Fit
IV
Now the New-Year nighs, and the night passes,
Dáy treads on dark, as deems the Almighty;
But weathers full wild in the world awaken,
Clouds strike keenly the cold to the earth,
With enough of the North the nakèd to teen.
The snow shower’d snell and snapèd the wild,
The whistling wind from the welkin smote
And drove each dale full of drifts very deep.
Oft listen’d the leal man that lay in his bed;
Though he lock’d his lids, but little he slept,
And by each cock that crew he knew well his hour.
Full early was he up, ere ány day dawn’d,
For there was light from a lamp that leam’d in his chamber;
He call’d to his chamberlain (and the call he answer’d),
And bade bring his byrnie and saddle his bay;
Then his man is afoot and fetches his weeds,
And graithes me Sir Gawain in a great fashion.
First he clad him in clothes the cold for to temper,
And eke in his harness that he had housèd with care,
Both his pounce and his plates, polisht full clean,
And the rings of his rich mail, scour’d of all rust;
All was fresh as at first, and fain was he then
to speed.
He had on him each piece,
Well wiped, from foulness free’d;
Gayest from here to Greece,
Gawain bade bring his steed.
So Gawain arrays him in raiment full rich—
His coat, with the cognisance of clear devices
Work’d upon velvet, virtuous stones
Set about by the border, embroider’d seams,
And lined full fairly with furs of the finest;
Yet he left not the lace, the lady’s guerdon,
That Gawain forgat not for good of his soul.
When he had belted his brand on his broad haunches,
Then dress’d he his druery double about him,
Wound round his waist that winsome lace,
The girdle of green that gaily beseem’d him
On the royal red so rich in semblance.
But not for its wealth did the wight wear it,
Or the pride of the pendants, though polisht they were,
And though the glittering gold gleam’d at the ends,
But to save his dear soul, when to suffer behoved—
To bide bale without brand or blade to defend him
at all.
Bold man! his hour is due,
He passes from the hall,
Praises that meiny true,
And often thanks withal.
Then was Gringolet graith, a great horse and noble;
He had been lodg’d to his liking, and lustily fed,
And him list prick for point, that proud horse then.
Gawain to him goes, and gazes on his coat,
And says to himself (and swears by his sooth)
“There is a meiny in this moat, that of courtesy minds;
The man that maintains them, máy he have joy,
The lady, long live she, and love her betide!
If ever for charity they cherish a guest
And offer him hostel, the hígh God reward them
That upholds the heaven, and also you all!
And if life I may lead so long upon earth,
Some guerdon I shall give you, right gladly anon.”
Then he steps into stirrup, and strides aloft;
They show him his shield, and on shoulder he girds it,
Sets goad to Gringolet with his gilded heels,
Who starts on the stones, and stands there no longer
to prance.
The squire on horse was then
That bore his spear and lance;
The castle he did beken
To Christ, and wish’d “Good Chance.”
The bridge was drawn down, and the bróad gàtes
On both hands unbarr’d, and borne wide open;
And he blessèd himself and the board rode over.
He prais’d the porter, (who kneel’d to the prince,
Giving him “Good-day,” and “God save Gawain”)
Then went on his way with the wight alone
That should guide him i’ the gate to the gloomy place
Where behoved him endure the doleful onset.
They rode by banks where boughs were bare,
They clomb by cliffs where the cóld clùng;
High were the clouds, but ’twas ugly thereunder;
It mizzled on the moor, on the mountains it pour’d—
Each hill had a hat and a hood of vapour.
Brooks boil’d and broke as their banks they swept,
And shatter’d on shores where adown they shot.
Oh! wildsome was the way where by wood they should ride,
Till ’twas soon the season when the sun rises
that tide.
They were on a hill full high,
The white snow lay beside;
The squire that rode him by
Then bade the knight abide:
“For I have been your squire and escorted you hither,
And ye’re now not far from the noted place
That ye have spirr’d and spied so specially after;
But I shall say you for sooth, seeing that I know you
And ye are a lord in land that I love full well,
Would ye work by my wit, your way were the better.
The place that ye press to, full perilous is holden;
Wones a wight in that waste, the worst upon earth,
For he strong is and stern, and to strike he loves,
And he is mightier than men on middle-earth living,
And bigger in body than the bést fòur
That are in Arthur’s house, Hector or other.
And this chance he achieves at the Green Chapel,
None passes that place so proud in his arms
But he dings him to death by dint of his hand;
’Tis a man without measure, no mercy he uses,
Be it churl or chaplain by the chapel that rides,
Monk or mass-priest or any man else,
He’d as lief him kill as alive be himself.
So I say you as surely as in saddle ye sit,
“Hither come and ye’re kill’d,” if the knight have his will,
Trust ye my troth, though lives ye had twenty
to spend.
He has wonèd here full yore,
Made sorrow without end,
Against his onset sore
Ye may not you defend.
“Therefore, good Sir Gawain, give him good-bye,
And go you some other gate, in God’s name I pray you;
Choose some other country, where Christ may you speed,
And I shall hie home; and eke will I promise
That I shall swear by God and his good Hallows
(So help me the halidom) and oaths a many,
That I’ll keep your secret and slip not a word
That ye e’er flinchèd or fled for foe that I wist.”
“Gramercy,” he said, and he searchèd his soul,
“Well worth thee, good wight, that wishest me well;
I am in sooth full sure my secret thou’lt guard,
But wert thou never so true, if this tryst I kept not,
But flinchèd for fear, in the form that thou sayst,
I were a craven coward beyond all excuse.
For any check that may chance, to the chapel I’ll go,
And talk with that tyrant the tale that me list,
Come weal or come woe, as my weird shall ordain me
to have.
Though cruellest knave alive
He be, and stand with stave,
Full well can God contrive
His servants for to save.”
“Marry,” said his man, “if so minded thou be,
That on thy ówn dear head such harm thou wilt set
As to lose thine own life, I let not nor stay thee.
Have thy helm on thy head, and thy spear in thy hand,
And ride me down this rake by the rock-side yonder
Till it bring thee to the bottom of the bare valley;
Then loók a líttle on the láund on thy left hand,
And thou shalt see in that slade the chapel thou seekest
And the burly man on bent that bides in the place.
Now good-bye, in God’s name, Gawain the noble!
Not for all gold above ground would I go with thee still,
Or be thy fellow through the frith, but a foot further.”
Then his bridle he tugg’d, and homeward he turn’d,
Set heels to his horse as hard as he might,
Leapt o’er the laund and left the Knight standing
alone.
“By God’s self,” quoth Gawain,
“I’ll neither greet nor groan,
To God’s will am I fain
My own will to atone.”
Then goads he Gringolet and gets to the track,
Shapes him by a shore at the edge of a shaw,
And rides down the hillside right to the valley;
He look’d o’er the waste and full wild he ween’d it,
No sign of a shelter saw he aywhere,
But bare hills and brent upon bóth hànds,
Rough-knuckled knars with gnarlèd stones,
And clustering cliffs that grazèd the clouds.
F ull often he hoved, and halted his horse,
And oft his way changed that chapel to seek,
But on no síde could it see, and strange he thought it.
Soon, a little on a laund, a low as it were,
A barrow by a bank at the búrn sìde,
Fast by a fall of that foaming water,
Wherein bubbled the burn, as if it had boil’d.
He urges his horse and hies to the knoll
And lightly by a linden leaps down and ties
The rein of his rouncy to a ruggèd branch.
Then he bouns to the barrow and about it he strides,
Busily debating what thing it might be;
It had a hole at the end and at either side,
And was graithly o’ergrown with grass all in patches,
And all hollow within—only an old cavern
Or a crevice of a crag; he could not it read
or spell.
“Ah, Lord!” said the good knight,
“Is this the Green Chapel?
Here might about mid-night
The dule his matins tell.”
“Now, I wis,” said the wight, “ ’tis wildsome here,
An evil orat’ry, with herbs grown over!
Well beseems it that sire in his suit of green
Here to deal his devotions in the devil’s wise.
I feel ’tis the fiend, in my five wits,
That has stablisht this tryst, to destroy me herein;
’Tis a chapel unchancy, (ill-cheer it betide!)
The cursedest kirk I cáme ever into!”
With high helm on his head and lance in his hand
He roams up anon to that rough rocky dwelling,
When he hears, up the hill, in a hígh cràg
On a bank o’er the brook, a boisteous noise;
How it clatter’d in the cliff as though it should cleave it,
Like one on a grindlestone grinding a scythe!
How it hiss’d and whirr’d like water at a mill!
How it rush’d and rung! ’twas ruth to hear it!
“By God,” said the gallant, “this gear, as I trow,
As a greeting is meant for the good Sir Gawain
by way.
If God so work, alas!
It daunts me not nor may.
Though out of life I pass,
No noise shall me affray.”
Then he lift up his voice and loudly he called:
“Who is master in this mound, to meet me at the tryst?
For now the good Gawain is going right here;
If any wight ought will, let him win hither quick
(’Tis either now or never) that his needs he may speed.”
“Abide!” cried one, on the bank high above,
“Thou shalt have full promptly all that I promised.”
Yet came he not down, but kept up his clatter
And went on a-whetting, for a while longer;
Then clamb’ring by a crag, where a crevice there was,
The wight out-whirl’d him, with weapon in hand,
A Dane’s axe new-dight, to deal him the dint.
It had a blade right keen that curv’d by the haft,
Well sharpen’d and filed, full four foot in breadth—
’Twas no less, by the lace that leam’d on the handle;
And the grim man in green was gear’d as before,
Both his leer and his legs, his locks and his beard,
Save that firmly on foot he fared on the ground,
With the stale to the stone, as ye stalk with a crutch.
When he won to the water, he waded it not,
But hopp’d o’er on his axe with an agile stride,
A burly man on bent, and on that broad carpet
of snow.
Gawain the Knight did greet,
Yet louted nothing low;
The other said, “Now, Sir sweet,
Man true to tryst I know.”
“Gawain,” said the green one, “may God thee guard!
Thou art welcome, I wis, good wight, to my place,
And hast timed thy travel as true man should.
Thou knowest the covenants we accorded together;
At this time twelvemonth thou tookest thy dues,
And now at this New-Year thou needs must requite.
Today in this dale we shall deal by ourselves,
Here is none to say nay, knock as we like.
Unhasp now thy helmet, and have here thy pay,
And resist me no more than thyself I resisted
When thou severedst my head at a single stroke.”
“Nay,” quoth Gawain, “by God, that gave to me life,
I shall grudge thee not a grain any grame that befalls;
But mind thee! one stroke! and quite still shall I stand,
Nor resist any wise, work how thou wilt,
unfair.
He bent his neck and bow’d,
And show’d the nape ail bare;
He look’d like man uncow’d,
For death he had no care.
Then the man in the green graith’d him anon,
And gather’d his grim tool, Gawain to smite;
With all the bir of his body he bore it aloft,
And feinted as fierce as though he would fell him.
Had he driv’n it adown as dree as he ettled,
There had been dead of that dint the doughty Gawain!
But he glent on the gisarm with a sideling glance
As down it came gliding, on ground to destroy him,
And shránk a líttle his shóulders at the sharp iron.
The other swerv’d in his swing and the swift blade withheld,
And with proud words many that prince he reproved:
“Thou art not Gawain,” quoth he, “that so good is holden,
That ne’er host overawed by hill or by valley.
Thou that flinchest for fear ere thou feel any hurt!
Of that knight such cowardice cóuld I ne’er hear!
Neither flinch’d I nor fled, when the fell tool thou swungest,
Nor argument held, in the house of King Arthur;
My head flew to my foot, yet flee did I never,
And thou quailest at heart, ere any harm happen!
The better man on bent behoves me be call’d
therefore.”
Quoth Gawain, “I flinchèd once,
But so will I no more;
Yet if my head hit the stones
I can it not restore.
“But busk thee. Sir Bold, and bring me to the point,
Deal me my destiny and do it out of hand,
For I shall stand thee a stroke, nor start any more
Till thine axe have me hit: my honour I pledge thee.”
“Have at thee!” said the other, and heaving his tool,
Look’d as wild and as wroth as if wood he had been;
Fierce aim did he ettle, but or ever he touch’d,
His hand he withheld that no hurt might befall.
Gawain boldly him bides, nor budges a whit,
But stands still as a stone, or a stock either
That is grappled in rock with roots a hundred.
Then merrily spoke he, the man in the green:
“Now thou art heart-whole, to hit thee behoves;
Hold back the hood that from Arthur thou hadst,
And look to thy neck at the knock that is coming.”
Then rudely Sir Gawain, raging with wrath:
“Why! thrash on, thou thro man, thou threat’nest too long;
I hope that thy heart at thine ówn self may quail.”
“I’ faith,” said the fell man, “so fiercely thou speakest,
I’ll no longer delay, nor let thee thine errand,
e’en now!”
Then takes he stance to strike,
And puckers lip and brow;
No wonder if him mislike
That hopes for no rescue.
He lifts his axe lightly and lets it adown
With the bit of the blade on the báre nàpe;
It hurt him no more, though he hammer’d full hard,
Than to nick him a cut on the neck, at the side.
But the sharp blade shore through the skin to the flesh,
And the sheen blood shot o’er his shoulder to ground.
And the blood when he saw so bright on the snow,
He sprang forth like mad, a spear-length and more,
And angerly his helm on his head did he cast,
Shot round his shield the shoulder beneath,
And his bright sword drew: then broke he forth boldly
(Not since he was man born of a mother
Had he e’er in this world been a wight so blithe):
“Stop, Sirrah, thy strokes! I stand thee no more!
For a stroke in this stead without strife have I ta’en,
And more if thou deal I shall dearly requite,
And treat thee as traitor (trust ye my word)
and foe.
But one stroke to me falls—
The compact said right so
Shapen in Arthur’s halls—
To a second, I say No.”
That other stood off, on his axe he rested,
With shaft to the ground on the sharp head he lean’d;
He look’d at the leal man that strode on the laund,
Saw that doughty on bent so boldly abide him
Armed, and unawed: in his heart he liked it.
Then, in merrier mood, he mended his note,
And a gallant word to Sir Gawain he spoke:
“Sir Bold, on this bent bé not so wrathful,
No man unmannerly here has misused thee,
Or the covenant broke at the King’s court shapen.
A cut did I promise, so count thee well paid,
And I deem thee full-quit of all debt that is due.
Had I dealt more nimbly, a deadlier dint
Had I serv’d thee perchance and mischiev’d thee for ever.
But the first of those strokes was a friendly feint,
Nor meant I to mar thee; so much was thy right,
By the covenant accorded that night at our court,
When troth thou didst keep and wert true to thy trust,
And gav’st me thy gains, as good man behoved.
And the next was a menace for the morrow morning,
When thou kissedst my consort, and the kisses didst yield.
Twice faithful I found thee, and feints did I make
instead.
True man must pay his due,
Then need he nothing dread;
Third time thou were not true,
And the harm is on thy head.
“For ’tis my weed that thou wearest, that woven girdle,
And from my wife didst thou win it, that wot I full well,
I know of thy kisses, and your courtly disport,
And the wooing of my wife: I wrought it myself;
I sent her to essay thee, and I think thee in sooth
The most faultless knight, that on foot ever fared;
As a pearl by the pea all price is above,
So by gay knights all, in good faith, is Gawain.
But with the lace in lealty a little ye fail’d,
Yet it wás not for wooing, nor wantonness either,
But for love of your life: the less do I blame you.”
A great while that stalwart stood in a study,
So grievèd for grame that he groan’d in his heart;
All the blood from his breast blent in his visage,
He shrank so for shame at the speech he had heard.
The first word in the world that the wight uttered
Was “Cursèd be cowardice and covetise both!
In yóu is víllany and více, that virtue destroy.”
Then caught he the lace, and the knot he loosen’d,
And fiercely it flung to the green man on field:
“Look ye! the false weed! and foul it befall!
I cared for thy knock, and cowardice taught me
To accord me with covetise, and be false to my kind—
The largess and leaky that ’longs to a knight.
But though faulty and false, afear’d was I still
Of treachery and untrúth; betide them may sorrow
and care!
Here, I confess my sin,
All faulty is my fare:
Let me your will but win,
And eft I shall be ware.”
Then laugh’d the gay lord and lightly he said:
“I shall hold it all heal’d, the harm that I had;
Thou art confessèd so clean, and clear’d of misdeed,
And the penance hast paid at the point of mine axe,
That I hold thee as surely assoil’d of thy sin
As if thou never hadst faulted since first thou wert born.
And I give thee, for guerdon, the gold-hemm’d girdle;
It is green as my gown, and by it, Sir Gawain,
Thou may’st mind on this mellay each morn that thou ridest
With princes of price: ’tis thy precious token
Of this chance at the chapel, ’mongst chivalrous knights.
Now ye shall come this New-Year to my castle again
And we’ll revel the remnant of this feast so rich,
with joy.”
Then press’d him that gay lord:
“With my fair wife, think I,
We shall you well accord,
That was your enemy.”
“Nay, for sooth,” the Knight said (and seizing his helmet,
He doff’d it for courtesy, and kindly him thank’d)
“O’erlong have I wonèd: may weal you betide
From the Athel on High that all honour ordains!
Greet me with courtesy your comely consort,
Both the one and the other my honour’d ladies,
That bewiled with their wit the unwary Gawain.
’Tis in faith no marvel if a fool go mad,
And by wiles of women to sorrow be won;
For of old was Adam by óne beguiled,
And Solomon by sundry; and Samson eftsoons—
Dalilah dealt him his weird, and David thereafter
Was blinded by Báthsheba, and had bale very much.
All wasted by women! ’Twere a win unmeasured
To love and believe not, if leal man but could:
For thése were of náme the nóblest, and knew prosperity
Above all others, that were ever on earth
bemused,
Yet they were all bewiled
By women that they used:
If I be now beguiled
Shall I not be excused?”
“But your girdle!” said Gawain, “may God you reward!
I shall wear it with a will, not for winsome gold,
Or the ceinture of silk, or the swinging pendants,
Nor for wealth or for worship, or the wondrous embroid’ries,
But a symbol of my sinning I shall see in it oft
When I ride in renown, and rue to myself
Of the fault and the frailty of sinful flesh,
How tender to take any touch of defilement!
And if pride e’er prick me for prowess of arms,
To heed to this lace will humble my heart.
But one thing I pray you, an’t please you, Sir Knight,
Since ye’re lord of this land, where I lodged at mine ease
In your wone, with worship—and reward you may He
That upholds the heavens and on hígh sìts!—
By what name are ye known? and I shall nó more ask.”
“I will say you the sooth,” then said the Green Knight,
“Bercilac of Hígh-Desert I hight in my home.
It was Morgan la Fay, in my meiny that lives,
And the might of her magic that moved me to seek you.
The mysteries of Merlin full many has she learnt;
For once on a day she had dealing in druery
With that wizardly clerk, and she knows all your knights:
Dread dame!
Morgan, the goddess high—
Therefore it is her name;
No knight so proud goes by
But she his pride can tame.
“She sent me by craft to the court of your King,
To make trial of its pride, whether truth it might be,
All the renown that runs of the Round Table;
And that witchcraft she wrought, your wits to dumbfound,
And to daunt Queen Guenore, and do her to death
With that ghoulish game, and the ghostly speaker
With his head in his hand at the high table.
’Tis she that is here, the ancient at home;
She is even thine aunt, Arthur’s half-sister,
The Duchess’s daughter that dwelt at Tintagel,
Who to Uther bore King Arthur the athel.
So I beg thee, Sir Knight, come back to thine aunt,
And make merry in my moat; my meiny much loves thee,
And I wish thee as well, good wight, by my faith,
As any gallant under God, for thy great lealty.”
But he nick’d him with nay, and could nót be persuaded.
Then accoll’d they and kiss’d and bekenn’d each other
To the Prince of paradise, and parted right there
on snow.
Gawain on steed, full keen,
To Arthur’s house did go,
And the knight in the bright green
To his own hold also.
Wild ways in the world now wanders Sir Gawain,
For the gift of his life he had gotten again;
Oft he harbour’d in house, and out-of-doors often,
Had adventures in vale and victories many,
That I intend not today to tell you in story.
He was heal’d of the hurt that he had on his neck;
And the gleaming belt he bore thereabout,
Like a baldric, slantwise, bound by his side,
Loop’d in a knot, his left arm beneath,
As a symbol of the sin that he was seiz’d in.
Thus came the good Knight, all sound, to the Court;
There was weal in that wone when wist it the King,
Wist that Gawain was come; goód news he thought it.
First kiss’d him of all the King and the Queen,
Then many a sickar knight sought to salute him,
And of his wayfare would weet: all the wonders he told them,
The haps and the hardships he had on his way,
The chance of the chapel, the cheer of the knight,
The love of the lady, and the lace at the last.
The cut ’neath his collar discover’d he then,
That the lord of the land for unlealty him gave,
for blame.
In anguish did he speak,
He groan’d for grief and shame,
The blood blent in his cheek,
For the blot upon his name.
“Look! my lord!” said the liege, and the lovelace he handled,
“This is the band of blame that I bear round my neck,
This is the dole and the damage that there was dealt me,
For the cowardice and covetise wherein I was caught;
This is the token of the untruth that I was ta’en in,
And I must needs it wear the while that I live;
A man may hide his harm but úndo he cannot,
If the knot is once knit, it may never be loos’d.”
The King him comforts; and all of the court
With laughter agreed, for love of the liege,
That lords and ladies that ’long’d to the Table,
Each one of the brotherhood, a baldric should bear,
A band worn slantwise of a bríght grèen,
After Gawain’s suit, for the sake of Gawain.
’Twas a glorious token of the’ Table Round,
And hé that hád it was hónour’d for evermore after,
As ’tis breved in the best of the books of romance.
Thus in Arthur’s time this adventure betid,
The Books of Britain bear of it witness.—
Since Brutus, the bold knight, boun’d hither first,
When the siege and the assault were ceasèd at Troy,
I wis,
Many marvels here-before
Have fallen such as this.
The crown of thorns Who bore
Now bring us to His bliss. Amen.
Hony soyt qui mal pence.