see him there later. May King, what does the Round Table do after an accident like this?”
“Why, the joust goes on.”
“Ech, ayah. What I thought. Back at it, men!”
That morning Gawain learned what to expect of the Square Table. They were savages, fierce and brave, but untrained. They had no notion how to ride and fight at the same time. They did one or the other. The use of saddles, stirrups, and spurs would much aid their horsemanship. But Gawain was not the man to tell them that. Pitted against the Round Table, they would offer no contest. No contest against a bunch of squires!
And he himself, rightly a-horse, could doubtless fight off the lot of them.
“What? What can you mean, May King?”
“I know why you won’t use my name.” Quietly, dully, he says this. Quiet, dull dread echoes his voice in my bones.
“Gawain. What do you mean, you will not love me? Am I less lovely than before?”
“No less. Maybe more.” Moonlit, his dark eyes glint.
We sit under our awning between pea rows, knees touching. Eagerly, my body yearns toward him. In the act of unloosing my girdle, I lean over and slide its soft silk along his furry chest. This gesture has always stirred him. Till now. Now he pushes girdle and hand roughly away. Leaning forward, he challenges me with his eyes.
Mind shines in his eyes. Ah! Too much mind, much too keen.
“Wait, love. I know what you need.” I reach out for the bottle.
“No!”
“Eh?” Fingers pause on the bottle.
“ Ale will I never drink again, till I come again under Arthur’s reign. ”
“What?” I remember this line, or one like it, from one of Merlin’s stranger songs. “You will not drink…Gawain, you are not yourself.”
Till now, our May King has seemed a simple enough fellow; brave, honest (not like me!), always ready to drink and love. In truth, many have marveled at his capacity for drink and love. Now I seem to be looking an entirely other, unknown man in the face. Here is a time for slow caution, for feeling my way.
“Very well, May—Gawain. You need not drink. But love—”
“ You I will never love again, till I love you under Arthur’s reign .”
I strain to see his aura. What shape, what color, flares around him now? If I could see that…but auras do not shine in the dark. All I see is his solid, beautifully male silhouette against stars.
“You have lost your senses.”
“No, Lady Green. I have found them at length.”
I reach out to touch him. Again he pushes my hand away.
Sitting here so close, my hungry body cries out for him. It is all I can do to not hurl myself upon him. “You don’t want me to touch you?”
“I do not.”
Can it be…can he…dare I ask?
I undo and shrug my green gown down about my waist. Now I dare. “Why? May—Gawain. My love. Why?”
“Let us be honest together, you and I.”
“In truth! I have always—”
“You have not, Lady Green.” Dry severity. As though he did not see my body hunger.
“You are ungallant…”
“No more games.”
“Very well, Gawain. Be you honest with me.”
“Very well, Lady Green. I must away, and that with all good speed.”
“Away?” Step carefully here! “You know we need you here while the crops grow. After Summerend—”
“At Summerend I will be cut down with the crops.”
A sentinel owl hoots over by the river. Women’s soft voices murmur from the barley. Or are those the voices of startled, disappointed Fairies? Hope and desire sigh away in me to silence. I lift my gown again and secure it at the throat.
In his most formal, stilted language, Gawain says, “I will drink none, love none, here in this place, Holy Oak. But in King Arthur’s Dun I will take my fill of all good things. There, too, shall you take your fill.”
“I? Never shall I see King Arthur’s Dun.” From what he has told me, I have no slightest wish to see it.
“If you wish, Lady Green, you shall see it as my bride.”
“Bride,” I repeat, slowly. “You mean, wedded
“Why, the joust goes on.”
“Ech, ayah. What I thought. Back at it, men!”
That morning Gawain learned what to expect of the Square Table. They were savages, fierce and brave, but untrained. They had no notion how to ride and fight at the same time. They did one or the other. The use of saddles, stirrups, and spurs would much aid their horsemanship. But Gawain was not the man to tell them that. Pitted against the Round Table, they would offer no contest. No contest against a bunch of squires!
And he himself, rightly a-horse, could doubtless fight off the lot of them.
“What? What can you mean, May King?”
“I know why you won’t use my name.” Quietly, dully, he says this. Quiet, dull dread echoes his voice in my bones.
“Gawain. What do you mean, you will not love me? Am I less lovely than before?”
“No less. Maybe more.” Moonlit, his dark eyes glint.
We sit under our awning between pea rows, knees touching. Eagerly, my body yearns toward him. In the act of unloosing my girdle, I lean over and slide its soft silk along his furry chest. This gesture has always stirred him. Till now. Now he pushes girdle and hand roughly away. Leaning forward, he challenges me with his eyes.
Mind shines in his eyes. Ah! Too much mind, much too keen.
“Wait, love. I know what you need.” I reach out for the bottle.
“No!”
“Eh?” Fingers pause on the bottle.
“ Ale will I never drink again, till I come again under Arthur’s reign. ”
“What?” I remember this line, or one like it, from one of Merlin’s stranger songs. “You will not drink…Gawain, you are not yourself.”
Till now, our May King has seemed a simple enough fellow; brave, honest (not like me!), always ready to drink and love. In truth, many have marveled at his capacity for drink and love. Now I seem to be looking an entirely other, unknown man in the face. Here is a time for slow caution, for feeling my way.
“Very well, May—Gawain. You need not drink. But love—”
“ You I will never love again, till I love you under Arthur’s reign .”
I strain to see his aura. What shape, what color, flares around him now? If I could see that…but auras do not shine in the dark. All I see is his solid, beautifully male silhouette against stars.
“You have lost your senses.”
“No, Lady Green. I have found them at length.”
I reach out to touch him. Again he pushes my hand away.
Sitting here so close, my hungry body cries out for him. It is all I can do to not hurl myself upon him. “You don’t want me to touch you?”
“I do not.”
Can it be…can he…dare I ask?
I undo and shrug my green gown down about my waist. Now I dare. “Why? May—Gawain. My love. Why?”
“Let us be honest together, you and I.”
“In truth! I have always—”
“You have not, Lady Green.” Dry severity. As though he did not see my body hunger.
“You are ungallant…”
“No more games.”
“Very well, Gawain. Be you honest with me.”
“Very well, Lady Green. I must away, and that with all good speed.”
“Away?” Step carefully here! “You know we need you here while the crops grow. After Summerend—”
“At Summerend I will be cut down with the crops.”
A sentinel owl hoots over by the river. Women’s soft voices murmur from the barley. Or are those the voices of startled, disappointed Fairies? Hope and desire sigh away in me to silence. I lift my gown again and secure it at the throat.
In his most formal, stilted language, Gawain says, “I will drink none, love none, here in this place, Holy Oak. But in King Arthur’s Dun I will take my fill of all good things. There, too, shall you take your fill.”
“I? Never shall I see King Arthur’s Dun.” From what he has told me, I have no slightest wish to see it.
“If you wish, Lady Green, you shall see it as my bride.”
“Bride,” I repeat, slowly. “You mean, wedded
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