The Gawain Legacy Read online

  First published by Cosmic Egg Books, 2014

  Cosmic Egg Books is an imprint of John Hunt Publishing Ltd., Laurel House, Station Approach,

  Alresford, Hants, SO24 9JH, UK

  [email protected]

  www.johnhuntpublishing.com

  For distributor details and how to order please visit the ‘Ordering’ section on our website.

  Text copyright: Jon Mackley 2013

  ISBN: 978 1 78279 485 1

  All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publishers.

  The rights of Jon Mackley as author have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,

  Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Design: Stuart Davies

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  We operate a distinctive and ethical publishing philosophy in all areas of our business, from our global network of authors to production and worldwide distribution.

  For Zoë

  My precious perle wythouten spot

  Ƿ byþ ðerlé scearp

  ~Thorn is very sharp~

  As þou foly hatz frayst, fynde þe behoues

  ~ As you have sought folly, you deserve to find it ~

  Gawain and the Green Knight, l. 324

  Author’s Note

  In the late fourteenth century, an anonymous Cheshire poet wrote a poem which subsequent editors have titled Gawain and the Green Knight. The manuscript is bound with three devotional texts and kept in the British Library.

  Gawain and the Green Knight tells of King Arthur’s court at Camelot. A strange knight, dressed entirely in green with green skin and hair, declares he will receive a blow from his mighty axe and, a year later, he will deliver a return blow. Gawain decapitates the Green Knight, but the knight picks up his head, which reminds Gawain to look for him in a year.

  Gawain leaves Camelot in search of the Green Knight’s chapel. On his journey he finds a castle: the host welcomes him, telling him the Green Chapel is nearby and offers Gawain a bargain: he will hunt in the forests and give Gawain whatever he kills. In return, Gawain should remain in the castle and hand over anything that he ‘wins’.

  Over the next two days, the host’s wife flirts with Gawain. She becomes more overt in her advances and only leaves once Gawain has given her a kiss, which Gawain, in turn, gives to his host.

  On the third day, realising she will not persuade Gawain to sleep with her, the lady offers him her girdle. Gawain takes it, not as a love token, but because she promises it will make him invulnerable to the Green Knight’s blade. That evening, Gawain gives his host three kisses, but conceals the girdle.

  The following morning, Gawain travels to the chapel where the Green Knight is waiting for him. Gawain bares his neck, but twice the Green Knight feigns the blow. On the third attempt, Gawain receives a slight nick in the neck. The Green Knight explains he had been Gawain’s host in the castle and knew everything that had occurred with his wife. Each attempt with the axe represented a day in the castle. On the first two days, Gawain had been honourable with the host’s wife. On the third day he had kept the girdle, but his intentions had been self-preservation, rather than sexual, so there was only a minor blemish on his character.

  Humiliated, Gawain returns to Camelot and tells King Arthur of his trial. He sees the girdle as a sign of his humiliation, but the court wears it as a badge of his honour.

  The tight structure, the author’s use of locations that are familiar to his audience and the repetition of numbers and alliterative letters, have led readers of Gawain to search for hidden codes including the author’s name; and who knows what else is hidden in Gawain’s legacy?

  1

  For Lara, the fact she was leaving her husband wasn’t so bad as the bus being late.

  The deep blue hues in the sky were fading in the east. A single wispy cloud floated above, tinted black in the January night. The morning star glittered, watching her. She dragged her coat tight around her slim frame against the chilling wind.

  Distant shimmering lights led to the nearby train station. The glow seeped through the morning mist around the platform. A few figures stood waiting to catch early trains like freezing caricatures from a Lowry painting.

  The painting … the painting had been the final nail in the coffin of her relationship with Michael. It seemed petty now. Even now, despite her desperation, despite her fear, her resolve had almost broken. She could still return before he woke and he would be unaware of her intentions.

  But nothing would have changed except her diminishing self-esteem. He’d continue tormenting her and she might never again find the strength to leave.

  She could, of course, catch a train from here. An early commuter train would take her to Birmingham, or to London. From there she could travel to anywhere in the country; hell, she could get to Europe if she wanted.

  A man walked past with a dog, which sniffed at her holdall. The owner grunted a ‘good morning’. He dragged the dog away, not looking at her.

  The light bleeding across the sky had eclipsed the morning star; the clouds were tinged with salmon. The concealing darkness was exposing her to the terrors of the day.

  She stared at the Lowry caricatures again, wondering if they could see her, as she saw them. She should have taken off her glasses before she started, then she wouldn’t have known about them: blissfully ignorant in blindness.

  She removed the glasses, carefully folding the arms down. She could see clearly enough without them, but in this half-light, distant things became blurred.

  If eyes are the windows to the soul, I don’t want anyone looking into mine.

  Without her glasses, the world blended into an anonymous blur of colours. She only needed the glasses for driving and reading, but tiredness had enveloped her and the world faded away to a hazy nothingness.

  If I ever leave my husband again, I’ll go when I’m less tired.

  But there wouldn’t be a next time, she thought, unconsciously crossing her fingers. Standing here, waiting for the bus, marked the end of that relationship. And all the time, her father’s quotation from Twelfth Night on the day she had announced her engagement, rang in her mind: Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage. Had he seen something wrong in their relationship when she had been blinded by love?

  And it wasn’t even a nice painting, she reminded herself. But Michael had decided it suited the bedroom wall and, because Michael was always right, it had gone up. Six months later, it had fallen down again. Gravity had chosen five o’clock in the morning to remove the painting from its seat of glory. The ensuing argument had forced her to the end of her tether: Michael had found a way of making it her fault. Already, she had been unconsciously planning her escape. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, she had walked out. Her heart had hardened, even though she was still brushing tears away.

  And even though she was devastated by grief because everything had ended, and she was crushed by the uncertainty of the future, there was another, stronger, overwhelming emotion.

  Relief.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The rising sun paled in the mist. Even without her glasses she recognised the familiar landmarks of “home”: the river Welland and the bridge, the wooden archway of the George, the yellow limestone and timber-framed buildings. She needed to leave them all behind her now.

  Shivering, she realised her teeth were gritted. She tapped her foot in irritation, praying the bus would arrive soon.

  She looked back at the train station. Her first awareness that something was wrong was pure instinc
t. It was the same pervading fear that ate into her gut when she heard the key scraping in the lock as Michael came home from work. The sensation was so familiar that, at first, she thought he had found her, that he had woken early, found her note and had come to drag her back.

  A movement, almost imperceptible.

  She put her glasses on again and looked down the bank, past the discarded shopping trolleys, to the train lines.

  Swathed by the morning mist, she saw a figure standing, Christ-like, arms outstretched, his overcoat hanging loose around him. Standing on one of the sleepers between the silver of the railway lines.

  As she watched, he knelt down, his arms suspended in a parody of the Crucifixion: resigned to his fate.

  The mist had almost swallowed him. In the distance – a mere pinprick in the curtain of the night – she saw the light of the oncoming train. The Jesus character had worked out this train wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t even slow down for the platform. And there was no way the driver would see him in time, even if she could.

  Another movement. Further down the lines, in the path the train would take, she saw lights in the distance, torch beams spearing the mist. Dogs barked. Her mind tried to connect the images: man running away from men with dogs. Did he hope the train would get him before the dogs did?

  She wasn’t usually blessed with a vivid imagination, but her mind was saturated by the image of a body after impact.

  The train continued: a weapon of suicide.

  She wasn’t aware of moving, didn’t know where the reserves of strength came from. It was like watching someone else when she hauled her bag over the iron railings. A myriad of thoughts struck her; the most forceful was a chiding voice inside her head: It’s better to try and fail than to not try at all and live with the consequences.

  Then she was lifting herself on to the railings. Her holdall rolled away down the embankment. She shuddered. If she fell, she could tumble uncontrolled down the side of the bank, perhaps skewering herself on the debris waiting at the bottom like a crocodile’s teeth.

  She heard the hum of the train on the lines; the sound of the engine was carried by the light breeze. She let go of the railings and slipped down the bank, scrabbling for grasses and roots. She landed down alongside her bag.

  The rattling train drew closer. The light pierced the darkness and behind her, torch lights swung closer.

  She ran across the train tracks, tripping, stumbling, but caught herself before she fell.

  The Jesus character was standing in front of her, a shade among a multitude of shadows.

  Her body no longer responded to rational thought. She was either going to help him or join him.

  She tripped again, then ran, finding a rhythm to avoid obstructions in her path. The train bore down on her like a predator alighting on its prey. It was on top of her.

  She wasn’t going to reach the man in time.

  The screams of the train were deafening, like standing in the heart of a volcano. Lights blazed. Ozone burned. Suddenly, adrenalin surged through her, filling her with inhuman strength.

  She leapt, already knowing she was going to miss the man and be hit by the train herself.

  I’m too late, she told herself. He’s dead.

  Her hands connected with solid muscle. She hadn’t tensed her arms. They buckled against him. The man hadn’t been prepared for a ‘rescue’. His body crumbled. Her jaw connected with his shoulder. Her teeth snapped together. Blood filled her mouth. Her head swam with the shock. She curled her feet underneath her, pulling them from the path of the train.

  The world erupted. Wind was dragged out of her. Her spirit felt like it was being sucked out of her eyes. The vortex dragged her towards the train, as unforgiving as a demon.

  In eternal moments it was over. The train had gone. She clawed at the earth, fighting for breath. Behind her, the torches had scattered but dogs barked, picking up the scent. They were close. Beside her, the man was crying.

  ‘You should have left me.’ His voice was child-like. ‘It’s got to end now.’ He looked around, as if trying to find the next train. ‘They’ll find me,’ he whispered.

  Ungrateful bastard, Lara thought. She stared behind her. The torchlight moved closer. The men had regrouped. The barking was muffled; the man’s scent was masked by the stench of the train.

  ‘Get away,’ the man said, looking down on her. Even in this half-light, she could see his eyes were slits, his top lip curled, baring his teeth and his contempt. ‘Get away now, before they see you.’

  ‘What?’ Lara started.

  The man turned, hauling himself from where he had fallen. He grabbed her by the wrist. ‘Too late.’ His voice was forlorn. ‘They’ll find you too, come on.’

  Lara was stunned. That morning she had planned to get away, laying a false trail. Did it matter if she went by train or by bus? Wherever the man was going was just as anonymous as anywhere she had planned. ‘My bag,’ she gestured feebly.

  ‘No time.’ He pulled her with him, dragged her. She stumbled. He glanced at his watch. Now they were running along the sleepers, towards the station.

  ‘Platform two; train to Birmingham,’ he said. ‘Which is it? Left or right?’

  ‘Right,’ Lara said. She peered over her shoulder. She felt that if the torches swung in the right direction the beams would burn her, like a vampire in sunlight.

  She blinked in the bright station lights. The man lifted her on to the platform. She started to run as he pulled himself up behind her. A momentary strand of reason threaded in her brain. The men following him were probably police. This man could be a criminal. If she was caught, she’d either be considered an accomplice, or fined for trespassing on the train tracks. No good turn goes unpunished.

  She wanted to get away, but the man had caught up with her. He placed a hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm and strong. Uncomfortable. She wouldn’t be able to pull away, even if she wanted to.

  The tannoy crackled: The train now approaching platform two is for Birmingham New Street.

  The train came to a halt. The few people on the platform stepped forward. Lara and the man became part of the crowd, swept towards open doors.

  She looked behind her again. The lights of the station muted the torches. ‘Come on,’ he said, shoving her into the carriage. There was a kind of forlorn anger in his voice. He almost pushed her into a seat a few places up from the door. ‘Turn away from the window,’ he snapped, sitting down opposite her. ‘Don’t let them see you.’

  The train was hot. Sitting down, she realised perspiration was dribbling down her cheek. Her lungs were burning and her heart pounding. While the adrenaline had been pumping, she had not noticed how tired she was.

  She watched him resentfully. He had pulled his collar up. If the other men were the police, then they’d have the authority to search the train, carriage by carriage until they found their quarry.

  She was suddenly anxious. ‘Let me go,’ she whispered. ‘This is nothing to do with me. I won’t tell anyone about you.’

  He shook his head despondently. There was a hydraulic hiss of closing doors. Lara wondered if any of the men had come on board: how many of them were looking for her, even now? ‘You’re not a prisoner,’ he said. His voice was soft, distant. ‘But the dogs’ll have your scent. They’ll find you.’

  ‘How? They don’t know me.’

  ‘They always seem to,’ he said, almost wistfully.

  Lara unconsciously touched her face, making sure she still had her glasses. The realisation fell upon her. When dawn spread her fingers across the line they would find her holdall, which would have something to identify her. They could trace her to Michael, find out her details.

  The train pulled away. Lara peered into the darkness. The man turned her head away from the window with a strong finger under her jaw. In that brief moment, she had seen men … and perhaps a woman … some of them were in grey trench coats, looking like First World War officers. Perhaps she had made eye contact with one of t
hem, a stern-looking man with round glasses …

  She sat back, watching the other passengers. Then she stared at the man, perhaps seeing him for the first time. His eyes were closed. His face had changed. The furrowed concern had melted, replaced by a mask of serenity. He was unshaven, but he had an angular face, noble and refined, with the ruggedness of an actor. His hair was swept back. It reached down to his shoulders.

  She drew in a breath, but the man opened his eyes and silenced her with a raised finger. His eyes flicked to the other passengers. ‘Not here.’ He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  Lara slumped back, frustrated. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  An uncomfortable few seconds passed before the man opened his eyes – piercing blue – and regarded her. She wondered what else was in there: what pain was searing through his heart?

  For a while he remained silent. When he finally spoke, the lines of concern scored his face again and his voice was filled with sorrow. ‘It was almost over. They would have left it …’

  ‘What?’

  The man looked away.

  ‘Don’t I deserve an explanation of where we’re going?’

  ‘Where we’re going?’ the man said. A wry smile touched his eyes. ‘Why do you think we’re going anywhere?’

  Anger flared inside her. ‘Damn you! Why are you so enigmatic? Don’t I deserve a word of thanks for risking my neck?’ Tension locked her shoulder muscles, but curiosity overrode her indignation. ‘Don’t I at least deserve a name?’

  He studied her for a moment and then whispered, ‘Will.’

  She shot him a caustic smile. ‘That’s a start. I’m Lara …’ Her teeth clamped when she realised she didn’t want to give her married name. That part of her life was over. ‘Halpin,’ she added.

  Will nodded. He offered no more information and asked nothing.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Lara pressed.

  Again, the painful silence as Will thought through his answer. ‘Away from here. Does it matter?’ He saw the agitation in her eyes. ‘To Birmingham for now. After that …?’ He mouthed something, almost inaudible. ‘Where would you go?’