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Anonymous

Nydus Foundation

This edition is based on a public-domain work by Anonymous. The base text is believed to be in the public domain in the United States (95 years from publication, or life of the author plus 70 years). Public-domain status may vary by jurisdiction and depends on the author's death year and local copyright term rules. Modern additions, formatting, cover design, notes, and metadata may have separate rights where stated. Published by Nydus Foundation. Released 2026-07-11.

The original of the poem here printed can be found in several editions, of which the most accessible are that published by the Early English Text Society and the more recent Clarendon Press edition, excellently annotated by Tolkien and Gordon.

The present version, which is intended for the ordinary reader, is a lineal rendering, and has therefore the same number of lines as the original, viz. 2,530; I have sought to preserve the alliterative metre (with certain simplifications mentioned in the Introduction) and as much of the language as was possible without being obscure. The rhyming pieces, which usually alliterate also, at the end of each stanza are often difficult, and I will only say that I have done what I could with them.

I have followed the text of the Clarendon Press edition mentioned above, and my obligations to that edition are hereby heartily acknowledged, though I have not invariably accepted its interpretations.

S. O. Andrew

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a poem in four “fits,” and the story is as follows:

King Arthur is holding his Christmas court at Camelot, with feasting and revelry. On New Year’s Day, just as dinner is being served, there enters, suddenly and unannounced, a green knight on a green horse. He rides straight up to the high table and, without dismounting, challenges the company to a Christmas game: he will take from anyone present a stroke with a huge axe which he carries, on condition that in a twelvemonth the striker submits to a return blow. After some parley Gawain accepts the challenge, and gives an undertaking to seek out the strange knight at his own place in a year’s time. Gawain now makes his stroke and cuts off the Green Knight’s head, so that it rolls along the floor; the decapitated man at once picks it up, leaps into his saddle, and, holding the head by the hair, adjures Gawain to meet him at the Green Chapel on the appointed day; and so departs. (Fit I .)

A year quickly passes, and on All Saints’ Day Gawain rides to seek the Green Chapel. After many hardships and adventures, he comes into North Wales and then into the Wirral and the country beyond. On Christmas Eve he is still in the wilds, but his prayer that he may find some shelter for the holy tide is answered that day. He comes to a castle in a forest. Here he is welcomed and entertained until St. John’s Day by the lord and the two ladies of the castle, one of them the lord’s young wife, the other an ancient as hideous as the wife is beautiful. He now wishes to depart, but on being assured by the lord that the Green Chapel is not two miles distant and that he shall be escorted to it in good time, he consents to prolong his stay till New Year’s morning. The lord intends to hunt on the last three days of the year, while Gawain rests his weary bones at home, and he proposes to Gawain a playful compact that they shall exchange each evening whatever they have won during the day. (Fit II .)

On each of the three days while the lord is afield Gawain lies late in bed and is visited by the lady in his chamber, where she does all she can to get him to make love to her. Though hard pressed, he resists her wiles and will only consent to allow her to kiss him, once on the first day, twice on the second, and three times on the last. These kisses he faithfully delivers to the lord, but without telling him where he won them, and he receives in exchange the lord’s winnings afield, venison, a boar’s head, and a fox-skin. On the third day, however, Gawain has accepted from the lady a green lovelace, or girdle, which she tells him will protect anyone wearing it from being wounded, and this part of his winnings, at her request but contrary to his compact, he conceals from the lord. (Fit III .)

On New Year’s morning Gawain is escorted by a squire to the head of a wild valley, where he is given directions for finding the Green Chapel. After some search he finds it, a green mound or barrow; and on the hillside he hears a sound as of an axe being sharpened. The Green Knight appears, and after greeting Gawain bids him prepare for the stroke. As the axe descends Gawain shrinks, and the Knight checks the blow and pauses to reprove him. The second stroke is a feint, but at the third he lets the axe come down fair. Gawain, however, suffers no hurt except a little cut on his neck; having kept his bargain he is preparing to defend himself when the Green Knight changes his note and speaks to him friendly words. The first two strokes (he tells him) were intended only as feints because Gawain had kept troth in the matter of his winnings on the first two days; at the third stroke he had wounded him because on the third day he had a little failed in lealty by keeping back the girdle. Gawain, who now sees that the Green Knight and his host are one, is overwhelmed with shame. The Knight, however, comforts him and tells him that the wooing at the castle was a temptation wrought by himself to test him, and that it has proved him the most faultless knight on earth. He gives him the girdle as a present and tells him, further, that the whole adventure from beginning to end was the wicked work of the enchantress, Morgan la Fay, who hates Guinevere and the Round Table. So Gawain rides again to Camelot and is welcomed by Arthur and his knights. (Fit IV .)

It is an excellent story, quite outside the regular Arthurian cycle, and the reader will naturally ask where it has come from. The two incidents of which it is composed, the Beheading and the Wooing, are nowhere else found in combination, but there are extant in various languages romances in which one or the other is described separately; romances of which Gawain is the hero. The temptation theme, indeed, is a fairly common one and need not be further discussed. The beheading theme, with differences, is found in at least two Gawain romances, one French, “ La Mule sans Frein ,” the other German, Diu Krone . The oldest example of it, however, is in the Irish romance “ Fled Bricrend ” (“Bricriu’s Feast”), belonging to the Cuchulinn cycle. In this, three heroes at Conchobar’s court dispute about the chief place at the feast; Conchobar, refusing to decide the issue himself, sends them to submit their claims to a giant, Gath. After exacting from them a promise to undergo any form of trial which he may appoint, Uath prescribes a beheading test which consists of a blow by each of them at himself and a blow by him at each in return. Cuchulinn alone keeps to his agreement; after beheading the giant and submitting to nothing more than three feints in return, he is awarded the hero’s portion. Here there are obvious affinities with the story of the Green Knight: in both the proposer of the test is a giant, in both there are three blows at the hero, and in both the beheading is a test of courage. In folklore, and even in some of the romances, beheading is merely a means of disenchantment, not a test of courage. We must not, however, press such correspondences as have been mentioned too far. We are not dealing with folklore. Folklore is rigidly conservative, and in it incidents have a fixed, unalterable shape. When story has once emerged out of the stage of folklore into that of romance the conditions are different; the romancers select, combine, and transfer quite freely. In Diu Krone the challenger is a shape-shifter, as in Sir Gawain ; but it does not follow that one borrowed from the other, for in medieval romance almost any stranger may prove to be a shape-shifter. The author of Sir Gawain would assuredly not be dependent on a particular romance for a knowledge of shape-shifters, or green men (green being the fairy colour), or enchantresses, or magic laces, or faery chapels. It is, indeed, quite likely that the poet found one, or both, of the two main incidents in French romances and borrowed them in the same way that Shakespeare borrowed many of his plots. But the quality of the poem itself is good evidence that he had sufficient genius to use his materials with a poet’s imagination.

It is very rarely that we find such artistic unity in a medieval romance as in Sir Gawain , and only consummate art could have achieved it. The two incidents, the Beheading and the Wooing, are no longer disconnected themes; they are vitally linked together. The test of Gawain’s courage and the test of his chastity are revealed as one and the same; the same man “wrought them both,” under the spell of the same malicious enchantress. In medieval theory only virtue can defeat enchantment; and had not Gawain been proof against the lady’s wiles which tempted his chastity, the beheading which was to test his courage must (so it appears in the event) have been fatal to him.

The writer was a true poet. Out of the raw material of folklore and the elements of crude magic he has conceived a human story with human motives, without sacrificing anything of the real magic which is the atmosphere in which his story lives. Only sympathy and imagination and a true humanity could have portrayed characters so attractive in their different ways as Gawain, the Green Knight (in both his guises), and the squire. His descriptive power is equal to his conception; he writes with his eye on the object; his phrases are alive and apt, and there is hardly any dead wood. Consequently all his pictures, whether of action or man’s works or wild nature, are as clear and sharp as the miniatures of the period. It is not without reason that the poem has been described by a great scholar and a great lover of letters as “the jewel of medieval English literature.”

The name of the author is unknown. He evidently knew the forest of the Wirral (which he describes as a wilderness), and his statement that “few dwelt there that either God or man loved” is the sort of half-malicious generalisation that points to his being a neighbour. He was probably a native either of Lancashire or some part of North Cheshire adjoining it. The date of the manuscript is about 1400, and that of the poem perhaps twenty or thirty years earlier, 1370⁠–⁠1380. This agrees very well with the internal evidence; Sir Gawain’s sabatons, or broad-toed steel shoes, the younger lady’s fretted headdress, and the elaborate details of castle architecture are all features pointing to the last quarter of the fourteenth century.

The poem is written in a Northwestern dialect, which is the ancestor of the South Lancashire folk-speech of today. Characteristic features of it are present plurals in -en (we thinken), second person singulars in -s (thou says), preterites like geet and leet, and the o -sound before nasals in mon, mony, hommer, bront (brand), etc. The reader must be cautioned, however, against supposing that Sir Gawain is a dialect poem in the usual acceptation of the term, written by a rustic bard for a rustic audience. In the fourteenth century there was as yet no standard literary English, and each writer wrote as he spoke, in the dialect of the district to which he was native; for all its dialect, Sir Gawain is as courtly, both in matter and style, as the best of French romances. There is nothing rustic or provincial about it.

The alliterative metre in which the poem is written had evidently come down in an unbroken tradition from Old English times, and was a living thing in the Northwest. In all parts of England except the North and Central West it seems to have been extinct, and even two centuries earlier in Layamon it appears badly broken down. The “Gawain” poet uses it with a sure sense of its varied rhythms. A few brief notes on the metre will, I hope, enable anyone to read it readily and with pleasure.

Alliteration. Normally there are four stresses in a line (two in each half-line or “verse”) of which three alliterate, i.e. are syllables beginning with the same letter. Occasionally there are only two alliterating syllables, one in each verse. Note that:

- words beginning with any vowel or with h alliterate, e.g. Ágravain Hárd-hand at her óther side sat. - The first letter in words like knight, wrought, was of course pronounced by the poet, and such words alliterate on the k or w . I have sometimes retained this alliteration as a licence (like the eye-rhymes in modern verse), e.g. : Who knéw ever King such coúnsel to take?

Rhythm. In theory there is no limit to the number of unstressed syllables in a line, and we find not infrequently, especially in the first verse or half-line, four or even five such syllables between two adjacent stresses. To a reader accustomed to our modern syllabic metres such an accumulation of unstressed syllables might be strange and difficult, and in this version I have avoided any sequence of more than three.

The two chief rhythms in a verse are the “rising” × × / × × /, and the “falling” (×) / × × / ×; sometimes the same rhythm runs through a whole line, e.g. :

> (rising) When the siége and the assáult | were ceásed at Tróy (falling) Dríving to the dáis | no dánger affráy’d him,

but the half-line is the unit. Occasional variants of the rhythms in the second verse are:

- × / × / × e.g. | through reálms so mány - × / × / e.g. | at Gáwain’s hánds - / × × / e.g. | Árthur my náme

A third rhythm, rare except in the second verse, is the “rising-falling” or circumflex × ×/\×, e.g. :

> | with a wróth clàmour

or

> | by the búrn sìde

It makes a charming variation from the other two.

Long lines. Many lines have three stresses in the first verse. These I have usually simplified; when retained they have the stresses marked, unless the punctuation shows the caesura, e.g. :

> And mány a bírd unblíthe on the bare twigs sitting.

I

When the siege and the assault were ceasèd at Troy, When the burg had been broken, and burnt to ashes, The wight that the trains of treason there laid Was tried for his treachery, the truest on earth: It was Éneas the Athel and his high kindred Who kingdoms then conquered, and princes became Of all the wealth, well-nigh, in the West Isles. Sóon as the róyal Rómulus to Rome made his way, That burg with great pomp then builded he first And named it his own name, as now it is called: Ticius in Tuscany townships founded, Langobard in Lombardy lifted up homes, And far o’er the French flood Felix Brutus On many a bank full broad, Britain he set, well fain. War and woe and wonder On that fair land have lain, And oft both bliss and blunder, Time and time again.

II

Now when Britain had been built by Brutus the prince, Bold men there bred, that lov’d battle and strife And at times a many wrought teen and trouble; More wonders, I wis, on this wold have befallen Than on any other I wot of, since those ancient days. But of all that here built, that of Britain were kings, Áy was Árthur the noblest, as I have heard tell; And so an adventure I essay to show you, Which many men reckon a main marvel, All wonders o’ertopping that of the Table are told. If ye’ll listen to my lay but a little while, I shall tell ’t you this tide, as in town I heard it, with tongue. Well is it writ for you In story brave and strong, Linkèd with letters true; In land has so been long

III

The King lay at Camelot at Christmastide, With many a lovesome lord, leal men of the best, All the royal brethren of the Round Table, Amid revel full rich and reckless mirths. There true knights tourney’d, by times, full many, Jousted right jollily these gentle peers, Then came to the court their carols to dance. For the feast went on full fifteen days, With all the meat and mirth that men could avise⁠— Such gladsome glee glorious to hear, Merry din by day, and dancing o’ nights, That all was happiness in hall and in chamber Among lords and ladies: ’twas the liege king’s pleasure. With all the weal of the world they wonèd together⁠— Knights noblest known under Christ himself, And the loveliest ladies that life ever had, And he the comeliest King, that the court ruled, And these fair folk all, in the flower of their age, so free, On earth the happiest ay, And the proudest Prince was he; Ye might not find today So brave a company.

IV

The year was yet young, ’twas the day of New Year, And double (as is due) on the dais was served; Soon as the King with his knights had come into hall And the chauntry in the chapel was chanted to an end, Loud cry was uprais’d by common and clerk, Who kept Noel anew and named it full oft; Then hied in the courtiers handsel to offer, Gaily cried Yule-gifts and gave them by hand, All busily debating about the event⁠— Ladies laugh’d loud although they had lost, And the winners were not wroth, well may ye trow. So made they their mirth till meal-time was come, And when they had wash’d, then went they to table, And were rangèd by rank, as the rule is in hall. Queen Guenore full gay was graith’d in the midst On the royal dais, royally array’d With sendal at the sides, and a ceiling above her, Tapestries full rich of the red Tars Embroider’d and beaten with the bravest gems That might be provèd priceless, with pennies to buy, for ay; Loveliest she look’d of all With glancing eyes and gray, The dearest dame in hall, Might each man soothly say.

V

But Arthur would not eat till all had been served, He was somewhat childgear’d, and gay of his youth, Life sat on him light, and the less he lovèd Either too long to lie or too long to sit; So busied him young blood, and his eager brain. And another mood moved him: for much did he love All noble renown, and ne’er would he eat At such a dear season till someone had told him Some story of chivalry, stirring and strange, Some main marvel, that he might believe in, Of high knightérrantry, or other adventure, Or till someone besought him of a sickar knight To join him in jousting and jeopardy of arms, Stake life for life, and each allow other As fortune should favour advantage to have. So custom’d the King, where court he e’er held, On each festive feast-day, with his free meiny in Hall. Therefore so proud of cheer Stalwart he stands in stall; Gaily at that New Year Much mirth he makes with all.

VI

Thus in stall did he stand, the stalwart Arthur, And lightly of trifles he talk’d at the table. Beside Queen Guenore Sir Gawain was graith’d, And Agravain Hard-hand at her other side sat, That were nephews to the King, and knights full noble; Bishop Baldwin was above, at the end of the board, And Urien’s son, Ewain, ate with his Grace. These were dight on the dais and daintily served, And many a sickar man sat at the sideboards. Then came in the course with a crack of the trumpets, Many banners full bright a-hanging thereby: The kettledrums next and the noble pipes Wild notes and shrill with their warbles awaken’d, So that every heart leapt high at their touches. Came dainties therewith and dishes full pleasant, Fresh meats in plenty, on platters so many That ’twas pain to find place, the people before, To set all the silver with sews thereupon, on cloth. A man might serve himself As list him, nothing loth; Each two had dishes twelve, Good beer and bright wine both

VII

Now shall I of their service say you no more, For well may ye weet, no wánt was among them. Another note full new was sounded anon, That the folk might have leave to fall to their vittails. But the noise of that note had nó while ceas’d Or the first course in the court full kindly been serv’d, When there flúng in, on foal, a fearsome master, His stature the tallest and stoutest on earth, His body to the waist so broad and so burly, And his loins and his limbs so long and so great, Half giant at first they judg’d he might be, But a man he was truly, the mightiest of mould And the finest of figure that on foal might ride. For of back and of breast his body was big, Yet his waist and his womb were worthily small, And his members, each one, match’d them in measure, full clean. All wonder’d at his hue, And eke his lordly mien; He seem’d bold knight and true, But glow’d all over green.

VIII

All wondrous in green was this wight, and his weeds: A close-fitting coat that clung on his body, A merry mantle over it, meetly adorn’d With fair-trimmed fur, a lining full fine Of blythe ermine bright; and a hood with it bound, Caught back from his locks and laid on his shoulders; Neat hose well-haul’d, of that hue all of green, That closed on his calf, and clean spurs under Of bright gold, on silk bands, barrèd full richly, And pointed shoes under shanks, that shone in the stirrup All his vésture vérily was of verdant sheen, Both the bars of his belt, and the bright jewels That were richly arranged o’er the radiant array Of silken stuffs, on himself and his saddle. It were tedious to tell of the trifles one half That were broider’d thereon, of the birds and the flies, All in gay hues of green, with gold in the midst. The pendants of his poitrel and the proud crupper, The molains, the metal, aumáil’d were of green, The stirrups that he stood in stain’d of the same, The saddlebows in suit, and the splendid pommels⁠— All glimmer’d and gleam’d with the green jewels; And the foal that he fared on, of fine green too, certain; A green horse great and strong, A stiff steed to restrain, With broider’d bridle-thong, He match’d the man, ’tis plain.

IX

All gaily in green this gallant was gear’d, And the hair of his head with his horse was in suit; Fair waving locks that enfolded his shoulders, A great beard like a bush o’er his breast falling, Which with the athel hair that hung from his head Was bobb’d all about, the elbows above, That the half of his arms it halchèd thereunder, Like a King’s capados that clings on him close. The mane of his horse full meetly it match’d, Well crispèd and comb’d, with knots very many Folden with fildor the fair green amongst⁠— A harl of the hair with a harl of the gold: His tail and his topping were twinèd in suit, Bounden were both with a bright green band, And dubb’d with rich stones to the dock’s end; On his head was a wharl-knot wound with a ribbon, Where many bells full bright of brent gold rung. Such a foal upon field, such a rider on foal, No eye in that hall had beheld ere that hour, Pardie! He look’d as levin, bright, Said all that did him see; Them thought that no man might Endure his dints to dree.

X

Yet had he no helmet nor hawberk either, No pisan nor plate, not a piece of armour, No shield nor no shaft to shove with or strike; But he held in one hand a cluster of holly That is greatest in green when groves are bare, And an axe in the other, huge beyond measure, A terrible tool to tell of in speech: The head of this axe had an ellyard’s length, The grain of green steel with gold was enchasèd, The bit burnisht bright, with a broad edge on it As well shapen to sheer as a sharp razor. The stale to this steel was a timber full stout That with iron was wound to the wánd’s ènd And engravèd in green with gracious devices: A lace round it lapp’d that lock’d at the head, And was halchèd full often the handle about, With many a choice tassel attachèd thereto On buttons of bright green broider’d full rich. This áthel híes him ín and the hall enters, Driving to the dais: no danger he fear’d. He gave none greeting but gazed ay before him, And no word did he utter, but “where is” (quoth he) “The governor of this gyng? full glad should I be Of that same to have sight, and with him would speak reasón.” On knights he cast his e’en And swagger’d up and down, Then stopp’d, and studied keen Who there had most renown.

XI

There was long looking that liege to behold, Not a man but marvel’d what it might mean, That an athel and a horse should have such a colour As to grow green as grass, and greener it seem’d, Glowing more green than enamel on gold. They studied what stood there, then stalk’d it a-nigh With áll the wónder in the wórld what work it would do, For many a marvel had they seen but no marvel like this; Wherefore phantom and fäerie the folk must it deem, And many an athel was for answer o’erawed. All were stounded at his speech and stood there like stocks, In a swooning silence; as on sleep they were fall’n, All that court so stately were still as a stone well-nigh; Not all, in faith! for fear, But some for courtesy; On the Prince that had no peer They waited for reply.

XII

By the dais he marks this marvel of a man, And courteously accosts him, that coward was never: “Ye are welcome, good wight, I wis, to this place; I am head of this hostel, Arthur my name; May it list you alight, and lodge here, I pray you, And whatso your will is, we shall weet after.” “Nay, so help me,” said he, “the high God in heaven. To wone any while, it was not mine errand. ’Tis because thy fame, Sir, is flaunted so high, And thy burg and thy barons the best are holden, Stoutest under steel-gear on steed to ride, Worthiest and wightest of the world’s children, Proved men to play with in all pure games, And here courtesy is custom (I know it by tale), That I have wended me hither, I wis, at this tide. Full sure may ye be by this branch that I bear, That I pass as in peace, and no peril I seek; For with force had I fared in fighting array, I have a hauberk at home and a helmet too, A shield and a sharp spear, shining all bright, And other weapons to wield, full well do I know; But war I would not, and my weeds are the softer. If so hardy thou be as by all thou art holden, Thou wilt grant of thy grace the game that I ask by right.” Arthur made answer clear, Said he, “Sir courteous knight, If thou crave combat here Thou failest not to fight.”

XIII

“Nay, in faith,” said the fell man, “no fight do I challenge; The boys on this bench are but beardless children. Were I haspèd in arms on a hígh stèed. No man here could match me, their might is too feeble. Wherefore I crave in this court but a Christmas game, For ’tis Yule and New Year, and youth ye have here: If any in this house so hardy him hold, Be so bold in his blood, and of brain so wild, As stiffly to strike one stroke for another, I give him for gift this gísarm noble, This axe so heavy, to handle as he likes, And I bide the first blow, as bare as I sit. If any be so true as to test what I tell ye, Let him leap to me lightly, I lend him this weapon (He may keep it his own, I quit-claim it for ever) To stand him a stroke full stoutly on floor; And I bargain for naught but a blow in return, barlay: Yet give I him respite, A twelvemonth and a day; Now haste! Will any wight Herein dare ought to say?”

XIV

If at first they were stounded, e’en stiller were then All the athels in hall, both the high and the low. The rider on his rouncy wroth him in saddle, And rudely his red eyes rolling about him Pucker’d his bristled brows, that blinkèd so green, And waving his beard watch’d who would rise. When none him accosted he cough’d very loud, Stretch’d him with an air, and straightway gan speak: “What! is this Arthur’s house?” quoth the athel at last, “That the rumour runs of through realms so many? Where are your pomp and your pride, and the prowess ye vaunt of, Your warplay so grim, and your great talking? Now is the revel and renown of the Round Table By a word o’erwalted of one wight’s speech, For all dote ye for dread ere a dint be offered.” With that he laugh’d so loud that the liege King griev’d, And for shame the blood shot to his face so sheen of cheer. He wax’d as wroth as wind, So did all that were there. The King so bold by kind Then stood that stalwart near,

XV

And said, “Athel, by heaven, thy asking is foolish; And as folly thou hast sought, befalls thee to find it. I know none that is abasht at thy boasting so big; Give me now thy gisarm, in God’s name, I pray thee, For gladly I grant thee the grace thou hast ask’d.” He leapt to him lightly, and lent him his hand, And fiercely the fell man alighted on foot. Now Arthur has his axe, and the haulm he grips, And sternly makes play, of his stroke thinking. The stalwart before him stands like a tower, Higher than ány in that hóuse by a head and far more; With stern cheer he stands, and his beard he strokes, Then with countenance dree he draws down his coat, No more daunted or dismay’d for the dread buffet Than if boy upon bench had brought him to drink of wine. Gawain from seat did rise And to the King incline, “I beseech you, Sir, (he cries) This mellay might be mine.”

XVI

“Would ye now! worthy lord,” said that wight to the King, “Bid me stir from this stall and stand by you there, That so without villainy I void from this table? If my liege lady liked it not ill Before this high court I would come to your counsel. For methinks it not seemly (’tis sooth that I say) That the King’s own person to combat be call’d, Though yourself be desirous to take up the suit, While so bold men on bench about you are sitting⁠— And no wights in the world of will are so keen Or have better bodies on bent, where battle is rear’d. I am weakest, I wot, and the feeblest of wit, And least loss were my life, would ye learn but the truth⁠— That my uncle ye are, is all I can plead, And no bounty but your blood in my body I know. This antick adventure behoves not your Highness; To me let it fall, since first I besought it, And if I counsel not comely, the Court shall decide, nor blame.” The courtiers, whispering, Debate the double claim, Relieve the crownèd King And give Gawain the game.

XVII

Then commanded the King that the Knight should arise; And he drew from his seat, and came down from the dais, Kneel’d to the King, and claspèd the weapon; And the liege lord releas’d it, and lifting his hand God’s blessing him gave and gladly him bade Both his heart and his hand right hardy to keep. “Mind, cousin!” quoth the King, “one cut that thou give him. And if thou fight with him fair, unafearèd, I trow, Shalt thou dree any dint he may deal thee after.” Then grips he the gisarm and goes to his man. Who boldly him bides and no whit is abash’d But speaks to Sir Gawain, that gallant in green: “Recite we our forewards ere further we fare. I conjure thee, as true Knight, that truly thou tell me What is thy name: thy word I would have.” “In good faith,” quoth he, “Gawain my name is Who deal thee this dint, what doom so betide, And at this time twelvemonth I take one of thee With what weapon thou wilt, and no wight with me bring alive.” He answers him again, “Sir Gawain, so may I thrive, But I am wondrous fain This dint that thou shalt drive.”

XVIII

“Egod,” quoth the green one, “right glad am I, Sir, At thy hand to receive the service I sought; Thou hast rightly rehears’d, by reasons full true, All the covenant clean, that I craved of the King, Sáve that thou assure me on thy sickar troth, That thyself thou wilt seek me, wheresó that thou thinkest I may be found upon fold, and fetch thee such wages As thou deal’st me today this dais beside.” “Whither,” said the wight, “shall I wend on that errand? Where thou wonest I wot not, by Him that me wrought, Nor know I thee, Sir Knight, by court or by name; Now teach me thereto, and tell me the truth, And áll my wít I shall wáre to win to thy place⁠— I swear it for sooth, as a sickar knight.” “ ’Tis enough at New Year (what needs any more?)” Said the gallant in green to the knightly Gawain, “If I tell thee of that, when the tap I have ta’en. When thou hast smitten me fair, I shall smartly teach thee Of my house and my home and my ówn nàme; Then my troth mayst thou try, and to foreward be true. And no speech if I spend, thou speedest the better, For thou may’st lodge in thy land, nor look any further:⁠— Let be! Grip thy grim tool amain, Thy dints now let us see.” “Gladly, sir,” says Gawain, And stern his axe strokes he.

XIX

The Green Knight on ground graithly him dresses, A little he louts, to let the skin show, His long lovely locks he lays o’er his crown, And the naked nape for the knock makes ready. Gawain gripp’d his axe and heav’d it on high (His left foot forward, firm on the floor), Then swung it adown full swift on the bare, That the sharp edge shore, sheer through the báckbone, Cut the flesh cleanly, and clove him in two. The blade of the bright steel bit in the ground, The head from a-high to the earth bounded, So that many foin’d it with their feet, as forward it roll’d. The blood from the body blink’d on the green: Yet nor falter’d nor fell the fey man for all that, But started forth stoutly on stalwart shanks, And roughly he reach’d, mid the ranks on the floor, For his lovely head, that he lifted at once: Then he turns to his colt and, catching the bridle, Steps into steelbow and strides aloft, Holding by the hair his head in his hand, And as soberly seats him in saddle again As no únhap had ail’d him, though headless he was. Sans head, He writhèd every way The gruesome trunk that bled; Ere he had said his say Many of him had dread.

XX

For the head in his hand he holds up aright, Toward the dukes on the dais he dresses the face, And it lifts up its lids, and looks with its eyes, And moots with its mouth as much as this speech: “See, Gawain, thou be graith to go as thou said’st And as faithfully seek, good friend, till thou find me, As in hall thou didst promise, in these athels’ hearing. To the Green Chapel fare, I charge thee, to fetch Such a dint as thou dealtest, the due that thou owest To be presently paid at New-Year by prime. Men know me as Knight of the Green Chapel: So to find, if thou seek, failest thou never. Wherefore come, or coward behoves thee be call’d.” With a roar and a rout the reins did he turn, Flung oút at the háll-door, his head in his hand. And the flint-sparks flew from his fóal’s hòoves. Whither he went no wight of them knew, Any more than they wist from whence he was come: What then? The King and Gawain there At the green one laugh’d and gren; Yet all must it declare A marvel among men.

XXI

Though Arthur the high King at heart had wonder, No sign he let see, but said as beseem’d To the comely queen, with courteous speech: “Dear dame, this day be ye daunted no whit! Well becomes such craft at Christmastide, Laiking of interlude, laughter and song, Among courtly carols of knights and ladies. Ne’ertheless to my meat I máy me address, For a marvel have I met, I must not gainsay it.” He glanced on Sir Gawain, and graciously said he: “Now, Sir, hang up thine axe, that has hewen enough.” Then over the dais ’twas dight on a dorser, Where all might behold it on high and marvel, And by title thereof tell the tale of wonder. Then they moved to their meal full meetly together, The King and the knight, and keen men them served Of all dainties double, as dearest them seem’d. With all manner of meat, and minstrelsy too, They spent the glad day, till speeded an end in land. Now, Gawain, make thou sure Faint-heart that thou withstand, To seek the adventure That thou hast ta’en in hand.

XXII

O happen’d this handsel to Arthur at Yule, When for vaunting vows of adventure he yearned; Though brave wórds had been wanting when they went to their meat, Now are they bestead with stern work in plenty. To begin this game was Gawain full glad, But if the end be heavy, have ye no wonder: For though men’s minds are merry, when mead they have ta’en, A year swiftly yerns and yields ne’er the same⁠— End and beginning agree not together. So this Yule over-pass’d and the year after, And each season full soon ensued upon other. After Christmas came the crabbèd Lenten That tries us with fish, and fare more meagre. Then the weather of the world with winter it chides, Cold shrinks adown, clouds rise on high And shed the sheen rain in showers full warm, To fall upon fair field; flowers peep forth, Grassland and grove green is their raiment, Birds busk them to build, and bravely they sing For solace of the summer that sues thereafter, by way, And blossoms swell and blow On hedgerows rich and gay; Then noble notes enow In holt are heard, in May.

XXIII

Comes the season of summer with its soft breezes, When Zephyr soughs gently o’er seedling and grass; Oh! winsome is the wort on the wold that awakens To bíde a blíssful glánce of the bright sun, When the dripping dew drops from the leafage. But Autumn soon hies with his harder weather, And warns it ere winter to wax and be ripe; Then drives he with drought the dust to arise, That it flies on high, from the face of the fold. Wroth winds of the welkin wrestle with the sun, Leaves dart from linden and light to the ground, And the grass grows gray that green was before. Then all ripens and rots that rose up in springtime, And thus yerns the year in yesterdays many, And winter winds back, ’tis the world’s order, (Ah true!) Until Michelmas moon Is come, and winter’s due; Then thinks Gawain full soon Of the ride that he must rue.

XXIV

Yet till All Hallows with Arthur he bode, Who made feast on that festival for his friend’s sake, Amid revel full rich of the Round Table. Then courteous Knights and comely ladies All for love of that liege were in longing and sorrow, But ne’er the less nor the latter they allow’d but mirth, Though many were joyless, jesting the while. After supper, full sadly he sought to his uncle, And spoke of his passage in speech very plain: “Now, liege lord of my life, your leave I would ask; Ye know all the case, and I care no more Of my trouble to talk, or to teen you one whit; But I am bound for the buffet a bare night hence And the Green Knight must seek, as God will me speed.” Then the best of the burg busk’d them together, Ewain and Eric, and others full many, Sir Dodinal the Dour, the Duke of Clarence, Launcelot, and Lionel, and Lucan the good, Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere, big men both, And many another worthy, with Mador of the Port; Came all this company seeking the King, With care at their heart, to counsel Sir Gawain; There was dole very dree that day in the hall That so worthy as Gawain should wend on that errand, To endúre a gríevous dínt, and deal nevermore with brand. The Knight made ay good cheer, Said he, “Now grief is bann’d; ’Gainst destiny so drear What may man do but stand?”

XXV

He dwells all that day and dresses on the morn, Asks early for his arms, that were all to him brought; There was raught on the floor a rich red carpet, And much was the gilt gear that gleamèd thereon. The stalwart on’t steps, and the steel handles. All dearly dubb’d in a doublet of Tars And a crafty capados, closely fitting, Bounden and lined with a bright ermine. First, on his soles the sabatons they set, Lápped his légs in gréaves of lovely steelwork With poleyns thereon pight, that were polisht full clean And were girt round his knees with golden latchets; Fair cuishes next, that cunningly enclosèd His great thewèd thighs, and with thongs were fasten’d; Then the brawden byrnie, with its bright steel rings, That encasèd his body o’er cloth full costly; Last, on both his arms, a brace well burnisht, With good cowters and gay, and the gloves of plate, And áll the góodly géar that should gainly serve him that tide:⁠— His noble coat-armure, His golden spurs of pride, And then his brand full sure, With silk girt round his side.

XXVI

When he was haspèd in arms, his harness was splendid, The least latchet or loop was of learning gold; So arm’d as he was he hearken’d his mass, Solemnly offer’d at the high altar. Then he comes to the King and his court-brethren, Takes kindly his leave of lords and of ladies, Who kiss and escort him, and to Christ him commend. By thén was Gríngolet gráith and girt with a saddle That gleam’d full gaily with fringes of gold, And with nails anew for the nonce was studded; The bridle with bars of bright gold was striped, The apparail of the poitrel and its proud trappings, The crupper and the coverture, accorded with the arsons ⁠— Rich studs all over, arrangèd on red, That all glitter’d and gleam’d like the glent of the sun. Then has he his helmet and eagerly it kisses; It was stapled for strength, and stuffèd within, And sat high on his head, well haspèd behind; A kerchief bright o’er the beaver was bound, Embroider’d and set with the bravest jewels On the broad silk band, and birds on the seams, Painted popinjays preening themselves, Turtles and trueloves entailèd so thick Mány a búrd had been búsy seven winters about them in town. I ween, of greater price Was the circlet round his crown, Of diamonds a device That were both bright and brown.

XXVII

Then they show’d him the shield⁠—’twas of shéer gùles, With the pentacle painted in pure gold on it. By the baldric he caught it and cast o’er his neck, And it became well the Knight, that comely armour Now why it should ’long to the leal Gawain I am intent to tell you, though my tale may linger; ’Tis a sign that Solomon sometime appointed To be a tried token of truest fealty, For ’tis a figure wherein there are five angles And the lines overlap and lock in each other Without end, every way: and Englishmen call it Everywhere, as I hear, the Endless Knot. For this cause it became the good Kníght to wear it, For in five ways faithful and five times five Was Gawain known for good, and as gold refinèd, Void of all villainy, with virtues endued, in moat; So this pentangle new He bore on shield and coat, As wight of word most true And gentlest knight of note.

XXVIII

First he was found faultless in his fíve wìts, Nor failèd he ever in his five fingers, And his affiance on field was in the fíve woùnds That Christ got on Cross, as the creed tells us; And whereso this man was in mellay bestead His thought was on this, above all things else, That his courage he caught from the five joys That the high Queen of heaven had in her Child. For which cause the good Knight becomingly bore In the úpper hálf of his shíeld Her image depainted, That when he glanced on that Fair his force never falter’d. The fifth five, as I find, that this free usèd Were fraunchise and fellowship before all else, Cleanness and courtesy, known in him ever, And pity, that passes all⁠—these pure five Were more happ’d on this athel than on all other knights. And these thews, all five, were so throng upon him, They ran each into other, nor any end had, On five points fixt that failèd never, Along ev’ry line neither link’d nor sunder’d, But everywhere endless, at each angle alike, Where the game e’er began, or glode to an end. Wherefore on his sheen shield was shapen this knot Royally, with red gold upon réd gùles. Which the pure pentangle by people is call’d of lore. Now graith’d is Gawain gay, His trusty lance he bore, He gave them all Good-day, He deem’d for evermore.

XXIX

He put spurs to his steed and sprang on his way So fast that the flint-sparks flew out behind him. All that saw that sire sigh’d in their hearts, And said to each other (it seemèd but sooth) Grieving for Gawain, “By God, ’tis a pity We should lose such a liege, in his life so noble! To find his fellow on fold, in faith, is not easy. More warily to have wrought had been wiser, in truth, And to have dubb’d him, dear man, a duke to become, A shining light in the land, a leader of men; So ’twere better he had been than broken to naught, Beheaded by an elfin, for idle pride. Who knew ever King such counsel to take As at Christmas games to catch men in quibbles?” Many were the warm tears that wellèd from eyes When that seemly sire sought from those wones that day. He made there no abode But swiftly went his way: A wildsome track he rode, The book as I heard say.

XXX

Now rides he and roams through the realm of Logrès, Sir Gawain, at God’s best, no game though he thought it. Oft friendless, alone, he had lodging by nights Where he found not before him the fare that he liked. He had no fellow but his foal by frith and forest, And no gossip but God to talk with by gate, Till he drew full nigh into the North Wales. All the isles of Anglesey held he to left-ward And fared o’er the fords by the jutting forelands, Over at the Holy Head, till eft he made shore In the wilderness of Wirral; won’d there but few That either God or man with a good heart lovèd. And ever as he fared, of folks that befell He ask’d if they had heard of any Green Knight, In any ground thereabout, at the Green Chapel; And all nick’d him with nay, said that never in their life Had they seen any soul that such a hue had as green. He wander’d ways full strange By dreary hill and dene, His cheer full oft might change Or e’er that chapel was seen.

XXXI

Many a cliff he o’erclomb in countries unknown⁠— Far stray’d from his friends, a stranger he rode; At each water or warth where the wight ever pass’d, Ay found he before him a foe uncanny, And that so foul and so fell, that to fight behoved him. And marvels so many by mountains he found, It were tedious to tell the tenth-deal thereof. Now with worms did he war, and with wolves also, Now with the satyrs that sought from the screes, With wild bulls and bears and with boars otherwhiles, And with ogres that snorted from the hígh fèlls. Had he not doughtily dree’d, and dearly God loved, Doubtless full often to death he had been done. For if the warfare griev’d him, worse was the winter When the clouds shed adown the clear cold water, That froze ere it fall might, to the fallow earth; Near slain by the sleet, he slept in his irons More nights than enow in naked rocks, Where clattering fro’ the crest the cold burn ran, Or hung high o’er his head in icicles sharp. Thus in peril and pain and plights very hard Cross country he clomb till Christmas-even, alone. The knight full sore that tide To Mary made his moan, That she should well him guide And win him to some wone.

XXXII

By a mount that morning merrily rode he Into a forest full deep that was fearful wild, High hills on each hand and holtwoods thereunder Of hoar oaks full huge, a hundred together; The hazel and the hawthorn were all in a tangle With rough moss and rank beraggèd all over, And mány a bírd unblíthe on the bare twigs sitting Piteously piped for pain of the cold. This gallant on Gringolet glides them beneath, Through mizzy and mire, a man full lonesome, For ’twas much on his mind lest his mass he should miss Nor see the service of that Sire, who that self-same night Of a burd was born to abye our trouble; And so sighing he said “I beseech thee, Lord, And Mary, that art mildest mother so dear⁠— Some harbour where humbly the mass I may hearken And thy matins tomorrow meekly I ask you, And I presently pray my pater and avè and creed.” He pray’d and still rode on, He cried for his misdeed, Then sain’d himself anon And said “Christ’s cross me speed.”

XXXIII

He had not sain’d himself, good soul, but thrice, When he was ware in that wood of a wone in a moat, Above a laund, on a low, that leam’d under branches Of mány a búrly bóle at the brink of the ditches; A castle the comeliest that knight ever own’d, Built on a bentfield, and about it a park Fencèd compactly with paling of pikes, That, for more than two miles, trees many encompass’d. Sir Gawain a while regarded that keep As it shimmer’d and shone through the sheen branches, Then he has off his helmet and thanks from his heart Jesus and Saint Julian, those gentle watchers, Who courtesy had shown him and his cry hearken’d. “Good lodging,” cried Gawain, “grant, I beseech you!” And with gilded heels he goads on Gringolet, And by right good chance the road he has chosen That brings him anon to the brídge-ènd in haste. The bridge was up, on height, The gates were lockèd fast, The walls were stoutly pight; It might fear no wind’s blast.

XXXIV

Then the athel hoves and halts on the bank Of the double ditch that engirdled that dwelling; Wonderly deep stood the wall in water, And a huge height also it heav’d up aloft Of hard hewn stone úp to the cornice, Emban’d under battlement in the bést wìse; Garrets full gay were gear’d thereover. With many a lovely casement that closèd full clean; A better barbican that bearn never saw. Further in, full high the hall he beheld, With turrets atop all cuspèd and tined, Crown’d with capitals craftily taper’d, And carven finials curiously chisel’d. There were chalk-white chimneys, the choicest of art, That blink’d all bright on the bastel roof; And painted pinnacles upon it were sprinkled, Amid the crenellations cluster’d so thick, They seem’d pared out of paper, a palace of fäerie. To that free on the foal ’twas a fáir sìght; Coúld he but compass, that cloister within, In hostel to harbour, while holiday lasted in hall! He call’d, and soon appear’d A porter at his call, Kindly his errand heard And hail’d him, from the wall.

XXXV

“Good sir,” quoth Gawain, “would’st go mine errand To the lord of this land, and a lodging crave me?” “Aye! by Peter!” said the porter. “And I promise you sure, Ye’ll be welcome, good wight, to wone while ye like!” He hied on his errand and hasten’d again With servants assembled the Knight to receive; They did down the drawbridge, and drew out to meet him, And for courtesy kneel’d to the cóld eàrth To welcome that wight as worthy them thought; The gates they set wide to give him a passage, And he bade them arise, and the bridge rode over. Some seiz’d him in saddle, to set him on foot, And stout men busk’d them to stable his steed. Knights with their squires escorted him then To bring him full blithe with bliss into hall. When he had off his helmet, there hied men enow To receive it and serve him as seem’d to him good; His brand and his blazon, both did they take. Then the athel with courtesy hail’d them, each one, And proud men there press’d that prince for to honour; All haspèd in armour they brought him to hall, Where a fire full fair on the floor burn’d bright, And the master of the meiny moved from his chamber, His guest to receive and graciously greet: “Ye are welcome,” quoth he, “to wone as ye will, What is here is your own, to have at your pleasure, a space.” “Gramercy,” said Gawain, “Christ yield you of his grace.” As knights that seemèd fain Each other they embrace.

XXXVI

Gawain glanced at the goodman, that greeted him so fair, And thought it a bold knight that the búrg òwn’d; A huge athel he, in the prime of his eld, His beard broad and bright, and all beaver-hued, Grim, strong in his stance on stalwart shanks, Fell face as the fire, and free of his speech; And he seemèd in sooth (só Gawain thought) Fit man for a lordship o’er loyal lieges. He stepped to a chamber and straightway bade choose A goodly esquire, to escort him and serve, And there hied at his best henchmen enow That brought him to a bower, with bedding full noble, Gay silk hangings with golden hems, Coverlets full comely of curious patchwork, Broider’d and edg’d with the bright ermine, Curtains running on ropes, red gold rings, Rich tapestries of Tars tent on the walls, And carpets as fair under foot on the floor. Here was he despoil’d with speeches of mirth Of his bráwden byrnie of máil and his bright armour. Then robes full rich his servants him raught For a change of clothing, to choose as he pleas’d. Soon as he had drawn one and dress’d it upon him, A fair-fitting robe with flowing skirts, Like a picture of spring he seemèd in semblance, With the robe around him so richly broider’d, And his gear thereunder so glowing and gay, That a comelier Knight Chríst never made, they thought. Came he from far or near, Well seemèd that he ought To be prince without peer In field where brave men fought.

XXXVII

A chair by the chimney, where charcoal burn’d bright, Was array’d all ready to rest the good Gawain, With cushions full costly on coverings of quilt. Then a merry mantle on the man was cast, A bléaunt of brown, richly embroider’d And lined full fair with furs of the finest, And all edg’d with ermine; and the hood with the same. He sat in that settle in his splendid array, And warm’d himself well; then the wight’s cheer mended. Soon was set up on trestles a table well tight And a clean cloth on it that clear white shone, A sanap and a saler, and silveren spoons. Then he wash’d at his will and went to his meat; Supper forthwith they seemlily served⁠— Sews of the daintiest, season’d with skill, (Double fare as is fitting) and fishes full many, Some baken in bread, some grill’d on the gledes, Or seeth’d, or in stew well savour’d with spice; And ay sauces they served as that sire might like. A feast he call’d it full freely and oft In his courtly way, when the courtiers cheer’d him as friend: “This penance now, Sir, take And soon it shall amend.” Much mirth did Gawain make For wine to his head did wend.

XXXVIII

Then tried him his host, and touch’d on his travel, And by questions discreet enquired of his quest, And he courteously granted he came from the court Where Arthur the athel the sovranty held, Ruler most royal of the Round Table, And that ’twas Gawain himself who among them sat, Come to that Christmas, as the case had befall’n. But that lord when he learn’d that the leal man he was, Loud laugh’d he thereat, he liked it so well; And all in that household were overjoy’d That tide to appear in the prince’s presence, For all prowess and price, and all pure knighthood To his person belong’d, and were prais’d in him ever; Before all men on earth his honour was highest. Then softly would each man say to his fellow: “Now skill shall we see of seemly manners, And the terms full clean of courteous converse, What is speed in speech shall we learn unspeer’d, Since among us we find this fine father of nurture. God has giv’n us his grace in goodliest measure, Such a guest as Gawain to grant at this tide When blithe men on bench of His birth shall sit and sing. To know of knightly cheer This beam now shall us bring, Methinks all that him hear Shall learn of love-talking.”

XXXIX

When the dinner was done, and the dais risen, It was near to the night that the time drew nigh, Chaplains to the chapel chose them the gate, Rung a festal peal at that festal season, For the high evensong of the holy tide. Then the lord his lady led to the service, (Into a comely closet queenly she enter’d,) And Gawain full gay graithly them follow’d. By the lap the lord took him, and led him to seat, Accosted him couthly and call’d him by name, And said he was the welcomest wight in the world; From his heart he thank’d him, and they halchèd each other, And full soberly sat while the service lasted. Then list that lady to look on the knight And she came from her closet with dames of the court; She was the fairest of feature, and freshest of teint, And the finest of figure of all women on fold; More lovely than Gwenore she looks to Gawain, As he goes through the chancel his greeting to give. Anóther lády her léd by the left hand, Who of age was the older, an ancient it seem’d, Escorted by squires with a courtly respect. But unlike to look on those ladies appear’d, Fair of youth was the younger, but yellow the other, In complexion of rose was the younger array’d, Rough cheeks and wrinkled hung on the ancient; Kerchiefs on the one, with clear-white pearls, (Her breast and her bright throat all bare display’d,) Like the sheen snow shone, that is shed upon hills; The elder had a gorget gear’d o’er her throat, A chin full swart, in a chalk-white chimble, Fórehead fólden in sílk, her front all muffled, Turreted and trick’d with trifles and gauds, So that nothing was bare but the bláck bròws, The nose and the eyes and the naked lips, That were unsightly with sores and sorrily blear’d; A worshipful wight you might wéll call her fore God! Her body was short and stout, Her buttocks round and broad: A tastier thing, no doubt, Was she that by her strode.

XL

Gawain glanced on that gay with the gracious mien, And by leave of the lord, the ladies he greeted; The ancient he salutes, louting full low, The lovely one he laps a little in his arms, Comelily kisses, and knightly bespeaks. They crave his acquaintance, and quickly he asks Their sooth servant to be, if só it them please. Then they took him between them, and, talking the while, Led to chamber and chimney, where spices full choice They call’d for, that brisk men bustled to bring them, And the winsome wine therewíth each time. The lord so lovesome leapt up full oft, By occasions many he made for them mirth, Hád off his hood, and hung it on spear, For any to hold the honour thereof Who that Christmas⁠—while most weal should waken: “And I shall try, by my troth, to contend with the best, Ere any shall help me that hood to forfeit.” Thus with laughter and jest it lists him to laik, For to gladden Sir Gawain with games in hall that night; ’Tis time to end their play, The lord bids bring the light; Gawain “God-speed” did say, And to his bed him dight.

XLI

On the morrow, as men remember the tide When God for our destiny to die was born, In ev’ry wone in the world waxes weal for His sake; So the folk at the court had their festive fare, Both at mess and at meal-time men full doughty Daintiest dishes dress’d on the dais. That ancient of eld at the end of the board, With the lord at her side, full seemlily sat; Gawain and the gay burd, together they ate, Highest in honour, e’en as was meet; And the rest by rank, as the rule orders, Were seated on settle and served at table. There was meat, there was mirth, there was measureless joy Whereof for to tell were trouble o’ermuch, Though I pain’d me perchance to point you the tale; Yet I guess that Gawain and the gay lady Of their company caught such comfort together Through the dear dalliance of whisperèd words, In careless converse, courteous and chaste. That their play surpass’d any prince’s game, I trow. Some the loud trumpet wind, Some on the shrill pipe blow; Each man his note did mind And they two theirs also.

XLII

Much merriment made they that day and the morrow, And the third day as throng thereupon follow’d, The jollity of St. John’s day was joyous to hear, ’Twas the last of the laik, those lieges well knew. There were guests to go on the gray morning, So with wassail and wine they wake all that night, And dance uncaring the courtly carols; At the last, full late their leave they have ta’en, Each wight that must wend on his way towards home. Gawain gives good-day to the goodman anon, And he leads him to chamber, and the chimney beside Draws him adree and dearly him thanks For the winsome worship that the wight had deign’d him By honouring his house at the holy tide And adorning that place with his princely presence: “And so long as I live, I shall be the better Since Gawain was my guest at God’s own feast.” “Gramercy, Sir,” said Gawain, “the gift is from you; All the honour is my own, the High King reward you! And therefore I plight me your pleasure to do, As I am beholden, in high and in low, by right.” The lord said he were fain Longer to keep the Knight Then answer’d him Gawain By no way that he might.

XLIII

Then by courtesy craved he to know of Sir Gawain What dréad deed had driv’n him at that déar tide From the King and the court so keenly to seek, Ere the holidays wholly were hied out of town. “Forsooth, sir,” he said, “ye say but the truth, A high errand and a hasty has sped me from home, For I am summon’d, in sooth, to seek to a place, That I wot not whither I must wend to find. But I might not miss it on New-Year’s morn For all the land in Logrès, so our Lord help me! Wherefore this point, sir, I put to you presently, That ye tell me with truth if ye tale ever heard Of the Green Chapel, where on ground it stands, And of the Knight its keeper, that of colour is green. There was stablisht a tryst by statute between us That I meet him at that mark, if I míght be alive; Of the Néw-Year he named wants nów but a little, And I would look on that liege, if God would allow me, More gladly, by God’s son, than all góod upon earth! And so, by your will, my way I must wend, I have now but a bare three days to busy, And as fain to fall fey as fail of mine errand.” Said the lord with a laugh, “Now lodge here behoves you⁠— I shall take you to your tryst by the term of the time, The Gréen Chapel on ground, let it grieve you no more; Ye shall bide in your bed and be at your ease, And the first of the year ye shall fare on your way To your mark at midmorn, to make what you like beside. Dwell here till New-Year’s day, Rise and depart that tide, Ye shall be set on way, A bare two mile to ride.”

XLIV

Then was Gawain full glad and gaily he laugh’d; “I thank you for this, before all other things; Since my goal I have gain’d, I agree at your will To dwell here, and do what else ye may deem.” Then drew him that sire to a seat at his side, And let fetch the ladies to like them the better. Much jollity they enjoy’d, those gentles twain, And the lord for his love spoke the leal man so fond As he wist not of his words, like a wight unwitted. Then cried he aloud, as he call’d to the Knight: “Ye have deem’d ye will do the deed that I bid; Will ye promise keep at this present time?” “By my troth, sir, yes,” said the trusty Gawain, “While I bide in your burg, I obey all your bidding.” “Since ye have travell’d,” quoth he, “and toil’d from afar, And have wakèd me wíth, your wants are uncared Both of sleep and of sustenance; soothly I know it. Ye shall lodge in your loft and lie at your ease Tomorrow till mass, and to meat ye shall wend When ye will, with my wife, who with you shall sit And with company comfort, till to court I return; Rest so;⁠— And I shall early rise, A-hunting will I go.” Sir Gawain grants him this, And louts to him full low.

XLV

“Yet further,” quoth he, “a foreward we’ll make; What I win in the woodland to you shall I waive, And what here ye achieve, ye shall change it therefor. A bargain, I beg ye! We’ll abide by it fair, Whether worthless our wins or aught worth shall befall.” “In God’s name,” said Gawain, “I grant it you fain; The laik that ye list, it likes me full well.” “Who brings us the beverage this bargain to seal?” Said the lord of the land; they laugh’d everyone, They drank and made dalliance, both dainty and free, These lords and ladies, so long as they pleas’d; Then with Frankish fare and with fashion of court Stay’d they and stood, and stilly they whisper’d, Comelily kiss’d, and cravèd their leave. By lieges full lief, and with learning torches, These bearns to their beds are brought at the last well fain, But to bed ere they repair, Covenants record again; That old lord debonair His laik could well maintain.

XLVI

Full early before day the folks were afoot; Guests that would go, their grooms they summon’d, Who hied them in haste the horses to saddle, Gather’d the gear and girded the mails; Those of rank were ready to ride all array’d, Leapt up lightly, and lay to their bridles, Each wight on his way, where it well liked them. The dear lord of the land was not last either, Array’d for the riding, with retinue gay; A morsel he ate, when his mass he had heard, And with bugle to bentfield he busk’d him anon; Soon as any daylight dawn’d upon earth He and his athels on horse were mounted. Then lads of that craft coupled their hounds, Unclosèd the kennels and call’d them thereout, And blew bigly on bugles thrée báre móots, While the bratches bayed⁠—and a brave noise made they; Hounds that went chasing they chastied with whips, A hundred of hunters, as I have heard tell, of the best. Beaters to station hied, Huntsmen their hounds releas’d, And horns made, far and wide, Great noise in that forèst.

XLVII

At first cry of the quest quakèd the deer And doting for dread went away up the dale, Hied to the heights, but angerly there Were stay’d at the stations, that stoutly ascried. The high-headed harts they let háve a passage, And the brave bucks too, with the broad antlers; For in fermison months the master had bidden That no man should meddle with the mále dèer. But the hinds they held in, with a Hey! and a Ware! And with din drove the does, down to the valleys. Then sharp was the shooting of wingèd shafts! At each woodland glade whistled an arrow That on brown hide bit, with its broád bàrb; How they bray’d and bled, on bank as they died! And running on a race, hounds rush’d in pursuit, Hunters with horns hasten’d them after, With a cracking cry as if cliffs had bursten! And any that scaped the shafts of the shooters With a stour were stay’d and torn at the stations, By the time they had been turn’d and teas’d to the waters; So wary were the wights that watch’d in the vale, And the greyhounds so great, that gripp’d them anon And fell’d them to ground, fast as e’er look ye might. The lord, like happy boy, Rode and did oft alight; He drove that day with joy A-hunting till the night.

XLVIII

So this lord is laiking by linden-wood eaves, And the good man, Gawain, in gay bed sleeping Lies snug till any gleam glimmers on wall, Under coverlet clean, curtain’d about. As on slumber he slid, a sly noise heard he, A little din at his door, which daintily open’d; He heav’d up his head out of the clothes, A corner of the curtain he caught up a little, And watched full warily what it might be. ’Twas the lady herself, lovely to look on, Who drew the door after, so stealthy and still, And boun’d toward the bed; and he blush’d and shamed him, Slipt him down slyly, and look’d as if sleeping. Then stepped she stilly, and stole to the bed, Cast up the curtain, and creeping within it Sat her full softly on the béd-sìde, And waited a while to watch when he waken’d. Long time did Gawain lie there lurking, Cast in his conscience what such a case Might mean or amount to: marvel him thought it! Yet he said to himself more seemly it were By speech or by spell to aspy her intent. Then he waken’d, and wroth him, and toward her turn’d, And opening his eye-lids with an air of surprise For his safety him sain’d, and in secret a prayer he said. Winsome of chin and cheek, With blent hues white and red, Full kindly did she speak And with dainty lips laughèd.

XLIX

“Good morrow. Sir Gawain,” said the gay lady, “Ye are a sleeper unsly to be so outwitted; This time are ye ta’en! Fail a truce between us, I shall bind yoii in your bed, be ye well sure.” With laughter the lady launcèd her jest. “Good morrow, my gay,” said Gawain full blithe, “Ye may work on me your will, it likes me full well, I surrender me readily, and cry you for ruth; Meseems ’tis best só, when so me behoves (Thus he jested in turn and jollily laugh’d). But please, lovely lady, your leave I would ask, Your prisoner release, and pray him to rise, I would boun from my bed and busk me the better⁠— The more ease should I have, to hold with you converse.” “Nay for sooth, fair sir,” said that sweet in reply, “Ye shall not boun from your bed, I offer you better, I shall hap you here on the other side too And have converse with my captive, now I have caught him; For I ween full well, ye’re the wight Sir Gawain, That the world all worships, whéreso ye ride; Your kindness, your courtesy, are knightliest held Among lords and ladies, and all that life have. Now I wis ye are with me, and we are alone; My lord and his lieges a long way are ridden, Other folks are abed, and my burds are in bower, And drawn is the door, and dight with a pin; And since I have in this house the athel belovèd I shall ware my time well, the while it may last, with skill. Ye are welcome to my corse, Your pleasure to fulfil. Now must I by mere force Your servant be, and will.”

L

“In good faith,” quoth Gawain, “gain I must hold it, Though I be nów no more the Knight that ye name; To reach to the reverence ye read to me here I am a wight unworthy, I wot well in my heart. But by God I were glad, an you good thought it, If by service or speech I might something do Your worship to please: ’twere a púre joy tó me.” “In good faith. Sir Gawain,” said the gay lady, “The prowess of price that pleases all others To hold light or belittle, ’twere less than courteous; There are ladies enow that had liefer today Have you in their hold, as I have you here, Dear dalliance to deal with your dainty speeches, Some solace to seek and assuage their cares, Than much of the gersom and gold that they have But the High Lord I praise that the heaven upholds, I have wholly in my hand what áll they desire, by His grace.” She made him ay great cheer, Lady so fair of face; The Knight with speech sincere Answer’d her every case.

LI

“Madam,” said the merry man, “Mary reward you, For I have found, in good faith, your fraunchise is noble; Others by hearsay hold their opinions, And the honour they mete is more than my merit, But ’tis kindness in you, that of courtesy comes.” “By our Lady,” she answer’d, “but I hold it other: For were I more worth than all women alive And all the wealth in the world I might wield at my will And chaffer and choose to achieve me a lord, Yet for nobleness, Sir Knight, that I have known in you here, Your beauty and bounty, and your blithe demeanour, And for all I e’er heard (and I hold it but true), Should no free upon fold before you be chosen.” “I wis,” said the wight, “ye have won you a better, But I am proud of the price that upon me ye set; I am soothly your servant, my sovrain I deem you, And your knight I’ll become: and may Christ you reward.” Much did they moot of till midmorn was past, And áy the lády made líke as she lov’d him too well, But he fared with defence, as faithful man should. “Though I were fairest of the fair,” in fear did she ponder, “The less might his love be”⁠—for the loss that he bode that day, The dint that should him deave, That he might shun no way. The lady spoke of leave, And he granted her straightway.

LII

So she gave him “Good-day,” and with a glance she laugh’d, Then stonied him, as she stood, with stoor words enow: “He that speeds each speech this dispórt repay you! But in mind I debate if ye bé Sir Gawain.” “Why so?” the wight said, and in sadness he ask’d, For he fear’d he had fail’d in form of his speech: But the burd him bless’d and broke forth anon: “So goodly a groom as Gawain is holden, Counted for courteous o’er all other knights, Could not lightly so long with a lady have stay’d Without craving a kiss, for his courtesy’s sake, By some trifling touch, as he talk’d to an end.” Then said Gawain “I grant you, since good it you seems; I shall kiss at your command, ’tis a Knight’s duty⁠— Nor would I displease you; so plead it no more.” Then comes she a-nigh, and catches him in arms, Bends courteously down and her knight kisses. Comelily to Christ beken they each other; She departs by the door without more ado, And he bouns him from bed and busks him anon, Calls to his chamberlain, chooses his raiment, And goes, when he’s graith, gaily to mass. Then he moved to his meat for a menseful hour, And made merry all day till the moon was up, well fain. Fair welcome did he find Between those ladies twain; Right gaily did they mind Their guest to entertain.

LIII

And ay the lord of the land is laiking afield, Hunting the hinds by holt and by heath: Such a sum had he slain, when the sun slanted, Of does and other deer, to deem of were wonder. Then they flock’d in full fain, the folk at the last, And quickly of the kill a quarry they made. Those of rank were ready, and right as they should Gather’d the greatest of grease that were there, And had them deftly undone, all duly by law; Sóme by assay searchèd them too, And found two fingers of fat in the poorest. Then they slit up the slot, and, seizing the arber, With a sharp knife shore it, and sewed it again; Next they sever’d the legs and stript off the hide, Broke up the belly, and the bowels took out; Then gripp’d they the gargilon, and graithly departed The weasand from the wind-hole, and wound out the guts; Shore off the shoulders with their shárp blàdes, And máde a líttle hole to líft them, to leave whole sides. Then rived they the breast and broke it in two, And again at the gargilon got them to work, Ripp’d the flesh readily, right to the fork, Voided out the avanters, and featly thereafter The membranes lanced along by the ribs; Last, they clove a clear way, close by the backbone, E’en to the haunch; it was all whole still, And they heav’d it up whole, then hew’d off the loin, And the offals that they name the numbles, I trow, by kind; Along the fork o’ the thigh, The laps they lance behind; To hew in two they hie, By the backbone to unbind.

LIV

Both the head and the hawse they hew’d off after, And sunder’d full swiftly the sides from the chine, And the corbies’ fee they cast in a bush; Then thirl’d they the thick sides through by the rib, And slung them up high by slitting the sinews, Ev’ry man for his fee, as falls him by custom. On a fell of the fair beast fed they their hounds With the liver and lights, the leather of the paunches, And bread bathed in blood, blent thereamongst, And boldly blew prize, while the bratches bay’d; Then the flesh they took up and fared towards home, Sounding full stoutly many a strong moot. What time daylight was done, they had drawn to the gate Of the comely castle, where the knight them bides so still, In bliss, with bright fire beat; The lord is come theretil; When Gawain did him meet, There was but weal at will.

LV

Then commanded the lord to muster his meiny, And his ladies both to bring with their burds, Before all the folk, on the floor of the hall; Anon he sends forth the venison to fetch, And in gamesome mood Sir Gawain he calls, Tells him the tally of the táll dèer, And shows him the sheen grease shorn from the ribs: “How pleases you this play? Have I praise gotten And a thank sincere by my skill deservèd?” “By my faith,” quoth he, “ ’tis the fairest hunting I have seen this seven year in season of winter.” “ ’Tis a gift for Gawain,” the goodman replied, “For by accord of covenant ye claim it your own.” “That is sooth,” the Knight said, “and I say you the same; What I have worthily won these wonës within, I wis, with as good will, I waive it to you.” His fair neck he folds in a fond embrace, And kisses him as comely as he could it avise; “Here are my winnings, for I won no more, But all would I grant, if greater they had been.” “Fair gain!” said the goodman, “gramercy therefor; Better worth though it were if ye would but discover Where ye won this same wealth by force of your wits.” “ ’Twas not in the bargain, nor boots it to know; Your dues ye have drawn, deem ye no other, Sir lord.” They laugh’d and made them blithe With many a courteous word; To supper they went forthwith, Fresh dainties on the board.

LVI

After meat, by the chimney in chamber they sit And comfort them well with the winsome wine; And again in their game they agreed on the morn To fulfil the same foreward as before they had made: As fortune should chance, their winnings to change⁠— Aught new that they got, at night when they met. This covenant they accorded before all the court, And the beverage was brought, with bourd and with jest. Then a lovesome leave they took at the last, For all to their beds must busk them anon. When the cock had crow’n and cackled but thrice, Then leapt up the lord, and his lieges each one; And when mass and morsel they had meetly taken, Ere dawn’d any day they dress’d to the forest, to chase; Loudly with hunt and horns Through plains they pass’d apace, Uncoupled, among the thorns, The hounds so swift to race.

LVII

Soon they cried of a quest at a cárr sìde; The huntsman halloo’d the hounds that gave tongue, Wroth words he utter’d, and wildly he call’d; And the hounds that heard him hasten’d at once, And féll as fást on the tráil, forty together; Then such a deafening din of those dogs in concert Arose, that the rocks rung all about. Hunters them hearten’d with horn and with mouth, And all in a throng they thrust on together, Between a flash in that frith and a fearsome crag; On a knoll, by a cliff, at the carr side, Where the ruggèd rock in a rough knar tumbled, They fared to the finding; the huntsmen them follow’d, And made a cast of that knar and the knot beside it, Till they wist full well that the wild one was there, When the bloodhounds bay’d the beast to announce. Then they beat on the bushes, and bade him break cover, And he sought, with disaster, the searchers athwart him; ’Twas a wonder of a swine that swung out upon them, Long sunder’d from the sounder, and sínce grown to age, A fierce boar and fell, and fearsome for bigness. When this grim one grunted, ’twas grievous to many, For three at a thrust he threw to the ground, Then sped forth good speed, nor spited them more. They all hollo’ed “Hi!” and “Hey! hey!” shouted, Hórns to mouth hád, the hunt to recall. Many were the merry mouths of men and of hounds That busk’d after boar, with boast and with clamour, to kill. Full oft he bides the bay And maims the mute pell-mell; He hurts the hounds and they Piteously yowl and yell.

LVIII

So after the boar the bowmen hied them, Aim’d at him arrows and hit him full oft; But the points could not pierce the pith of his shields, And the sharpest barb on his brawn would not bite Though the shaven shaft shinder’d in pieces; The arrow-head, where it hit, ever rebounded. But the dints at last of their dree strokes dazed him, And frenzied with the fray he forth on them rush’d, Wounded them wickedly whéreso he sallied, That many were adread, and drew them adree. But the lord on a light horse launces him after, Bold man on bent his bugle he blows, And rides on a race through roan and thicket, Pursuing this swine, till the sun breaks through. So this day they drive with doings afield While our lovesome liege is lying abed, Gawain graithly at home, in gear full rich Of sheen. The lady not forgat, To greet him she came in, Full early was him at Seeking his will to win.

LIX

She comes to the curtain, at the Kníght she peeps, And Gawain her welcom’d with greeting full grave. With an amorous word the athel she answer’d, Sat softly by his side, then suddenly laugh’d, And with a loving look the liege she address’d: “Sir, if ye be Gawain, greatly I wonder, That a prince so purely disposèd to good Is so uncouth to catch the manners of company, And by terms if I teach you, ye tent it but ill; Ye have forgotten again what I yesterday taught By the truest token of talk that I knew.” “What is that?” said the wight, “I wot not your will; If ’tis sooth that ye say, myself am to blame.” “ ’Tis the lesson,” said the lady, “that of kissing ye learnt⁠— Where countenance is clear, quickly to claim; So becomes ev’ry knight that courtesy uses.” “Now spare me,” quoth Gawain, “such speech any more; That durst I ne’er do, lest denayèd I were, And, refus’d, I’m at fault though fairly I offer.” “By my faith,” said the fair, “and who may refuse you? Ye are strong to constrain by strength, an you like, If any be so boorish the boon to deny.” “So help me God,” quoth Gawain, “though good is your speech, Yet force is a fool’s way, on fold where I dwell, Or any gift that is giv’n but with góod-wìll; I am at your command, to kiss if ye care, Ye may take when ye list, and leave when ye like, a space.” The lady down did bend, Courteously kiss’d his face, Much speech did they expend Of love, its grief and grace.

LX

“I would weet of you, wight,” that worthy replied, “If ye wrath not therewith, what were the reason That so young and so gay as you at this time, So courteous, so knightly, as all know you abroad, Should fail in the forms and fashion of court. For of áll the chóice of chívalry, the chief thing prais’d Is the leal game of love and errantry-lore; And to tell of the trials of all trúe knìghts Is the inscribèd title and text of their deeds:⁠— How lieges for love their lives have adventur’d, Endured for their druery doleful hours, Had vengeance by their valour and voided their sorrow, And brought bliss into bower with bounties their own. Now ye are the noblest knight, known of your eld, Your name and your honour are aywhere upholden, And I have sat by your side two several times Yet no lightest word did light from your lips That belongèd to love, or lesser or greater; So courteous as you, of so knightly professions, Ought verily to yearn to a creature so young, And teach her some token of truelove dealings. What! are ye so ignorant, in honour so high? Or deem ye me too dull your dalliance to hearken? For shame! Single I come and sit To learn of you some game; Please! warn me of your wit While alone ye have your dame.”

LXI

“In good faith,” said Gawain, “may God you reward! Great is the glee, and the game to me huge That so worthy as you should win to my chamber, Take pains with a poor man, and play with your knight With any kind of count’nance; it comforts me much. But to take up that task, and true love expound (Touching the text and the tales of romance) To you that, I wot well, wield more of skill In that art, by the half, than a hundred of such As I am, or shall e’er be, on earth while I live, ’Twere a manifold folly, my fair, on my troth. But your bidding I’ll do to the best of my might, As I am highly beholden, and ever I bind me To be soothly your servant, so save me the Almighty.” Thus in talk did she try him and tempt him full oft, To win him to woo her, whate’er she ween’d else, But he defended so fair that no fault might appear, Nor evil on either part, nor aught did they know but bliss. They laugh’d and had their play; At last she did him kiss, Made sign to wend her way, And took her leave, I wis.

LXII

Now bestirs him Sir Gawain and steps to his mass, And then dinner was dight, and daintily served. He laik’d with the ladies the livelong day, While the lord over laund launces full often Pursuing his swine, that swung by the banks And of the best of his bratches the backs bit in sunder Where he bode at the bay, till the bowmen him shifted And máde him máuger his héad to move to the open; So many shafts flew, where the fólk him beset. Yet the stoutest at whiles to start did he make, Till so daunted and fordone, he could dree it no more, But as hard as he might made off to a hole, On a bank, by a rock, with the burn beside it; There, the bank at his back, to scrape he began With the froth at his chops foaming for fierceness, And his white tusks whetted; they wounded him still, Those bowmen so bold, about him that stood, Till awearied they were, yet they would not him near, so wroth. For many his thrusts had borne, Well seemèd all were loth Be more with tusks betorn; He was fierce and frenzied both.

LXIII

Came that stalwart lord, his steed as he spurr’d, Saw him bide at the bay, with the bowmen about him; He leapt him down lightly and, leaving his courser, Drew a bright brand; then bigly he strode And hied fast through the ford where the fell beast waited; Who, ware of the wight with the weapon in hand, His hair bristled high, and so angerly snorted, Many fear’d for that free lest the worse him befall. Then set forth the swine and made swift at his foe, That the man and the boar were both upon heaps In the wildest of the water; but woe’s master boar! For e’en as they meet, the man well marks him And right in his slot the sharp blade he sets And drives úp to the hilt; his heart is acloven, With a snarl and a moan he moves o’er the water anon. A hundred hounds him caught, They bit him every one, Hunters to bent him brought And dogs to kill set on.

LXIV

There was blowing of prize on many a proud horn, And hollo’ing from hunters that no hórns hàd; The bratches all bay’d, as bade them their masters That were huntsmen in chief of that toilsome chase. Then a wight who was wise in the woodcraft-lore, This beast to unlace right lustily gan. First he hews off his head and on high it sets, Then the backbone he breaks him in two; Draws out the bowels, bakes them on glede, And with bread therein blent his bratches rewards. Then he cuts out the brawn in broad bright shields, And has out the haslets, as e’en him beseems; But the sides all whole he seizes together, And on stang full strong stoutly he hangs them. So they have their swine, and swing away homeward; The boar’s head was borne the bold man before That had finish’d him i’ the ford, by force of his hand beset. Until he saw Gawain Long time it seemèd yet; He call’d, and then came fain That knight his fees to get.

LXV

When Sir Gawain he saw, full gay was the goodman, Loud was his speech, and his laughter merry; He sent for the ladies, assembled his meiny, Show’d them the shields, and shaped them the tale, How large and how long that boar was of limb, And how fiercely he fought when he fled to the wood. The knight full comely commended the deed, And the prowess prais’d that the lord had proved, For such a brawn of a beast, the blithe man said, Or such sides of a swine had he seen ne’er before. When they handled the huge head, full high was his praise, Yet the horror that he had, he utter’d no less. “Now, Gawain,” said the goodman, “this game is your own, By the covenant clear we accorded together.” “That is sooth,” the knight said, “and as surely, i’ faith, Shall I give you again all my gets in return.” Then clasp’d he his neck and courteously kiss’d him, And served him eftsoons with a second kiss after. “We are even,” quoth the athel, “this ev’ning once more Of all covenants we knit, since I cáme hìther, by law. “By Saint Giles,” the lord cries, “Ye are the best I know, Ye’ll be rich in a trice, Such profits if ye draw.”

LXVI

Then rais’d they on trestles the tables full tight, Cast on them cloths, and a clear light too On the walls they awak’d with the waxen torches By servitours set, that served in the hall. Múch noise of merriment made they anon On floor by the fire, and as free was the revel At supper and after, with songs full glorious, As Christmas-conduit, and carols of dance, All the mannerly mirth that man may tell of; And our lovesome liege at the lady’s side. So sweetly she behav’d, with so seemly a semblance And stol’n looks of love, that stalwart to please, That the wight was forwonder’d, and wroth with himself, Yet for his nurture so fine he would not refuse her, But courtesy show’d, how the case soe’er turn’d awry. They have their play in hall, In pleasure still they vie; Then to chamber is the call, And to chimney-side they hie.

LXVII

There drank they and toasted, and talk’d yet again Of renewing that note on New-Year’s eve; But Gawain craved leave to go on the morrow, For ’twas nigh to the term, when time was to travel; But the lord dissuaded, and besought him to stay, And said “As I’m true man (my troth will I plight) Thou shalt be at thy bourn thy business to settle With the New-Year’s light, long before prime. So thou mayst lie in thy loft and lodge at thine ease, While I hunt in this holt, and we’ll hold to our terms And our chaffer exchange, when from chase I return; For I have tried thee twice, and true have I found thee. Now ‘third time throw best’ bethink thee tomorrow, Máke we mérry while we máy, with a mind upon joy, For woe may we win whénso we like.” Thus graithly ’twas granted, and Gawain is stay’d; Drink blithely was brought, and to bed they hied them with light. Sir Gawain lies and sleeps Full still and soft all night; The lord his hunting keeps, Full early is he dight.

LXVIII

After mass a morsel he took with his men; Merry was the morning, his mount he bade bring; And the athels all, that the hunt should follow, For the riding were ready, array’d at the gates. Fair gleams it afield, for the frost clings, Fiery red on the wrack rises the sun And edges with crimson the clouds of the welkin. The hunters cast off by a hólt sìde, Rocks in the forest rung with their horns, Hounds fell on the scent where the fox them bode, Cross’d and recross’d, by craft of their wiles. A kennet gave cry and the huntsman call’d, And hounds came panting, all in a pack, Ran forth in a rabble, right on the trail⁠— And he frisk’d off before them; they found him anon, And, when they had sighted, pursued him full speed And bewrayèd poor Reynard with a wroth clamour. Then dodg’d he and doubled through dingle and spinney, Héld back, and hearken’d by hedges full oft; At last by a little ditch he leapt o’er a quickset, And stole out full stilly, astray by a copse⁠— He ween’d to have outwitted the hounds by his wiles, But was went, ere he wist, to óne of the stations Where three men athwart him threaten’d him at once, the gray! Again he swervèd forth, And started quick astray, And with all the woe on earth To the wood he went away.

LXIX

Then was it very heaven to hearken the hounds, When the mute all met him, mingled together: Such a sorrow at sight of him they set on his head As if clustering cliffs had clatter’d on heaps; Here he was hollo’ed when hunters him met, Or grimly was greeted with growling speech: There he was threaten’d and “thief” call’d often, And ay the teasers at his tail, that tarry he might not; Oft he was harried when he hied for the open, Oft he reel’d in again, Reynard so wily; And hunters ay sped them, splash’d and bespatter’d, In this manner by the mounts, till midmorn was past, While the athel at home lay wholesomely sleeping Within comely curtains, on that cóld mòrning. But the lady for Love let him not sleep, Never ’paired the purpose or pine in her heart, But in haste she was up and hied to his chamber, In a merry mantle, meet to the ground, That was furr’d full fine with fells well-trimm’d, And no hues on her head but the athel stones Twined on her tressure by twenties in clusters; Her thriv’n face so fair and her throat were unveil’d, Her breast and her back the bodice show’d bare. She comes within door, and closes it after, Waives up a window, and on the wíght càlls, And pleasantly rallies him with a ready word and cheer: “Ah! Sir, how mayst thou sleep On such a morning clear?” He was in dreamland deep But then he did her hear.

LXX

In a dree gloom of dream that dear man was mumbling, For a haunting thought weigh’d heavy on his heart, How destiny that day should deal him his weird When at the green chapel he must greet his man And his buffet abide, nor debate any more; But when that comely came, he recover’d his wits, Dropt out of dreamland, and dress’d him to speak. The lady so lovesome came laughing full sweet, Fell o’er his fair face and featly him kiss’d, And he welcom’d her worthily, with winsome cheer. He saw her so glorious and gaily attired, So faultless of feature, so fine of her hue, That a wellspring of joy warmèd his heart. Then with smiles and with mirth, they mooted of play, And their gossip together was gladness and bliss, full kind. They spoke no words but good, Much joy there did they find; Great peril between them stood, But Mary her knight did mind.

LXXI

For that princess of price so hotly him press’d To the limit of love, that at last him behoved Or consent to her suit or sullen refuse. He cared for his courtesy, lest caitiff he prove, And for his dámnation more, to be doomèd in sin, And be traitor untrue to the lord that him trusted. “God shield,” quoth the wight, “that sháll not befall.” With a lover’s laugh he put lightly aside All the speeches so fond that fell from her lips. Then sadly she said, “Ye are surely to blame, If ye love not her life that ye lie here beside, Woman in the world most wounded in heart, Unless ye have a leman that ye love very dear, And have plighted your troth with a pledge so true That ye list never loose it; I believe it as now, And I pray, on your troth, that truly ye tell me⁠— By all saints that there are conceal not the sooth, for guile.” The knight said “By Saint John,” And gently did he smile, “In faith I have right none, And none will have this while.”

LXXII

“ ’Tis a word,” said that wight, “that worst is of all, But soothly I’m answer’d, and sorely it wounds. Kiss me now comely, to care ere I go, I may but mourn among men, as maid that much loves.” She stoop’d with a sigh and seemlily kiss’d him, Then sever’d from his side, and said as she stood “Now, dear, at departing, do me this solace, Somewhat give me as a gift, thy glove it may be, That I máy thee remember, my mourning to lessen.” “Now, I wis,” said the wight, “I would I had here The liefest thing for thy love that in land I possess; Ye have deservèd in sooth, and seemlily oft, More reward by right than e’er I may reach; But to give you for love⁠—it little avail’d, It becomes not your worth to win at this time A glove for a guerdon, at Gawain’s hand: I am here on an errand in an únknown land, And carry no coffers, with presents of cost; It mislikes me, lady, I love you too dear; We must do as chance deals, so deem not amiss nor pine.” “Nay, Knight of high honoùrs,” Then said that lady fine, “Though I have nought of yours, Yet shall ye have of mine.”

LXXIII

She raught him a ring of rich red gold, With a blazing stone that stóod high in bezel, And blink’d as bright as the beams of the sun; Weet ye well, it was worth wealth unmeasured. But the knight refused it and said to that fair: “I wish no gifts for good, my gay, at this time, I have none to offer, and nought will I take.” Then pray’d she the prince and press’d him again, But he swore by his sooth, and still her denied, And she was sorry he forsook and said at the last: “If the ring ye refuse, for its semblance too rich, And ye would not so highly be holden to me, I shall give you my girdle; your gain is the less.” She took lightly a lace that loop’d round her body, Knit on her kirtle, under mantle so clear, A green silk girdle with pendants of gold, Fair gauds and golden gear’d at the edges. Then gaily again the girdle she offer’d, A trifle unworthy, woúld he but take it. But he would not (quoth he) anywise in the world Either gold or gersom, ere God him vouchsafe The chance to achieve that he had thére chòsen. “And therefore, I pray, may it not displease you, Let bé your business, to your boon shall I never agree. Full well my debt I know For your blithe courtesy, And whatever wind may blow Your servant shall I be.”

LXXIV

“Why leave ye this lace?” the lady replied; “For its simple semblance? Such it well seems; Look! ’tis but little, and less is its worth; But the virtues who knew that are knitted herein He’d appraise it perchance at a price very high; For the man that is girt with this girdle of green, So long as ’tis firmly fasten’d upon him, There’s no athel under Heaven can hew him to ground, He may not be slain, for sleight upon earth.” Then cast he with care, and it came to his heart, ’Twere a jewel for the jeopardy that was him adjudg’d, When he fared to the chapel his fortune to fetch; Might he shun to be slain, ’twere a shift full glorious! And he suffer’d her so, nor her suit hinder’d, And she proffer’d her prize and press’d it again. When he granted, she gave it with a goód wìll And besought him for her sake to discover it never, But leally it hide; and the liege answer’d “Never wight shall it weet, I wis, on this earth but we.” He thank’d her oft again, A grateful man was he: She kiss’d her knight, and then She had giv’n him kisses three.

LXXV

Then took she her leave and left him therewith, For more mirth of that man míght she not get. And the good Sir Gawain graith’d him anon, Rose and array’d him in a raiment noble, Laid by the lovelace, that the lady had raught him, And hid it with heed where eft he might find it So then to the chapel chose he the way, Approachèd a priest and privily pray’d him To lift up his life, and learn him how better His soul he should save when hence he should seek. Then he shrove him clean and show’d his misdeeds, Both the less and the more, and mercy besought, And absolution he ask’d of the priest; Who assoil’d him surely, and as sinless him made As if day of doom should have dawn’d on the morrow. Then he made him as merry among those dames With comely carols and all kinds of delight As he ne’er did ere that day, till the dark night came with bliss. Each man had courtesy Of him, and said “I wis, He ne’er was so merrie Since hither he came, ere this.”

LXXVI

Let him lie in that lee, (and love him betide!) While the lord is on laund, leading the chase. The fox he has kill’d that so far he follow’d; As he sprang o’er a spinney the shrew to espy, Where he heard the hounds that hustled him on, Reynard came running through a ruggèd clough, With the rabble in a race right at his heels; The wight was ware of him, and warily bode, Drew a bright brand, and drove at the beast, Who swerv’d from the sword and away would have swung, But a hound was át him or ever he might, And before the foal’s feet the pack on him fell And worried me that wily with a wróth clàmour. Then alighted the lord, and leaping to seize him, Rescued poor Reynard from ravening jaws, And held him o’erhead, hollo’ing loudly, While the barking pack full bravely him bay’d; The huntsmen hied them with horns a many, Sounding recall till they sighted the quarry. Soon as were come that company noble, All that bugle e’er bore, blew them together, And the others hollo’ed that no hórns hàd; ’Twas the merriest music that man ever heard, The rich dirge that was rais’d for Reynard his soul; All’s done! Hunters their hounds reward Fawning their heads, each one; And then they take Reynàrd And strip his coat anon.

LXXVII

Then hied they homeward, for even was come, Sounding bigly on their bugle horns. And the lord at last is alighted at home, Finds fire upon floor, and the fair knight beside it, Sir Gawain the good, who glad was withal, And had delight of his love those ladies among; He wore a blue mantle was meet to the ground, And a surcoat full seemly with soft fur lined, And his hood of the same hung on his shoulder; Border’d were both with ermine about. He meets me his man amidst of the floor, All gamesome he greets him and graciously speaks; “I am first to fulfil our forewards today, That we spoke, good speed, when we spared not of drink.” Then accolls he that knight and kisses him thrice As soundly and with semblance as sober as he might. “By heaven!” said the other, “ye had happy reward In winning of your gains, if ye gave but as good.” “Nay, the price!” quoth the prince, “what profits to ask? I have paid you complete the purchase I owed.” “Marry,” said the merry man, “mine is a poorer, For áll day I hunted and Í have nought gotten But this fox-skin foul, the fiend have the goods!⁠— That is far too poor to pay for the purchase That ye press on me here, the precious three kisses so good.” “Enough,” quoth Sir Gawain, “I thank you, by the rood:” And how the fox was slain He told him, as they stood.

LXXVIII

With mirth and with minstrelsy, with meats at their will, They made as merry as any men might Save they were doting mad or drunk had been else; What with laughing of ladies and lightsome jest, Gawain and the goodman, full glad were they both. And the meiny also many japes made, Till was come the season when sever they must, And to busk them to bed behoved them at last. Then lowly his leave of the lord took Gawain, Goodly him greeted and graciously thank’d; “For the happy sojourn I have had in this hall, And the honour of the high feast, the High King reward you! I make me your man, to your mind if it be, For needs múst, as ye know, I move on the morrow, And the promis’d squire ye shall send to escort me To the Green Chapel, as God will me suffer To dree on that day the doom of my weird.” “In God’s name,” said the goodman, “with a góod wìll Shall I áll perform, that ever I offer’d.” Then assigns he a servant to set him i’ the way, And conduct him by the downs (lest dole him befall), And the forest track, where through frith he should fare, to show. Gawain to thank was fain For the kindness he would do; Then of those ladies twain He took his leave also.

LXXIX

With kissings full sad he said his farewells, And a húndred heártfelt thánks he had for them too; And those lovesome ladies the like return’d him And with careful sighings beken’d him to Christ. He takes courteous leave of that kindly meiny; Each man that he met, he made him a thank For his seemly solace, and the boon service They had been busy about him at his bidding to do: And each servitour there was as sorry to sever As they had wonèd for ay with the worshipful Gawain. Then those lieges with light him led to his chamber And brought to his bed, to be at his rest. If he slept there soundly, say it I dare not, For he had much on the morrow to mind, if he would, in thought. Let him lie there at will, He is near the goal he sought; If ye’ll a while be still I shall tell you how he wrought.

LXXX

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.

LXXXI

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.

LXXXII

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.”

LXXXIII

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:

LXXXIV

“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.

LXXXV

“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.”

LXXXVI

“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.”

LXXXVII

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. Full 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.”

LXXXVIII

“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.”

LXXXIX

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.”

XC

“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.

XCI

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.

XCII

“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.

XCIII

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.”

XCIV

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.

XCV

“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.”

XCVI

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.”

XCVII

“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?”

XCVIII

“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.

XCIX

“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.

C

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.

CI

“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.

Embrace.

Apart.

Of noble birth.

Splendid.

Child, man.

Adj. , ready, setting out.

Verb, make ready, start.

Made of links.

Maid (as in “burd Helen”).

Short tunic (from Cappadocia).

A ring-dance.

Entertainment.

Verb, to endure.

Adj. , persistent, steadfast.

Love or love-token.

Intend, aim.

Doomed.

Covenant.

Noble disposition.

Knight or lady.

Treasure.

Battle-axe.

Live coal.

Mortification.

Ready.

Make ready, array.

Readily, properly.

Embrace, entwine.

Lucky omen, New Year’s gift.

Cover, wrap up.

Handle.

Natural character (out of kind = degenerate).

Play.

Utter: intr. , gallop.

Clearing in forest.

Gleam.

Face.

Bow.

Household, retainers.

Noun, note on horn.

Verb, speak, discuss.

Say “No” ( lit. not I).

Upset (dial, waut).

Excellence of price, noble.

Go fast (prick and prance).

Blast announcing capture.

The kill, set out after the hunt is over.

Offered ( p.t. of reach)

Brake, thicket.

Riding horse.

Cross, bless.

Fine silk.

Trusty.

Dip of the breast.

To question.

Handle.

Stern, severe.

Commotion.

P.p. , stretched.

To pay attention to.

Fierce.

Wire network on which headdress was built up.

Cut up.

Discourtesy, lack of courtly manners.

Spend, esp. with economy.

Fate.

Doughty (so “Wallace wight” in Scott).

Dwell.

Pass by (same word as “run”).

**Title.** *Sir Gawain and the Green Knight*

**Published by.** Nydus Foundation

**By.** Anonymous

**License.** Public domain in the United States. Believed public domain in life+70 jurisdictions, subject to local copyright term rules.

**Typography.** 152 × 229 mm, 125 pages.

**Report errata.** [codal.cc/nydus/sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight/issues/new](https://codal.cc/nydus/sir-gawain-and-the-green-knight/issues/new)