and his servant lifts his shield which he slings on his shoulder,

then he girds on Gringolet with his golden spurs

who clatters from the courtyard, not stalling to snort

or prance.

His man was mounted too

who lugged the spear and lance.

‘Christ keep this castle true,’

he chanted. ‘Grant good chance.’

The drawbridge was dropped, and the double-fronted gates

were unbarred and each half was heaved wide open. 2070

As he clears the planking he crosses himself quickly,

and praises the porter, who kneels before the prince

and prays that God be good to Gawain.

Then he went on his way with the one whose task

was to point out the road to that perilous place

where the knight would receive the slaughterman’s strike.

They scrambled up bankings where branches were bare,

clambered up cliff-faces crazed by the cold.

The clouds which had climbed now cooled and dropped

so the moors and the mountains were muzzy with mist 2080

and every hill wore a hat of mizzle on its head.

The streams on the slopes seemed to fume and foam,

whitening the wayside with spume and spray.

They wandered onwards through the wildest woods

till the sun, at that season, came skyward, showing

its hand.

On hilly heights they ride,

snow littering the land.

The servant at his side

then has them slow and stand. 2090

‘I have accompanied you across this countryside, my lord,

and now we are nearing the site you have named

and have steered and searched for with such singleness of mind.

But there’s something I should like to share with you, sir,

because upon my life, you’re a lord that I love,

so if you value your health you’ll hear my advice:

the place you head for holds a hidden peril.

In that wilderness lives a wildman, the worst in the world,

he is brooding and brutal and loves bludgeoning humans.

He’s more powerful than any person alive on this planet 2100

and four times the figure of any fighting knight

in King Arthur’s castle, Hector included.

And it’s at the green chapel where this grisliness goes on,

and to pass through that place unscathed is impossible,

for he deals out death blows by dint of his hands,

a man without measure who shows no mercy.

Be it chaplain or churl who rides by his church,

monk or priest, whatever man or person,

he loves murdering more than he loves his own life.

So I say, just as sure as you sit in your saddle, 2110

to find him is fatal, Gawain – that’s a fact.

Trust me, he could trample you twenty times over

or more.

He’s lurked about too long

engaged in grief and gore.

His hits are swift and strong –

he’ll fell you to the floor.’

‘So banish that bogeyman to the back of your mind,

and for God’s sake travel an alternative track,

ride another road, and be rescued by Christ. 2120

I’ll head off home, and with hand on heart