Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔗he sun rose and began to look through the leaves and branches upon the mail-clad man as he offered his first prayer of the day, still working towards his penance. The events of the past days still weighed heavily upon him, filling his thoughts as he rode along behind the green-clad man. His hands kept creeping to his shoulder and his side, feeling about for wounds he knew he should have but seemed not to–nor even the scars that should have marked where they once had been. But yet his clothes and mail showed the marks made upon them, so he knew that they had been pierced before. The conundrum kept itself in the front of his mind, and so the trees he passed by did not, until at length, a branch that hung across the track that remained where once a road had been knocked him from the back of his horse.

Ahead of him, the green-clad man halted. Turning in his saddle, he said “Sir Knight, I know that there are times when even the great are unhorsed, but surely you could have faced such an opponent with more skill and aplomb. Are you well?”

The mail-clad man rose, shaking himself. He replied “I am. I was simply lost in thought as I rode along. I have had much about which to think as we have ridden together, particularly since the events of the fight. I marvel yet at how I fared in it, and I am all uncertain why it should be so. I know no agency that would act toward me as I have been treated, not even the Most High whose presence has been invoked to strengthen me and toward the worthiness of which I strive. For there have not been to my mind the usual signs and symbols of it, as I have heard told in hall and in camp. And I have dreamed strange dreams that I must question, as well.”

He remounted. “Forgive me my inattention. I shall be the more vigilant–and I shall avoid falling to such an opponent as jousted so well against me as I may!” He laughed, and the green-clad man smiled, and both of them rode on for a time. As they did, they began to find that the road was in better and better repair, for they had come past the midpoint of the forest and were coming into places where people dwelt who were of civil mind and tongue. And before the day was done, they came across a group of them, dwelling together in wood-thatch huts and living off of the bounty of the forest. And those people welcomed the green-clad man as a long friend, and their speech with him was strange, so that the mail-clad man knew not what was said. But he prayed his penitence as he had been bidden, and after the sun set, he partook of the food that was offered to him by the people with whom the green-clad man spoke at ease.

The mail-clad man thought to himself that this must be the origin of the man in green whom he followed. For the green-clad man seemed at ease among these people and in this place, and both seemed at ease with him, such that they were each part of the other. But he also marked that he saw no sign of faith among them. They fed him well with nut and berry and small game, and there was a drink sweet and strong, and though he did not understand their words, he knew that their tones were welcoming and warm, so he did not make much of the matter, but he noted no priest among them, no shaven-headed friar, and nowhere the signs of the Lord he knew and followed. And it was of some unease for him that it was so–but he kept to his courtesies and acted as a guest in high hall. But when one of the women smiled at him the way Lady Maelis’s servingwoman had, he made gestures of refusal. He knew he already did penitence enough.

The green-clad man marked the demurring, and he asked the mail-clad man “Why would you shake your head so? She but smiles at you and welcomes you to this place; she says she hopes that you are happy here for now.”

“If that is all that has been said,” the knight replied, “then I apologize that I shook my head at it. But the words spoken here are strange to my ears, and I know not how I ought to respond to them. It seemed another thing was spoken, and it is not a thing that I would have, not without somewhat else that seems not to be on offer here. For I have partaken of it before, and it is for that failing that I do penitence. I would not repeat the error while yet trying to atone for it. I am taught that such belies the sincerity of contrition, and it is only in that sincerity that forgiveness may be found.”

“I am sure that you are correct, Sir Knight. I think I know whereof you speak, and if you cannot say the words as they are spoken here, in this I will be your voice.” And the green-clad man said to the woman who had smiled a series of words the knight did not understand. Her smile fell, and her eyes were sad, but she nodded at what was spoken to her, and she rose and left. Then the green-clad man turned again to the mail-clad and said “It is done. No longer will you be troubled by such a thing, at least not here. In the world outside, I cannot say, but that will be for you to handle when we are again where the words are what you know.”

The mail-clad man nodded his thanks and returned to his food while revelry continued around him.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔗he mail-clad man woke in disbelief. He felt no pain, was not hindered in his motions when he moved his arm and shoulder and sought to sit up. When he looked around, he saw that he sat in the forest where he had fallen the night before. The green-clad man sat across the fire from him, eating. When he saw that the knight was awake, he nodded and offered a cup of water, for the sun was already in the sky, shining through the trees.

The mail-clad man took the cup with thanks, offered up a small prayer, and drank. When he had wet his mouth, he asked “Am I dead? For I recall that I was smitten in shoulder and in flank by arrows, and the latter bit deeply into me.” The green-clad man answered him swiftly, saying “If you are dead, then so am I, as is all you see around you. But I think you are not dead, for I do not think myself to have passed out of life. Nor yet did I work healing upon you this day.”

“Then I am confused as to what happened. And I am confused as to how you reacted while a fight occurred around you. For there was fighting, and you acted as if nothing was wrong, eating your food and drinking your drink and paying no mind to aught that happened. A man was set to kill you, and yet you acted as if nothing was amiss.”

“Why should I worry? You were here, as I knew you would be, and you are charged to me, so that I knew you would act in my defense if it were needed. And it is so. I am unharmed, and you appear to be so.”

The mail-clad man felt himself, searching his shoulder and his side for the marks of arrows. The cloth of his gambeson was torn where he would have expected, given the wounds he had named. Yet the skin under the tears was unbroken and smooth, and there was no pain in the motion. And the mail-clad man marveled at the revelation, saying “I must be strengthened, indeed, in the pursuance of my obligation to you. For there is not a mark upon me from what I have endured, although the tears in my clothing say that something happened to me. God be praised that it is so!”

The green-clad man smiled. “If you are feeling well, then, let us go.”

The mail-clad man rose. “Let me look about a bit before we do. I have to think that there have been some things left behind by those who attacked us, and I do not know where my horse went.”

The green-clad man also stood. “As to the former, I know not, for I have not looked about. You would know better than I what to search out and recover. But as to the latter, your horse is with mine, and there.” He pointed, and the knight looked, seeing the horses standing a little ways off, grazing merrily on such shrubbery as was present for them. He nodded, and as the green-clad man went about his own work, the mail-clad scouted about. He found the corpses he had made the night before, and he offered prayers for them as he laid them out and took form them such knives and moneys as they had. Armor had they none, and their bows had been broken.

“We should stop a bit and bury them” he said, but the green-clad man replied “We have no priest to pray over them, and there is no hallowing to this ground. Too, I have scant pity for those who would have slain me and those in my service, so I will not tarry for them. No, Sir Knight, we will not bury them. Let them be as the beasts they would become, dead in the woods and given to those who live therein.” And he mounted to ride away, but the mail-clad man prayed over them again, asking their forgiveness and God’s for the neglect of their bodies. Still, he could not but follow, and so he did.

The two rode through the rest of the day, moving slowly against the deteriorating road, and stopping as the sun descended. The forest still surrounded them as they made their camp for the night, and as the sun set, the knight offered up his penitential prayers and his prayer of thanks, and he ate. Soon enough, he slept, and while he slept, he dreamed. In his dream, he saw the faces of those he had slain the night before, and the marks of their wounds were upon them. They struggled to speak, but they could not, or else the knight could not hear them–but they were joined by a third, and the knight knew the figure to be his own. And it was marked with the marks he would have suffered, with arrows in shoulder and side, and one leg swollen and bloated from the bite of the adder. It spoke to him, and he could hear its words in his own voice clearly:

“You are deceived and your soul in peril for it! For the one whom you follow is not as he seems to be; although his name is such as cannot be spoken, and the names used for him are vile and reviled, you must know who he is. Follow him not, though you think yourself charged to it, for it is only through deceit that you have taken that charge. Repent of your folly, though it cost you your life again, and be shriven that you may pass on in peace. Go now, before you are damned forever!”

The knight awoke in sweat and cold, and he stared into the overhanging leaves in the darkness, seeing only few in the lingering red light cast by the coals of the fire he had made and that had since gone out.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔗wo men, one clad in mail following another clad in green so dark as to be almost black, left the village, heading east along the paths beaten into the ground by itinerant traders and merchants and along roads that had been left by those who had gone before them. Still did the mail-clad man pray and fast as penance for his deeds, although the thought of she with whom he had done them still stood in his mind as a source of wistful joy. Soon, the paths began to lead into a forest, and tall, dark trees began to shroud the road in branches and in hanging moss and shadow, although the men came to them in the full light of midday. The mail-clad man shifted in his saddle and rode ahead of the green-clad, knowing what might lurk in such woods, both beasts fell and feral and people of poor repute, and knowing that his skills were like to be needed against such things.

While the sun shone down through the leaves of the trees, the forest that swallowed the road was quiet. But as the two men pressed on, riding slowly against the threat of branches hanging low, they began to come across where the forest was digesting the road, with roots thrusting up through it and the path beginning to disappear amid the greenery. And the sunlight dimmed as the star of the day sank into the west. As it did, the forest grew louder, as if waking, and the mail-clad man put his hand on his sword, saying to the green-clad man he followed “We must take care now, for if there is to be peril, it will come as day turns to night. For beasts prowl about at dusk, and men who act as beasts not long after.”

There was no answer, and when the mail-clad man looked behind him, he saw no sign of his companion. The absence surprised him, and he said to himself “I knew that he had strange skills, but I had not known that he was so mighty a woodsman as to vanish utterly.” And around him, the sounds of the forest continued to swell. He pressed onward, trusting that his companion would remain with him and be safe.

From away to the knight’s left came the sound of a branch snapping, and he looked that way. In a tree, he saw a man readying a bow, and he threw himself from his horse to the ground, pushing away from the arrow he knew would come and drawing his sword again as he stood and sought cover behind a tree. He did so nimbly enough, for an arrow smote into the ground where he had been but a moment before, and from the forest he heard the shouts of men saying “Surrender, Sir Knight, for there are many of us and but the one of you. We will hold you for ransom if you do, but if you will fight against us, we will show you no mercy.”

The knight called back “Then you will no mercy have of me, for I will not surrender to you, and I have none who will ransom me from you.” And he moved from tree to tree, working his way towards the voices he had heard. Arrows flew from the woods at him as he moved, but he dodged around them, avoiding them lightly such that he seemed to dance amid the trees. But as he approached, he found none to fight; they moved through the woods as well as he and better, and their numbers told in the arrows that flew from branch and bough. Around them all, the light continued to dim as the sun sank behind the horizon and the moon, far from full, rose and offered only little light.

Full darkness fell, and through the trees, the mail-clad man could see the glow of a fire. He approached it cautiously, not knowing who had lit it or who tended it, and as he did, he saw the green-clad man sitting at his ease, eating and drinking. And he saw behind the green-clad man another, arrow held on bowstring and drawing back to loose. Yelling, the mail-clad man charged forward. The archer shifted, drew, and loosed, and the arrow smote the mail-clad man full in the shoulder. All the while, the green-clad man continued to eat, taking no notice of what transpired around him, neither the mail-clad man slamming into the archer with his good shoulder and shoving his sword through his body until it burst out the back, nor the second archer that came up and loosed another arrow into the mail-clad man, one that smote into him head and shaft. Nor yet did he alter what he did that the knight whirled about, taking the knife from the belt of the one archer and flinging it full in the face of the second, such that the blade sank into his eye and he sank to the ground.

The mail-clad man fell to his knees, pierced in the shoulder and deeply in the flank, and he knew as he did that his wounds would be such that he could not recover. But the green-clad man still sat and ate and drank, and no harm had come to him. “At least there is this, that so long as I lived, no blade nor bolt did bite upon him. And I have been in penance. If I am to die, then I die well, and I can hope that my time of purgation will be brief, though I know not if any will pray for me when I am gone.”

The face of the woman who served Lady Maelis returned to him, smiling. “Perhaps she will. Perhaps she already does. But I would not so presume.”

He fell to the ground, and the darkness took him.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔗he mail-clad man continued to follow the green-clad man for a time, both of them wandering east across Logres, following traders’ routes as they went. Still did the knight pray and fast as he had been bidden, marking each day that he did with solemnity upon the scabbard of his sword. They did overtake some of the merchants who made their own way across the land, gathering from them what news was to be had and exchanging some they had learned–mostly of the Lady Maelis, for the mail-clad man could not speak of the battle, and the green-clad man would not, for which his companion was grateful. Such as they heard was not to the knight’s liking, for it told of the unraveling already begun although news of the battle could not have reached far in so short a time, but the green-clad man seemed pleased to learn what he learned of the growing unease in the southeastern parts of Logres.

He saw the knight looking at him from the side of his eye and said “The work that I would do requires that things be in motion and unsettled, Sir Knight. I knew that if unraveling there would be, it would be there. And so, Sir Knight, I can tell you that we are heading towards that town which has been called Anderitum. The thought comes to me that there will be great changes there, and I think they will be of the sort that I can turn to my advantage–and yours, since you will be with me. Gules, on a bend argent a baton gules wavy can show forth at Anderitum in ways that it has not elsewhere, and to more effect. For I think there will be no adder there to reenact the words said spoken to your early foremother, nor to have you enact them upon it.”

“Do you mean to have me fight there for you, then? For I will do that thing, seeing as I am a knight and so trained, although I have not much worship–and the less for not being part of the fellowship with which I set out before. But I wonder if you might say to me aught of the foes that will be there, if there they will be. And if it will not be for fighting that you would have me with you, then I would ask to what purpose I would be put, how it is that I might serve you as I have said I would do and as I have been charged.”

“They are good questions that you ask, my friend. And I will answer them, at least in part. I have you with me because there may be fighting, and you will serve in that role well if it arises. I rather think there will be some call for it at Anderitum, and there may be some along the way. But it is not that for which I would have you, had I my druthers. No, I have other plans for you. You do not happen to be of Cornwall, do you?”

The knight shook his head. “Indeed not. Rather am I of Ternyllwg, from a small holding therein, where my father was lord and my elder brother his heir. But I went with a knight who came to the town and sad that he would have a squire, for he was growing somewhat older and knew that he would soon either take up the holy life of a hermit or else leave this life behind him utterly. And his name was Sir Erflet, and he said to me that he had come from the home of his youth not far from Londinium. But when I was with him, we never went that way, and I am told that Anderitum is on the other side of that city from here. But why would it matter if I were from Cornwall?”

“It might have been a thing that would help if you were. But it will not hurt that you are not. Think nothing of it, but rather on what kind of man you would follow, were you not bound to follow me, or after what I would have you do is done.”

“I shall think such thoughts, but I am still not certain what you would have me do.”

“Nor yet I, Sir Knight, for what I would have you do will depend on what we find. But we are bound for Anderitum, that much I do know, and I have hopes for things we may find along our way and at the end of it, but I will not speak of them. There are those who would thwart my intent, and their ears hear many things in many places.”

The knight did not reply when the green-clad man had done, but rode beside him in silence for a time. They came as happened, to another small village, there staying with the local priest, as was becoming something of a custom for them. And at his table after evening services, when the knight could eat and the green-clad man did, they heard him speak what he knew. “For it is said by those who live not far away that but two days ago, a sad riding of knights in arms brightly marked passed by, and a man neither the old king or the new rode at their head with a crown upon his. I have heard that he was bound for Londinium, the crown-wearer, and that he is the son of a Cornishman. But it is wonder that another man wears a crown, for was not there to be accord between the two who were crowned and anointed? Or so the words were spoken to my ear.”

The knight and the green-clad man looked each at the other, and the green-clad man said that they were wearied from their travels and thanked the priest his hospitality to them, and they retired for the evening both.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔗he mail-clad man did not see the green-clad man he was tasked to follow for the remainder of that day. Nor yet did he see the Lady Maelis, nor still the woman with whom he had lain the night before. But he did do as he had been bidden, abstaining from food and drink while the sun shone and offering prayers at noon and dusk, and the next day saw him rise before the sun so that he could eat and, at dawn, pray as he had been bidden. It was not long afterwards that he again saw the green-clad man, who bade him gather his things and make ready to depart. “For we have yet a long way to go,” he said,
“and much to do, and we cannot wait here overlong and think that we will go and do as needs.”

The mail-clad man did as he was bidden, and within the hour, he and the green-clad man rode out. They took remounts with them, as well as much to make their travels easier, and the green-clad man said that the Lady Maelis had given them him in exchange for services rendered to her. When the mail-clad man asked what sort of services he had offered, the green-clad man smiled. “Did you not know that I am a healer of many afflictions? And there were several that beset the Lady Maelis, of which she is now relieved. It is good, for I think that her lord husband, Sir Gwion, will not return from that battle whither he rode. She will need her strength in the times to come.”

“Are you then a seer, too?” The mail-clad man brought his horse up alongside the green-clad man’s. “For it returns to my mind that you thanked me for my part in ending Logres–if it is indeed ended, of which I see no sign as yet. And I cannot think that any would delight in such a thing who were not of ill intent.”

“It matters little whether you can think so or not, Sir Knight. You are obliged to me, charged by your faith to follow that obligation whither it will lead you. So even if I am a man of ill intent, you cannot but aid me–or would you be known as recreant and craven, unable or unwilling to do that you say you will do? For it can be known that under the shield of gules, on a bend argent a baton gules wavy, there is only fear and unworth. Or it can be known that such a shield stands for endurance in duty, however painful it might be–if painful it is. For when did I say such a thing to you, that you would rebuke me for it now?”

“On that very day when the adder did bite me and–”

“And I healed you, giving you back your life that you otherwise would have lost. And you staggered from poison and swooned. Will you trust a memory, then, that comes from such a time? Will you rebuke me that I saved you? Will you upbraid me that I have seen to your care and lodging no less than mine since? Will you be so ungrateful as this? Is this the valor to which you are sworn and the courtesy? Is this the way in which you would have served your king?”

Such was the wrath of the green-clad man and so pointed his words that the mail-clad man fell to silence. He knew that it was as the green-clad man had said, that what he recalled was from when he swooned and was ill, and he knew that men in fever and afflicted sometimes saw what was not there and heard what was not said. He knew, too, that he did have his life again because the green-clad man had healed him, and he was ashamed to have spoke as he did. And after a time, he said so to the green-clad man, asking his forgiveness for the transgression against him.

The green-clad man smiled and said gently “Many things I am, but a priest is not one of them. I cannot absolution offer, and I do not know that you can take on more penance. For I have seen that you drink but little, and that only water, and that you do not eat as we ride–and you did when we were together before. I will not ask for what you atone, for it is of no moment to me so long as it does not prevent you from doing that you are charged to do. See only that you do as you ought, and all will be well between us–but know that if you repent overmuch of the gifts of life and health I have given you, they can be withdrawn.”

The mail-clad man bowed his head and let his horse fall behind, and the two rode for some time in silence. But before the end of the day, they came upon a monastery, and there was a place for travelers to stay and leave what they would for the brothers cloistered within. There was writing upon the wall beside its door, which the green-clad man read:” From before dusk to after dawn, the door will open stand. But between dawn and dusk the door is shut off from the land. Stay then in peace throughout the night, but in the day, pass on. We, the brothers, tend the house when visitors are gone.”

He turned to the mail-clad man then and said “The night draws near, and the door is open. We may as well pass the night under roof and be on our way again tomorrow. For, as I have said, we are far from where we must be to do that we must do, but I think not that you will do so well to wander in the darkness as in the light of day.”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

𝔇inner ended as would be expected, with the Lady Maelis rising after the courses had been served and cleared and more wine was poured by her hand for the green-clad man and by his for her, and by one smiling servingwoman for the knight. “I must retire,” she said, “for the hour grows late, and I am weary. But I am pleased to have had you in my home this evening, and even if you will not linger here to await my lord husband, Sir Gwion, you have been welcome, and you will be welcome again should you choose to come again.” And she made her courtesy somewhat shakily, and the green-clad man and the knight rose and bowed, and she retired.

Soon after, the green-clad man, finishing his wine, stood and said to the knight “I, too, find that I am wearied. I know not if we shall stay here for a time, but I know that we will tonight. So be at your ease, Sir Knight, and in the morning, we shall see where matters lie.”

The knight rose and bowed. “Then I shall bid you good night, and I shall see you come the morrow.” The man in green nodded and left, and soon, the knight saw the servingfolk work to clear away what remained on the table. Most were quick and quiet about their work, but one, the servingwoman with whom he had spoken upon entering the house and who had provided him the blue robe he wore, lingered. When the others were gone, she asked him “Sir Knight, the Lady Maelis has dismissed her servants for the night. I am therefore utterly at your disposal, ready to address your needs.”

She looked at him full in the face as she spoke, and the knight took her meaning well. So he said to her “I find that I am at a loss with a house unfamiliar to me. I am not at all certain I recall how to again find the room with which the Lady Maelis has so generously provided me. Perhaps you could help me to find it again.”

The servingwoman smiled and said “That is a thing that I can do, Sir Knight, and I am happy to show you the way to where you want to go.” She gestured, and he rose and followed her. It was not a long walk for them, and they soon stood inside the chamber that had been given over to the knight for his use. The servingwoman smiled again and asked “Will Sir Knight require help in preparing for bed?”

“He would” came the reply, and the servingwoman began to undress him. And she did more besides, for it was clear to her that he desired her, and she gave every sign of desiring him, in turn, so they lay together into the night. But in the morning, the knight woke alone in his bed, his regular clothes laid out for him, and he dressed and went back to the hall where he had eaten before, searching for food, as he was hungered. While he did, he looked for the woman he had known the night before, but he did not see her in the hall. Nor did he see her afterwards about the home, nor yet in the town, into which he ventured as Terce came and went, and still were the green-clad man and the Lady Maelis absent from view. Yet the town was busy, with the commons going about their many tasks. The mill-wheel turned, and the cooper plied his craft, and the sounds of youths being as they were could be heard easily.

The priest of the local parish church saw the knight, clad again in mail, looking about and approached him. “God’s peace upon you, my son,” said he, and the mail-clad man replied “And also upon you, Father.”

The priest went on. “You appear to be lost, my son, although I know that the Lady Maelis is hosting you.” And the mail-clad man replied “I was looking for someone, Father, although I recall now that I know not the name of the one I seek. How strange is it, then, to seek for that of which the name is unknown?”

“It is not so strange, my son,” said the priest. “There is much of which we know not the name, on earth as in heaven, and yet we know that we are in need of it. Even the names of the Father and the Holy Ghost are sought but unknown to many, and of the Son, well, there are many who know it not but should or will come to do. So I know you do not know the name to seek, but why do you seek?”

The mail-clad man shook his head. “For that, Father, I would have to be shriven, and while I trust that you could do such a thing, I well recall that in the open air is not a place for the doing of such things,” he said, and the priest replied, “Then come you into the church, my son, and be shriven–and if there is penance to do, you may do it and be right with the Lord.” And so the mail-clad man did, speaking what he had done the night before to the priest and being told what to do to atone. “For what you have done is a matter of grave import, and perhaps more than you would know, for it might be that the one with whom you lay was wedded to another. Yet you would be ignorant of such a thing, and so did not commit adultery in the full force of will if such were done. So you will pray at dawn and noon and sunset, and you will fast, taking neither meat nor drink save water while the sun is in the sky, from this day forward for the space of as many days as there are hours in each day. And when that is done, your penance will be done, and you will be forgiven. Now go, and sin no more!”

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