The following is an outline of the story of Gawayne's adventures, more or
less in the words of the writer himself:--
Arthur, the greatest of Britain's kings, holds the Christmas festival
at Camelot, surrounded by the celebrated knights of the Round Table,
noble lords, the most renowned under heaven, and ladies the loveliest
that ever had life (ll. 37-57). This noble company celebrate the New
Year by a religious service, by the bestowal of gifts, and the most
joyous mirth. Lords and ladies take their seats at the table--Queen
Guenever, the grey-eyed, gaily dressed, sits at the daïs, the high
table, or table of state, where too sat Gawayne and Ywain together with
other worthies of the Round Table (ll. 58-84, 107-115). Arthur, in mood
as joyful as a child, his blood young and his brain wild, declares that
he will not eat nor sit long at the table until some adventurous thing,
some uncouth tale, some great marvel, or some encounter of arms has
occurred to mark the return of the New Year (ll. 85-106).
The first course was announced with cracking of trumpets, with the
noise of nakers and noble pipes.
"Each two had dishes twelve,
Good beer and bright wine both."
Scarcely was the first course served when another noise than that of
music was heard. There rushes in at the hall-door a knight of gigantic
stature--the greatest on earth--in measure high. He was clothed
entirely in green, and rode upon a green foal (ll. 116-178). Fair wavy
hair fell about the shoulders of the Green Knight, and a great beard
like a bush hung upon his breast (ll. 179-202).
The knight carried no helmet, shield, or spear, but in one hand a holly
bough, and in the other an axe "huge and unmeet," the edge of which was
as keen as a sharp razor (ll. 203-220). Thus arrayed, the Green Knight
enters the hall without saluting any one. The first word that he
uttered was, "Where is the govenour of this gang? gladly would I see
him and with himself speak reason." To the knights he cast his eye,
looking for the most renowned. Much did the noble assembly marvel to
see a man and a horse of such a hue, green as the grass. Even greener
they seemed than green enamel on bright gold. Many marvels had they
seen, but none such as this. They were afraid to answer, but sat
stone-still in a dead silence, as if overpowered by sleep;
"Not all from fear, but some for courtesy" (ll. 221-249).
Then Arthur before the high daïs salutes the Green Knight, bids him
welcome, and entreats him to stay awhile at his Court. The knight says
that his errand is not to abide in any dwelling, but to seek the most
valiant of the heroes of the Round Table that he may put his courage to
the proof, and thus satisfy himself as to the fame of Arthur's court.
"I come," he says, "in peace, as ye may see by this branch that I bear
here. Had I come with hostile intentions, I should not have left my
hauberk, helmet, shield, sharp spear, and other weapons behind me. But
because I desire no war, 'my weeds are softer.' If thou be so bold as
all men say, thou wilt grant me the request I am about to make." "Sir
courteous knight," replies Arthur, "if thou cravest battle only, here
failest thou not to fight." "Nay," says the Green Knight, "I seek no
fighting. Here about on this bench are only beardless children. Were I
arrayed in arms on a high steed no man here would be a match for me
(ll. 250-282). But it is now Christmas time, and this is the New Year,
and I see around me many brave ones;--if any be so bold in his blood
that dare strike a stroke for another, I shall give him this rich axe
to do with it whatever he pleases. I shall abide the first blow just as
I sit, and will stand him a stroke, stiff on this floor, provided that
I deal him another in return.
And yet give I him respite,
A twelvemonth and a day;
Now haste and let see tite (soon)
Dare any here-in ought say.'"
If he astounded them at first, much more so did he after this speech,
and fear held them all silent. The knight, righting himself in his
saddle, rolls fiercely his red eyes about, bends his bristly green
brows, and strokes his beard awaiting a reply. But finding none that
would carp with him, he exclaims, "What! is this Arthur's house, the
fame of which has spread through so many realms? Forsooth, the renown
of the Round Table is overturned by the word of one man's speech, for
all tremble for dread without a blow being struck!" (ll. 283-313). With
this he laughed so loud that Arthur blushed for very shame, and waxed
as wroth as the wind. "I know no man," he says, "that is aghast at thy
great words. Give me now thy axe and I will grant thee thy request!"
Arthur seizes the axe, grasps the handle, and sternly brandishes it
about, while the Green Knight, with a stern cheer and a dry
countenance, stroking his beard and drawing down his coat, awaits the
blow (ll. 314-335). Sir Gawayne, the nephew of the king, beseeches his
uncle to let him undertake the encounter; and, at the earnest entreaty
of his nobles, Arthur consents "to give Gawayne the game" (ll.
336-365).
Sir Gawayne then takes possession of the axe, but, before the blow is
dealt, the Green Knight asks the name of his opponent. "In good faith,"
answers the good knight, "Gawayne I am called, that bids thee to this
buffet, whatever may befall after, and at this time twelvemonth will
take from thee another, with whatever weapon thou wilt, and with no
wight else alive." "By Gog," quoth the Green Knight, "it pleases me
well that I shall receive at thy fist that which I have sought
here--moreover thou hast truly rehearsed the terms of the
covenant,--but thou shalt first pledge me thy word that thou wilt seek
me thyself, wheresoever on earth thou believest I may be found, and
fetch thee such wages as thou dealest me to-day before this company of
doughty ones." "Where should I seek thee?" replies Gawayne, "where is
thy place? I know not thee, thy court, or thy name. I wot not where
thou dwellest, but teach me thereto, tell me how thou art called, and I
shall endeavour to find thee,--and that I swear thee for truth and by
my sure troth." "That is enough in New Year," says the groom in green,
"if I tell thee when I have received the tap. When thou hast smitten
me, then smartly I will teach thee of my house, my home, and my own
name, so that thou mayest follow my track and fulfil the covenant
between us. If I spend no speech, then speedest thou the better, for
then mayest thou remain in thy own land and seek no further; but cease
thy talking[1] (ll. 366-412). Take now thy grim tool to thee and let us
see how thou knockest." "Gladly, sir, for sooth," quoth Gawayne, and
his axe he brandishes.
[Footnote 1: This, I think, is the true explanation of slokes.]
The Green Knight adjusts himself on the ground, bends slightly his
head, lays his long lovely locks over his crown, and lays bare his neck
for the blow. Gawayne then gripped the axe, and, raising it on high,
let it fall quickly upon the knight's neck and severed the head from
the body. The fair head fell from the neck to the earth, and many
turned it aside with their feet as it rolled forth. The blood burst
from the body, yet the knight never faltered nor fell; but boldly he
started forth on stiff shanks and fiercely rushed forward, seized his
head, and lifted it up quickly. Then he runs to his horse, the bridle
he catches, steps into his stirrups and strides aloft. His head by the
hair he holds in his hands, and sits as firmly in his saddle as if no
mishap had ailed him, though headless he was (ll. 413-439). He turned
his ugly trunk about--that ugly body that bled,--and holding the head
in his hand, he directed the face toward the "dearest on the dais." The
head lifted up its eyelids and looked abroad, and thus much spoke with
its mouth as ye may now hear:
"Loke, Gawayne, thou be prompt to go as thou hast promised, and seek
till thou find me according to thy promise made in the hearing of these
knights. Get thee to the Green Chapel, I charge thee, to fetch such a
dint as thou hast dealt, to be returned on New Year's morn. As the
Knight of the Green Chapel I am known to many, wherefore if thou
seekest thou canst not fail to find me. Therefore come, or recreant be
called." With a fierce start the reins he turns, rushes out of the
hall-door, his head in his hand, so that the fire of the flint flew
from the hoofs of his foal. To what kingdom he belonged knew none
there, nor knew they from whence he had come. What then?
"The king and Gawayne there
At that green (one) they laugh and grin."
Though Arthur wondered much at the marvel, he let no one see that he
was at all troubled about it, but full loudly thus spake to his comely
queen with courteous speech:
"Dear dame, to-day be never dismayed, well happens such craft at
Christmas time. I may now proceed to meat, for I cannot deny that I
have witnessed a wondrous adventure this day" (ll. 440-475).
He looked upon Sir Gawayne and said, "Now, sir, hang up thine axe, for
enough has it hewn." So the weapon was hung up on high that all might
look upon it, and "by true title thereof tell the wonder." Then all the
knights hastened to their seats at the table, so did the king and our
good knight, and they were there served with all dainties, "with all
manner of meat and minstrelsy."
Though words were wanting when they first to seat went, now are their
hands full of stern work, and the marvel affords them good subject for
conversation. But a year passes full quickly and never returns,--the
beginning is seldom like the end; wherefore this Christmas passed away
and the year after, and each season in turn followed after another (ll.
476-520). Thus winter winds round again, and then Gawayne thinks of his
wearisome journey (ll. 521-535). On All-hallows day Arthur entertains
right nobly the lords and ladies of his court in honour of his nephew,
for whom all courteous knights and lovely ladies were in great grief.
Nevertheless they spoke only of mirth, and, though joyless themselves,
made many a joke to cheer the good Sir Gawayne (ll. 536-565). Early on
the morrow Sir Gawayne, with great ceremony, is arrayed in his armour
(ll. 566-589), and thus completely equipped for his adventure he first
hears mass, and afterwards takes leave of Arthur, the knights of the
Round Table, and the lords and ladies of the court, who kiss him and
commend him to Christ. He bids them all good day, as he thought, for
evermore (ll. 590-669);
"Very much was the warm water that poured from eyes that day."
Now rides our knight through the realms of England with no companion
but his foal, and no one to hold converse with save God alone. From
Camelot, in Somersetshire, he proceeds through Gloucestershire and the
adjoining counties into Montgomeryshire, and thence through North Wales
to Holyhead, adjoining the Isle of Anglesea (ll. 670-700), from which
he passes into the very narrow peninsula of Wirral, in Cheshire, where
dwelt but few that loved God or man. Gawayne enquires after the Green
Knight of the Green Chapel, but all the inhabitants declare that they
have never seen "any man of such hues of green."
The knight thence pursues his journey by strange paths, over hill and
moor, encountering on his way not only serpents, wolves, bulls, bears,
and boars, but wood satyrs and giants. But worse than all those,
however, was the sharp winter, "when the cold clear water shed from the
clouds, and froze ere it might fall to the earth. Nearly slain with the
sleet he slept in his armour, more nights than enough, in naked rocks"
(ll. 701-729).
Thus in peril and plight the knight travels on until Christmas-eve, and
to Mary he makes his moan that she may direct him to some abode. On the
morn he arrives at an immense forest, wondrously wild, surrounded by
high hills on every side, where he found hoary oaks full huge, a
hundred together. The hazel and the hawthorn intermingled were all
overgrown with moss, and upon their boughs sat many sad birds that
piteously piped for pain of the cold. Gawayne besought the Lord and
Mary to guide him to some habitation where he might hear mass (ll.
730-762). Scarcely had he crossed himself thrice, when he perceived a
dwelling in the wood set upon a hill. It was the loveliest castle he
had ever beheld. It was pitched on a prairie, with a park all about it,
enclosing many a tree for more than two miles. It shone as the sun
through the bright oaks (ll. 763-772).
Gawayne urges on his steed Gringolet, and finds himself at the "chief
gate." He called aloud, and soon there appeared a "porter" on the wall,
who demanded his errand.
"Good sir," quoth Gawayne, "wouldst thou go to the high lord of this
house, and crave a lodging for me?"
"Yea, by Peter!" replied the porter, "well I know that thou art welcome
to dwell here as long as thou likest."
The drawbridge is soon let down, and the gates opened wide to receive
the knight. Many noble ones hasten to bid him welcome (ll. 773-825).
They take away his helmet, sword, and shield, and many a proud one
presses forward to do him honour. They bring him into the hall, where a
fire was brightly burning upon the hearth. Then the lord of the land[1]
comes from his chamber and welcomes Sir Gawayne, telling him that he is
to consider the place as his own. Our knight is next conducted to a
bright bower, where was noble bedding--curtains of pure silk, with
golden hems, and Tarsic tapestries upon the walls and the floors (ll.
826-859). Here the knight doffed his armour and put on rich robes,
which so well became him, that all declared that a more comely knight
Christ had never made (ll. 860-883).
[Footnote 1: Gawayne is now in the castle of the Green Knight, who,
divested of his elvish or supernatural character, appears to our
knight merely as a bold one with a beaver-hued beard.]
A table is soon raised, and Gawayne, having washed, proceeds to meat.
Many dishes are set before him--"sews" of various kinds, fish of all
kinds, some baked in bread, others broiled on the embers, some boiled,
and others seasoned with spices. The knight expresses himself well
pleased, and calls it a most noble and princely feast.
After dinner, in reply to numerous questions, he tells his host that he
is Gawayne, one of the Knights of the Round Table. When this was made
known great was the joy in the hall. Each one said softly to his
companion, "Now we shall see courteous behaviour and learn the terms of
noble discourse, since we have amongst us 'that fine father of
nurture.' Truly God has highly favoured us in sending us such a noble
guest as Sir Gawayne" (ll. 884-927). At the end of the Christmas
festival Gawayne desires to take his departure from the castle, but his
host persuades him to stay, promising to direct him to the Green Chapel
(about two miles from the castle), that he may be there by the
appointed time (ll. 1029-1082).
A covenant is made between them, the terms of which were that the lord
of the castle should go out early to the chase, that Gawayne meanwhile
should lie in his loft at his ease, then rise at his usual hour, and
afterwards sit at table with his hostess, and that at the end of the
day they should make an exchange of whatever they might obtain in the
interim. "Whatever I win in the wood," says the lord, "shall be yours,
and what thou gettest shall be mine" (ll. 1083-1125).
Full early before daybreak the folk uprise, saddle their horses, and
truss their mails. The noble lord of the land, arrayed for riding, eats
hastily a sop, and having heard mass, proceeds with a hundred hunters
to hunt the wild deer (ll. 1126-1177).
All this time Gawayne lies in his gay bed. His nap is disturbed by a
little noise at the door, which is softly opened. He heaves up his head
out of the clothes, and, peeping through the curtains, beholds a most
lovely lady (the wife of his host). She came towards the bed, and the
knight laid himself down quickly, pretending to be asleep. The lady
stole to the bed, cast up the curtains, crept within, sat her softly on
the bed-side, and waited some time till the knight should awake. After
lurking awhile under the clothes considering what it all meant, Gawayne
unlocked his eyelids, and put on a look of surprise, at the same time
making the sign of the cross, as if afraid of some hidden danger (ll.
1178-1207). "Good morrow, sir," said that fair lady, "ye are a careless
sleeper to let one enter thus. I shall bind you in your bed, of that be
ye sure." "Good morrow," quoth Gawayne, "I shall act according to your
will with great pleasure, but permit me to rise that I may the more
comfortably converse with you." "Nay, beau sir," said that sweet one,
"ye shall not rise from your bed, for since I have caught my knight I
shall hold talk with him. I ween well that ye are Sir Gawayne that all
the world worships, whose honour and courtesy are so greatly praised.
Now ye are here, and we are alone (my lord and his men being afar off,
other men, too, are in bed, so are my maidens), and the door is safely
closed, I shall use my time well while it lasts. Ye are welcome to my
person to do with it as ye please, and I will be your servant" (ll.
1208-1240).
Gawayne behaves most discreetly, for the remembrance of his forthcoming
adventure at the Green Chapel prevents him from thinking of love (ll.
1205-1289). At last the lady takes leave of the knight by catching him
in her arms and kissing him (ll. 1290-1307). The day passes away
merrily, and at dusk the Lord of the castle returns from the chase. He
presents the venison to Gawayne according to the previous covenant
between them. Our knight gives his host a kiss as the only piece of
good fortune that had fallen to him during the day. "It is good," says
the other, "and would be much better if ye would tell me where ye won
such bliss" (ll. 1308-1394). "That was not in our covenant," replies
Gawayne, "so try me no more." After much laughing on both sides they
proceed to supper, and afterwards, while the choice wine is being
carried round, Gawayne and his host renew their agreement. Late at
night they take leave of each other and hasten to their beds. "By the
time that the cock had crowed and cackled thrice" the lord was up, and
after "meat and mass" were over the hunters make for the woods, where
they give chase to a wild boar who had grown old and mischievous (ll.
1395-1467).
While the sportsmen are hunting this "wild swine" our lovely knight
lies in his bed. He is not forgotten by the lady, who pays him an early
visit, seeking to make further trial of his virtues. She sits softly by
his side and tells him that he has forgotten what she taught him the
day before (ll. 1468-1486). "I taught you of kissing," says she; "that
becomes every courteous knight." Gawayne says that he must not take
that which is forbidden him. The lady replies that he is strong enough
to enforce his own wishes. Our knight answers that every gift not given
with a good will is worthless. His fair visitor then enquires how it is
that he who is so skilled in the true sport of love and so renowned a
knight, has never talked to her of love (ll. 1487-1524). "You ought,"
she says, "to show and teach a young thing like me some tokens of
true-love's crafts; I come hither and sit here alone to learn of you
some game; do teach me of your wit while my lord is from home." Gawayne
replies that he cannot undertake the task of expounding true-love and
tales of arms to one who has far more wisdom than he possesses. Thus
did our knight avoid all appearance of evil, though sorely pressed to
do what was wrong (ll. 1525-1552). The lady, having bestowed two kisses
upon Sir Gawayne, takes her leave of him (ll. 1553-1557).
At the end of the day the lord of the castle returns home with the
shields and head of the wild boar. He shows them to his guest, who
declares that "such a brawn of a beast, nor such sides of a swine," he
never before has seen. Gawayne takes possession of the spoil according
to covenant, and in return he bestows two kisses upon his host, who
declares that his guest has indeed been rich with "such chaffer" (ll.
1558-1647).
After much persuasion, Gawayne consents to stop at the castle another
day (ll. 1648-1685). Early on the morrow the lord and his men hasten to
the woods, and come upon the track of a fox, the hunting of which
affords them plenty of employment and sport (ll. 1686-1730). Meanwhile
our good knight sleeps soundly within his comely curtains. He is again
visited by the lady of the castle. So gaily was she attired, and so
"faultless of her features," that great joy warmed the heart of Sir
Gawayne. With soft and pleasant smiles "they smite into mirth," and are
soon engaged in conversation. Had not Mary thought of her knight, he
would have been in great peril (ll. 1731-1769). So sorely does the fair
one press him with her love, that he fears lest he should become a
traitor to his host. The lady enquires whether he has a mistress to
whom he has plighted his troth. The knight swears by St John that he
neither has nor desires one. This answer causes the dame to sigh for
sorrow, and telling him that she must depart, she asks for some gift,
if it were only a glove, by which she might "think on the knight and
lessen her grief" (ll. 1770-1800). Gawayne assures her that he has
nothing worthy of her acceptance; that he is on an "uncouth errand,"
and therefore has "no men with no mails containing precious things,"
for which he is truly sorry.