The Anturs of Arther: Part 3

The story so far: At the close of the hunting season, King Arthur’s retinue descend from the fells and prepare to herd the barren does into the hollows in order to slaughter them with bows and arrows. Sir Gawaine leads King Arthur’s wife Gaynore down the track, when suddenly the woods are cast into darkness, and they are separated from their companions. Whilst Gawaine endeavours to explain away the phenomenon as a solar eclipse, a decayed, animated corpse appears before them. Gawaine observes that it is crawling with snakes and toads, and draws his sword to defend his queen. The ghost tells Gawaine that it is all that remains of Gaynore’s mother, and that it once was more beautiful even than its daughter, but is now a rotting corpse. It commands him to bring Gaynore into its presence, and when he obeys, it tells her that it is in Purgatory, and can only be redeemed by her prayers. Now, Gaynore asks whether there is any hope for her mother’s soul, and after giving a prescription for its own salvation, the ghost turns on Gaynore, accusing her of pride, and insisting that she too will suffer its fate, if she does not change her ways. Moreover, it suggests that King Arthur himself is doomed to destruction because of his pride, employing that favourite mediaeval metaphor, the Wheel of Fortune. Gawaine realises that if Gaynore’s sin is enough to send her to Hell, the sins of Arthur’s knights are far worse...

 

The Anturs of Arther: Part 3

 

“I grieve for your fate,” said Gaynore, “and wish

You redeemed. Mother, I ask, though I barely dare,

Whether Matins and Mass might serve to wash

You of sin – or jewels of the earth help you to fare

Better? Might bishops with beads bring you to bliss,

Or cloisters and covenants heal you of care?

For you were my mother, how horrid it is:

Your body was beautiful; now it is bare!”

“Yes, worms bared my body, and who is to blame?

You know this is true:

Vows were broken. I rue

The day! So do you!

I am writhing in pain!”

 

“Then tell,” groaned Gaynore, “What penance might

Save you? And what saint plead for thy sake?

For baleful beasts blast your body with blight,

Your blood blinds my eyes – can mere worms break

You?” “Worms are my paramours, writhing and white,

They sink me down softly to dwell in a lake.

Even these words are wombed in black night,

And wretched the worms – each writhes like a snake.

In torment I toss – Gaynore, know this:

Were nine hundred masses done

At Matins and Nones,

My saved soul would soon

Grope gladly for bliss.”

 

“May he bring you to bliss, who bought us with blood,

Who hung clear on a cross and was crowned with thorns,

Christened and chrismed with candle and creed,

In a font of cold stone, baptised newborn;

And mild mother Mary who nurtured the seed,

And swaddled the bairn of Bethlehem born:

May they give me the grace to turn your fate good

Through prayers at Mass, and Matins at morn.”

“Keep mindful at Mass, and meekly implore

Him, who hung on a rood –

Staunched evil with good

With his deluge of blood –

To abide at your door!”

 

“I stretch forth my hand! I repent as you scold!

A million masses may silence your groaning –

But one thing,” cried Gaynore, “I need to be told –

What sin angers Christ, that I should be disowning?”

“Pride and pretences - read the prophets of old

Made plain to all people – pay heed to their preaching!

Pride’s branches bear bitter fruit; you must be bold,

For thousands are doomed, ignoring God’s bidding,

All of them damned, stripped bare of bliss.

In Christ put your trust

To purge you of lust

Or suffer you must –

Gaynore, hear this!”

 

“Now hear me,” wept Gaynore, “grisly ghost,

What is the penance or prayer that will save?”

“Meekness,” it moaned, “is what you need most,

And pity the poor: you’ll be one in the grave!

The charitable please Christ more than the chaste –

It’s better to give alms than be boastful or brave:

These are the gifts of the Holy Ghost’s grace,

Inspiring each soul, salvation to crave!

But speak no more – to the chantry make haste!

Queen in your comfort, who charms a whole state,

Hold these words in your heart:

We live once, then depart!

Child, look to your fate!”

 

“How shall we fare,” cried Gawaine, “who are fickle and fight,

And are quick to oppress the poor of the land,

And overrun the world, and fight against right,

And war for men’s worship, by might of our hands?”

“Your king is too covetous; so are his knights!

The Great Wheel will revolve – but a moment it stands

Still! When he’s majestic, and high in his might,

The Wheel shall swing low, as justice demands!

Thus shall misfortune bring misery and blight!

Fell Fortune, by night,

Is an awesome wheelwright

Whose spokes turn in spite

At a touch of his hands!”

 

Anonymous northern Middle English romance (15th century), paraphrased by Giles Watson. Despite the apparent religious orthodoxy of this part of the poem, it is quite revolutionary for its time. It works against the spirit of the traditional mediaeval romance, which customarily lauded knights’ deeds-at-arms. Gawaine, ever conscientious, realises that Arthur’s knights are rapacious, and that the ghost’s command that Gaynore must care for the poor is diametrically opposed to the chivalric ideal – since the poor are always the first to suffer at the hands of warriors.

 

The picture shows a wheelwright at work in a mediaeval wall painting at the church of Ampney St. Mary, Gloucestershire.

Done