And all of this time the lord of the land is bent upon his sport,

In the woods, hunting, and on the heath, chasing the barren hinds;

Such a number of them he slew by the time the sun slanted down

Of does and other female deer, that to sum them would be a wonder.

Then proudly all the folk flocked in, en masse, at the end of the day,

And quickly they made a pile, a quarry, of all the deer that they’d killed.

The best-born walked across to it first, with men enough for the work.

They collected together the deer in the heap that were most filled out with fat

And neatly dismembered them, cutting them up as the rites of the task demand:

They examined them at the first assay, sampling a few of them there,

And they found at least two fingers of fat on even the leanest ones.

They slit the slot at the base of the throat, and seizing hold of the gullet,

Shaved it clean with a sharp knife, and tied it into a knot.

Next they severed the four limbs, and then stripped off the hide,

Then they broke the belly open for the bowels to be lifted out

Skillfully, so as not to loosen the binding of the knot.

They gripped hold of the deer’s gorge, and promptly pulled apart

The feeding passage from the windpipe, and tossed the guts away.

Then they sheared the shoulders free, using their sharp knives,

Hauled them out through a little hole, to leave the sides entire.

Next they opened the breastbone and divided the breast in two,

And after that they began on the gorge, setting to work at once,

Ripped it open rapidly, right up to the fork of the forelegs,

Emptied the intestines out, and then, proceeding correctly,

All the membranes along the ribs were speedily cut loose.

So too, they cleared in the proper way the ridge bones of the back,

Trimmed them all the way down to the haunch, all of which hung together,

And lifting up the whole of the loin, they hewed it off right there—

And that, to give it its proper name, is the “numbles”, I believe,

In a hind.

By the fork of the thighs they slice

The loose skin off behind,

Dividing it lengthwise

By the backbone to unbind.

They hewed the head and neck off the hind together in one hunk,

And then they separated the sides swiftly away from the bones of the spine,

And the scrap they call “the raven’s fee” they tossed up into a thicket.

Then drilled a hole through each thick flank, in the region of the ribs,

To hang the haunches of venison up, hooking the hocks of the legs,

For each man to receive his share, what it fell to him to have.

On the hide of the noblest beast, the hunters spread, to feed their hounds,

The livers and lights, the leathery tripe, the linings of the paunch,

And bread that had been bathed in blood, all mingled in together.

Boldly trumpets blew the blasts for “Capture!” The hounds bayed,

And every man picked up his meat and headed on his way home,

Sounding the bugle call stridently with many a drawn-out note.

By the time that daylight was over and done, the party had settled down

Inside the lovely castle where Sir Gawain has been waiting

Quietly,

Blissful, by a bright fire,

As the lord comes in to see;

When Gawain met him there,

He was greeted gleefully.

Then the lord commanded all his men to assemble in the hall

And bade that both his ladies come down from above, along with their women,

And join the folk on the floor below. And then he motions his men

With assurance, to fetch his venison and spread it all out before him.

Then graciously he called Gawain over, in the spirit of their game,

And directed his attention to the tally of full-grown beasts,

Showing him the shimmering rolls of flesh they had shorn from the ribs.

“And how does this sport please you? Would you say I have earned some praise?

Have I thoroughly merited your thanks for my skill at hunting the hinds?”

“Yes, indeed,” the other answered, “for here is the finest harvest

That I have seen taken in seven years, in the bitter season of winter.”

“And all of it I give to you, Gawain,” said the fellow then,

“For in accord with our covenant you can claim it as your own.”

“That is a fact,” the knight replied, “And I say the same to you.

What I have honorably won within the walls of this dwelling,

Indeed with equally good will, it must belong to you.”

He grasps the fellow’s handsome neck and folds it within his arms,

And kisses him as courteously as ever he could devise:

“Here, sir, take all that I have won, for I achieved nothing more,

I guarantee it completely, as I would if it were greater.”

“It is very good,” said the good man, “Many thanks for it therefore,

Though it may be such it might be better if you would declare to me

Where you have won this self-same wealth, by what stroke of wit on your part?”

“Ah, that was not in our compact,” he said, “you may question me no further,

For you have received what is due to you, you may expect no more,

As you know.”

They laughed and they made merry,

With words praiseworthy enough.

To supper they went in a hurry

For dishes dainty and new.

And afterwards the two men sat by the chimney in the chamber,

While servants carried cups of choice wine, recharging them over and over,

And again, amongst their other jesting, they agreed that in the morning

They would continue the same compact they had completed before:

Whatever good fortune fell to their lot, they would exchange their winnings—

Whatever new things they might obtain—at night when they met again.

They bound themselves to this covenant in front of all the court,

And the beverage was brought forth at once with jests to seal the pledge.

Then graciously they both took leave of the other at the last,

And each man hurried rapidly off to his room and went to bed.

By the time the morning cock had crowed and cackled only thrice,

The lord had bounded out of bed, and each of his knights likewise,

So that their meal and morning mass had duly been dispatched,

And the hunting party had gone to the woods, even before day broke,

To the chase:

Loudly with hounds and horns,

Through the fields they shortly pass,

Unleashing among the thorns

The dogs that headlong race.

Soon they gave tongue and the search was on along one side of a marsh,

The huntsmen urging on those hounds that had first picked up the trail.

They shouted at them with wilder words, making a clamorous outcry;

The other hounds, hearing this commotion, hastened to join the fray,

And fell on the scent as furiously, forty of them at once.

Then such a babble of ear-splitting barks from the pack of gathered dogs

Rose up, that the rocky hillsides rang with the uproar all around.

With both their horns and their voices, the hunters cheered the hounds on,

Then the whole assemblage moved as one, swiftly swinging down

Between a pool in the forest and a most forbidding crag.

On a rocky knoll beside a cliff, at the very edge of the marsh,

Where the rugged rocks had tumbled down in a talus of debris,

They set about scenting out the prey, with the men in hot pursuit.

Casting about, they surrounded both the crag and the rocky knoll,

The men in a ring until they could tell for certain it was within—

The beast that thus had been announced by the bold tongues of the bloodhounds.

Then they beat away on the bushes, bidding him to burst forth,

Until he broke cover dangerously, charging the line of men:

One, the most brutal of wild boars came bolting out of cover,

Who had long before been banished from the herd because of age,

But still he was a tremendous beast, the most massive of all boars,

And terrifying the way he grunted. At this many men were dismayed,

For at his first rush out, he thrust three dogs down into the dirt

And sprang away at breakneck speed without doing any more damage.

They shouted at the tops of their lungs, in full cry, “Hi!” “Hey! Hey!”

They held their horns up to their lips and blasted the notes for “Rally!”

Many cheerful calls came out of the mouths of men and hounds,

That hastened, chasing this fearsome boar, crying out with noisy clamor

For the kill.

Many times he stands at bay,

Maiming the pack at will.

He hurts some hounds, and they

Whimper and yowl and yell.

Then the men with bows pressed in around to shoot at the savage boar,

They loosed their arrows at the beast, and these struck him most of the time

But the arrow points failed to penetrate the tough hide shield of his shoulders

And the barbed ends of them would not bite into his brows or forehead;

Though the smooth shaven arrow shafts split apart, shivering into splinters,

The heads bounced off again and again, wherever they hit the brute.

When the blows began to pester the beast with their incessant strikes,

Then, frenzied into a fury to fight, he charges at the men,

Savagely wounding the ones that are in his path where he speeds forth,

And many were terrified at that, and quailed, withdrawing back.

But the lord of that land on a lively horse dashes on after him,

Like a bold knight on a battlefield, he blows a bugle blast,

Calling his men to “Rally!” and he rode through the brushwood thickets

Pursuing this wild swine until the sun had begun to set.

All this day with these same deeds they spent their time in this style,

While in the castle our gracious knight is lying in his bed,

Sir Gawain, happily at home, under the bedcovers splendid

In hue.

The lady hadn’t forgotten

To come with her salute.

Quite early she was at him,

To change his mind or mood.

She comes to the curtain around the bed and peeps in at the knight.

Sir Gawain was the first to speak, welcomed her courteously,

And she replies to him in turn, most eagerly with her words;

Sets herself softly by his side, and all of a sudden she laughs,

And with a lovingly gracious look, she delivers these words to him:

Sir, if you really are Gawain, it’s a wonder, I have to think,

That a man so well disposed to act with propriety at all times

Is so unable to understand the rules of polite behavior,

And when someone troubles to teach you them, you cast them out of your mind!

You have forgotten overnight what I taught you yesterday

By the truest lesson of any that I could show to you in speech.”

“What lesson is that?” the man inquired, “Indeed I have no idea.

If this fault that you decry is true, the blame is all my own.”

“And yet I taught you this about kissing,” the fair one then exclaimed,

“Where acquiescence is plain to see, quickly to claim a kiss

Is becoming behavior in every knight who practices chivalry.”

“Go on with that!” said the doughty man, “My dear, enough such talk,

For that is a deed I dare not attempt, for fear I should be denied.

Were I turned down, I would be wrong, indeed, to have offered to do it.”

“By my faith,” the merry wife remarked, “you would never be turned down.

You are stout enough to force your will with your strength, if you feel like it,

Were any woman so boorishly bred that she should try to deny you.”

“Well yes, God knows,” Gawain replied, “What you say may be very true,

But threats are thought to be barbarous in the country that I come from,

And likewise any gift that is not given willingly.

I am entirely at your command, to kiss me when you like,

To seize whenever it pleases you, and let go when you think right,

Straightway.”

The lady bends herself down

To graciously kiss his face.

They talk on and on, expounding

On love, its griefs and grace.

60 – Why not talk of love?

“I would like to learn from you, good sir,” that noble lady said,

“So long as you would not be wroth, what reason there might be

That one so young and full of valor, as you are at this time,

So courteous, and so knightly, as you’re widely known to be—

And since, of all chivalric deeds, the chief thing to be praised

Is always the loyal sport of love—along with the lore of arms;

For, in telling about the painful tasks attempted by true knights,

This is the title, sign, and text from which their works are taken:

How lords for the sake of their true loves have risked their very lives,

And have endured—and all for love—the dolefullest of days,

And afterwards avenged themselves with their valor, banished cares,

And brought bliss to a lady’s bower, through their bountiful worthiness—

And you are known as the noblest knight of the present generation,

Your fame and honor walk before you everywhere you go,

And I have sat by your side here twice, on separate occasions,

Yet I’ve never heard a word come out from that handsome head of yours

That had a thing to do with love, not a little nor a lot.

And you, who are so courteous and so wise at keeping your vows,

You owe it to a young thing to be eager to show her how,

To teach her some of the subtle signs of the art and craft of love.

Or—Why! Can it be you do not know them, despite your high renown?

Or else that you deem me to be too dull to understand courtly talk?

For shame!

I come alone, I sit,

To learn some of the game.

Do teach me by your wit

While my lord’s away from home.”

61 – I’m not up to such a discussion

“In good faith,” then Sir Gawain said, “And may God give you grace,

Great is the happiness I have, and the pleasure to me is huge,

That so worthy a noblewoman as you should deign to visit me here,

And bother yourself with so humble a man, amusing yourself with your knight,

Showing him kindly looks of favor—it gives me the greatest comfort.

But to take the travail upon myself of expounding upon true love,

And to treat the themes of that difficult text, telling tales of men in arms,

To you, whom I know very well to wield by far much greater skill

In that grand art, by at least a half, than a hundred of such men

As I am, or shall ever be, as long as I live on the earth,

Why, it would be manifold folly in me, upon my plighted word.

I would perform whatever you wish, as far as is in my power,

As I am duty bound to do, and I will evermore

Be a true servant to yourself, my lady, so help me God!”

Thus that lady made trial of him, tempting him over and over,

Tried to win him to wooing, or woe, or whatever she had in mind,

But he defended himself so fairly that no fault was to be seen,

And nothing evil on either half, so they knew nothing at all

But bliss.

They laughed, played games of love;

At last she gave a kiss;

She courteously took leave,

And went her way like this.

Then the man bestirs himself out of bed, and gets up to go to mass,

And after that their dinner was prepared and lavishly served.

The knight played love games with the ladies throughout the rest of the day,

But the lord was dashing back and forth, galloping over his lands,

Pursuing his ill-fated swine, which bolted along the banksides,

Biting the best of his hunting dogs and cracking their backs in two.

There he lurked in the brush at bay till the bowmen broke it down

And forced him out of it into the open, no matter what he might do,

As the arrows fiercely flew at him, when the folk had gathered around.

But still he caused the most fearless men to flinch from him at times,

Until at last he was so worn out that he could no longer run,

But beat himself a hasty retreat, as best he could, to a hole

On a ledge beside a rocky bank where a brook was running by.

He put the bank behind his back and began to paw the ground,

The froth was foaming hideously from the corners of his mouth,

As he stood whetting his white tusks. By then all the men around,

However bold and brave they were, were beginning to feel tired of hunting,

At annoying him from so far back, but none of them dared close in

For the risk:

He had hurt so many before,

All were about to quit

Lest his tusks tear any more,

Both fierce and out of his wits,

Until the lord of the castle charged up, spurring his courser on,

Saw the boar biding his time at bay while his men stood ringing him round.

He swings down lightly to the ground and, leaving his horse behind,

Draws his bright sword out of its scabbard, and forcefully strides forward,

Splashing hastily through the ford to where the fierce beast waits.

Wary, the wild creature watched the man with the weapon in his hand,

The bristles on his ridge rose up, and he snorted ferociously

So that many men were afraid for their lord, lest the boar get the better of him.

Then the swine sets out against the man, straight for him where he stood,

So the lord and the boar fell into a heap, tangled in confusion,

In the swiftest rapids of the stream. But the beast had the worst of it,

For the man had aimed at him accurately, as they first clashed together,

He set the sharp point of his sword in the slot at the base of his throat

And drove it in up to the hilt, so it burst the heart open,

And the snarling beast yielded up his life and was swept away downstream

In a flash.

A hundred hounds seized his flanks

And fiercely bit his flesh;

Men brought him back to the bank

And the dogs did him to death.

Then there was blowing of blasts for “Capture!”, loudly on many a bugle,

And hearty hallooing on the heights from every man as he could;

The hounds bayed away at that beast, as bidden by their masters,

The ones who had been the huntsmen-in-chief on that Herculean chase.

Then a man who was wise in all the crafts that are practiced by a woodsman

Sets to with a will and begins to unlace the carcass of this boar.

First he hews off the hefty head and sets it aside on high,

And then he rends him roughly asunder up the ridge of the spine,

Draws the bowels out in a braid and chars them on red-hot coals,

Blending in bits of bread with them as a bonus for his hounds.

After, he slices out the flesh in bright broad slabs of meat,

And lifts the edible entrails out, as it properly ought to be done,

And next he fastens the two halves together as one whole

And hangs them over a stout pole, finally, with pride.

Now with that same swine swaying from it, they swiftly hurry home.

The head of the boar was borne along in front by the master himself

Who had killed the creature in the ford, through main force of his hand,

Uncowed.

Till he saw Sir Gawain

He thought it a long road.

Called in the hall, he came

Promptly for what he was owed.

The lord burst out in boisterous speech, and laughing merrily

When he laid eyes on Sir Gawain, he spoke to him full of delight.

The good ladies were sent for and came, and the household company gathered.

He showed them the shields of wild boar meat and told them the whole tale,

Of the largeness and the length of the creature, and its ferocity,

And the war he waged with the wild swine, in the woods where he had fled.

The other knight most courteously commended his great deed

And praised it as high excellence, of which he had given proof,

For such a brawny beast, indeed, the valiant visitor said,

And such great flanks of swine flesh he had never seen before.

Then both of them held the huge head up, and the gracious knight gave it praise,

Acting as if he were horrified, to laud that lord the more.

“Now, Gawain,” that good man declared, “this game is all your own,

According to our binding compact, as you assuredly know.”

“That is the truth,” the knight replied, “and it is as surely true,

That all I have gained I shall give to you, again, as by my oath.”

He clasped that nobleman round the neck, kissed him once, courteously,

And then immediately he served him the same reward again.

“Now we are even,” the noble knight said, “once more at eventide,

In all the covenants we compacted, since the day that I came hither,

Tit for tat.”

The lord said, “By Saint Giles

You’re the best man I have met.

You’ll get rich in a little while

If you keep trading like that!”

Then servants lifted the table tops, and laid them on the trestles,

Tossed the tablecloths over them, and lit the brightest lights

Which kindled and wakened along the walls, as torches made of wax

Were placed by some of the serving men, while others waited on tables.

Much joyful noise and merriment sprang up within the hall

Around the open fire on the floor, and taking various forms

During the supper and afterwards, when many noble folk

Performed the old Christmas carols and the newest songs-and-dances,

With all the well-mannered sort of mirth that anyone could imagine.

And always our amiable knight was companioned by the lady.

Such a kind eye on that mannerly man she continually cast

With sly and stealthy sidelong glances designed to delight that stalwart,

That the knight was not only quite astounded, but angry with himself,

Although, because of his good breeding, he could not gauchely refuse her,

But dealt with her in a delicate fashion, however his actions might

Be miscast.

When they’d dallied in the hall

As long as the mood would last,

“To the chamber!” the lord called,

And to the chimney they passed.

And there they drank and chatted a while, and decided once again

To set themselves the same conditions, on what was New Year’s Eve.

But the knight craved leave of his noble host, to ride away in the morning,

For it was nearly the time appointed when he would to have to depart.

The lord tried to talk him out of it, and begged him to lengthen his stay;

He said, “As I am a true knight, I give you my true word,

You shall make your way to the Green Chapel, and attend to your affairs,

My dear fellow, at New Year’s dawn, long before nine o’clock.

Therefore you should just lie in your loft, left alone, and take your ease,

While I am hunting in the woods, and holding our covenant

To exchange with you whatever I win, once I have come back home.

For I have tested your temper twice, and I find you to be faithful;

Now, Third time is the best throw: you should think of that tomorrow.

Meanwhile, make merry while we may, and give our minds over to Joy,

For indeed a man can take hold of Sorrow, whenever he wishes to.”

This agreement was quickly accepted, and Gawain persuaded to stay.

The drink was cheerily brought to them, and they were led to their beds

By torchlight.

Sir Gawain lay and snored,

Unstirring, snug all night;

Eager to hunt, the lord

Was up, dressed, early and bright.

After taking mass, he and his men all had just a morsel to eat.

The morning was a merry one: the lord summons his mount,

All the nobles who ought to attend him when he goes riding out

Were dressed and ready on their hunters, outside the gates of the hall.

The earth was wondrously fresh and fair, for the frost lay clinging to it,

The sun rose, spreading a fiery red across a rack of clouds,

And then with the brightness of its light drove the clouds out of the sky.

The handlers had unleashed their hounds when they came to the edge of a woods,

The rocky hillside in the forest rang with the blare of their horns:

Some of the dogs fell onto the track to where the fox lay in wait,

And worked across it back and forth with their customary craft.

A harrier cries, catching its scent, the huntsman calls to him,

The rest of the pack follow his lead, hastening, panting hard.

They ran forth in a rabble rout, close on the fox’s trail,

And though he frisks and scampers ahead, they soon picked up his scent,

And when they caught sight of him with their eyes, they set out in hot pursuit,

Baying at him bewilderingly with a fearsome angry clamor.

Trickily he twists and turns through many troublesome thickets,

Doubles back and stops, listens, edging along the hedges,

And at the last by a little ditch leaps over a low fence

And steals out stealthily, running a rough path at the forest border.

And he had half-escaped from the woods by his wiliness with the hounds

When before he knew it, he stumbled onto a well-kept hunting station

Where three great greyhounds lunged at him, straining at their leashes,

All fierce.

He blenched, and quickly whirled,

Turned boldly and reversed,

With all the woe in the world,

To the woods he took his course.

Then it was worthwhile living on earth, to hearken to the hounds!

When all the pack had met the fox, and were mingling together,

Such curses at the sight of him they called down on his head

As if the cliffs that clambered above had come clattering down in heaps!

Here he was hallooed after when the hunters on horseback spied him,

Loudly he was greeted by them, snarled at and castigated,

He was sharply threatened in their shouts, and often cried after, “Thief!”

And hounds in relays chased at his tail, so he might never tarry.

Often when he broke for the open, they charged at him again

And turned him suddenly back, however wily Reynard was.

He led them on a merry chase, the lord and all his men,

Strung out in a line along the hills, until mid-afternoon,

While the handsome noble knight at home lay sleeping healthfully,

Comfortable inside his bed-curtains, on the chilly morning.

But the lady due to her love-longing would not let herself sleep late,

For fear that the purpose would be blunted that she had fixed in her heart.

She rose up rapidly from her bed and made her way to his,

Clad in a merry mantled robe that hung down to the ground

And was very finely lined with fur, on skins that had been trimmed,

No wimpled coif upon her head but a fretwork of well-wrought gems

That were set in clusters of twenty in a net that contained her tresses.

Her lovely face and open throat were laid naked to the eye,

As was her breast, all bare in front, and her back lay bare as well.

She slips in through his chamber door, and closes it after her,

She swings a window open wide and calls out to the man,

And right away she rallies him in pleasant. teasing words

Of cheer:

“Ah, man! How can you sleep

When the morning is so clear?”

Although he was drowsing deep,

He slowly woke to hear.

That noble knight lay muttering, beset by disturbing dreams,

Like a man who was deeply sorrowing from many oppressive thoughts—

How Destiny on the very next day would deal his fate to him

When he must go to the Green Chapel to meet that gigantic man

And stand there waiting for his axe-stroke without any more debate.

But when that comely creature came, he recovered the use of his wits,

And wakening, startled out of his dreams, he answers her with haste.

The lady in all her loveliness comes to him laughing sweetly,

Bends down low over his fair face and daintily kisses him.

He bids her welcome worthily, in a well-bred cheerful manner,

But he sees her looking so radiant, and so gloriously attired,

So flawless in her features, and the perfect flush of her face,

That joy upwelling ardently warmed him to the heart.

With gentle, genteel smiles they spoke, softly but merrily,

So that all was bliss and de bonheur that broke between them both,

And delight.

While they chattered happily,

Their words were gay and bright,

But their souls stand perilously

Unless Mary minds her knight.

For that peerless princess kept after him so, pressing him thick and fast,

Entreating him on to the end of the thread, to the point where he must decide

Either to help himself to her love, or else reject it rudely.

He felt concern for his courtliness, lest he act like a churlish boor,

But more for his own soul’s misery, if he should commit a sin,

And play the traitor to his host, the lord who held that house.

“God shield me,” said the man to himself, “that this may not befall!”

And so with a little affectionate laughter he parried and pushed aside

All the sweet speeches of special fondness springing from her lips.

For then the lady said to the lord, “Sir, you must bear much blame

If you will not give your love to the person whom you are lying beside,

Who is, before all others on earth, the most wounded in her heart—

Or perhaps you have a love of your own, a mistress whom you prefer,

A lady to whom you have pledged your word, and are fastened so firmly to,

That you never may undo that knot—and that’s what I now believe!

And if that is true, then tell me so, I pray you truly now,

For all the loves alive in the world, don’t hide the truth from me,

Through guile.”

The knight said, “By Saint John,”

Pleasantly, with a smile,

“In faith I do have none,

Nor shall have for a while.”

“That word is a word,” said the woman then, “that is the worst of all,

But I am answered, that is for certain, though sorely grieved, I think.

Come kiss me now in a comely fashion, and I shall hasten hence.

I can only mourn upon the earth, as a woman who loves too much.”

Sighing she stooped down over him, and kissed him in seemly style.

And then she separates from him, and says as she stands up,

“Now, dear one, since we needs must part, do me at least this favor,

Give me some token by way of gift—your glove or some little thing,

That I may remember you as my man, to lessen the pangs of mourning.”

“Now I surely wish,” Sir Gawain said, “that I had with me here

The dearest thing that I own in the world, to offer you for your love,

For you have exceedingly often earned, to tell the truth, by rights,

Much more in the way of a reward than I can ever give.

But to deal you out in return for your love some piece of paltry value—

It would not be worthy of your honor to offer you so little,

To give you a glove as a meager keepsake, a goodbye gift from Gawain.

But I am here to fulfill a mission in a strange and alien land,

And I bring no men with bulging bags of fine and noble things.

That makes me most unhappy, lady, because of my love for you,

But every man must do as he can. I ask you, take it not ill,

Nor pine.”

“No, lord of such high honors,”

Said the lovely lady sighing,

“Though I have nothing of yours,

You shall have something of mine.”

73 – The Gift of the Queen

She offered him a costly ring that was cast out of red gold,

With a stone like a staring eye of fire standing aloft in it

Which gleamed at him with glancing beams as bright as those of the sun—

You can be sure that it was worth a huge amount of wealth.

But the knight could only say No to it, and directly he declared,

“God is my witness I wish no gifts, fair lady, at this time;

Since I’ve none to give you in return, I will take none away.”

She proffered it to him more urgently, but he still refused the offer,

By swearing swiftly, on his honor, that he would not accept it.

And she was sorry that he rejected the gift, and said to him,

“If you are saying No to my ring because it appears too costly,

And you would rather not hold yourself so highly obliged to me,

Then I shall give you my girdle-sash, since it is worth so much less.”

She quickly, lightly undid a belt that was fastened around her waist,

Tied with a knot about her tunic, under the bright mantle.

It was woven out of a green silk, the edges trimmed with gold;

Every bit of it was embroidered, and ornamented by hand;

And this she offered to the man while playfully she implored,

That even though it was so unworthy, would he be willing to take it?

At first he denied that on any account he would be willing to touch

Either gold or any sort of treasure, before God gave him grace

To achieve the end of that adventure that he had chosen there.

“And therefore, I pray you not to be displeased at what I’ve said,

But let your business have a rest, for I vow to you I never

Can consent.

I am deeply in your debt,

Your kindness is well-meant,

And ever, through cold and heat,

I will be your true servant.”

74 – Explanation of the silk; Gawain Accepts

“Now maybe you’re turning down this silk,” the lady suggested to him,

“Because it’s so simple in itself? And so indeed it seems—

Look! it’s so little, and even less is the value of what it’s worth.

But a person who knew the properties that are knitted into it

Would appraise it at a much higher price, I have to think—perhaps.

For whatever man is girded about with this sash of lacy green,

As long as he keeps it fastened tight, and tied around his waist,

There is no warrior under heaven can hew him down to earth,

For he cannot be wounded or slain by any device in the world.”

This set the knight to pondering, and the thought came into his heart,

It would be a jewel against the jeopardy soon adjudged to him

When he had reached the Green Chapel, to be checkmated there.

Might he slip through and stay unslain, such sleight-of-hand would be noble.

So he patiently put up with her pleading, permitting her to speak on,

And she pressed the belt upon him again, and offered it earnestly,

And he acceded, accepted it, and she gave him it with good will,

Beseeching him, for her own sake, to never let it be seen,

But to promise to hide it from her lord. The knight agrees to that,

That no other person should know of it, indeed, but the two of them,

No matter what.

He thanked her, truly glad

In both his heart and thought.

By then the lady had

Thrice kissed the valiant knight.

After that act she takes her leave, and leaves him lying there,

For more amusement from that man she was not going to receive.

When she was gone, Sir Gawain rises, and soon he dresses himself,

Arrays him richly for the day in a splendid set of clothes,

Putting the love-lace safely away that the lady had given him,

Hiding it, true to her command, where he could find it again.

Then rapidly to the castle chapel he chooses to make his way,

Where privately he approached a priest, and prayed him then and there

To listen to his life and lift it, teaching him how to live better,

In order that his soul should be saved, when he should go hence, to heaven.

There he confessed himself all clean by declaring his misdeeds,

Both the major and the minor ones, and begging the Lord for mercy,

He called upon the priest to provide him absolution for all,

And he absolved him absolutely, sending him out as pure

As if Doomsday had been due to befall upon the following morning.

And then Sir Gawain makes himself as jolly among the ladies,

Joining in happy dancing songs, and every kind of joy,

As he never had done before that day, to the dark of night—

Sheer bliss.

Each man admires him there,

And speaking of him, says,

“He was never so merry before,

Since he came hither, as this.”

Now let us leave him in that harbor, let their love lap him about.

The lord of the castle is still in the field, pursuing his pleasure there,

And now he has headed off the fox that he had followed so long:

As his horse was leaping over a hedge, he tried to spot the villain

Where he’d heard the hounds in hot pursuit chasing after him at full speed,

Reynard at last came into sight, trotting through a tangled thicket,

And all the rabble in a rush racing after him right at his heels.

The lord kept his eye on the wild thing, and warily waited for him,

And drawing out his shining sword, he aimed it at the beast,

Who swerved away from the sharp blade, and would have scampered off,

But a scenting-hound seized hold of him, just before he gave them the slip,

And right in front of the horse’s feet the pack all fell on him,

Catching the wily one by the throat while raising an angry ruckus.

The lord jumps quickly down from his horse and snatches hold of the fox,

Swiftly rips him away at once out of the mouths of the hounds,

Holds him high up over his head, hallooing lustily

While all around the grim fierce dogs keep baying up at him.

The other hunters came hurrying in, many of them with horns,

Blowing their “Rally!” call right on until they caught sight of their lord.

When his noble company had assembled, all of them in one crowd,

The ones who had borne their bugles along were blowing them all at once,

And all the others, who had no horns, were hallooing as loud as they could,

They made the merriest clamor and baying that any hunt ever heard,

The resounding uproar that they raised for the soul of poor Reynard—

The din!

The hounds had their reward

As they stroked and petted them,

And then they took Reynard

And stripped him of his skin.

And with that they headed for home at once, for night had nearly fallen,

Trumpeting their triumph proudly on their strident horns.

The lord at last leaps lightly down at his beloved house,

Where he finds a fire on the open floor, and the fellow standing beside it,

Gawain, the good and noble knight, who was altogether glad–-

Among the ladies and their love he was taking great delight.

He was wearing a mantle of rich blue stuff that reached right down to the ground;

His outer robe fitted him perfectly and was lined with a soft fur,

While his hood was cut from the same cloth and was hanging from his shoulders,

And both were trimmed around the edge with ermine or the like.

Forward he goes to the good lord, and they meet in the midst of the floor,

And full of the joy of their game he greets him; courteously he says,

“Now this time I shall be the first to carry out our compact,

That we with good results have sealed, sparing nothing in our drink.”

Then he embraces the noble lord, and kisses him three times

With all the relish and vigorousness that he can muster up.

“By Christ!” then said the other knight, “You have been a lucky man

In bargaining for this merchandise, if you’ve bought it at a good price!”

“Never you mind about the price,” the other replied at once,

“As long as the goods I deliver to you have been true and fairly paid.”

“By Mary,” said the other knight, “my goods lag far behind,

For I have been hunting all day long, and nothing to show for it

But this foul-smelling fox’s pelt—the Devil take these goods!—

And that’s a poor return to pay for three such precious gifts

As you have pressed upon me here, with three such hearty kisses,

So good.”

“Enough,” said Sir Gawain,

“I thank you, by the Rood.”

And how the fox was slain,

He told him, as they stood.

With much mirth and much minstrelsy and with all the food they desired,

They made themselves as merry then as any men might do,

Joined by the laughter of the ladies, and many jesting words.

Sir Gawain and the noble lord could not have been more glad

Unless the crowd had all gone crazy, or at the least been drunk.

But the men and the members of their retinue kept on making jokes,

Until they were looking at the hour when they would have to part,

When at last the two must separate and go their ways to bed.

Then bowing deferentially the noble knight takes leave,

First of the lord, to whom he pours out courteously his thanks:

“May the Highest King reward you for the fine sojourn I’ve had,

And the honor you have done me through these high festivities.

I’ll offer you my services for those of one of your men,

If you approve, for I must needs, as you know, move on tomorrow,

If you will let me take some man to instruct me, as you pledged,

The way to the Green Chapel, where, as God wills, I’ll receive

On New Year’s Day the judgment He will bring down as my fate.”

“In good faith,” his good host replied, “with all good will I shall.

All that I ever promised you I am ready to fulfill.”

He assigns a servant there and then to set him on the road

And conduct him over the hills and past so that he, without delay,

Might ride there, taking the shortest route they could follow through the woods

And groves.

Sir Gawain thanked the lord[1]

For the honor he’d received;

Then of the noble ladies

The knight must take his leave.

With sadness and with kissing, he converses with them there,

And presses on them to accept his hearty, abundant thanks,

And promptly they replied to him in exactly the same style,

And then commended him to Christ, while sighing piteously.

And after that most courteously he takes leave of the household staff;

Each of the servants that he greeted, he gave him special thanks

For his dutifulness, and his kindnesses, and the troubles he had taken—

For each of them had been so busy about him, serving him;

And everyone was as sorry now to sever from him there

As if they had dwelt with that gentleman in honor all their lives.

Then with attendants carrying lights, he was led along to his room

And they merrily brought him to his bed, where he could take his rest.

Whether he slept there soundly or not, I would not venture to say,

For he had many things in mind, if he wanted to, to keep

In thought.

So let him lie there still,

Near him he has what he sought

And if you’ll for a while be still,

I shall tell how it turns out.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1] Some translators reverse subject and object: “The lord thanked Gawain.” The line makes sense either way and is ambiguous in Middle English: The lord Gawayn con thonk.

PART IV

80 – Gawain Prepares to Leave

Now as the New Year’s Day drew nigh, and the night before it passed,

Daylight was driving the dark away, as the Lord above commands.

But a wild weather was working up in the world beyond their doors:

The clouds cast down a bitter cold keenly onto the earth,

With enough cruel wind from the north to torment the naked flesh.

The snow fell snittering bitterly, stinging the wild creatures;

The shrilly whistling wind whipped down upon them from the heights,

And filled the hollows of every dale full up with heavy drifts.

The knight was listening closely to this as he lay awake in his bed,

And though he locked his eyelids shut, very little sleep did he get:

From each cock-crow throughout the night he could tell what time it was.

Hurriedly he rose out of bed before the day had broken,

For there was light enough from a lamp that was shining in his room.

He called out to his chamberlain, who promptly answered him,

And bade him bring his chain-mail shirt, and saddle up his horse.

The man obediently got up, and fetched the garments for him,

And began to get Sir Gawain dressed, in most resplendent style.

First he put on him his warmest clothes, which would ward off the cold,

And next he brought the armor out that had been carefully stored:

Both the belly piece and all the plate had been polished as bright as bright,

The rust on the rings of his costly chain-mail shirt had been rubbed off;

And all was as fresh as when first forged, and he was keen to thank

Them all.

He now had donned each piece—

All had been polished well—

Unmatched from here to Greece

He bade, “Bring my steed from his stall.”

81 – He doesn’t forget the Lady’s Gift

While the noble knight was being dressed in his most sumptuous clothes—

The surcoat that draped over his armor adorned with the pentangle badge

Worked into velvet, framed around with precious, potent stones

Which were inlaid, setting it off well, along the embroidered seams;

On the inner side the coat richly trimmed with beautiful fur—

Yet he did not leave the lace behind that had been the lady’s gift;

That present Gawain did not forget, for the good of his own self.

So, after he had belted the sword around his powerful haunches,

He carefully wrapped the love-token two times around his waist;

Quickly that knight, and delightedly, wound it about his middle.

The girdle woven of green silk well suited that splendid knight

Set off against the royal red of the cloth, which itself looked rich.

But he was not wearing this same girdle because of its costliness,

Nor out of pride in its shiny pendants, however polished they were,

Nor even for the glittering gold that glinted upon the fringe,

But in order that he might save his life when he was obliged to submit,

To face without dispute what he would take from the sword’s or knife’s

Quick stroke.

Once the brave man was set,

He hurried out and spoke

His thanks to all he met,

To all the noble folk.

Then they got Gringolet ready to ride, which was a huge great horse

That had been stabled to his liking, in snug and secure style:

That horse was in the mood to gallop, thanks to his fit condition.

The knight walked out to where he stood, and gazed on his glistening coat,

And soberly he said to himself, swearing it on his oath,

“Here inside this moat is a company setting their minds on honor:

May joy come to the lord who maintains and manages them all;

And as for the delightful lady, may she have love in her life!

If out of charity they can receive and cherish a guest so kindly,

And offer such hospitality, may the Lord provide reward

Who rules us from the heavens on high–-and also the whole household!

And if I should go on living on earth, for even a little while,

I would quickly pay you some recompense, if I were able to.”

And then the knight stepped into the stirrup, swung his leg astride the horse;

His servant brought him out his shield, which he settled on his shoulder,

And he dug his spurs into Gringolet, kicking his gilded heels,

The horse started forward over the stones, no longer standing still,

But pranced.

(The man was mounted by then

Who bore his sword and lance.)

“This castle I commend

To Christ against mischance!”

83 – The Weather Portends

The drawbridge was lowered for him to pass, and the broad gates in the wall

Were unbarred, laid open on either side, completely on both halves.

The knight crossed himself rapidly and passed along the planks,

Thanking the porter who kept the gates, and who kneeled before the prince,

He prayed that God would save Gawain, and gave the knight “Good day.”

And he went on his way, companioned by only a single guide

To teach him the turns that would lead at last towards that perilous place

Where he was fated to receive the grievous, fearful stroke.

Their path went twisting between the hills, where the wintry boughs were bare;

They climbed and clambered along the cliffs where the cold was clinging close.

The clouds in heaven were holding high, but were ugly underneath;

The mist was mizzling on the moor and melting on the mountains.

Each of the hilltops had a hat, a huge mantle of mist.

The brooks were bubbling and foaming over, breaking above their banks,

White water shattered against their sides, as it made its way downhill.

The route was very meandering that they followed through the woods,

Until it would soon, in that winter season, be time for the sun to break

From night.

They were on a high hillop;

On all sides snow lay white;

The man with him called, “Stop!”

Abruptly, to the knight.

84 – A Warning

“For I have brought you hither, sir, at the appointed time,

And now you are not far away from that noteworthy place

That you have sought for and asked about so very particularly.

But I shall tell you the truth now, sir, since now I know you well

And you are one man upon this Earth whom I regard most highly

If you’d only act on my advice, you would be much better off.

The place you are pressing forward to is known to be perilous;

A man lives in that wasted land who is the worst in the world,

For he is strong and stern and grim and loves above all to smite.

In his massiveness he is more of a man than any on Middle Earth,

His body is bigger than four of the best and biggest knights to be found

In Arthur’s house—he is bigger even than Hector or any other—

And he is in charge of everything that happens at the Green Chapel.

Nobody passes by that place, however valiant in arms,

But he will batter him to death by dint of the strength of his hand,

For he is a man without restraint, who is utterly merciless:

Whether it be a churl or a chaplain comes riding by his chapel,

Whether a monk, or a priest who says mass, or any manner of man,

He thinks it as fine to finish him off as to stay alive himself.

Therefore I have to say to you, as sure as you sit in your saddle,

If you go there, you will be killed, if the Green Knight has his way—

Trust me, I am telling the truth—even though you had twenty lives

To spend.

He has lived a long time in this land,

And stirred up strife no end;

Against his deadly hand

It’s hopeless to defend.

“Therefore, good Sir Gawain, pray, leave the man alone

And ride away by another road, for God’s sake and your own.

Take yourself off to some other land, where Christ may give you speed!

And I shall hie me home again, and further, I promise you this—

That I shall swear on oath ‘By God and all his hallowed saints,’

’So help me God and the holy relics,’ and other oaths besides—

That I shall loyally keep your secret, and never utter a word

That you ever tried to run away from any man that I know of.”

“Thank you so much,” Gawain replied, though he spoke with irritation,

“Good luck, I suppose, I should wish you, man, since you care so for my welfare

And say you will loyally keep my secret, as I believe you would.

But, though you kept it ever so close, if I hurried past this place,

Fleeing away from him out of fear, in the style that you suggested,

I would be called a craven knight and I could not be excused.

But I will go on to the Green Chapel, whatever chances to happen,

And talk things over with that knight, and tell him whatever I like;

Whether it brings me good or ill, it will only be what Fate

Has planned.

He may be grim and bold

To conquer or command,

But God shapes things to hold

His servants in His hand.”

“By Mary!” said the other man, “Now you have spelled it out

That you are bringing your own destruction down upon your head.

If it pleases you to lose your life, I will say nothing against it.

Here, put your helmet on your head, and take your spear in hand,

And ride down this rough water-course, by the side of yonder rock,

Till it brings you to the very foot of the wild and rugged valley.

Then look a little off to the left, to the glade not far away,

And you shall see, set in the dale, the very chapel you’re after,

And on its grounds the burly brute who keeps it in his care.

Now fare well, for the sake of God, Gawain the noble knight!

For all the gold there is in the earth I would not go with you,

Nor keep you company through this forest even one foot further.”

With that, in the middle of the wood, the fellow pulled his bridle,

Hit his horse’s flanks with his heels as hard as he could spur,

Galloped him off across the glade, and left the knight there, all

Alone.

“By God’s self,” Gawain said,

“I will neither weep nor groan.

God’s will must be obeyed,

His wishes are my own.”

Then he struck spurs into Gringolet, and followed the watercourse:

He pushed his way in past the rock, at the edge of a small thicket,

And rode along the ragged bank to the bottom of the dale.

Then he looked about on every side, and it seemed a wilderness.

Nowhere could he see a sign of a place where he might shelter,

Only high banks rising steeply, on either side of the dale,

And rough, knobby rocky knolls, with sharp, craggy outcrops.

It seemed to him that the lowering clouds were grazed by the jutting rocks.

Then he drew his horse to a halt and checked him for a while

As he sat him, turning this way and that, to seek where the chapel was.

He saw no such thing on any side, and that seemed strange to him,

Except that a little off in the glade was what you might call a mound,

Or a bulging barrow along a bankside swelling above the brim

Of the channel of a watercourse that was flowing freely through.

The burn was bubbling within it, as if it had come to a boil.

The knight then urged his horse along and brought it up to the knoll,

Alighted from it gracefully, and at a linden tree

Attached the reins of his noble steed to one of its rough branches.

Then he walked over to the mound and he strode all around it,

Turning over in his mind what this strange thing might be.

It had a hole in it on the end, and as well as on either side,

And it was overgrown with grass in patches everywhere,

And all was hollow on the inside–nought but an old cave

Or a crevice in an old crag? But which, he could in no way

Tell.

“Oh, Lord!” sighed the noble knight,

“Can this be the Green Chapelle?

Here the Devil, about midnight,

Might say morning prayers to Hell!

“Now,” Gawain said, “without a doubt, this is a wasteland here.

This oratory is horrifying, overgrown with greenery—

A very fitting place for that man who wraps himself in green

To do his duty and devotions, in the Devil’s fashion.

Now I feel in my five wits that in fact it is the Fiend

Who has imposed this tryst on me, to destroy me here.

This is a chapel of mischance—may it be checkmated!—

It is the cursedest kind of kirk that ever I came into!”

With his helmet high up on his head and his lance held in his hand

He wound his way to the top of the roof above the awkward structure.

Then, standing on that high hillock, he heard, behind a hard rock,

Beyond the brook, down on the bank, a wondrously loud noise.

What! It clattered against the cliff as if it would cleave it in two:

It sounded like somebody at a grindstone sharpening a scythe.

What! It whirred and whetted, like water through a mill!

What! It made a rushing, and a ringing, harsh to hear.

Then, “By God!” Sir Gawain said, “that equipment, I would guess,

Is being readied for me to be welcomed welcome as a knight

Should be.

God’s will be done. ‘Alas!’es

Will be no help to me.

It may be my life passes,

A noise won’t make me flee.”

89 – Gawain meets the Green Knight

With that the knight cried boldly out, as loudly as he could,

“Who is the master in this place, who holds this tryst with me?

For right now, good Gawain is walking, all around, right here.

If any man wants anything, let him come out here quickly,

It’s now or never, if he intends to get his business done.”

“Hang on!” shouted someone on the bank, somewhere over his head,

“And you will have it all in haste that I once promised you.”

Still he went on with that rushing noise, more rapidly for a while,

As he turned back to finish his whetting before he would come down.

And then he picked his way past a crag and emerged out of a hole,

Whirling out of a nearby nook, armed with a dreadful weapon:

A Danish axe that was freshly forged to pay the blow in return,

With a mighty blade that went curving back until it touched the helve;

It had been honed on a whetstone, a full four feet in length—

No less than that if you measured it by the brightly shining belt!

And the man came out arrayed in green, as he had been at first ,

His face and cheeks, his flowing locks of hair, and his green beard,

Except that now he walked on foot, swiftly over the ground,

Setting the haft on the stony earth and stalking along beside it.

When he came to the stream, at the water’s edge he wouldn’t wait to wade,

But hopped across it on his axe, and hurriedly strode forward,

Fiercely grim, on a broad patch of grassy ground that was cloaked

In snow.

The knight met Gawain there,

Who bowed, but not too low.

The other said, “Sweet sir,

So—one can trust your vow.

“Gawain,” the Green Knight then went on, “May God look after you!

I bid you welcome, sir, indeed, you are well come to my place,

And you have timed your travel to it just as a true man should;

And you understand the agreement that was closed took what had fallen to you

And I, at this New Year, should promptly pay you back for it.

And here we are in this valley, which is verily all our own,

Here are no knights to part us, we may dance around as we please.

Take your helmet off your head, and have your payment now.

Do not resist me any more than I resisted you

When you whipped my head off with a single whack of your battleaxe.”

“No,” said Sir Gawain, “by the God who granted me a soul,

I will begrudge you not a groat for any hurt that befalls me;

But hold yourself to a single stroke, and I will stand stock still

And offer no resistance at all, for you to work as you like—

Anywhere.”

He bent his neck and bowed,

And showed the white skin bare;

Acting as if uncowed,

Dread would not make him scare.

91 – Gawain Flinches

Then all in a rush the man in green got himself ready to strike:

He grappled and raised the grim tool with which he would smite Gawain;

With all the force in his massive frame he bore it up aloft

And swung it down as mightily as if to demolish him.

If he had driven through on that stroke as relentlessly as he started,

He would have been dead from the dreadful blow, that man who was always brave.

But Gawain caught a glimpse of the axe from the corner of his eye

As it came gliding down on him to destroy him in a flash,

And he flinched a little with his shoulders, shrank from the sharp iron.

The other man suddenly checked his swing, held back the shining blade,

And then how he reproved the prince with many haughty words:

“You are not Gawain,” the Green Man scoffed, “who is held to be so good,

Who never quailed on hill or dale before an enemy horde,

And now you cringe away for fear before you are even harmed!

I never knew of such cowardice on the part of that knight before.

I neither winced nor shied away, friend, when you swung at me,

Nor invented some caviling argument in your King Arthur’s house.

My head flew off and fell to my feet, and yet I never flinched;

But you, before you take any hurt, are scared to death in your heart.

So I deserve, without a doubt, to be called the better knight,

Therefore.”

Said Gawain, “I flinched once,

And so I will no more.

But if my head falls on the stones,

It cannot be restored.

“But hurry up, man, on your honor, and bring me to the point,

Deal me the destiny that is mine, and do it out of hand,

I shall stand and take your stroke and startle no more at it,

Until your axe has hewn into me: you have my plighted oath.”

“Have at you then!” the other shouted, heaving it up aloft,

And grimacing as angrily as if he were out of his mind.

He swung at him ferociously, but he did not touch the man,

For suddenly he checked his swing before it might do him harm.

Gawain awaited the blow as he ought, and not a limb of him flinched

But he stayed as still as any stone, or rather, like a stump

That is wrapped around by a hundred roots, locked into the rocky ground.

Then once again the man in green harangued him merrily:

“So, now you have your heart whole again, it behooves me I should hit.

May that high knighthood preserve you now that Arthur dubbed you with,

And save your neck from this next stroke, if it can manage that.”

Gawain grew more and more furious, and fiercely he lashed out,

“Why, thrash away, you fearsome fellow, you waste time flinging threats!

I suspect that in your heart of hearts you are terrified of yourself.”

“Indeed,” replied the other knight, “you speak so alarmingly,

I will no longer delay about it and hinder you on your mission—

Right now.”

He took his stance to strike,

Puckered both lip and brow.

Sir Gawain didn’t like

His chance of getting out.

93 – The Green Knight Swings the Axe

The knight lifts his weapon lightly up, and lets it so deftly down,

With the sharp blade of the cutting edge onto the bare neck,

That though he hammered with his full force, it harmed him only so much

As to nick his neck on the one side, severing the skin,

The sharp edge sank into the flesh and through the shining fat

So the bright blood shot over his shoulders and spurted onto the earth.

And when Gawain glimpsed his own blood gleaming there on the snow,

He sprang forth more than a spear’s length and took up a fighting stance:

He grabbed for his helmet quickly and clapped it onto his head;

With a shake of his shoulders then he jerked his shield down into place,

And drew from his belt his strong bright sword and challenged fierily.

Never since he had been a baby in his mother’s arms

Had he felt ever in this world half so happy as a man.

“You can put a stop to your bold strokes, sir, and offer me no more.

I have received one blow from you in this place, without resistance,

But if you extend me anymore, I shall requite you promptly,

You may be sure that my repayment will be immediate—

And rough.

Only one stroke must fall—

The compact shaped it thus,

Sealed fast in Arthur’s hall—

And therefore, man, enough!”

94 – The Green Knight Explains

The noble lord turned away from him and rested on his axe—

He set the shaft on the river bank and leaned on the sharp blade

And took a good long look at the knight who had planted his feet in the glade,

How that doughty hero stood up to him, so fearless and undaunted,

Fully armed and free of dread, that it warmed his heart to watch.

Then he addressed him merrily in his resounding voice

And with a ringing utterance he spoke like this to the man:

“Bold knight, don’t be so fierce and grim, here on this grassy ground.

Nobody has used you ill, or in an unmannerly fashion,

Nor acted except by the covenant that we shaped at the King’s court.

I pledged you a stroke, and you have it; you may hold yourself well paid,

I release you from the rest of it, from any further claims.

If I had been more nimble, perhaps, I might have dealt you a buffet

More out of anger, one that might indeed have provoked your wrath.

The first stroke, though, I threatened you for fun, with only a feint,

Not slicing you open with a slash: in this I gave you justice

According to the agreement we crafted your first night in my castle,

Since you had faithfully fulfilled that compact and kept your word:

All of your winnings you gave to me, as an honest man should do.

The other feint I gave you, sir, because on the following morning

You kissed my wife and gave me back the kisses that you’d taken.

For those two days you took from me those two mere feigning blows,

Unscarred.

If a true man keeps his word,

Then he may go unharmed.

The third day, you fell short:

That’s how your tap was earned.

95 – Sir Gawain bemoans his Flaws

“For that is my garment you are wearing, that self-same woven girdle.

It was my own dear wife who wove it, indeed I know it well.

And I know all about your kisses, and all your qualities too,

And as for your wooing by my wife, it was I who brought it about.

I sent her to assay your worth, and to tell the truth, I think

You are one of the men with the fewest faults who ever went on foot:

As a pearl beside a white pea is so much more to be prized,

So is Sir Gawain, in good faith, beside all other knights.

Only here you were lacking a little, sir, and failed in fidelity,

Though that was not out of wiliness, nor was it for making love,

But only because you loved your life, so I blame you all the less.”

The other valiant man stood still in silent thought a while,

So overcome with mortification he shuddered inside himself,

And all the blood there was in his breast met and mingled in his face;

He winced and shied away for shame at what the knight had said.

There at that moment the first words bursting out from Gawain were these:

“A curse both upon cowardice and also covetousness!

In you are villainy and vice, that together destroy virtue.”

The good knight then caught hold of the knot, unloosened the fastening,

And roughly flinging the whole belt to the lord who owned it, said,

“Look at it! There the false thing is, may the Fiend take it away!

Because I was anxious about your knock, my cowardice could instruct me

To accord myself with covetousness and forsake my character,

The largesse and fidelity which truly belong to knighthood.

Now I am found to be full of faults, and false, and have always behaved

With treachery and untruthfulness—and both will beget sorrow

And care!

I confess before you, knight,

My faults in private here.

May your will, if I might

Grasp it, make me beware.”

96 – The Green Knight Forgives Him

At that the other lord stood laughing, and answered amiably,

“I hold it to be wholly healed, the injury that I had.

You have confessed yourself so cleanly, absolved you of your faults,

And have had your penance put to you at the sharp edge of my blade,

I hold you cleansed of that offence, and purified as clean

As if you had never sinned at all since the day that you were born.

And I will give you this girdle, sir, with the gold along its hems;

For it is green as my gown, Sir Gawain, and wearing it you may

Think back upon this self-same game, when you are pressing forth

Among other princes of excellence; this will be a noble token

Of the chance you took at the Green Chapel, when you’re among chivalrous knights.

And now you shall, in this New Year, come back again to my house,

And we shall revel away the rest of this high festival

Pleasantly.”

He pressed him hard, that lord:

“I think that with my lady

We shall bring you to accord—

Your once keen enemy.”

97 – Sir Gawain Declines the Invitation

“Indeed I cannot,” said the knight, and seizing hold of his helmet,

He doffs it out of courtesy, and offers the lord his thanks,

“I have lingered here quite long enough. Good luck to you and yours,

And may He who determines all rewards repay you generously!

Commend me to that courteous lady, your gracious, beautiful wife,

Both to her and to that other one, my honored noble ladies,

Who so adroitly have beguiled their knight with their devices.

But it is not an unusual thing for a fool to act foolishly,

Or for a man, through the wiles of women, to be brought to grief

For in the same way Adam once was beguiled by one on earth,

And Solomon by many a woman, and Samson was another—

Delilah dealt him his destiny—and David afterwards

Was blinded by Bathsheba and endured much misery.

Now, since these were ruined by women’s wiles, it would be an enormous gain

Could we love them well, and believe them not—if any man could do that!

For these were the favored men of old whom fortune followed after,

Excelling every man beneath the kingdom of heaven, yet they

Were confused;

And all of them were fooled

By women they had used;

Though I am now beguiled,

Might I not be excused?

98 99

“But as for your girdle,” Gawain said, “May God reward you for it!

I will wear that with all good will, though not for gain of gold,

Nor for the cincture, nor the silk, nor for the side pendants,

Nor its costliness nor its prestige, nor the wonderful workmanship,

But as a token of my transgression, so I shall see it often

When I am riding out to renown, and remember with remorse

The faultiness and the frailty that belong to the obstinate flesh,

How it tends to be easily enticed to the spots and stains of sin.

And thus, whenever my prowess in arms shall prick me on to pride,

One look at this love-lace will remind me, and humble me in my heart.

But one thing I would like to know, so long as it won’t offend you,

Since you are the lord of yonder land which I have been staying in,

So honorably looked after by you—may He repay you for it

Who holds the heavens above the earth and sits enthroned on high—

How are you called by your rightful name?—and then I will ask no more!”

“I will tell you that without deceit,” the other man replied,

“Bertilak of Hautdesert is what I am called in this land.

Through the mighty force of Morgan la Faye, who is dwelling in my castle,

And her skill in the magical lore and crafts that she once learned so well

Through the masterful arts of Merlin himself, many of which she acquired,

For she had pleasant love-dealings over a long while

With that wise and excellent wizard—as is known to all your knights

At home.

Morgan la Faye the goddess

Therefore is her name.

Whatever his haughtiness

There’s no man she can’t tame.

100

“She sent me out in this disguise to assault your handsome hall

To put your vaunted pride to the test, to see if it held true,

The great renown of the Round Table, that runs all over the world.

She sent me out as this marvel to you, to drive you out of your wits,

And to so distress Queen Guinevere that she would be startled to death

From horror at seeing that self-same knight, that ghastly phantom speaker

Talk from the head he held in his hand, facing the high table.

She is the one who lives at my home, that ancient, agèd lady.

Even more than that, she is your aunt, half-sister to King Arthur,

She is the Duchess of Tintagel’s daughter, whom noble Uther later

Fathered Arthur himself upon, who is now your splendid sovereign.

Therefore, my lord, I now beseech you, come and visit your aunt,

Make merry once again in my house, where you are so well loved,

And I, my excellent fellow, wish you well, by my faith, as well

As any person under God, for your great integrity.”

Gawain said nothing to him but, No, he could not, by any means.

The two knights then embraced and kissed, commended one another

To the high Prince of Paradise, and they separated right there

In the cold.

Gawain on his fair steed

Made haste to the King’s stronghold,

And the knight in brightest green

Whithersoever he would.

101

Gawain now goes riding over many wild ways in the world

On Gringolet, since through God’s grace he had gotten away with his life.

Often he harbored inside a house, and often out of doors,

And met with many adventures in valleys and won many victories

Which I, at this time, do not intend to tell you all about.

The hurt had healed and was whole again that he’d taken in his neck,

And he wore the gleaming belt about his body all the time,

But slantwise as a baldric that is fastened at the side;

The lace was locked under his left arm, and tied there with a knot

To mark the spot of sin—the fault—he had been taken in.

And thus he came to the King’s court, that knight, all safe and sound.

Delight was wakened in that dwelling when the noble folk were told

That good Gawain was come again: they thought it a stroke of luck.

The King came out and kissed the knight, and the Queen kissed him too,

And after them many a trusty knight who came to hail him there

Asked him all about his travels; he told them marvelous things.

Describing all the tribulations he’d met with since he left—

How it chanced for him at the Green Chapel, the deportment of its Knight,

The loving behavior of the lady, and at the last, the lace.

He bared the scar of the nick on his neck in order to show them all

What he had taken at that lord’s hands for his unfaithfulness,

His blame.

It tormented him to tell;

He groaned for grief, and pain—

The blood in his face upwelled

When he showed the cut, for shame.

102

“Look at this, lords!” the knight declared, holding the lace in his hands,

“This is the band of the blame I bear that also shows on my neck,

This is the sign of the injury and damage I have deserved—

Through the cowardice and covetousness that both caught hold of me.

This is the token of the untruth I was taken in,

And I must keep on wearing it for as long as my life may last,

For though a man may hide his offence, he cannot be rid of it,

For once it is attached to him, it never will come loose.”

The King then tried to comfort the knight, as all the court di∂, also;

Laughing out loud at what he confessed, they amiably agreed—

The lords who belonged to the Round Table and all their ladies as well—

That each bold knight of that brotherhood should obtain a similar baldric,

A cross-belt slantwise from the shoulder, colored a bright green,

Which they all, for the sake of that good man, would follow suit and wear.

And since it contributed to the fame of the renowned Round Table,

Whoever wore it thus was honored, forever afterwards,

As is recorded, written down in the best book of romance.

Thus it came about in King Arthur’s day that this adventure occurred,

And the books of British history bear witness to it as well,

Since Brutus, the bold, adventurous knight, first made his way to these shores,

After the siege and the assault had been exhausted at Troy:

Many strange things have been found

In Britain before this:

Now He that once was crowned

With Thorns bring us to bliss.

AMEN