Gawain and Terence rode northwest into the heavily forested Welsh hills. Of all Britain, Gawain said, this was the wildest and most dangerous region, so it seemed a likely place to seek the uncanny knight. But, despite the Green Knight's assurance that Gawain would have no difficulty, no one whom they met had heard of either the knight or the Green Chapel.
As they traveled, Terence several times noticed Gawain looking reflectively at his squire. Finally, about a fortnight into their journey, Gawain said, "Terence?"
"Yes, milord?"
"You know that I may not ... ah ... be returning to Camelot after this quest."
"Being dead, you mean," Terence said.
"Well, yes. And the thing I'm wondering is ... if it does happen that way, what will you do?"
"I might be dead, too," Terence pointed out.
Gawain frowned. "True. That's true. But what I mean is, what will you do if I'm dead and you're still alive."
Terence pondered this briefly, then admitted, "I don't know."
"Well, that's what I've been thinking. You need a plan."
"I could go back home to the hermit," Terence suggested.
Gawain shook his head. "No, I've thought of that, but it won't do."
"Why not? I had a good childhood with Trevisant," Terence protested.
"Yes, but that's not your life anymore. You've spent too many years in the world of knights. You should go back to Camelot."
"I won't be someone else's squire," Terence said flatly.
"I mean you should become a knight, stupid!"
"Oh!" Terence sighed. "Why didn't you say so to start with?"
Gawain ignored him. "I've given it a lot of thought, Terence. You're more fit to be a knight than most of the clodpoles at the Round Table. All you need to become a first-rate knight is a bit of instruction."
"And you want to instruct me, eh?" Terence sounded dubious.
Gawain blinked. "You could do worse, you know. I mean, I'm not so bad."
Terence grunted noncommittally. "Instruct me in what?"
"Well, swordsmanship for starters. A knight always starts on the ground. Then the lance. You're already a fair horseman, but riding with a lance is a whole different matter." Gawain grew more intent on his projected lessons. "We'll have to learn something of the battle-axe and mace, though I hope you won't ever have to use them. I suppose we'll pass over the knightly graces and courtesy until last, but that's part of knighthood, too. I think that will be enough for starters."
"Sounds delightful," Terence muttered.
"I promise you it won't take you long," Gawain said reassuringly. "You'll be a natural. Just wait until we start sparring with swords. You'll see."
"Did you bring a spare sword?" This was not really a question, since Terence had done the packing.
"Don't worry, lad. We'll start with wooden cudgels, then maybe pick up a sword along the way. I'll cut some sticks in the morning." Gawain smiled in a satisfied way, and Terence stared helplessly at the road before them.
The next morning Terence began lessons in the broadsword, using a stout ash cudgel for a sword. For protection, he used Father La Roche's indecent shield, which Gawain had brought so that no one would find it left behind and tell Sir Lancelot, but it was unwieldy and vibrated terribly when hit. When Terence complained, Gawain tried it and proclaimed it useless. After that, Terence defended himself only with his cudgel and found that he got on much better. As Gawain had predicted, years of watching swordplay had given Terence a natural eye and instinctive reactions. His only weakness—or so Gawain said—was an unwillingness to attack. Finally, Gawain dropped his sword arm after a stroke and left Terence a wide opening. Terence made no move. "Look here, Terence," Gawain said, stopping, "you can't afford to let openings like that pass by."
Terence stepped prudently out of Gawain's reach and said, "How do I know you weren't setting a trap for me?"
"Nobody sets a trap that obvious. You could have thumped me a good one."
Terence took a breath. "But I don't want to thump you a good one, milord. I don't want to thump you at all."
Gawain looked at him curiously. "Not even to see if you could?"
"Why would I care if I could do something that I don't want to do to begin with?"
"All right. So you don't want to thump me. But what if I were someone else?"
"Who, for instance?"
"Who would you like to thump?"
"How about Guinevere?" Terence asked hopefully.
"Terence, you can't go around thumping women. Especially her."
"There, you see? What's the sense of being a knight? I have to thump the people I don't want to thump, and I can't thump the people who would really be better off for a good thumping."
"How about Sir Lancelot? You'd like to thump him, wouldn't you?"
Terence thought about this. "No, I'd like to hang him by his toes over the edge of the North Tower."
Gawain paused, struck by this. "In a cold wind?"
"In armor, without underclothes," Terence added.
Gawain's lips quivered, but he pressed on. "But wouldn't you like to thump him too?"
"While he's hanging helpless like that? Certainly not! Wouldn't be chivalrous."
"No, I mean if you couldn't hang him by his toes, wouldn't you like to thump him instead?"
"Well, it won't be the same, but I suppose I could give it a go."
"Good. Pretend that I'm Sir Lancelot."
"What? You? Impossible. Your clothes are muddy. And there's no lace on your shirt."
"And couldn't you wear a feather somewhere? In your belt or braided through your hair maybe?"
"Terence—" Gawain shook his head in amused exasperation and covered his eyes with his left hand.
Terence thumped him. "Take that, Sir Lancelot, thou recreant knight," he said.
A week later, in the woods near the village of Lowchres, Gawain and Terence came upon the first knight they had seen in almost a month. He sat on horseback at a crossroads, wearing spotless armor with a bright sash wound around the waist. He raised his lance in what could have been either a challenge or a greeting.
"Hello, sir knight," Gawain hailed him, assuming it was a greeting.
"You shall not pass, O knight," the knight replied.
"Challenge," Terence muttered.
"Very well, I won't," Gawain said pleasantly. "I only want some information. Have you ever heard of a knight clad all in green who lives at one Green Chapel?"
The knight hesitated, then said, "Don't you want to pass?"
"Only if that is the way to the Green Chapel. Do you know?"
"Sir knight," the knight said haughtily, "perhaps you do not realize it, but I have offered you a challenge."
"Yes, but I declined it."
"Then I call you a coward."
"All right. Have you heard of this knight or his chapel?"
"Why should I tell a coward anything?"
"Pity?" Gawain suggested innocently.
"Cowards are fit only to be thrashed!" the knight declared, booting his horse to a gallop. "Prepare to battle!"
"I don't have a lance," Gawain said calmly.
The knight checked abruptly, almost falling from his saddle. When he had gotten his horse under control again, he said, "I crave your pardon, sir knight. I was almost guilty of a grave discourtesy. I shall use my sword." He dropped his lance, drew his sword, and charged again. Gawain looked away.
"Milord," Terence said, "he's going to—" Gawain still made no move. Terence spurred his horse forward into the knight's path. The knight's horse, already skittish, reared, and the knight grabbed frantically at his saddle with his left hand, dropping his reins. With his cudgel, Terence landed a numbing blow on the fingers of the knight's right hand. The knight yelped and dropped his sword. Then Terence thumped the knight solidly on the side of the helm. The blow was hard enough to dent the iron, and with a groan the knight dropped his sword and fell slowly backwards from his saddle.
"Terence, you idiot!" Gawain shouted, galloping up. "What are you doing?"
Terence looked at the fallen knight and said meekly, "I thought you were just going to let him hit you."
"Well, I wasn't! You ought to be confined, rushing an armed man like that without any armor!"
"What were you going to do then?" Terence demanded.
Gawain looked at the knight, who was starting to stir weakly. "About what you did," Gawain said with a slow grin. "Well done, lad." Terence blushed, and the knight groaned. "Here, you ride over there a bit, and I'll see if I can't patch things up."
Gawain dismounted and knelt over the knight, saying, "Oh dear, I was afraid he would do something like that. Sir knight? Can you hear me?" The knight mumbled something that Terence couldn't hear, and Gawain said, "Oh good. The last knight he smote couldn't speak for weeks. Tell me, sir knight, how are you called?"
"I am Sir Oneas of Mercia, called the Knight of the Crossroads," the knight said. Gawain unlaced Sir Oneas's helm and pulled it off. Terence sneaked a quick glance, and saw that Sir Oneas was little more than a youth, probably a year or two younger than he was himself.
"Well, Sir Oneas, you are very fortunate that Sir Gawain chose not to kill you." Terence blinked but kept his face impassive.
"Sir ... Sir Gawain? Of Arthur's court?" Sir Oneas asked dazedly. "You mean that's the great Sir Gawain?"
"Himself," Gawain said, with reverence. "Few are the knights who can challenge that great warrior." Terence coughed modestly.
"Sir Gawain! But ... he looks so young! And why does he wear no armor?"
"Ssh! He does not choose to talk about it, but it's to fulfill a vow."
"I see," said Sir Oneas, who clearly did not.
"We had best leave you now," Gawain said. "But before we leave, perhaps you should tell Sir Gawain if you've heard of this Green Knight he seeks."
"I ... no, not exactly. Unless he means the Huntsman of Anglesey."
"The Huntsman of Anglesey?"
"Due north, on the island of Anglesey. It is a fearsome adventure by all accounts." There was a pause, then Sir Oneas added, "Sir? If you think it would be all right, would you tell Sir Gawain that it was an honor to cross swords with him?"
"I shall tell him, Sir Oneas," Gawain said as he mounted. He trotted to where Terence waited, and they rode away. Gawain chuckled. '"Cross swords' indeed. By the time he's finished with that story, I'll bet he will have fought the noble Sir Gawain for hours before he was narrowly defeated."
"Unless he says he defeated Sir Gawain," Terence said wryly. "One lie is as believable as another."
"So it is," Gawain said with a broad grin.
Gawain had kept Sir Oneas's lance, and as they rode north he began to instruct Terence in the art of jousting. First they adjusted Gawain's armor to fit Terence's much slimmer build. Then Terence had to learn how to ride while wearing armor and carrying a heavy lance. He much preferred swordplay to jousting, but he stuck to it for Gawain's sake, and after a few days was at least able to stay in the saddle and hold the lance straight.
They stopped for a time at a broad meadow so that Terence could practice tilting. On the third day, Terence was practicing alone while Gawain hunted in the forest for an ash tree with which they could make another lance when a knight appeared at the edge of the woods. The stranger was dressed all in black armor, with his visor down, and he held a long lance.
"Good day, Sir Knight," Terence said, wishing Gawain were near.
"Good day," the stranger replied in a husky voice. "I see you practicing. Would you care to try a pass with me?"
It was what Terence had feared, but the knight's tone was pleasant, and Terence grinned suddenly. "Why not?" he said and took his position across the meadow.
It was over suddenly and ignominiously for Terence. He aimed his lance straight for the stranger knight's breastplate, but the knight seemed to catch Terence's lance with his own and to push the point forcefully down toward the ground. Terence was dimly aware that he had just witnessed a superlative bit of jousting, and then his lance hit the ground, and he was jolted back out of his horse's saddle. "Let go of the lance, boy," the knight shouted, but it was too late. Terence's lance shattered under his weight, and Terence landed on his face.
He rolled over and sat up amid the splinters of his lance as the stranger rode up beside him. Terence began to laugh. "I've never seen anything like it!" Terence declared, removing Gawain's helmet.
The stranger chuckled. "That's why it worked. The best fighter is not the one who does the expected most skillfully. The best fighter is the one who takes the rest by surprise. In a joust, no one expects to have his lance knocked away. It might even surprise your master, Terence."
Terence blinked. "You know us, sir?" The knight raised his visor. It was King Arthur himself. "My liege!"
"Don't give me away, will you?" Arthur said, smiling guiltily. "The court thinks I'm having one of my retreats at that monastery. The abbot there is a friend of mine and he lets me slip out incognito."
"Is this what you always do during those weeks?"
Arthur nodded. "As king, I cannot take part in tournaments. So I stage my own, anonymously. Perhaps it's childish, but I feel better after I've bashed a few knights off their horses."
"Happy to be of service," Terence muttered. "But what if you were bashed off a horse yourself?"
Arthur shook his head. "I've never seen a knight who could," he said simply. "But enough of me. How is your search coming?"
"We've found no one who knows the Green Chapel. Right now we're off to Anglesey, where there's supposed to be some sort of supernatural huntsman."
The king lowered his visor and said, "Go with God, then. And Terence? No one else knows where I am."
"I won't tell," Terence assured him, and Arthur rode away.
A few minutes later Gawain appeared. "I can't find a tree for another lance," he announced.
"Pity," Terence said, standing amid the splinters. "I think this one's used up."
At the fishing village of Caernarvon, built on the site of an old fortress, they found a squat, vile-smelling fisherman who was willing to ferry them and their horses across to the island of Anglesey. On the way, Gawain talked to the fisherman, and when they arrived, Gawain told Terence, "If half the stories about this Huntsman of Anglesey are true, then he's a terror all right. Maybe we've found him."
"Wonderful," Terence said dully.
"Anyway," Gawain continued, "the fisherman said that we should see the Earl of Anglesey, whose castle should be just over that rise."
The Earl of Anglesey was just as squat and almost as vile-smelling as the fisherman, and his castle reeked of fish. As soon as he heard who his visitor was and that Gawain was looking for the Huntsman of Anglesey, he welcomed them with open arms and ushered them into a long hall with several ragged chairs and a roaring fire. "Oy, a bane to all decent men and women in the land, this Huntsman is," he said. "He's a terrible fierce fighter and a very demon at archery."
"Archery?" Gawain asked.
The earl nodded expressively. "That's the worst of him. That's how he's killed the most of his victims. My own youngest son died by the Huntsman's bow, just over a year ago."
"I'm sorry to hear it," Gawain said.
The earl shrugged. "He was a wastrel, but there it is. That was what started it all. The fellow's been ravaging the countryside ever since."
"If it's not too painful, could you tell me how it happened?" Gawain asked.
"Nay, not so painful. I've got four other sons. Of course they're all wastrels, too, but there it is. Let me get you a tot of something to warm you, and I'll tell you how it was." He poured out a cup of some black liquid that Gawain sipped gingerly. "Now, where shall I begin? My son, Erkin, and his brother was out in the forests about a year ago when they come on a deer trail. Naturally they begin chasing it down, even though they doesn't even have a good deer hound along. Hunting boar, you see."
"So they didn't even have longbows with them?" Gawain asked with surprise.
"Nay, just boar spears." The earl chuckled. "I see what you're thinking. You're thinking they was all about in their heads if they thought they would bag them a deer with boar spears. Well, you're right. Proper sapskulls they are, all my sons. Blamed if I understand it. Anyway, they finally catch sight of the deer and go chasing it through the woods on their horses. So," the earl continued, "there they was, carousing through the woods after this buck when of a sudden Erkin flips right off his horse. Barzil, my other son, stops right there, thinking Erkin has run into a branch or something, which it's a wonder they hadn't, but when he looks closer he sees an arrow right through Erkin's heart. Then he hears this ferocious voice shout, 'Got you, lad! You'll make a month of dinners for me!' Well, Barzil got no more brains than a hedgehog, but he knows what's due his brother, so he remembers to pack Erkin on the back of his horse before he takes himself off."
"You say that the voice said your son would make a month of dinners?"
"Oy, that's what he said. Of course the story gets around, like they do, and people starts taking care they doesn't go too far into the deepest forest, but things still happens. A man from the east shore disappears and only his hands and feet is found, right in the middle of the forest. People sees the Huntsman himself stalking at night, and some says they've seen him, a-riding a stag the size of a horse, with antlers that reach to the sky."
Gawain nodded encouragingly. When the earl seemed to have finished, he said, "I thank you. If you'll point my way to the deepest forest, I'll see how this Huntsman likes being hunted."
In less than an hour they were in a forest so thick that only the occasional shaft of sunlight challenged the darkness. Terence had never been in a forest like it. He was not at all pleased with the prospect of sharing that darkness with a man-eating archer either, and he said so to Gawain.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Gawain said. "I've heard tales of man-eaters before, but I never found one that was true. It's the kind of story that people tell. There are monsters in this world, to be sure, but there are a sight more storytellers. Besides, you're the best archer I've ever seen. I'm depending on you to protect me."
"And who's going to protect me, then?" Terence muttered.
They made camp in a tiny clearing surrounded by huge trees hung all over with vines. Terence made a small fire, and they stretched out in the shallow pool of light and warmth near it and went to sleep. Only a few hours later, a slight stirring from the brush woke him. His eyes flew open, and he looked at Gawain over the still glowing coals. Gawain too was awake. He nodded, and Terence slipped out of his blankets and into the thickest part of the undergrowth.
Soon Terence heard the rustling again, and he crept closer. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he made out a patch of deeper darkness, roughly the size and shape of a small man. Terence breathed more easily; the Huntsman was supposed to be huge. The shape moved toward their camp, and Terence followed silently. When the shape reached the edge of the brush, it reached behind him in a move that Terence recognized at once as reaching for arrows. Terence's heart leaped, and he threw himself into the shape's back, just as the shape grunted and doubled over. Gawain stood up from his blankets, brandishing his cudgel.
"Don't move if you want your skull in one piece," Gawain said. The figure gasped and tried vainly to speak. Gawain must have hit him in the stomach.
"Are you the Huntsman of Anglesey?" Gawain asked him. The figure croaked again, something that sounded like, "Nose a king. Nose a parson." Whatever it was, it did not sound very complimentary, and Terence picked his own cudgel out of his gear. Gawain waited a second, then asked again, "Are you the one called the Huntsman of Anglesey?"
The gasping figure took several shallow breaths, then said, "An't you a bit old to be believin' sich rot? Boggart tales for the kiddies!"
Gawain grinned. "Are they? I heard these tales first from a knight, then from a fisherman, then from an earl. They didn't think they were telling ghost stories."
"Passel of fools. There's nown who hunts these woods but I meself, an honest woodsman."
Gawain nodded and said, "And what might you be called, honest woodsman?"
"I'm Dirk. I live at the edge of the woods hard by Holyhead."
"And you hunt these woods, Dirk? For your food?"
"Oy, and fish, too, in the summer. I've a boat."
"I take it, then, that you've never seen a huge black Huntsman who rides a stag with antlers that reach to the heavens?" Gawain asked solemnly.
Dirk looked exasperated. "Didn't I say there was no sich thing and no sich person? It's a tale the villagers tell to keep the kiddies out of the woods."
"Then why did you sneak up on our camp with an arrow notched?" Terence demanded.
"I'll tell you why, lad. Because ever since the earl's started telling his boggart tales, there's been no end of idiot knights—boys, most of 'em—traipsing in here frightening away the game. Last time one of 'em saw me he tried to take my head off with his sword. It an't safe for an honest man to hunt, it an't."
"How did you escape?" Gawain asked, interested.
"Stupid boy missed me and stuck his sword in a tree. Last time I passed, it was still there."
Gawain chuckled but said, "Why do you think the earl has started telling these tales, then?"
Dirk looked at his feet and said, "How'm I supposed to know what goes on in an earl's head? They be smarter than us poor folks."
"It won't go, Dirk. I've been with you only two minutes, and I already know that you're smarter than that earl. Remember, you called him a fool yourself earlier."
Dirk grinned slightly for a second, then looked away again. "I still don't know," he said.
"I think you do," Gawain said. Dirk looked at him sharply, and Gawain said, "Oh, don't worry. If it's as I think it is, I won't say anything to the earl." They were silent for a second, then Gawain said, "You killed his son, didn't you?" Dirk was glumly silent. "By mistake. You thought you had a deer, food for a good month. Then you saw what you had done, and you hid and waited until the earl's other son piled the body on his horse. Then you went home. Is that right?" Dirk looked searchingly into Gawain's eyes, then nodded.
"So there is no Huntsman of Anglesey?" Terence asked.
"Sure there is, Terence—just not the sort you were expecting. He's just a woodsman, like you."
"So we've been wasting our time," Terence said, disgusted.
"Maybe not," Gawain said. He turned back to Dirk and said, "So your life has been miserable ever since this Huntsman story got about?" Dirk nodded. "Maybe we can help."
"How's that?"
"What do you think would do to stop the story?"
Dirk snorted. "Maybe if you killed every man, woman, and child on the island, you could stop it, but I misdoubt it."
"Nay, that would only make it worse. I've a better plan than that. I'll kill the Huntsman."
Dirk stiffened and said, "Thank 'ee kindly, your worship, but I'd rather live with the story."
Gawain ignored him and turned to Terence, "Now what do you think it would take to kill the dreadful Huntsman of Anglesey?"
Terence caught on. "How about a charmed arrow, milord?"
"That's good. How was it charmed? Should this be a religious arrow?"
"Why not?" Terence said.
"Why not indeed? Then let us say that it was charmed by the blood of St. Sebastian. Yes, that'll do. Probably the only thing in the world that would kill this ferocious beast."
"And we carried it in a silken wrap," Terence contributed.
"Good," Gawain said. He turned to Dirk. "Now, what did the Huntsman look like? You're the only witness, so it had best be your own description."
"I'm the only witness?" Dirk began, brows knit.
"That's right. You were hunting at the edge of the forest when you heard the sound of the battle and you saw me fighting the Huntsman. What did he look like?"
"Oy, he was awful big," Dirk said, eyes wide. "An' he had hair all over his legs—I'm not so sure that he didn't have the legs of a goat, now I think on it—an' horns that looked sharp as a knife. Fearsome."
Gawain laughed with delight and said, "You're right! I remember it clearly! The legs of a goat!"
"And horns," Terence reminded him. "Sharp horns."
"An' beside him was a stag, bigger than any horse, an' it had long an' twisty prongs—snakes! It had snakes growing out of its head!"
"Don't you think it was breathing fire, too?" Gawain hinted.
"Now I think on it, it was. An' smokin' from the ears."
"Fearsome," Terence murmured.
"And what happened after I shot it with the charmed arrow?" Gawain asked.
Dirk look puzzled. "It fell down dead, of course."
"Oy, I see. I mean that it started to bleed, and its blood was as red as fire—I mean its blood was fire. There was the fire of Hell in its veins, an' as soon as that charmed arrow from St. S...."
"Sebastian," Gawain said. "You better say it yourself, so you can remember."
"Sebastian," Dirk repeated. "Anyway, as soon as that charmed arrow from St. Sebastian touched it, fire come out in a rush and burned it and the stag right up."
"Well done," Gawain said approvingly. "Then I saw you, and introduced myself to you—How do you do? I am Sir Gawain of King Arthur's Round Table."
"Are you really?" Dirk asked. "From the Round Table?"
"I really am. I introduced myself to you—How do you do? and so on—and told you that that had been an arrow of St. Sebastian's, and told you to build a shrine on that spot."
"Do I have to build the shrine for real?"
"You won't need to. The villagers will do it. And then I left, with my faithful squire by my side. You have all that?"
"St. Sebastian, Sir Gawain, King Arthur, a shrine," Dirk said. "Will they believe me?"
"It was a story that started all this. Why shouldn't another end it?"
Terence coughed gently. "Milord, don't you think that a good shrine ought to have a religious relic? Like maybe an image of—"
Gawain burst into approving laughter. "Go get it, lad."
Terence fetched Father La Roche's shield. Gawain handed it reverently to Dirk. "This," he said, "is the magical shield which protected me from the unnatural darts of the cruel Huntsman."
Dirk repeated this to himself with obvious pleasure. "I like that," he said. '"Unnatural darts.' What's this on the inside?" He held the shield up to the light to look at the painting.
Gawain cleared his throat and said, "Before you say anything, you should know that that's the Blessed Virgin."
"Just coming out of her bath, is she?" Dirk asked.
"Just put it in the shrine," Gawain said, grinning. "Terence? Get our gear together." Terence started to pack their traps, and Gawain turned back to Dirk. "And Dirk? Have you ever heard of a knight colored all in green? Or a place called the Green Chapel?"
"Should I put them in the tale, too, do you think?"
"Nay, Dirk. These are real. Do you know them?"
Dirk shook his head. "We've nothing like that on the island. They've got some real knights in the Wilderness of Wirral, east of Caernarvon, though. You might ask them."