor do I think to have yet awhile.”

“That is the worst word I may hear,” quoth the lady, “but in sooth I

have mine answer; kiss me now courteously, and I will go hence; I can

but mourn as a maiden that loves much.”

Sighing, she stooped down and kissed him, and then she rose up and spake

as she stood, “Now, dear, at our parting do me this grace: give me some

gift, if it were but thy glove, that I may bethink me of my knight, and

lessen my mourning.”

The lady would fain have a parting gift from Gawain

“Now, I wis,” quoth the knight, “I would that I had here but the least

thing that I possess on earth that I might leave ye as love-token, great

or small, for ye have deserved forsooth more reward than I might give

ye. But it is not to your honour to have at this time a glove for reward

as gift from Gawain, and I am here on a strange errand, and have no man

with me, nor mails with goodly things—that mislikes me much, lady, at

this time; but each man must fare as he is taken, if for sorrow and

ill.”

She would give him her ring

“Nay, knight highly honoured,” quoth that lovesome lady, “though I have

naught of yours, yet shall ye have somewhat of mine.” With that she

reached him a ring of red gold with a sparkling stone therein, that

shone even as the sun (wit ye well, it was worth many marks); but the

knight refused it, and spake readily,

“I will take no gift, lady, at this time. I have none to give, and none

will I take.”

She prayed him to take it, but he refused her prayer, and sware in sooth

that he would not have it.

Or her girdle

The lady was sorely vexed, and said, “If ye refuse my ring as too

costly, that ye will not be so highly beholden to me, I will give ye my

girdle[9] as a lesser gift.” With that she loosened a lace that was

fastened at her side, knit upon her kirtle under her mantle. It was

wrought of green silk, and gold, only braided by the fingers, and that

she offered to the knight, and besought him though it were of little

worth that he would take it, and he said nay, he would touch neither

gold nor gear ere God give him grace to achieve the adventure for which

he had come hither. “And therefore, I pray ye, displease ye not, and ask

me no longer, for I may not grant it. I am dearly beholden to ye for the

favour ye have shown me, and ever, in heat and cold, will I be your true

servant.”

The virtue of the girdle

“Now,” said the lady, “ye refuse this silk, for it is simple in itself,

and so it seems, indeed; lo, it is small to look upon and less in cost,

but whoso knew the virtue that is knit therein he would, peradventure,

value it more highly. For whatever knight is girded with this green

lace, while he bears it knotted about him there is no man under heaven

can overcome him, for he may not be slain for any magic on earth.”

How Sir Gawain took the girdle

Then Gawain bethought him, and it came into his heart that this were a

jewel for the jeopardy that awaited him when he came to the Green Chapel

to seek the return blow—could he so order it that he should escape

unslain, ’twere a craft worth trying. Then he bare with her chiding, and

let her say her say, and she pressed the girdle on him and prayed him to

take it, and he granted her prayer, and she gave it him with good will,

and besought him for her sake never to reveal it but to hide it loyally

from her lord; and the knight agreed that never should any man know it,

save they two alone. He thanked her often and heartily, and she kissed

him for the third time.

Then she took her leave of him, and when she was gone Sir Gawain arose,

and clad him in rich attire, and took the girdle, and knotted it round

him, and hid it beneath his robes. Then he took his way to the chapel,

and sought out a priest privily, and prayed him to teach him better how

his soul might be saved when he should go hence; and there he shrived

him, and showed his misdeeds, both great and small, and besought mercy

and craved absolution; and the priest assoiled him, and set him as clean

as if Doomsday had been on the morrow. And afterwards Sir Gawain made

him merry with the ladies, with carols, and all kinds of joy, as never

he did but that one day, even to nightfall; and all the men marvelled at

him, and said that never since he came thither had he been so merry.

The death of the fox

Meanwhile the lord of the castle was abroad chasing the fox; awhile he

lost him, and as he rode through a spinney he heard the hounds near at

hand, and Reynard came creeping through a thick grove, with all the pack

at his heels. Then the lord drew out his shining brand, and cast it at

the beast, and the fox swerved aside for the sharp edge, and would have

doubled back, but a hound was on him ere he might turn, and right before

the horse’s feet they all fell on him, and worried him fiercely,

snarling the while.

Then the lord leapt from his saddle, and caught the fox from their jaws,

and held it aloft over his head, and hallooed loudly, and the hunters

hied them thither, blowing their horns; all that bare bugles blew them

at once, and all the others shouted. ’Twas the merriest meeting that

ever men heard, the clamour that was raised at the death of the fox.

They rewarded the hounds, stroking them and rubbing their heads, and

took Reynard and stripped him of his coat; then blowing their horns,

they turned them homewards, for it was nigh nightfall.

How Sir Gawain kept not all the covenant

The lord was gladsome at his return, and found a bright fire on the

hearth, and the knight beside it, the good Sir Gawain, who was in joyous

mood for the pleasure he had had with the ladies. He wore a robe of

blue, that reached even to the ground, and a surcoat richly furred, that

became him well. A hood like to the surcoat fell on his shoulders, and

all alike were done about with fur. He met the host in the midst of the

floor, and jesting, he greeted him, and said, “Now shall I be first to

fulfil our covenant which we made together when there was no lack of

wine.” Then he embraced the knight, and kissed him thrice, as solemnly

as he might.

“Of a sooth,” quoth the other, “ye have good luck in the matter of this

covenant, if ye made a good exchange!”

“Yea, it matters naught of the exchange,” quoth Gawain, “since what I

owe is swiftly paid.”

“Marry,” said the other, “mine is behind, for I have hunted all this

day, and naught have I got but this foul fox-skin, and that is but poor

payment for three such kisses as ye have here given me.”

“Enough,” quoth Sir Gawain, “I thank ye, by the Rood.”

Then the lord told them of his hunting, and how the fox had been slain.

With mirth and minstrelsy, and dainties at their will, they made them as

merry as a folk well might till ’twas time for them to sever, for at

last they must needs betake them to their beds. Then the knight took his

leave of the lord, and thanked him fairly.

“For the fair sojourn that I have had here at this high feast may the

High King give ye honour. I give ye myself, as one of your servants, if

ye so like; for I must needs, as ye know, go hence with the morn, and ye

will give me, as ye promised, a guide to show me the way to the Green

Chapel, an God will suffer me on New Year’s Day to deal the doom of my

weird.”

“By my faith,” quoth the host, “all that ever I promised, that shall I

keep with good will.” Then he gave him a servant to set him in the way,

and lead him by the downs, that he should have no need to ford the

stream, and should fare by the shortest road through the groves; and

Gawain thanked the lord for the honour done him. Then he would take

leave of the ladies, and courteously he kissed them, and spake, praying

them to receive his thanks, and they made like reply; then with many

sighs they commended him to Christ, and he departed courteously from

that folk. Each man that he met he thanked him for his service and his

solace, and the pains he had been at to do his will; and each found it

as hard to part from the knight as if he had ever dwelt with him.

How Sir Gawain took leave of his host

Then they led him with torches to his chamber, and brought him to his

bed to rest. That he slept soundly I may not say, for the morrow gave

him much to think on. Let him rest a while, for he was near that which

he sought, and if ye will but listen to me I will tell ye how it fared

with him thereafter.

[Illustration: Illustrated drop-cap]

Now the New Year drew nigh, and the night passed, and the day chased the

darkness, as is God’s will; but wild weather wakened therewith. The

clouds cast the cold to the earth, with enough of the north to slay them

that lacked clothing. The snow drave smartly, and the whistling wind

blew from the heights, and made great drifts in the valleys. The knight,

lying in his bed, listened, for though his eyes were shut he might sleep

but little, and hearkened every cock that crew.

He arose ere the day broke, by the light of a lamp that burned in his

chamber, and called to his chamberlain, bidding him bring his armour and

saddle his steed. The other gat him up, and fetched his garments, and

robed Sir Gawain.

The robing of Sir Gawain

First he clad him in his clothes to keep off the cold, and then in his

harness, which was well and fairly kept. Both hauberk and plates were

well burnished, the rings of the rich byrny freed from rust, and all as

fresh as at first, so that the knight was fain to thank them. Then he

did on each piece, and bade them bring his steed, while he put the

fairest raiment on himself; his coat with its fair cognizance, adorned

with precious stones upon velvet, with broidered seams, and all furred

within with costly skins. And he left not the lace, the lady’s gift,

that Gawain forgot not, for his own good. When he had girded on his

sword he wrapped the gift twice about him, swathed around his waist. The

girdle of green silk set gaily and well upon the royal red cloth, rich

to behold, but the knight ware it not for pride of the pendants,

polished though they were, with fair gold that gleamed brightly on the

ends, but to save himself from sword and knife, when it behoved him to

abide his hurt without question. With that the hero went forth, and

thanked that kindly folk full often.

How Sir Gawain went forth from the castle

Then was Gringalet ready, that was great and strong, and had been well

cared for and tended in every wise; in fair condition was that proud

steed, and fit for a journey. Then Gawain went to him, and looked on his

coat, and said by his sooth, “There is a folk in this place that

thinketh on honour; much joy may they have, and the lord who maintains

them, and may all good betide that lovely lady all her life long. Since

they for charity cherish a guest, and hold honour in their hands, may He

who holds the heaven on high requite them, and also ye all. And if I

might live anywhile on earth, I would give ye full reward, readily, if

so I might.” Then he set foot in the stirrup and bestrode his steed, and

his squire gave him his shield, which he laid on his shoulder. Then he

smote Gringalet with his golden spurs, and the steed pranced on the

stones and would stand no longer.

By that his man was mounted, who bare his spear and lance, and Gawain

quoth, “I commend this castle to Christ, may He give it ever good

fortune.” Then the drawbridge was let down, and the broad gates unbarred

and opened on both sides; the knight crossed himself, and passed through

the gateway, and praised the porter, who knelt before the prince, and

gave him good-day, and commended him to God. Thus the knight went on his

way with the one man who should guide him to that dread place where he

should receive rueful payment.

The two went by hedges where the boughs were bare, and climbed the

cliffs where the cold clings. Naught fell from the heavens, but ’twas

ill beneath them; mist brooded over the moor and hung on the mountains;

each hill had a cap, a great cloak, of mist. The streams foamed and

bubbled between their banks, dashing sparkling on the shores where they

shelved downwards. Rugged and dangerous was the way through the woods,

till it was time for the sun-rising. Then were they on a high hill; the

snow lay white beside them, and the man who rode with Gawain drew rein

by his master.

The squire’s warning

“Sir,” he said, “I have brought ye hither, and now ye are not far from

the place that ye have sought so specially. But I will tell ye for

sooth, since I know ye well, and ye are such a knight as I well love,

would ye follow my counsel ye would fare the better.

Of the knight of the Green Chapel

“The place whither ye go is accounted full perilous, for he who liveth

in that waste is the worst on earth, for he is strong and fierce, and

loveth to deal mighty blows; taller is he than any man on earth, and

greater of frame than any four in Arthur’s court, or in any other. And

this is his custom at the Green Chapel: there may no man pass by that

place, however proud his arms, but he does him to death by force of his

hand, for he is a discourteous knight, and shews no mercy. Be he churl

or chaplain who rides by that chapel, monk or mass-priest, or any man

else, he thinks it as pleasant to slay them as to pass alive himself.

Therefore, I tell ye, as sooth as ye sit in saddle, if ye come there and

that knight know it, ye shall be slain, though ye had twenty lives; trow

me that truly! He has dwelt here full long and seen many a combat; ye

may not defend ye against his blows. Therefore, good Sir Gawain, let the

man be, and get ye away some other road; for God’s sake seek ye another

land, and there may Christ speed ye! And I will hie me home again, and I

promise ye further that I will swear by God and the saints, or any other

oath ye please, that I will keep counsel faithfully, and never let any

wit the tale that ye fled for fear of any man.”

Sir Gawain is none dismayed

“Gramercy,” quoth Gawain, but ill pleased. “Good fortune be his who

wishes me good, and that thou wouldst keep faith with me I well believe;

but didst thou keep it never so truly, an I passed here and fled for

fear as thou sayest, then were I a coward knight, and might not be held

guiltless. So I will to the chapel let chance what may, and talk with

that man, even as I may list, whether for weal or for woe as fate may

have it. Fierce though he may be in fight, yet God knoweth well how to

save His servants.”

“Well,” quoth the other, “now that ye have said so much that ye will

take your own harm on yourself, and ye be pleased to lose your life, I

will neither let nor keep ye. Have here your helm and the spear in your

hand, and ride down this same road beside the rock till ye come to the

bottom of the valley, and there look a little to the left hand, and ye

shall see in that vale the chapel, and the grim man who keeps it. Now

fare ye well, noble Gawain; for all the gold on earth I would not go

with ye nor bear ye fellowship one step further.” With that the man

turned his bridle into the wood, smote the horse with his spurs as hard

as he could, and galloped off, leaving the knight alone.

Quoth Gawain, “I will neither greet nor groan, but commend myself to

God, and yield me to His will.”

Then the knight spurred Gringalet, and rode adown the path close in by a

bank beside a grove. So he rode through the rough thicket, right into

the dale, and there he halted, for it seemed him wild enough. No sign of

a chapel could he see, but high and burnt banks on either side and rough

rugged crags with great stones above. An ill-looking place he thought

it.

Then he drew in his horse and looked around to seek the chapel, but he

saw none and thought it strange. Then he saw as it were a mound on a

level space of land by a bank beside the stream where it ran swiftly,

the water bubbled within as if boiling. The knight turned his steed to

the mound, and lighted down and tied the rein to the branch of a linden;

and he turned to the mound and walked round it, questioning with himself

what it might be. It had a hole at the end and at either side, and was

overgrown with clumps of grass, and it was hollow within as an old cave

or the crevice of a crag; he knew not what it might be.

The finding of the chapel

“Ah,” quoth Gawain, “can this be the Green Chapel? Here might the devil

say his mattins at midnight! Now I wis there is wizardry here. ’Tis an

ugly oratory, all overgrown with grass, and ’twould well beseem that

fellow in green to say his devotions on devil’s wise. By my five wits,

’tis the foul fiend himself who hath set me this tryst, to destroy me

here! This is a chapel of mischance: ill-luck betide it, ’tis the

cursedest kirk that ever I came in!”

Helmet on head and lance in hand, he came up to the rough dwelling, when

he heard over the high hill beyond the brook, as it were in a bank, a

wondrous fierce noise, that rang in the cliff as if it would cleave

asunder. ’Twas as if one ground a scythe on a grindstone, it whirred and

whetted like water on a mill-wheel and rushed and rang, terrible to

hear.

“By God,” quoth Gawain, “I trow that gear is preparing for the knight

who will meet me here. Alas! naught may help me, yet should my life be

forfeit, I fear not a jot!” With that he called aloud. “Who waiteth in

this place to give me tryst? Now is Gawain come hither: if any man will

aught of him let him hasten hither now or never.”

The coming of the Green Knight

“Stay,” quoth one on the bank above his head, “and ye shall speedily

have that which I promised ye.” Yet for a while the noise of whetting

went on ere he appeared, and then he came forth from a cave in the crag

with a fell weapon, a Danish axe newly dight, wherewith to deal the

blow. An evil head it had, four feet large, no less, sharply ground, and

bound to the handle by the lace that gleamed brightly. And the knight

himself was all green as before, face and foot, locks and beard, but now

he was afoot. When he came to the water he would not wade it, but sprang

over with the pole of his axe, and strode boldly over the brent that was

white with snow.

Sir Gawain went to meet him, but he made no low bow. The other said,

“Now, fair sir, one may trust thee to keep tryst. Thou art welcome,

Gawain, to my place. Thou hast timed thy coming as befits a true man.

Thou knowest the covenant set between us: at this time twelve months

agone thou didst take that which fell to thee, and I at this New Year

will readily requite thee. We are in this valley, verily alone, here are

no knights to sever us, do what we will. Have off thy helm from thine

head, and have here thy pay; make me no more talking than I did then

when thou didst strike off my head with one blow.”

“Nay,” quoth Gawain, “by God that gave me life, I shall make no moan

whatever befall me, but make thou ready for the blow and I shall stand

still and say never a word to thee, do as thou wilt.”

With that he bent his head and shewed his neck all bare, and made as if

he had no fear, for he would not be thought a-dread.

How Sir Gawain failed to stand the blow

Then the Green Knight made him ready, and grasped his grim weapon to

smite Gawain. With all his force he bore it aloft with a mighty feint of

slaying him: had it fallen as straight as he aimed he who was ever

doughty of deed had been slain by the blow. But Gawain swerved aside as

the axe came gliding down to slay him as he stood, and shrank a little

with the shoulders, for the sharp iron. The other heaved up the blade

and rebuked the prince with many proud words:

Of the Green Knight’s reproaches

“Thou art not Gawain,” he said, “who is held so valiant, that never

feared he man by hill or vale, but _thou_ shrinkest for fear ere thou

feelest hurt. Such cowardice did I never hear of Gawain! Neither did _I_

flinch from thy blow, or make strife in King Arthur’s hall. My head fell

to my feet, and yet I fled not, but thou didst wax faint of heart ere

any harm befell. Wherefore must I be deemed the braver knight.”

Quoth Gawain, “I shrank once, but so will I no more, though an _my_ head

fall on the stones I cannot replace it. But haste, Sir Knight, by thy

faith, and bring me to the point, deal me my destiny, and do it out of

hand, for I will stand thee a stroke and move no more till thine axe

have hit me—my troth on it.”

“Have at thee, then,” quoth the other, and heaved aloft the axe with

fierce mien, as if he were mad. He struck at him fiercely but wounded

him not, withholding his hand ere it might strike him.

Gawain abode the stroke, and flinched in no limb, but stood still as a

stone or the stump of a tree that is fast rooted in the rocky ground

with a hundred roots.

Then spake gaily the man in green, “So now thou hast thine heart whole

it behoves me to smite. Hold aside thy hood that Arthur gave thee, and

keep thy neck thus bent lest it cover it again.”

Then Gawain said angrily, “Why talk on thus? Thou dost threaten too

long. I hope thy heart misgives thee.”

How the Green Knight dealt the blow

“For sooth,” quoth the other, “so fiercely thou speakest I will no

longer let thine errand wait its reward.” Then he braced himself to

strike, frowning with lips and brow, ’twas no marvel that he who hoped

for no rescue misliked him. He lifted the axe lightly and let it fall

with the edge of the blade on the bare neck. Though he struck swiftly it

hurt him no more than on the one side where it severed the skin. The

sharp blade cut into the flesh so that the blood ran over his shoulder

to the ground. And when the knight saw the blood staining the snow, he

sprang forth, swift-foot, more than a spear’s length, seized his helmet

and set it on his head, cast his shield over his shoulder, drew out his

bright sword, and spake boldly (never since he was born was he half so

blithe), “Stop, Sir Knight, bid me no more blows. I have stood a stroke

here without flinching, and if thou give me another, I shall requite

thee, and give thee as good again. By the covenant made betwixt us in

Arthur’s hall but one blow falls to me here. Halt, therefore.”

Of the three covenants

Then the Green Knight drew off from him, and leaned on his axe, setting

the shaft on the ground, and looked on Gawain as he stood all armed and

faced him fearlessly—at heart it pleased him well. Then he spake merrily

in a loud voice, and said to the knight, “Bold sir, be not so fierce, no

man here hath done thee wrong, nor will do, save by covenant, as we made

at Arthur’s court. I promised thee a blow and thou hast it—hold thyself

well paid! I release thee of all other claims. If I had been so minded I

might perchance have given thee a rougher buffet. First I menaced thee

with a feigned one, and hurt thee not for the covenant that we made in

the first night, and which thou didst hold truly. All the gain didst

thou give me as a true man should. The other feint I proffered thee for

the morrow: my fair wife kissed thee, and thou didst give me her

kisses—for both those days I gave thee two blows without scathe—true

man, true return. But the third time thou didst fail, and therefore

hadst thou that blow. For ’tis my weed thou wearest, that same woven

girdle, my own wife wrought it, that do I wot for sooth. Now know I well

thy kisses, and thy conversation, and the wooing of my wife, for ’twas

mine own doing. I sent her to try thee, and in sooth I think thou art

the most faultless knight that ever trode earth. As a pearl among white

peas is of more worth than they, so is Gawain, i’ faith, by other

knights. But thou didst lack a little, Sir Knight, and wast wanting in

loyalty, yet that was for no evil work, nor for wooing neither, but

because thou lovedst thy life—therefore I blame thee the less.”

The shame of Sir Gawain

Then the other stood a great while still, sorely angered and vexed

within himself; all the blood flew to his face, and he shrank for shame

as the Green Knight spake; and the first words he said were, “Cursed be

ye, cowardice and covetousness, for in ye is the destruction of virtue.”

Then he loosed the girdle, and gave it to the knight. “Lo, take there

the falsity, may foul befall it! For fear of thy blow cowardice bade me

make friends with covetousness and forsake the customs of largess and

loyalty, which befit all knights. Now am I faulty and false and have

been afeard: from treachery and untruth come sorrow and care. I avow to

thee, Sir Knight, that I have ill done; do then thy will. I shall be

more wary hereafter.”

Then the other laughed and said gaily, “I wot I am whole of the hurt I

had, and thou hast made such free confession of thy misdeeds, and hast

so borne the penance of mine axe-edge, that I hold thee absolved from

that sin, and purged as clean as if thou hadst never sinned since thou

wast born. And this girdle that is wrought with gold and green, like my

raiment, do I give thee, Sir Gawain, that thou mayest think upon this

chance when thou goest forth among princes of renown, and keep this for

a token of the adventure of the Green Chapel, as it chanced between

chivalrous knights. And thou shalt come again with me to my dwelling and

pass the rest of this feast in gladness.” Then the lord laid hold of

him, and said, “I wot we shall soon make peace with my wife, who was thy

bitter enemy.”

How Sir Gawain would keep the girdle

“Nay, forsooth,” said Sir Gawain and seized his helmet and took it off

swiftly, and thanked the knight: “I have fared ill, may bliss betide

thee, and may He who rules all things reward thee swiftly. Commend me to

that courteous lady, thy fair wife, and to the other my honoured ladies,

who have beguiled their knight with skilful craft. But ’tis no marvel if

one be made a fool and brought to sorrow by women’s wiles, for so was

Adam beguiled, and many a mighty man of old, Samson, and David, and

Solomon—if one might love a woman and believe her not, ’twere great

gain! And since all they were beguiled by women, methinks ’tis the less

blame to me that I was misled! But as for thy girdle, that will I take

with good will, not for gain of the gold, nor for samite, nor silk, nor

the costly pendants, neither for weal nor for worship, but in sign of my

frailty. I shall look upon it when I ride in renown and remind myself of

the fault and faintness of the flesh; and so when pride uplifts me for

prowess of arms, the sight of this lace shall humble my heart. But one

thing would I pray, if it displease thee not: since thou art lord of

yonder land wherein I have dwelt, tell me what thy rightful name may be,

and I will ask no more.”

How the marvel was wrought

“That will I truly,” quoth the other. “Bernlak de Hautdesert am I called

in this land. Morgain le Fay dwelleth in mine house,[10] and through

knowledge of clerkly craft hath she taken many. For long time was she

the mistress of Merlin, who knew well all you knights of the court.

Morgain the goddess is she called therefore, and there is none so

haughty but she can bring him low. She sent me in this guise to yon fair

hall to test the truth of the renown that is spread abroad of the valour

of the Round Table. She taught me this marvel to betray your wits, to

vex Guinevere and fright her to death by the man who spake with his head

in his hand at the high table. That is she who is at home, that ancient

lady, she is even thine aunt, Arthur’s half-sister, the daughter of the

Duchess of Tintagel, who afterward married King Uther. Therefore I bid

thee, knight, come to thine aunt, and make merry in thine house; my folk

love thee, and I wish thee as well as any man on earth, by my faith, for

thy true dealing.”

But Sir Gawain said nay, he would in no wise do so; so they embraced and

kissed, and commended each other to the Prince of Paradise, and parted

right there, on the cold ground. Gawain on his steed rode swiftly to the

king’s hall, and the Green Knight got him whithersoever he would.

How Sir Gawain came again to Camelot

Sir Gawain, who had thus won grace of his life, rode through wild ways

on Gringalet; oft he lodged in a house, and oft without, and many

adventures did he have and came off victor full often, as at this time I

cannot relate in tale. The hurt that he had in his neck was healed, he

bare the shining girdle as a baldric bound by his side, and made fast

with a knot ’neath his left arm, in token that he was taken in a

fault—and thus he came in safety again to the court.

Then joy awakened in that dwelling when the king knew that the good Sir

Gawain was come, for he deemed it gain. King Arthur kissed the knight,

and the queen also, and many valiant knights sought to embrace him. They

asked him how he had fared, and he told them all that had chanced to

him—the adventure of the chapel, the fashion of the knight, the love of

the lady—at last of the lace. He showed them the wound in the neck which

he won for his disloyalty at the hand of the knight, the blood flew to

his face for shame as he told the tale.

Sir Gawain makes confession of his fault

“Lo, lady,” he quoth, and handled the lace, “this is the bond of the

blame that I bear in my neck, this is the harm and the loss I have

suffered, the cowardice and covetousness in which I was caught, the

token of my covenant in which I was taken. And I must needs wear it so

long as I live, for none may hide his harm, but undone it may not be,

for if it hath clung to thee once, it may never be severed.”

The knights wear the lace in honour of Gawain

Then the king comforted the knight, and the court laughed loudly at the

tale, and all made accord that the lords and the ladies who belonged to

the Round Table, each hero among them, should wear bound about him a

baldric of bright green[11] for the sake of Sir Gawain. And to this was

agreed all the honour of the Round Table, and he who ware it was

honoured the more thereafter, as it is testified in the best book of

romance.

The end of the tale

That in Arthur’s days this adventure befell, the book of Brutus bears

witness. For since that bold knight came hither first, and the siege and

the assault were ceased at Troy, I wis

Many a venture herebefore

Hath fallen such as this:

May He that bare the crown of thorn

Bring us unto His bliss.

_Amen_

Notes

romances.

Gawain’s brother seems to indicate that there was a French source at

the root of this story. The author distinctly tells us more than

once that the tale, as he tells it, was written _in a book_. M.

Gaston Paris thinks that the direct source was an Anglo-Norman poem,

now lost.

main incident of the tale, is apparently of very early date. The

oldest version we possess is that found in the Irish tale of the

_Fled Bricrend_ (Bricriu’s feast), where the hero of the tale is the

Irish champion, Cuchulinn. Two mediæval romances, the _Mule sans

Frein_ (French) and _Diu Krône_ (German), again attribute it to

Gawain; while the continuator of Chrétien de Troye’s _Conte del

Graal_ gives as hero a certain Carados, whom he represents as

Arthur’s nephew; and the prose _Perceval_ has Lancelot. So far as

the mediæval versions are concerned, the original hero is

undoubtedly Gawain; and our poem gives the fullest and most complete

form of the story we possess. In the Irish version the magician is a

_giant_, and the abnormal size and stature of the Green Knight is,

in all probability, the survival of a primitive feature. His curious

_colour_ is a trait found nowhere else. In _Diu Krône_ we are told

that the challenger changes shapes in a terrifying manner, but no

details are given.

flight of the year, should be especially noticed. Combined with

other passages—the description of Gawain’s journey, the early

morning hunts, the dawning of New Year’s Day, and the ride to the

Green Chapel—they indicate a knowledge of Nature, and an observant

eye for her moods, uncommon among mediæval poets. It is usual enough

to find graceful and charming descriptions of spring and early

summer—an appreciation of _May_ in especial, when the summer courts

were held, is part of the stock-in-trade of mediæval romancers—but a

sympathy with the year in all its changes is far rarer, and

certainly deserves to be specially reckoned to the credit of this

nameless writer.

description of the arming of Gawain is rather more detailed in the

original, but some of the minor points are not easy to understand,

the identification of sundry of the pieces of armour being doubtful.

not remember that the pentangle is elsewhere attributed to Gawain.

He often bears a red shield; but the blazon varies. Indeed, the

heraldic devices borne by Arthur’s knights are distractingly

chaotic—their legends are older than the science of heraldry, and no

one has done for them the good office that the compiler of the

Thidrek Saga has rendered to his Teutonic heroes.

Madden suggests that the forest which forms the final stage of

Gawain’s journey is that of Inglewood, in Cumberland. The geography

here is far clearer than is often the case in such descriptions.

again, I have omitted some of the details of the original, the

architectural terms lacking identification.

account of each day’s hunting contains a number of obsolete terms

and details of woodcraft, not given in full. The meaning of some has

been lost, and the minute description of skinning and dismembering

the game would be distinctly repulsive to the general reader. They

are valuable for a student of the history of the English sport, but

interfere with the progress of the story. The fact that the author

devotes so much space to them seems to indicate that he lived in the

country and was keenly interested in field sports. (Gottfried von

Stressbourg’s _Tristan_ contains a similar and almost more detailed

description.)

confers invulnerability on its owner, is a noticeable feature of our

story. It is found nowhere else in this connection, yet in other

romances we find that Gawain possesses a girdle with similar powers

(cf., my _Legend of Sir Gawain_, Chap. IX.). Such a talisman was

also owned by Cuchulinn, the Irish hero, who has many points of

contact with Gawain. It seems not improbable that this was also an

old feature of the story. I have commented, in the Introduction, on

the lady’s persistent wooing of Gawain, and need not repeat the

remarks here. The Celtic _Lay of the Great Fool_ (_Amadan Mor_)

presents some curious points of contact with our story, which may,

however, well be noted here. In the _Lay_ the hero is mysteriously

deprived of his legs, through the draught from a cup proffered by a

_Gruagach_ or magician. He comes to a castle, the lord of which goes

out hunting, leaving his wife in the care of the Great Fool, who is

to allow no man to enter. He falls asleep, and a young knight

arrives and kisses the host’s wife. The Great Fool, awaking, refuses

to allow the intruder to depart; and, in spite of threats and

blandishments, insists on detaining him till the husband returns.

Finally, the stranger reveals himself as the host in another shape;

he is also the _Gruagach_, who deprived the hero of his limbs, and

the Great Fool’s brother. He has only intended to test the _Amadan

Mor’s_ fidelity. A curious point in connection with this story is

that it possesses a prose opening which shows a marked affinity with

the “Perceval” _enfances_. That the Perceval and Gawain stories

early became connected is certain, but what is the precise

connection between them and the Celtic _Lay_ is not clear. _In its

present form_ the latter is certainly posterior to the Grail

romances, but it is quite possible that the matter with which it

deals represents a tradition older than the Arthurian story.

between Morgain le Fay and Guinevere, which is here stated to have

been the _motif_ of the enchantment, is no invention of the author,

but is found in the _Merlin_, probably the earliest of the Arthurian

_prose_ romances. In a later version of our story, a poem, written

in ballad form, and contained in the “Percy” MS., Morgain does not

appear; her place is taken by an old witch, mother to the lady, but

the enchantment is still due to her spells. In this later form the

knight bears the curious name of _Sir Bredbeddle_. That given in our

romance, _Bernlak de Hautdesert_, seems to point to the original

French source of the story. (It is curious that Morgain should here

be represented as extremely old, while Arthur is still in his first

youth. There is evidently a discrepancy or misunderstanding of the

source here.)

later version connects this _lace_ with that worn by the knights of

the Bath; but this latter was _white_, not _green_. The knights wore

it on the left shoulder till they had done some gallant deed, or

till some noble lady took it off for them.

Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson _&_ Co.

London & Edinburgh

Transcriber’s Notes

—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook

is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by

_underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the sidenotes.