A Vision of Red and Green
Carol of the Green Knight
By Greg Patrick
“And wonder, dread and war have lingered in that land
where loss and love in turn have held the upper hand.”
― Simon Armitage, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Arthur of House Pendragon was hailed by the bards as the Summer King. He was the visionary who united feuding knights of a once war-torn realm in brotherhood at a round table. Lords and their knights cast aside their quarrels and swore their fealty, and the young king smiled benevolently. Instead of the pursuit of personal ambitions Arthur inspired his knights with a message of personal sacrifice and chivalry. Yet that brightness that shone down on his realm began to fade as the darker impulses of restless knights began to creep back in.
The leaves of spring turned blood red then fell. The long nights closed in on Camelot and in those shadows of discontent and intrigue began to fester. The king’s smile never faltered even as the discontent plotted. Though Arthur remained naive and oblivious the wise women of the forest read the portents and rose to the summer king's aid before Camelot fell.
Dead Queen's Moor. Northern Britain
Sir Gawain's deep sigh steamed in the chill air as he drew reign upon a stretch of desolate moor. His heart sank as he saw that the green knight was punctual. The enigmatic giant stood in grim silence leaning on his massive axe. It seemed a lonely place to die Gawain lamented so far from Camelot. The light of dawn filtering through the ruin's shattered stained glass illuminated Gawain's face in distorted radiance as he doffed his dragon-crested helm.
"Well met Sir Gawain," a deep voice welcomed him.
"And how shall I address thee?" Gawain asked ironically feeling like he was talking to an old friend.
"I am sure you could think of several names that would sully the lips of an anointed knight," the Green Knight grunted.
"So simply just simply Green Knight?" Gawain asked.
"Come paladin let us dispense with pleasantries and formalities," the Green Knight replied dismissively.
It did seem an odd time for small talk Gawain conceded. Yet it was apparent that the Green Knight's trademark arrogance and sardonic mirth had somehow turned to a more brooding tone and demeanour. There was almost a hint of sadness. It was so different from the arrogance and laughter that literally shook the walls of King Arthur's throne room. Gawain too had changed from the impetuous knight who alone of all the round table once rose to the Green Knight’s challenge. In the aftermath of the Green Knight’s head rolling to the feet of King Arthur by Gawain’s hand, the once cheery knight became more aloof from the roundtable. The once bright eyes were now distant and haunted. The infectious cheer gone.
"If you have come to fulfil your vow then I bid you kneel Sir Gawain,"
The Green Knight Beckoned.
The Green Knight raised his great axe flexing his flexing his brawny arms in anticipation of the swing. Gawain looked with morbid curiosity at The Green Knight's strange armour. What seemed at first glance to be green iron scales proved to be a living armour of vibrant thorned foliage. Gawain broke the tense silence in the shadow of the axe.
"Well then my old nemesis..."
"Nemesis, is it? Everyone in Camelot from Arthur and Merlin to the pages and scullery maids mistake me entirely," the Green Knight growled. Yet there was flicker of confusion in the enigmatic Green Knight's eyes for the question vexed him and echoed in his mind. Did the Green Knight have a name? He did once, though he struggled to remember who he was before the metamorphosis to this strange state of being. Yes, he did have a mortal name, and it was...
"Lord Eckmore! Lord Eckmore!"
The lord paid his squire no heed. He was intent on pursuing his life's passion boar hunting,
The ardent huntsman cried out euphorically as he sighted the quarry. What a splendid beast he thought in awe. It was a great black monster of a boar. It seemed impossibly large.
Eckmore smiled daydreaming as he rode envisioning the boar's giant tusked head mounted on his castle wall to the delicious envy of his rival hunters. He practically drooled as he could all but taste the juicy platter of pork he would enjoy as he imagined the boar presented on a platter with an apple in its mouth. He was jarred from his fantasy as the horse's hooves pounded across the barren landscape. Eckmore's stallion frothed, and its flanks heaved as his rider drove him on relentlessly. Blood flowed from the horse's flanks, and it whinnied as it broke into a wild charge racing the wave of mist sweeping towards the boar.
“Why haven't all the crossbow bolts jiggling in its back not even slowed the boar? “ Eckmore wondered. The boar seemed to move with an unnatural speed frustrating his best efforts to ride his quarry down. Eckmore dug into the horse's sides torturously, obsessively desperate for the beast not to elude him. His eyes locked on his prey drawing back his arm for a finals spear cast that was sure to bring the boar down. He rode through the mist that swept past him in a ghostly torrent.
Eckmore prided himself as a huntsman of unparalleled prowess. My quarry never escapes me and my hounds was his motto. The spear cast was the finest of all his hunts as it left his hand. Eckmore howled with rage as the spear sparked off stones as the boar burst through the threshold of an ancient forest. His horse reared and screamed as he pulled sharply on his reigns.
"Come then. That boar is not going to escape! Don't tarry!"
"It's the hounds Sir," his flustered squire answered.
Eckmore looked in confusion and rage as the hounds nervously paced the threshold of
forest whimpering meekly.
"What's wrong with those wretched curs?"
The squire hesitated.
"Well out with it!!!" Lord Eckmore thundered.
"They sense the evil of the forest My Lord," the squire at last answered.
"It is a cursed wood My Lord. None venture in and return alive. It is under the protection of a powerful coven of witches. Those who intrude into their forest fall prey to their fell rituals!" the squire blurted out.
The horse seemed afraid as the hounds. It bucked and shied from the shadow of the trees in the last light of the winter sun.
It was just then that the black boar erupted from the mist goring Lord Eckmore's horse and throwing him to the ground. Lord Eckmore rose to meet the boar's enraged eyes. The winter sun had set and the beast's eyes smoldered crimson by torchlight as Eckmore's retainers scrambled to his aid, and he bellowed for his spear. The great black beast trampled and gored the hounds as they swarmed him. Eckmore bared his teeth with feral rage in reply to the boar's array of fangs and reddened tusks as it snorted blood and fled back into the forest with strange agility.
"I will sure you a true lord's courage cowardly peasants!" Lord Eckmore declared as he grasped his spear and trailed the bloody trail of the boar into the dark forest as snow began to fall.
“Godspeed my lord,” the squire whispered sadly as he watched Lord Eckmore disappear into the shadows of the forest. The boy fought back tears as he drew hunting dagger to end the agony of the mortally wounded horse.
Meanwhile Lord Eckmore lost the boar’s trail. His breath began to become heavier as he waded through a green sea of ferns. Above loomed gnarled moss covered trees. The forest seemed to go on forever. He was hopelessly disoriented and conscious of his isolation. Eckmore raised his hunting horn and blew three blasts into the air. A flock of ravens rose from the ferns in alarm. He anticipated an answering horn from his hunting party yet the echoes of his horn trailed away to silence.
Eckmore’s mad desire for the boar had led him hopelessly astray. It was then he heard it. A woman's voice singing. He had never heard such a melodious voice he thought. Spellbound he followed the echoes of the voice to a lonely glade. There he smiled as he beheld the most beautiful damsel he had ever seen. A vision of beauty behind green eyes. She wore a garland of holly on her head that cascaded with red hair woven with wild flowers. She danced with supple grace as she sang. Snow illuminated by moonbeams hailed her in ethereal radiance. Suddenly she stopped in mid-step as she was aware of his presence. She smiled invitingly and beckoned. Lord Eckmore lunged in to ravish her. She sang as sweetly as venomed honey, and her lips reopened like wounds as her guardian stepped in. Eckmore never saw his assailant as he was struck senseless to the forest floor.
In the depths of the primeval oak forest bordering the northern road to Camelot cowled Druidesses stood holding torches amid an ancient circle of standing stones. A bronze cauldron carved with gods of the wood and beasts bubbled and steamed in the chill of winter. The shadows of figures cast on the stones and trees swayed in atavistic rapture.
"Bring him forth!" the high Druidess beckoned.
Nude elaborately tattooed acolytes led Lord Eckmore now stripped of armour and clothes by a noosed rope as priestesses chanted in an ancient tongue. At first the knight was
defiant denouncing them as witches and heathens. Yet as the chanting raised in tempo signalling that the ritual was reaching its climax. Eckmore cried out for mercy.
“Is this a sacrifice? An execution? My house will pay a generous ransom! “ he cried.
The Druidess did not heed his pleas as she clutched a ritual sickle and mistletoe. Silence suddenly befell the glade. Green masked figures stood motionless bowing. Their arms raised in an act of conjuring.
The cries of bird and beast went ominously silent in breathless anticipation. Something stirred at last in the undergrowth. As if the wood was infested by snakes. shapes began to slither rapidly towards the terrified knight. Yet the coils that rose like charmed serpents were vines rearing like voracious carnivorous plants or green tentacles reaching for him and ensnaring his body. Lord Eckmore broke free screaming and drew his sword. The vines writhed and shrank away like beheaded snakes. It was a futile final gesture. The vines shot towards him again lassoing his arm and wrenching the sword from his grasp. It was as if he was mummified alive by plants as the vines wrapped around him rapidly. Other enchanted vines moved away from him and rapidly wove a wicker figure shaped like a great green horse. The horse sculpture began to move as if it were alive.
Eckmore screamed in fear and agony. His screams echoed and re-echoed before changing. Laughter rose in its stead as a figure emerged astride a great green horse clad in armour elaborately engraved with intricate leaves and foliage. Like some strange parasitic plant the forest had claimed its host and champion.
That Christmas eve a full moon haunted the night sky casting its eerie spell on the pellucid dreamscape of the path to Arthur's court. The ghostly inferno of moonbeams illuminated the great castle of Camelot in apparitional resplendence. The castle was lit festively with hundreds of torches like a gothic birthday cake. It seemed like a horde of shimmering gold from afar to a rider approaching. A herd of deer foraging in the snow raised their heads in alarm and bounded away through the ancient oak forest. A shrill horn like a human cry brayed sonorous heralding the coming of the Green Knight.
“Behold! Yonder lies Camelot. It appears I have a Christmas party to crash!” the eldritch
knight chuckled.
In Arthur's lordly hall nobles and their vassals made merry entertained by the jests of fools and served on gold platters with delicacies reserved for their station. The flames roared in the hearth and the room was filled with the raucous merriment of a medieval lord’s Christmas feast. The room was a riot of colour. Bright banners and holly adorned the walls over luxuriously- attired hosts and guests. Esteemed warriors made merry, and flagons flowed with heady mead and boasts were made. Toast followed toast. A charmed silence befell the company as the court bard approached the harp and held them spellbound with haunting songs and stories as he played with a conjuring hand.
It was a night of relentless cold when old warrior's wounds pulsed, and last breaths steamed in the air. The hall was lavishly hosting the nobles from the surrounding realms, making merry by the warmth of kindled hearth as the winter seemed to stab any outside with icy daggers of merciless cold.
On the windswept battlements of Camelot archers bemoaned their fate on the wall. A herd of deer foraging in the snow raised their heads in alarm and bounded away as a great shape charged across the dreamscape of falling snow. Sentries grumbled and blew on their hands as they paced the walls. A bitterly cold archer pacing the battlements drew a ration of mead. His keen eyes narrowed.
"Hark! Rider approaching! Who goes there? Halt!" the archer challenged.
A warning arrow went unheeded.
"Sound the horn! Bowmen to the wall! Draw! Nock!" the master of bow commanded.
“Archers! Volley!“ he ordered.
The lone horseman galloped onward heedless of arrows raining from the walls. His giant stallion's hooves struck sparks from the causeway as he brushed past any attempts to hinder him like an invincible force of nature.
A horn of alarm sounded unheard by the noble guests of Arthur’s court dined on sumptuous fare of pickled boar head and lamprey pies and venison. Outside a gigantic shadow was cast on the high walls of Camelot. Yet other shadows were cast on the noble company. Rumours slithered through the court. Talk of the queen and Sir Lancelot began to surface. Lancelot rose with his hand clamped on his sword hilt as tongues loosened with mead jested about how he avoided the queen's eyes.
"Good Sirs please!" the steward objected.
Arthur rose to speak yet all were jarred to silence as transfixed royal guards uncrossed their spears in succession making no move to hinder the intruder's advance.
“Make way” they chanted mechanically.
“Guards!” the terrified steward cried.
“Make way!” a deep voice boomed.
The great oaken doors to the bannered hall flung open and a punishingly cold blast of winter air roared in like a disembodied battle cry that extinguished the torches in succession and the roaring fire in the hearth first went out plunging the hall into darkness. A booming voice and deep ominous laughter heavy hoof falls echoing to the ash darkened rafters. The great bannered hall was bathed in eerie spectral green.
Then the hearth flame flared back to life flames swaying like charmed serpents before morphing into shapes of knights fighting knights as if battling amid the flames of hell. The court bard sang as if possessed in a strange tongue casting its eerie green light on the faces of the genteel company. As if restless shadows were granted form a great figure astride a horse was cast on the dragon banner and king of Camelot.
The eldritch green horse snorted flame and reared before Arthur himself only the gaunt robed figure of Merlin moved to step between the king and the green giant's axe, he raised a warding hand holding the axe at bay. A glowing rune appeared on his palm as Merlin hissed an incantation. The Green Knight's horse reared and bucked wildly, wheeling around before at last being calmed by its rider. Arthur drew Excalibur, the blade shimmered in reply to the Green Knight's presence. Two wolfhounds flanking the king's throne bared their fangs shaking with rage.
"Stand down Sir. Your sorcery holds no dominion here. I wield a magic that you cannot withstand. One step closer to the king and you will disintegrate to ash at my word!"
Merlin
Admonished.
"You mistake me wizard. I am no usurper nor assassin," the Green Knight beamed into the wizened aquiline face and stabbing eyes of Arthur's mentor.
"Come then Sir Knight whether fair or foul. You will not find our chivalry lacking!" Arthur declared boldly.
"You speak of chivalry My Lord Arthur as if it wasn't a cosmetic applied to themselves by vain knights and lords as freely as courtesans paint themselves!" the Green Knight declared.
"How dare you slander my court knave!" Arthur thundered.
"Let him speak!" Merlin said after a tense silence.
“Well met good gentles! “ a deep voice bartioned.
The stranger loomed over them. He struck a nightmarish figure astride a horse cast in eerie green as if ectoplasmic green had oozed from the walls to take shape.
“Well met indeed!” the voice jovial and mocking addressed them again.
"And so remiss in your hospitality? Some mead to warm the blood!"
The Green Knight raised a toast after accepting a flagon of mead from a trembling page. His head was wreathed in holly Green. He doffed an antlered helm with a mocking courtly Bow.
"Stay your swords. They are of no avail against him," Merlin declared grimly.
"You speak truly wizard!" the green knight laughed as he paced his horse along the length of the table smiling at each knight and laughing as they nervously avoided his eyes.
“Behold how the boldness of knights has withered from its roots!“
The green knight cast the flagon down shattering it. He raised and brandished a great executioner's axe.
“Not even Lancelot the bold dares challenge me?” the green knight crowed. The clamp of iron shod hooves on the flagstones echoed dully in the silence as he drew reign.
“So, have the bards merely sang flatteries for coin? Is this truly the fearless company of the Round table? I see no valiant knights! Behold merely cowering cravens! Ha!"
“Hold thy loathsome tongue ogre. I will take thy challenge and thy axe!" a lone knight cried.
“What ram among the sheep? Ah it is none other than Sir Gawain! Well met Sir. Has it grown too cold in the shadow of Lancelot? Come then. Warm your hands on my axe handle!”
The Green knight dismounted as Gawain approached. Even off his giant horse the Green Knight towered over Gawain. Gawain saw himself mirrored in the emerald breastplate engraved with vibrant foliage patterns as if he was clad in living armour.
"Alas a poor reflection of knighthood me lad?" the Green Knight chuckled.
The axe that the Green Knight wielded effortlessly with one hand sank to the floor as Gawain accepted the weapon in two hands.
The Green Knight found this hilarious. Gawain clenched his teeth and widened his stance. The company craned their necks as the shadow Gawain was cast gigantically in the spectral glow raising the great axe and bringing it down to a collective gasp that became screams premature huzzahs. The axe blow barely left a gash on the Green Knight.
"Swing harder lackey or you will be demoted to a squire!" the Green Knight laughed.
The axe rose and fell again. The head remained attached.
"Hark! I do believe Lancelot is laughing at his bitter rival!" the Green Knight taunted Gawain raised the axe and let it fall again and again as the chamber echoed with the Green Knight's mocking laughter. At last, the axe clove cleanly through the exposed throat and struck the flagstones with a resounding clang. Gawain cursed as the axe fell from his sore and bloodied hands. His once fine surcoat covered like a butcher's apron in gore. Gawain's footfalls splashed in the blood pumping onto the floor as he approached to claim his gory prize. Gawain raised the severed head by the locks triumphantly as the guests gasped collectively. The head swayed by long hair that seemed like weeds.
“Well his blood proves to be red anyway,“ Gawain chuckled wryly.
“What witchery ?” Sir Kay cried suddenly.
The green knight’s head winked and laughed. As the headless body felt along the floor like a cold-blooded thing, crawling like lizard its hands retrieved the axe. Gawain recoiled as the headless corpse staggered around swinging the axe wildly and searching for its lost head. The head fell from Gawain's trembling hand and the corpse followed the rolling head. Its hand finally grasped the head fixing it back on the stump of neck where it melded back with the flesh. The green head never stopped laughing.
“Ha Gawain you fool! A year hence will prove you true knight or craven!"
The Green Knight laughed louder than ever before as Gawain roared a battle cry and ran his nemesis through the torso to the hilt.
"Merely tickles you see. You flatter yourself if you think you could ever slay me!"
The Green Knight mounted his horse. The great green stallion reared and screamed before he rode from the hall his booming laughter echoing in the hall and in the writhing throes of Gawain's nightmares. the shadow of the green knight like a hovering flock of ravens haunted Gawain's brightest days on a winter day as cold as the blade he wielded departed on his quest under black banners to fulfil his vow to the green knight snow hailing him like frozen tears.
As for the Green Knight it would have seemed only natural for Lord Eckmore to desire to shed the living armour that claimed him in wild metamorphosis yet the green he wore seemed to take root in his mind. Rather than intrude into the forest with spear and hounds as he had so loved to do when he was "the lord of the hunt" now he felt like the palace guard of a regal living shrine. As he rode through the forest, he cherished the birds, beasts, and trees rather than desiring their heads and pelts or their wood for building lavish new halls. He felt fiercely protective of the creatures who dwelled in the green wood. The sounds of hunting horn did not thrill him but shuddered in his soul and enraged him.
The Green Knight found solace and belonging now among the ferns, moss, ash and oak trees. Foresters dropped their own axes and ran screaming when they saw his great executioner axe and shadow leaving him to caress and speak to the trees spared the axe like old friends.
The story of Gawain's quest to receive the blow of the axe as he vowed was far from unsung. The fingers of the bards bled from its retelling. Gawain grimaced at the cringing grating sound of the great axe blade being sharpened for his Beheading. The green giant flexing his brawny armour clad arms as he gripped the axe handle Gawain wanted to close his eyes yet instead, he fixated on the hovering shadow of the axe.
Ravens began to gather. Gawain shuddered. He saw the axe raise and trembled and flinched in anticipation. The axe blade landed with a heavy thud in the ground almost grazing him.
“Shying from your fate twice Gawain? Not ready? Why did you not tell me? Very well make peace with your God and nod when I may commence.”
“Very well,” Gawain nodded with grim finality.
The axe rose again.
“Really Gawain? And did I shy from your axe blow or blows I should say?”
“Well unlike thou I cannot simply place my head back on my shoulders like a parlour trick!”
“Very well then. This time blood will be spilt. Prepare thineself. At your count then!”
One...two...three...”
“I could not hear you the carrion birds are screeching so excitedly. Did you whisper something
Gawain?”
“THREE I said!”
The axe fell a third time and did spill Gawain's blood and like the Green knight Gawain rose, yet unlike the Green Knight the blow inflicted only slightly nicked him and threw up dirt as it struck the earth with a mighty dull thud. Ravens rose in alarm. Gawain opened his eyes. He wondered in morbid fascination if he could still see and hear owed to the rumour among executioners that a victim can still do so after being beheaded. Gawain nervously raised his hand to feel if his neck was still attached to his head. He saw the Green Knight pull his axe away and cleanse the mud fastidiously from the blade.
Gawain rose with a cry of rage his sword drawn with a flourish drawing into fighting stance.
“Really Gawain? And how did that effort fare when last we crossed paths you mean to slay me with that puny sword?”
“No. I know if I cut you into pieces each piece would thrash around like a pack of lizards!” Gawain threw his sword down in disgust as the Green Knight rested on his axe.
“So...”
“So what?”
“So why all this damn you? Why barge into our Christmas feast laughing at us all and offering to behead us as if it were a game of bobbing for apples? Boredom? Some jest?”
“It was meant to test you. As for the laughter...if you really want to know I was just laughing at Lancelot's haircut. vain popinjay isn’t he now?”
Gawain turned red. There was a lingering silence before both men started laughing and laughing. Gawain wiped his eyes gathered himself. The Green Knight had vanished like a ghost.
What did go unsung was their second meeting in the dark last days of Camelot and the days culminating in the fall of Arthur at Camlann. Gawain found himself the beleaguered commander of an outnumbered company of untested new Knights tasked with confronting a horde of cutthroats and mercenaries marching through the forest to lay siege to Camelot itself under the red serpent banner of Mordred.
“What are we to do Gawain? simply charge into their ranks?" a frightened knight barely elevated from a squire demanded.
"Tell me commander, can you continue to fight with a severed head tucked under your arm?" the youth pressed.
Gawain's eyes grew distant and haunted.
“Nay...but I know someone who can,“ Sir Gawain replied cryptically.
"I shall return anon. Remember that you are sworn knights of the round table. Be fearless
against the enemy and never yield in Camelot's defence!"
Gawain once again rode across a mist enshrouded moor and drew reign before the ruins of a remote chapel. The once magnificent statue of an angel enshrined to welcome weary pilgrims stood beheaded and overgrown with wild vines and flowers. An all too recognised axe lay in its open arms like an offering to the old gods.
The ruin was almost reclaimed by vines and fern like an oasis of spring in the midst of the harsh winter. Gawain drew reign and hastened to an elaborately carved silver horn hanging from an ancient oak. Steam exploded in the chill air as he raised the horn to his lips sounding a throaty bray.
“Well met Sir Gawain of Camelot ,“ a familiar voice greeted him.
No. It was only the echoes of dreams haunting his memory.
“Come then! I need you! “ Gawain cried out.
Suddenly Gawain was aware of a presence. A hooded figure materialised. A druidess clad in a green robe beckoned with a ritual sickle. Meanwhile the ranks of young knights commanded to hold off the mercenaries yielded their swords to false promises of mercy only to be executed under Mordred's dark gloating eyes. He cleansed a sword blade of blood to admire his reflection vainly.
Sir Mordred the usurper all but cheered as he rode from the forest and the crenulated walls of Camelot came within his sight and grasp. His vulpine smile turned to a gloating one as tidings reached him that a siege was not necessary. Meanwhile Arthur with heavy heart lowered his banner and ordered a retreat from Camelot. His knights fell back to the field of Camlann.
"At last Camelot has fallen My Lord!" one of Modred's bannermen declared.
"Nay. Camelot has risen under a new lord and banner. For too long the subjects of these lands have been blinded by the light of Arthur's deluded vision. Now is a reign of beautiful rich darkness! The strong will claim what is theirs! The weak must make way!" Mordred cried as his men raised their red swords and chanted his name. Mordred, intoxicated with his triumph basked in the adulation of his followers as he entered the gates of Camelot in triumph.
"Behold! Even the great King Arthur has fled from my sword. Let us herald in a new age. My naive philosopher of a father did not understand men as I do! Power instead of frailty! Might instead of mercy!" Mordred proclaimed to hearty cheers.
"Just in time to host a Christmas feast with wild debauchery!" Mordred declared to wild huzzahs. He raised a mocking toast to King Arthur. Suddenly his words were jarred to silence as he saw impact ripples in his mead filling the goblet. A herald hastened into the chamber and whispered tidings.
"No less than Sir Gawain himself has come. Very well good gentles! We are graced by no less than Arthur's standard bearer. This broken means to yield no less and beg for clemency I suspect. What say you to a night's entertainment of seeing the great Sir Gawain Executed?
I will take his head myself!" Mordred smirked.
That boast was greeted by booming laughter as a strange figure advanced into the hall.
Mordred’s pale face was mirrored in the blade of a great axe.
"Shall we trade blows then bastard?" a giant green figure laughed.
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Greg Patrick - A dual citizen of Ireland and the states, Greg Patrick is an Irish/Armenian traveller poet and the son of a Navy enlisted man. He is also a former Humanitarian aid worker who worked with great horses for years and loves the wilds of Connemara and Galway in the rain where he's written many stories. Greg spent his youth in the South Pacific and Europe and currently resides in Galway, Ireland and sometimes the states.
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