heels and thighs. Gawain saw no sign of reins.
My mother told me once of a Goddess of horses. Maybe this…
Goddess? Or ghost, on a ghost horse? Gawain prickled. His tongue swelled fuzzily to fill his mouth.
Come, Sir! You’ve been thinking too much about the past. That’s a real woman out there with a real child, on a real horse. And they’re really too far to catch.
Disgustedly, Gawain shook himself. He spit out fear. God’s teeth! I’m crazed. I’ve been crazed since May Day.
You’ve been drunk-drugged.
True. Now I’m clear, must stay clear. I’ve wits enough, strength enough, to escape from here.
In truth, Sir!
I am a Christian. Angels and Saints will aid me.
Very true.
I am Sir Gawain, King’s Companion! If I but keep my head, no northern savages can hold me.
Right, Sir. Keep your head and keep your head.
I’ll escape. And Merlin shall sing of my adventure.
The great moon-white horse paced slowly out of sight into deep moonlight.
The squat, rough-coated pony shied away from the joust.
Gawain cursed, clapped heels to hide, beat rump with awkwardlygathered reins. The pony changed its untrained mind. Gawain barely had time to aim “lance” and heft “shield” before the pony bore him, bouncing, into battle.
The Square Table roared and clashed. Half-wild ponies reared and plunged. Men whacked and thwacked with “lances” (peasant cudgels); “shields” dropped unheeded and were broken under-hoof. Knaves struck each other down, leaped down themselves, and wrestled. Snarling, they lost themselves in crazy rage like fighting dogs. It was by Merry’s good thought that they bore no knives, no weapons but the ungainly “lances.”
Even so, Gawain did damage.
As he reeled almost helplessly bareback, young Doon charged him. Gawain aimed his “lance” square at the oncoming face. He fully expected the boy to raise his shield. To his surprise, his “lance” crashed square into an astonished, unprotected face. Gawain felt the hard, familiar jolt.
Heels over head, Doon went down over his pony’s tail.
Gawain rode on through the melee, clashing cudgels with all he met, toppling many to the ground.
Reaching open, uncluttered space he managed to turn the bucking pony. Behind him his challengers found their feet, alone or with help. Ponies bucked loose and galloped away. Men grinned and joked even as they limped.
Gawain gave a quick glance southward, over the open fields. He imagined himself beating the pony into a gallop. He imagined the Square Table thundering after him, “lances” aloft. Slowly, he rode back into their midst.
A hand caught his rein. Merry looked up at him soberly. He said, “Doon’s hurt bad. Come see.”
Merry led the sidestepping, bridling pony back to the boy on the ground. Doon’s friends moved aside to let Gawain look down on the damage.
Dark young Doon held a fresh-torn rag over his left eye. He rocked back and forth and around and moaned to hurt his friends’ ears. They glared up at Gawain.
He slid down from the pony. Better not stand out above the crowd like a straw-man target. “He’s alive, God-thank!”
“No thanks to you, May King,” one man growled.
Merry said fairly, “We knew this jousting could jar us.”
Another man spat past Gawain’s boot toe. “The eye’s out, Merry.”
“Holy Gods.”
“If this stranger weren’t the May King—”
“But he is, Bert.”
“Aye,” men murmured, nodding around Gawain. “Aye, he’ll get it back. Well see him get it back, ayah.”
Clearheaded, Gawain understood their jargon. They would rejoice to see Doon’s eye avenged at Summerend. Gawain straightened tall. He said sincerely, “Holy Mary! I did not mean for that.” (Or did he? He was angry enough with all these murderous yokels!) “But you could hardly hope to joust without injury. I struck too truly. But I expected him to shield himself.”
Merry said again, “We all knew jousting was chancy. You and you, get Doon safe home. I’ll
My mother told me once of a Goddess of horses. Maybe this…
Goddess? Or ghost, on a ghost horse? Gawain prickled. His tongue swelled fuzzily to fill his mouth.
Come, Sir! You’ve been thinking too much about the past. That’s a real woman out there with a real child, on a real horse. And they’re really too far to catch.
Disgustedly, Gawain shook himself. He spit out fear. God’s teeth! I’m crazed. I’ve been crazed since May Day.
You’ve been drunk-drugged.
True. Now I’m clear, must stay clear. I’ve wits enough, strength enough, to escape from here.
In truth, Sir!
I am a Christian. Angels and Saints will aid me.
Very true.
I am Sir Gawain, King’s Companion! If I but keep my head, no northern savages can hold me.
Right, Sir. Keep your head and keep your head.
I’ll escape. And Merlin shall sing of my adventure.
The great moon-white horse paced slowly out of sight into deep moonlight.
The squat, rough-coated pony shied away from the joust.
Gawain cursed, clapped heels to hide, beat rump with awkwardlygathered reins. The pony changed its untrained mind. Gawain barely had time to aim “lance” and heft “shield” before the pony bore him, bouncing, into battle.
The Square Table roared and clashed. Half-wild ponies reared and plunged. Men whacked and thwacked with “lances” (peasant cudgels); “shields” dropped unheeded and were broken under-hoof. Knaves struck each other down, leaped down themselves, and wrestled. Snarling, they lost themselves in crazy rage like fighting dogs. It was by Merry’s good thought that they bore no knives, no weapons but the ungainly “lances.”
Even so, Gawain did damage.
As he reeled almost helplessly bareback, young Doon charged him. Gawain aimed his “lance” square at the oncoming face. He fully expected the boy to raise his shield. To his surprise, his “lance” crashed square into an astonished, unprotected face. Gawain felt the hard, familiar jolt.
Heels over head, Doon went down over his pony’s tail.
Gawain rode on through the melee, clashing cudgels with all he met, toppling many to the ground.
Reaching open, uncluttered space he managed to turn the bucking pony. Behind him his challengers found their feet, alone or with help. Ponies bucked loose and galloped away. Men grinned and joked even as they limped.
Gawain gave a quick glance southward, over the open fields. He imagined himself beating the pony into a gallop. He imagined the Square Table thundering after him, “lances” aloft. Slowly, he rode back into their midst.
A hand caught his rein. Merry looked up at him soberly. He said, “Doon’s hurt bad. Come see.”
Merry led the sidestepping, bridling pony back to the boy on the ground. Doon’s friends moved aside to let Gawain look down on the damage.
Dark young Doon held a fresh-torn rag over his left eye. He rocked back and forth and around and moaned to hurt his friends’ ears. They glared up at Gawain.
He slid down from the pony. Better not stand out above the crowd like a straw-man target. “He’s alive, God-thank!”
“No thanks to you, May King,” one man growled.
Merry said fairly, “We knew this jousting could jar us.”
Another man spat past Gawain’s boot toe. “The eye’s out, Merry.”
“Holy Gods.”
“If this stranger weren’t the May King—”
“But he is, Bert.”
“Aye,” men murmured, nodding around Gawain. “Aye, he’ll get it back. Well see him get it back, ayah.”
Clearheaded, Gawain understood their jargon. They would rejoice to see Doon’s eye avenged at Summerend. Gawain straightened tall. He said sincerely, “Holy Mary! I did not mean for that.” (Or did he? He was angry enough with all these murderous yokels!) “But you could hardly hope to joust without injury. I struck too truly. But I expected him to shield himself.”
Merry said again, “We all knew jousting was chancy. You and you, get Doon safe home. I’ll
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