Notes: The following is my loose retelling of the 14th century alliterative Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, the narrative of which was reworked by me under the influence of J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord Dunsany, and G.R.R. Martin in order to make it coherent with another medieval poem of the Gawain cycle, The Marriage of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, so to fictitiously restore what scholars J.R. Hulbert and Jessie Weston reconstructed to have been the original Gawain narrative, i.e. a Fairy Mistress story.
The journey of Sir Gawain is largely a product of my own invention, although many of the incidents occurring are based on the idea to expand the short narrative proposed in the Second Fitt of the 14th century poem, collocating it in a fictitious reconstruction of a possible medieval retelling of the original legend, still retaining a closer picture of what we may hypothesize to have been Post-Roman Britain in the fifth century. All roads, ways, and streets cited by name are (were) real, and all place-names are actual, or possible, modernized versions of original Welsh forms of real place-names, although the Modern English equivalent is not always given, nor is (even when extant and known) the Roman.
* * *
Outside the West Gate, two main routes departed: there was the Portway, heading south-west-ward to Durngueir, the Roman Durnovaria, through Caer Gradawc, and then the Ermin Way, leading to Caer Cleu in the North-West through Caer Ceirien, which men now call Cirencester. Gawain could not explain why, but somehow he had no doubts concerning the road to take. As the first, timid rays of the rising sun began to light the landscape from behind him, he set his horse on the North-West track, following the Ermin Way. Soon the road entered the Frith woods, wherein he could spot the occasional pixie hiding in the undergrowth under some bush or behind mushrooms. The knight was wise enough not to bother them, and they repaid the courtesy not disturbing him either. They loved everything shiny, and could become a serious nuisance if they decided to steal some armour-part. When he emerged from the woods, the sun had come up, and he only had to ride a couple more miles before getting to the bridge over river Kennet, called Pont Goreu after some hero of the past. A mounted knight was guarding the access to the bridge, and Gawain recognized him from his arms.
“Sir Yvain, what a pleasure to meet you. What are you doing on this bridge?”
“Good morning, Sir Gawain. I stand watch against the Jolly Company of Goch Mochyn.”
“I see, but would you be so kind as to explain who these people are?”
“Of course, good Sir. But, you know, that is the problem: they could be anyone. For smoothly their leader, Goch Mochyn the Hobgoblin, not only commands twelve people of his kind, who raid men’s villages on nights of full moon in the shape of red pigs, but he also gives them twelve enchanted pig caps, which, once put on a man’s head, turn them into pigs and members of their brigade until they are killed, the cap is removed, or somebody disenchants them.”
“That sounds like trouble, indeed. You cannot kill the hobgoblins, lest you kill some good peasant.”
“Precisely my point. But I am going to prevail all the same,” Yvain boasted, flaunting a large smile.
“How so?” Gawain inquired.
“Because last moon I catched this one,” he replied, showing Gawain one of the pig caps, “right before it fell over a farmer’s head”.
Yvain was very proud of the achievement and did nothing to conceal it. “So, this very night , the first of the next full moon, I am going to join their party, and I will not lose my mind by virtue of this,” he said, holding a green gemstone in his other hand. “The Emerald of Immunity. Its magical properties will let me remain human, but at the same time I will be able to tell which of the red pigs is a man, and which a hobgoblin, so that I can slay all the latter,” the knight concluded, evidently satisfied with his plan.
Gawain nodded. “It sounds fireproof. Then again, what does it all have to do with standing guard on Pont Goreu, if you do not mind my asking?”
“You will not believe it, Sir Gawain, but those hobgoblin rascals had the impudence to make their lair in the very Frith woods you are coming out of.”
“I was wondering what was wrong with the pixies there. Never seen so many of them at once,” Gawain pointed out. “Blame it on Goch Mochyn and his band, yes. They must have thought nobody would suspect they dared hiding under Camelot’s nose.”
“Too bad for them there is a hound here who caught their scent all the same.”
“Considering it’s pigs we’re talking about, I’d rather say stench,” Yvain precised. “Anyway, I’m standing watch here until they show their ugly faces, then I will wear the cap and hide in their midst until it is time to strike.”
“I wish you all the best with your fighting, Sir Yvain.”
“And you with your Green Knight, Sir Gawain,” the other replied, making way for his interlocutor’s passage.
After the bridge, the Ermin Way roughly followed the river course of the Kennet upwards on the northern banks for about five more miles, until it crossed the Sule Road in a village called Draen.
Gawain had been often to Draen, but the place was nothing like he recalled. Upon asking the locals, he learnt how nearly the entire village had to be rebuilt after the Jolly Company of Goch Mochyn had conducted their raid two moons earlier, breaking down wooden walls, setting fire to the reserves they had not spoiled, and abducting three young men and two girls, who were reported to had been turned into red pigs like the rest of them.
“One of the people they took was my older brother”, a young girl complained.
“Valiant Sir Yvain is on their trail”, Gawain replied, trying his best to be reassuring. “If your brother is alive, he is going to come home soon.”
There was no point not being honest, but apparently the girl did not appreciate his frankness, for she burst into tears.
“I’m sorry…” he added, pointlessly.
Probably, months of retreat, prayer and meditation had him lose his touch with people, but there was little he could do either way. He left Draen in the middle of the afternoon and followed the Ermin Way for about another dozen miles before making camp, as the sun was about to set. The road had taken him halfway up the hills over the Cig Oen Valley, and, even though it would have been still better from the top, he had a nice time watching the sunset beyond the hills as he consumed a humble meal. He must not be too far from Saith Crugiau, the Seven Barrows of the Fairy Folk, though he would have to go down west instead of up north-west to get there, he reflected briefly, almost casually, before falling into sleep.
Gawain was woken up by laughter after what seemed like an eternity. It was night, he was naked, he could not see his horse, and he was standing on a mound, surrounded by a thousand tiny, glittering, tinkering people of the Wee Folk. He shouted at them, furious, even forgetting how tact is essential when dealing with their kind: “What have you done to me? Where is Gringolet? And where is my stuff?”
A gnome came forward. “Those things, like your own body, were too heavy to carry here, in the Land of Dreams. So, you only brought your dream body.”
“So, you’re telling me I’m still dreaming? And when am I going to get up?”
“Tomorrow, but it’s not going to be the day you think.”
“And how so? Who are you, anyway?”
“I am Glaxamarne the Gnome, Steward of Elfland in the absence of King Oberon or any heir. As I was saying, we have not stolen your body, nor your horse and earthly goods. However, you might still think that we stole something from you, something way more precious, especially given your present condition.”
“What is that, gnome?”
“Time. A month, to be precise. It’s the last few days of October.”
“What? Why would you do that? I’m working in your best interest.”
“We have no doubt about it. But the laws of our land are very strict, and we exacted your time in compensation for what you took from us. Consider yourself lucky, because you carry one of the greatest treasures, and all you had to do in order to be allowed to keep it was sleeping for a month!”
“You mean… the mirror Merlin left for me?” But, as Gawain said so, he found himself holding the mirror in his hand, still naked, a few steps from his horse and his stuff, left under the tree in the shade of which he had made camp a month earlier. It was about midday, judging from the sun, and a couple farmers walking upon the road laughed at him, but he did not care. He had already wasted too much time, because of that stupid gnome, so he made himself ready and dressed up in his armour in a rush, mounted Gringolet, and resumed the Ermin Way.
Gawain could not even make it to Caer Ceirien that day before the sun fell, and it was little consolation to have reached the top of the hills, as wolf howls kept resounding closer and closer, and it even started raining. He decided he was better off fighting there on the top, since there was no way to avoid being surrounded anyway, but he would have the higher ground, and Gringolet would be able to help. As the first wolf appeared, though, the red glow in its eyes revealed the confirmation of Gawain’s fears: those were no common wolves, but wargs, demonic wolves possessed by damned souls. He unsheathed his sword Galatine as he recited an Ave, and the sword started glowing white, which for a moment halted the warg. Then again, other two wargs approached from other sides, and, as all three of them threw themselves at him, the best Gawain could do was rotating the sword around him as he dodged to avoid claws, in a maneuver which somehow brought him, unscathed, to behead two of the beasts. The third was kicked by Gringolet in the face and thrown against a tree, senseless. Gawain collected three branches from under the tree and, after beheading the remaining warg, impaled their heads on them and stuck them in the ground as a warning. The howls resounded ever more distant until they ceased.
The next day, Gawain descended into Caer Ceirien, and many people praised him for the three warg-heads he had appended to his saddle. He needed time there to get information, so he bought a room at the Cock and Crow’s Inn and started by asking the innkeeper whether he had heard anything about a Green Knight or a Green Chapel. The innkeeper was only the first of a seemingly endless list of people who either knew nothing or hypothesized someone else might know, but at the end of the day no information was gained and Gawain wondered whether he should use the Mirror again, nevermind being thereafter left with only one use, for next morning he would have to choose between continuing to follow the Ermin Way north-west-ward to Caer Cleu or taking the Fosse Way north-east-ward to Lindon through Caer Clai and Caer Leir. It was already something to have discarded the south-western route, for otherwise he might also have had to ponder taking the Fosse Way in the opposite direction, to Sule, or even all the way to Caerwysg. Eventually he thought he could at least get to Caer Cleu before taking any other choice, and he enjoyed a night of sound sleep.
Leaving Caer Ceirien, the Ermin Way proceeded straight but for a few slight turns every now and then, at some point making a slight adjustment northwards, by this little change avoiding very cleverly a succession of deep valleys running to the west, thus keeping upon high ground instead. Past these, a couple more slight alignments paved the way to Caer Cleu, wherein he would get through the north gate. However, as Gawain was already in sight of the city in the distance, an arrow from above caught him in his left hamstring, right in the intersection of his jambs. He screamed out of pain, raising his glance to the sky, and, as he drew his bow with a silver arrow, he saw a fat figure riding a wyvern. Without thinking twice, he shot four silver arrows, one after the other: one missed, another passed through the creature’s left wing, and the other two brought the flying beast down a dozen paces from him, while its rider’s bow fell even farther off. As he got closer to his foes, Gawain determined the outcome of the other two arrows: one had pierced the wyvern’s throat from below, the other had gotten into the stomach of its rider, who had a red pig’s head and was crying for pain.
“Let me guess”, Gawain teased him, a fifth arrow aimed at his skull. “Goch Mochyn, right? Since you’re left alone, I take it Sir Yvain must have done a good job taking care of your Jolly Company.”
The other sobbed. “I hate you Knights of the Round Table! You spoil all the fun! I’ll kill all of you!” he yelled, throwing a knife at Gawain.
However, since a silver arrow had pierced the hobgoblin’s brain before he finished his launch, the knife fell on the grass between Gawain and him. So, after extracting the arrow from his hamstring and tending the wound as he could, the knight entered Caer Cleu limping and bleeding from his leg, but flaunting on his horse’s back the severed heads of three wargs, a wyvern’s, and an arrow-pierced, piggish hobgoblin’s.
Having made such a triumphal entrance in the city, Gawain was immediately brought to the castle infirmary to have the healers take care of his wound. He kept repeating they should find a way to tend to the wound quickly, as he was on an urgent quest and could not waste his time, but eventually they only agreed to let him go on the fourth of November, and just as an exception, because he recovered so quickly. The Lord of Caer Cleu, a tall, dark-haired nobleman called Erles, was waiting to meet him, so Gawain presented himself at court and told his story to his host, only omitting what concerned the Elven Princess and the Mirror of Saerin. The Lord listened with great interest and admiration, without interrupting, only eventually to reply: “This must be the most marvelous tale I have heard in a great while! It might be you are on the right track, after all, as I recall a very similar happening in a legend from Iwerddon I was told as a kid: the Irish hero Cuchulin beheaded a churl after his request, but he had promised to come back after a year to be himself beheaded by the same churl. Out of his bravery, or madness (who can tell the difference?), Cuchulin did come back, and the churl remarked that all the champions of Iwerddon but him had beheaded the churl but never showed up to honour the other side of the agreement. Therefore, he was so pleased with Cuchulin that he spared him and pronounced him the bravest champion of Iwerddon. Listen to me: you should head to the coast, and sail to Iwerddon.”
Gawain thanked Lord Erles, but he added he would like to gather more information before leaving to Iwerddon, the island that the Romans named Hibernia, and that men now call Eire. The nobleman said he could stay as long as he pleased, but he would be better off not trusting the information gathered during the Feast of the Dead, which would last until the tenth of November.
Gawain spent three days at court in Caer Cleu courteously chatting with almost everybody in the castle, then visited the city as well, talking with commoners. Among all sorts of news and rumours, he could ascertain Sir Yvain had vanquished the Jolly Company as he thought, and he also heard that apparently there used to be a powerful wizard in disguise, named Wyrfynd, in Caer Cleu, one that had some mysterious connection with the druids of Lluddynig southwest of the city, but he was missing since the summer before the last. Furthermore, even though nobody had seen the Green Knight, or knew where the Green Chapel was, many people reported having met, or heard about, either or both a Red Knight and a Blue Knight, who were apparently rivals in the same quest of retrieving a magical item of sorts. They had last been seen at Mihangel Din west of Caer Cleu, apparently dueling over the honour to be the first to receive the blessing of the local bishop. The upsetting rumours, however, were those affirming a wyrm was attacking settlements in the north, which were already busy defending their people from ogres and outlaws. On the tenth day of the month, then, Gawain met an ironsmith who claimed he knew where the Black Knight was hiding, a couple days’s ride off the city north-east-ward, but, after following him for five days all the way into a barn in the far wilderness, Gawain was taken by ambush by the smith’s companions, and had to kill them all. Upon interrogation, aided by the threat of his Galatine, the man confessed having been hired by the Black Knight, who apparently was also the mastermind behind other incidents on Gawain’s journey, as the smith complained he would be devoured by the Knight’s wargs if he reported his failure. Gawain remarked how that was a possibility, but running away would be certain death when his master found him, so he should rather take Gawain’s message to the Black Knight, in only five words: “I am coming for you”. Then, he let the man go, and returned to Caer Cleu, this time bearing only the heads of two common wolves and a bear. It was late afternoon on the twentieth, only a little longer than a month before Christmas, and days were getting shorter and shorter.
Later, back into his room at court, Gawain resolved to use the magical mirror again. He took it in his hand, rubbed the glass, blinked thrice, and pronounced the enchanted word: “Hilly-silly-billy-gangandharbulus”.
Immediately he found himself staring at Faebrielle, his elven love, but this time he found her under a cloudy sky, though veined in red-pink hues, as though a storm was coming at sunset.
“We have little time, my love”, she said, visibly troubled. “The Black Knight is gaining power, as your chances to succeed grow lesser and lesser with each day passing. You have only two questions this time, and next time one. Think well of what you ask, but be quick!” she urged him.
He had no doubts about the first question. “Where do I find the Green Chapel?”
“It’s in Gogledd Cymru, love. Forgive me, but I cannot be more specific.”
Gawain was relieved, because Gogledd Cymru, which in our language is called Northern Wales, was not that far.
“It’s a great disclaimer, love, for I might have even embarked to Iwerddon. Thanks.” She smiled, and upon seeing her he felt an echo of the same joy he had experienced all the other times with her.
“Now think well about your second question, love”, Faebrielle invited him.
There was something which could greatly help his morale, he recalled. A question he had often been wondering about.
“Did Our Heavenly Lady send you, Faebrielle, my love?”
“Indeed, Gawain, my love, Our Lord is the King of Kings, so the King of the King of Elfland too, my own King as He is yours, and equally Our Heavenly Queen is the Queen of Queens, so the Queen of the Queen of Elfland too, my own Queen as She is yours. You chose wisely in asking for this clarification, for now I extend Her blessing to you”, she said, raising the palm of her hand, and Gawain felt bliss beyond bliss, and a flame was lit within his heart which nothing, he thought, could quench until he succeeded in his quest.