yesterday. Dribbled it all on the ground when she wasn’t looking. Why?
That ale of hers is spiked.
His deep mind spoke up. Come, Sir! Up and out of here. Let’s find what we can see our self with no lovely Lady Green at our elbow.
Perfectly awake, Gawain rose, stooped under the low-arched roof. He ducked through the bower doorway and out among the half-moonlit oaks.
An owl called quickly twice from just above him. Another answered twice from the river.
Here we are, at last by ourself. Which way, Sir?
Gawain considered. North lay the pasturelands where herds wandered, guarded by youngsters with packs and tents, on their own for the first time. Like us, Sir!
Northeast stretched the Fair-Field and mowings. East, over the shallow river, flourished the crops whose growth Gawain and Lady Green encouraged.
She’s never let you go south.
Lady Green said that south was sacred grove, then deeper and more sacred grove. She said that nobody goes south.
Maybe that’s for us!
Gawain considered this uneasily. A feeling he did not care to call fear prickled his stomach. I think not this time.
He found himself moving northwest. An owl hooted above him. Two far owls answered. Gawain stopped short, hand on oak trunk.
Those aren’t owls. Those are sentries.
Inner Mind commented. You are right, Sir. Notice now that wherever you move, an owl signals.
I am a prisoner.
Aye.
God’s teeth! What do they want? Do they plan to attack King Arthur and fear I might warn him?
Let us not joke, Sir.
Gently, Gawain stepped northeast from oak shade to moonlight to oak shade. Sure enough, hooting owls kept pace, and once a twig snapped nearby.
I’ve been half asleep since I came here. It’s that hell-damned ale she gives me. But, God’s bones, what can they want?
Little Ynis said in his head, “We couldn’t do Midsummer.” Midsummer was now well past.
“So we skipped to Summerend.”
Summerend.
Gawain came to an edge of grove. He glanced up at the moon. How long now till Summerend? He stood on a rise looking out over the moor.
Long, long ago he had stood like this on a cold cliff looking over a cold, moonlit sea. A calm voice overhead had said, “At Summerend, the Old Ones cut the May King down like the crops. They gave his blood to the Goddess.” Little Gawain had shivered.
“We don’t do that now,” the voice continued. “Now we sacrifice a straw man, a John Barleycorn. But in the old days the blood was real.”
His mother, Morgause, had stood over Gawain, a tower between him and a fierce north wind. Her dark cloak blew about his back. Fascinated, he had asked, “How did they cut him down?”
“They cut off his head with a scythe. Like the crops.”
Gawain stood now rooted, staring over moonlit moor instead of moonlit sea. God and Mary shield!
That’s it, Sir. Your eyes open at last.
The old ways still lived in this God-forgotten north!
You remember the fellow they were going to crown May King when you came along? Remember his face, how miserable? And then how happy, when they crowned you instead!
“God’s blood!” Gawain murmured aloud as his own blood congealed in his veins.
Hush, Sir. The guard might hear. Let them think you’re still drugged out of your skull.
Must get out of here!
Truly, Sir. But how?
Must think how.
Drink no more ale, Sir.
That wretched girl! That Delilah! I’ll strangle her with her own rich red hair!
Not yet, Sir.
Far out on the white moor something moved. Something moon-large, moon-white.
That’s a horse, Sir.
Too big. All they’ve got here is rough little northern ponies.
That’s a knight’s charger.
It is! Big as my own Warrior that the savages ate. Angel Michael, that’s what I need! If I could catch that horse—
Someone else has.
The great white horse ambled closer through white moonlight. A figure sat upright on its back. Two figures.
That’s a woman, Sir. With a child before her.
She rode easily, swaying erect, guiding the charger apparently with
That ale of hers is spiked.
His deep mind spoke up. Come, Sir! Up and out of here. Let’s find what we can see our self with no lovely Lady Green at our elbow.
Perfectly awake, Gawain rose, stooped under the low-arched roof. He ducked through the bower doorway and out among the half-moonlit oaks.
An owl called quickly twice from just above him. Another answered twice from the river.
Here we are, at last by ourself. Which way, Sir?
Gawain considered. North lay the pasturelands where herds wandered, guarded by youngsters with packs and tents, on their own for the first time. Like us, Sir!
Northeast stretched the Fair-Field and mowings. East, over the shallow river, flourished the crops whose growth Gawain and Lady Green encouraged.
She’s never let you go south.
Lady Green said that south was sacred grove, then deeper and more sacred grove. She said that nobody goes south.
Maybe that’s for us!
Gawain considered this uneasily. A feeling he did not care to call fear prickled his stomach. I think not this time.
He found himself moving northwest. An owl hooted above him. Two far owls answered. Gawain stopped short, hand on oak trunk.
Those aren’t owls. Those are sentries.
Inner Mind commented. You are right, Sir. Notice now that wherever you move, an owl signals.
I am a prisoner.
Aye.
God’s teeth! What do they want? Do they plan to attack King Arthur and fear I might warn him?
Let us not joke, Sir.
Gently, Gawain stepped northeast from oak shade to moonlight to oak shade. Sure enough, hooting owls kept pace, and once a twig snapped nearby.
I’ve been half asleep since I came here. It’s that hell-damned ale she gives me. But, God’s bones, what can they want?
Little Ynis said in his head, “We couldn’t do Midsummer.” Midsummer was now well past.
“So we skipped to Summerend.”
Summerend.
Gawain came to an edge of grove. He glanced up at the moon. How long now till Summerend? He stood on a rise looking out over the moor.
Long, long ago he had stood like this on a cold cliff looking over a cold, moonlit sea. A calm voice overhead had said, “At Summerend, the Old Ones cut the May King down like the crops. They gave his blood to the Goddess.” Little Gawain had shivered.
“We don’t do that now,” the voice continued. “Now we sacrifice a straw man, a John Barleycorn. But in the old days the blood was real.”
His mother, Morgause, had stood over Gawain, a tower between him and a fierce north wind. Her dark cloak blew about his back. Fascinated, he had asked, “How did they cut him down?”
“They cut off his head with a scythe. Like the crops.”
Gawain stood now rooted, staring over moonlit moor instead of moonlit sea. God and Mary shield!
That’s it, Sir. Your eyes open at last.
The old ways still lived in this God-forgotten north!
You remember the fellow they were going to crown May King when you came along? Remember his face, how miserable? And then how happy, when they crowned you instead!
“God’s blood!” Gawain murmured aloud as his own blood congealed in his veins.
Hush, Sir. The guard might hear. Let them think you’re still drugged out of your skull.
Must get out of here!
Truly, Sir. But how?
Must think how.
Drink no more ale, Sir.
That wretched girl! That Delilah! I’ll strangle her with her own rich red hair!
Not yet, Sir.
Far out on the white moor something moved. Something moon-large, moon-white.
That’s a horse, Sir.
Too big. All they’ve got here is rough little northern ponies.
That’s a knight’s charger.
It is! Big as my own Warrior that the savages ate. Angel Michael, that’s what I need! If I could catch that horse—
Someone else has.
The great white horse ambled closer through white moonlight. A figure sat upright on its back. Two figures.
That’s a woman, Sir. With a child before her.
She rode easily, swaying erect, guiding the charger apparently with
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