At the Crossing Places (23 page)

S
IR GAWAIN'S HOST, THE LORD OF THE CASTLE, PUTS TWO
fingers in his mouth and whistles, and at once a servant walks in, bearing a boar's head on a platter.

“My winnings!” says the host. “He's yours, Gawain.”

Sir Gawain strokes the boar's head and grasps its sharp tusks.

“He ripped three of my dogs—stem to stern. We kept shooting arrows at him, but his hide was tough as oak bark. He was snorting and foaming, but I buried my sword in his chest.”

“Praise be to God!” Gawain exclaims.

“Now what about you?” growls the host, and his bushy eyebrows bristle. “Yesterday you gave me one kiss. What have you got for me today?”

Sir Gawain steps up to his host and puts his arms around his neck and kisses him twice, once on the left cheek and once on the right.

“Really?” booms the host. “And where did you get those from?”

“That's not part of our bargain,” Sir Gawain replies.

The host smiles and rubs his beard. “If you go on like this,” he says, “you'll soon be a rich man!”

Dark again. One moment my stone's quick with laughter and colors, the next silent and dark as a starless December night. But why? Why does it sometimes die? Is it because of me?

For some time all I could see was myself.

I can make my right ear twitch without touching it. And I used to scare Sian with my demon-faces, but I can't touch my blobby nose with the tip of my tongue like she can.

I cradled my stone in my right hand. I kept it warm. I wanted so much to see…

Footsteps first. Very soft. Then a latch lifting; a creak. The host's wife peeps round the door, and now she creeps into Sir Gawain's bedroom and gently sits down on the edge of his bed.

Sir Gawain opens one eye and quickly closes it again.

“Good morning!” says the lady, bending down and kissing Gawain on his right cheek. “How careless of you! You left the door unbolted.”

“Was I wrong to trust you?”

“Of course not! You're among friends here.”

“I feel quite helpless lying on my back,” says Sir Gawain. “Let me get dressed, and then we can talk all morning.”

The lady tosses her head and the opals in her hairnet flash. “I've trapped you, and every woman in the kingdom would envy me,” she says.

“I'm not worthy of such attention.”

“You're so strong and honorable, always in good spirits. No woman could hope for a better husband.”

“You've already chosen a better man,” Sir Gawain says.

The lady gives a small sigh. “The best stories of all,” she says, “tell of love and battle. Don't you agree? Of men who risk all for love, and the women who challenge and reward them.”

“The love of battle,” Sir Gawain agrees, “and the battle of love.”

“Exactly!” exclaims the lady. “But you've never once told me about love. Not one loving word.”

“My lady,” says Sir Gawain, “it's I who should learn from you. You could teach a whole army of fellows like me.”

The lady tucks up Sir Gawain and kisses him on his left cheek. “Your last morning here,” she sighs. “Will you give me something to remember you by? A glove, maybe?”

“Lady,” says Sir Gawain, “I'd give you the moon for a sister, but I've nothing with me—nothing worthy of you.”

“I know, then,” says the lady, and she unties her green silk belt, hemmed with gold, and slides it off.

“No!” says Sir Gawain.

“Why not? It looks valueless, I know, but whoever wears it can never be wounded.”

Sir Gawain gazes at the silk belt.

“For my sake,” says the lady very softly, and she inches back Sir Gawain's sheet and slips the belt under it. “It has circled me, now let it circle you. But promise not to tell my husband.”

The lady stands up, and now she bends right over Sir Gawain and kisses him on the mouth. Her grey eyes flicker.

“I'll give you my winnings first,” says Sir Gawain. He steps up to his host and puts his arms round his neck and kisses him three times: on his right cheek, his left cheek, and then on his mouth.

“My heaven!” exclaims the host. “Where do they all come from? And what did they cost?”

“I've kept my part of the bargain,” Sir Gawain says. “Now what about yours?”

“Bah!” trumpets the host. He whistles, and at once a servant brings in a tawny pelt. “You see? Nothing but a mangy fox. May the devil take him!”

Now the host's wife and the old lady enter the hall. Music and candlelight, wine from Aquitaine. Sir Gawain thanks his host over and again for all his kindness.

“So! In the morning you must ride to the Green Chapel,” the host says, and he combs his matted hair with his left hand. “My gate-watchman will point the way. Sleep well, my friend.”

But Sir Gawain doesn't sleep well. He lies awake half the night, thinking about his meeting with the Green Knight. The New Year is still dawning as he strides out to the stable, dressed and fully armed. He's wearing the lady's green belt hemmed with gold, and it's tied with a double knot.

The wind's from the north and the sky is lumpy. A few snowflakes go whirling round the courtyard.

“May little Lord Jesus watch over the good people in this castle,” Sir Gawain says. “And may He save me when I meet the Green Knight.”

“You see that high peak?” the gate-watchman says. “The one half-shrouded. Head for that, and when you come to a stream, follow it down. Past a rock pile, and you'll come to a clearing. You won't miss the Green Chapel.”

Sir Gawain mounts, almost lost in the great puffs of steam Kincaled is blowing from his nostrils.

“I wouldn't be in your shoes,” the watchman says, “not for nothing. If I were you, I'd head off while you can. I won't tell nobody.”

Sir Gawain smiles ruefully. He thanks the watchman and follows his directions until he reaches the little clearing, and on the banks of the boiling stream, a green mound. A burial barrow!

Sir Gawain dismounts. He walks right round the barrow. It's quite hollow, with an entrance at either end.

“Is this it?” he says to himself. “The Green Chapel? I've never seen such a God-forsaken place.”

All at once there's a clatter on the other side of the stream. The Green Knight is running down the scree, and when he reaches the bottom, he stabs his battle-ax into the ground and vaults right across the stream.

“So!” booms the Green Knight. “You've kept your word. New Year's greetings to you.”

Sir Gawain pulls off his helmet. “One stroke,” he says.

The Green Knight glares at Sir Gawain and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand.

“One will be enough,” he says.

Sir Gawain stares at the Green Knight's ax. The blade's even longer than the one he brought with him to King Arthur's court. It's at least four feet long.

“Wait here!” says the Green Knight. He walks over to an outcrop of rock and hones his ax on it. Now he coughs. That horrible hacking cough he had before. “Are you ready?” he asks.

Sir Gawain slowly drops his head, and at once the Green
Knight swings his ax. But Sir Gawain glances sideways and hunches his shoulders, and the Green Knight checks his stroke.

“You flinched!” he shouts.

“It won't happen again,” Sir Gawain says. “But I can't put my head back on.”

At once the Green Knight swings his ax over his head again. But for a second time, he checks his stroke.

“Ah!” he growls. “I see you're ready at last.”

“Strike me!” says Sir Gawain in a low voice.

“The knighthood King Arthur gave you—let it save you if it can!”

“Strike!” says Sir Gawain hoarsely. “Or have you scared yourself?”

For a third time, the Green Knight hoists his shining ax. He swings it and brings it down—and just nicks Sir Gawain's neck.

At once Sir Gawain leaps away, yelling. He draws his sword. But the Green Knight? He just jabs his ax-point into the ground and begins to chuckle.

“Sheath your sword, man,” he says. “You've kept your word.”

Sir Gawain frowns.

“My first stroke. It didn't harm you, did it? I should hope not. On the first day, you kept your promise and gave me all your winnings. Then you gave me my wife's two kisses. But the third day! Gawain, you deceived me, and that's why I've nicked your neck. That belt is mine! My wife made it for me, and I sent her to your bedroom to test you.”

All the blood in Sir Gawain's body rushes to his face. He unties
the belt and hurls it at the Green Knight's feet. “Curses on my cowardice!” he shouts.

“You're too harsh on yourself,” the Green Knight says. “You kept my belt out of love of your life. Not out of lust! Not out of greed! Who can blame you for that?”

Sir Gawain stares at the drops of blood in the snow, and he fingers his neck.

“No man can be quite perfect,” the Green Knight says. “Not even you. Let me tell you: That old lady, she's Morgan le Fay, King Arthur's half sister. She hates him and his court, and spits at the name of Queen Guinevere. With her magic, Morgan turned me green. It was she who sent me to test the courage of the Round Table. Come back to my castle now until Yuletide's over—everyone will be glad to see you.”

“I must return to Camelot,” Sir Gawain replied. “But will you tell me your name?”

“Bertilak,” the Green Knight replies. “Sir Bertilak of the High Peak. Now! Take this belt! You've earned it, and whenever you look at it, you'll remember…”

“Your wife maddened me,” Sir Gawain says. “She made my blood whirl. I'll remember my failure.”

The Green Knight laughs. “I don't suppose King Arthur or the knights of the Round Table will see things like that,” he says in his deep voice. “I believe they'll want to wear green belts as well, as a sign of the honor you've brought to them all.”

White flakes whirl around them, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. And now the wind neighs, the snow thickens…

Arthur-in-the-stone and Sir Ontzlake, Sir Palomides, Sir Quercus, Sir Roland…they're all waiting to welcome Sir Gawain back to Camelot, and to honor him.

In my stone cell, at Wenlock, I flexed my muscles. I'm a squire. I'm ready. I'm ready to take the Cross and turn towards Jerusalem. I'm a knight-in-waiting and ready to prove myself.

T
HE NEXT EVENING, MARIE DE MEULAN DID RECITE A
story, in Prior Humbert's lodgings. It was about two lovers and the lady's husband. The lovers can never meet—their houses are separated by a high stone wall—but each night they go to their bedroom windows and whisper to each other. But one night the lady's husband wakes up and asks her what she's doing, and his wife says she's listening to the song of the nightingale: the greatest heart's joy in this world.

Then the husband snares the nightingale. He wrings its neck and throws it at his wife, and spatters her breast with blood.

The lady knows she'll never be able to whisper again to the man she loves. She sends him the dead nightingale, and he understands—he knows it's the lady's own broken heart. The lover lays the bird in a little gold casket and carries it with him wherever he goes.

By the time Lady Marie had finished, half the lay brothers and guestmasters were sniffing and dabbing their eyes.

“Jealousy,” observed Prior Humbert. “The old destroyer.”

“What else could the husband do?” asked one lay brother. “Stand by and allow his wife to make love to another man?”

“No love without suffering,” another called out.

Then Oliver stood up. “How can there be?” he demanded.
“How can there be love without suffering when Christ Himself suffered for His love of us?”

“Well said!” exclaimed Prior Humbert.

“No,” said our guestmaster. “I don't agree with that. Haven't you heard of a marriage made in heaven?”

Lady Marie looked round with her keen blue eyes. I could see she was devouring every word of the debate, and I wondered whether she could make a new story out of it. Then she thanked the prior and all of us for listening so attentively, and she and her servants retired for the night.

I was on my way to the scriptorium this morning when Lady Marie suddenly came out of the chapter house, and she was on her own.

“God's blessings!” she said.

“Lady!” I replied.

“What's your name?”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur…I saw you liked my poem.”

“I did!” I exclaimed. “Everyone did.”

“They're a soft lot,” Lady Marie said. “But at least they're not jealous.”

“I've never met anyone who makes her own stories,” I said.

“I build them from old Breton ones,” Lady Marie replied. “I reshape them, like clay. So that they say what I want them to say.”

“About love and suffering?”

“That, yes, and about jealousy, as Prior Humbert said. But also about women—their spirit and daring, their frustration.” Marie de Meulan considered me. “You like words,” she said.

“I do.”

“And stories.”

“Yes.”

“More than sermons?”

“Some sermons have stories inside them,” I said.

“Very good!” said Lady Marie. “The best ones always do. Well, Arthur! You can make a story.”

With that, Marie de Meulan smiled and turned back into the chapter house, and for a moment, her long gown fluttered against my legs.

I am! I am writing a story, though it's not a poem. The story of my life and how it's changing. The story of my namesake, inside my seeing stone.

In a way each of us is a story, and all the stories we hear become parts of our own story…

I can see it plain now. With these words, their red and black blood, I'm telling a story about a lady who told me a story about telling a story inside this story of my own life.