Medieval Monsters: The Green Knight
A headless knight's grim warning for Camelot
If you’ve ever taken a first-year English course at university, I’m willing to bet that you’ve encountered Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. This fourteenth-century romance is one of the most well-known works of medieval English literature and a classic entry in the Arthurian corpus.
I first read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight as part of just such a survey course, titled “Tradition and Innovation.” In fact, this is the class that I credit with converting me into a literature person. I went into my undergrad at Brock University knowing that I loved history and reading in general but without a good sense of what I should major in.
After my first year of trying out a general science degree and finding that I had no talent for Biology or Chemistry, I switched gears and declared a double major in history—at the time, my primary interest—and English, which I added thinking it would help me find a job after graduation.
This priority soon shifted. Dr. Conley, my professor for Tradition and Innovation, is, to this day, one of the best lecturers I’ve ever encountered. Although Conley is a modernist, specializing in authors like Joyce and Beckett, he brought such palpable passion to every period and author in that course and opened my eyes to just how exciting the study of literature could be. While history gives us important context, it is through literature like Sir Gawain and the Green Knight that we truly enter the imagination of historical people, and see them as fellow human beings, wrestling with many of the same issues and questions as us.
Because I went on to narrow my focus to medieval literature in the later years of undergrad and then specialize on Arthurian legend in my MA and PhD, I’ve studied Sir Gawain and the Green Knight several times since then, written a handful of academic papers on it, and even taught it on a few occasions.
Every time I read this poem, I am blown away by how rich it is. The language is beautiful and poignant. The characters nuanced and realistic. And it manages the tricky feat of maintaining a clear moral vision while refraining from heavy-handed moralistic conclusions. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight really is one of the greatest works of English literature, and, if you read it in a good modern translation (I recommend W. S. Merwin’s), you’ll find it incredibly accessible.
3. The Green Knight in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
The story:
The poem begins at Arthur’s court during the twelve days of Christmas, shortly after New Year’s Day. The anonymous author (usually referred to as the “Gawain-poet”) paints a picture of luxury and good spirits, the civilized world at its finest. Here is gathered the “whole high brotherhood of the Round Table.”1 We hear of the “most famous knights” and “most beautiful ladies.” They are described as “fair folk in their first age,” young and healthy, full of life and joy and optimism.
But while the lords and ladies of Camelot sit down to enjoy their feast, Arthur refuses to eat. His custom is to wait “until he had been told a tale all new of some wonderful event” or unless someone enters and issues a challenge to one of his knights. Notice how the poet describes Arthur:
He seemed full of the joy of youth, almost a boy.
He was happy with his life; he cared little
For lying in bed or sitting still for a long time,
His young blood so stirred him and his wild brain.
This, of course, sets the stage for the entrance of such a marvel. But before we get there, the poet must fully establish the setting, and demonstrate to us that Camelot is the pinnacle of courtly splendour and civilized bounty:
Then came the first course, to the blaring of trumpets
With many brilliant banners hanging from them.
New kettledrums rumbled with the noble pipes
Wakening wild warblings with their loud sounds
And lifting many hearts high with their music.
In the midst of it rare and delicate dishes are served,
Mounds of fresh meat, and so many platters
That it was hard to find enough places
To set down the silver with the stews in it
on the tablecloth
Each one as he pleases
Takes whatever he will.
For every two there are twelve dishes,
Good beer and bright wine both.
The food is delicious. The beer and wine plentiful. Everyone is enjoying themselves immensely.
Until the poem’s monstrous figure enters: the Green Knight.
Just as the first course is being served, he enters, riding upon a green horse. He is “a frightening figure” and “taller than anyone in the world.” In case we didn’t quite get it, the poet belabours the point, describing his “loins and limbs so large and massive,” calling him “half a giant” and “the biggest of men.”
Despite his size, the Green Knight is not monstrous in all the ways we might expect from a giant. He sits “with a matchless grace in the saddle” and is well-proportioned with wide shoulders and narrow waist.
The most surprising element is his greenness: “more than anything his color amazed them.” His beard, his hair, and every piece of his clothing are green, as is the horse he rides.
Faced with this strange figure and his even stranger horse, the court of Camelot is struck with awe: “It seemed that no man could stand against him.”
Strangely, though the Green Knight is daunting, he does not come armed for battle:
He wore no helmet and no chain mail either,
Nor any breastplate, nor brassarts on his arms,
He had no spear and no shield for thrusting and striking.
Instead, he carries two things: a branch of holly and a “fearsome battle-ax.” The axe, “huge and monstrous” is what the poet focuses on, describing how its head is “at least a yard and a half,” and the blade made of green and gold steel.
After many lines of description, the Green Knight makes his challenge, riding “straight ahead into the hall, making for the high dais.” His question is simple: “where is the head of this gathering?”
But no one answers. The famed knights of Camelot stare at this green intruder in awe:
Many of the noble knights were afraid to answer,
And all were struck by his voice and stayed stone still,
And there was a silence like death through the great hall.
At last, Arthur himself answers, welcoming the Green Knight to his court. He asks him to dismount and join them for their feast.
But the Green Knight is not here to dine. He has come, he tells Arthur, because he has heard of the reputation of the knights of the Round Table, who are “said to be the best and strongest.”
“It is not a fight I have come for,” he assures Arthur. If that were the case, he would not be carrying a holly branch and wearing soft clothes. Instead, he would be decked out in the full knightly regalia of chain mail, helmet, spear, and shield.
It is not worth fighting anyone here, the Green Knight says, because they are all “beardless boys.” In fact, “there is no man here strong enough to be worth riding against.” Having insulted the manhood of Arthur’s entire court, the Green Knight proposes a “Christmas game.”
The game’s rules are simple. Whoever accepts his challenge gets to strike the Green Knight with his own fearsome axe. But in return, the Green Knight will return the blow after a year and a day have passed.
The court is even more stunned now than when this monstrous figure first entered. No one dares respond or take up the challenge. And in response, the Green Knight mocks them. Flashing his red eyes and arching his “bristling bright-green eyebrows,” he makes fun of these supposed best and bravest knights, “all cowering in dread before a blow has been struck.” Having taunted them, he roars with laughter at their expense.
Arthur becomes enraged at the challenger’s mockery. He leaps up from his throne and comes to stand before the Green Knight, telling him he will accept the rules of the game. Even though Arthur says, “Your request is senseless,” he seems unwilling to allow such an insult to the honour of his knighthood to go uncontested.
But as Arthur takes up the giant axe and prepares to strike the Green Knight, Sir Gawain intervenes, entering the narrative for the first time:
[Gawain] bowed to the King then:
“I will keep my words plain.
I ask for this battle to be mine.”
Gawain tells Arthur that it is not right for the king himself to have to accept such a challenge when there are knights present who should be taking on these risks. Gawain admits that there may be better warriors among Arthur’s knights and calls himself the “weakest” and the “least wise.” But since none of them are willing to take on the challenge, it falls to him.
In truth, Sir Gawain is one of Arthur’s most famous knights, and, arguably, the most popular in the English tradition. Lancelot, who barely appears in this poem, enjoyed far more popularity among French writers, and does not become as integrated in the English texts until Thomas Malory’s Le Morte Darthur in the late fifteenth century. Gawain, meanwhile, is Arthur’s nephew, a famously powerful knight and ladies’ man. His terming of himself as “weakest” demonstrates his humility and does not reflect his actual status in the Round Table fellowship.
Arthur agrees, and Gawain takes up the axe in his stead. The Green Knight makes Gawain agree to the game’s rules, that in a year and a day from now, he must seek out the Green Knight and allow him to return the blow. He then kneels and allows Gawain to strike him.
Gawain promptly decapitates the Green Knight. The head falls and rolls away as “blood gushed from the body.” But the knight “never staggered or fell.” He gets up and grabs his severed head by the hair. Climbing back into the saddle, he holds his bloody head up high, and, to everyone’s shock and horror, it speaks to Gawain, reminding him of their agreement. Gawain must seek him out at the Green Chapel, “or rightly be called a coward.” Then with a terrible roar, he turns and rides out from the hall.
Gawain, Arthur, and the rest of the court try to laugh off the whole bizarre situation. But Arthur is secretly stunned, concerned about the peril that his nephew has entered into.
Time passes, and the poem runs through the seasons following Christmas. Gawain tries to put off the thought of his grim adventure until “first the days feel wintry, and Gawain is reminded then of his dread journey.” At last, he sets out on All Saints’ Day (November 1) to the grief and consternation of all of Camelot’s knights and ladies.
But while the others grieve for him, Gawain goes to meet his fate with stoic resolve:
“What should trouble me?
In the face of harsh destiny
What can a man do but try?”
Arming himself, Gawain sets out on a long and perilous journey in search of the Knight of the Green Chapel. I’d love to cover the whole poem in more detail, but, in order to focus on the Green Knight as a monster figure, I’m going to skip through many parts of the story that are not specifically relevant.
After a long while of traveling and fighting with various monsters, Gawain stumbles upon a beautiful castle in the woods. Here he is welcomed richly by the lord of the castle, his beautiful wife, and an old lady who lives with them. To Gawain’s relief, the lord informs him that the Green Chapel he seeks is close by and invites him to rest and spend the Christmas season with them until the day of his appointment arrives.
While Gawain stays at the castle, his host introduces an unusual game. For three days, he will go out hunting and Gawain will remain at home. At the end of each day, the lord will give Gawain whatever he catches and Gawain will likewise give him whatever he has gained.
On each of the three days, the lord’s hunting is successful. He kills several deer, then a boar, and, finally, a fox. Gawain meanwhile, takes on the role of prey, being hunted by the lady of the castle. She comes to him while he is resting in bed and attempts to seduce him. This puts Gawain in a bind. He must avoid being discourteous and offending the lady, but also avoid wronging his host by sleeping with his wife.2
For two days, Gawain manages to fend her off, receiving nothing more than a kiss, which he then passes on to the lord. However, on the third day, the lady tempts him from a different angle, offering him a sash whose magical properties will protect him from harm. Fearing his pending confrontation with the Green Knight, Gawain accepts the sash and then conceals it from his host, thus breaking the rules of their agreement.
When the day of Gawain’s appointment comes, he proceeds to the Green Chapel, guided there by a man from the castle. As they approach, his guide tries to warn him off:
“The place you are hurrying toward is known for its peril.
In that wilderness lives the worst creature in the world,
And he is strong and gruesome and eager for a fight,
And he is more huge than any man on Middle Earth
And his body is bigger than the best four
In Arthur's house, or Hector, or anyone anywhere.
He waits at the Green Chapel for what comes his way.
No one passes by that place, however proud in his arms,
Whom he does not strike dead with a blow of his hand.
For he is a wild monster with no use for mercy,
And whether it be churl or chaplain who rides past the chapel,
Monk or priest between masses, or any other man,
He would as soon kill him as go on living.
So I say to you as surely as you sit in your saddle,
Go there and you will be killed, you can be sure of that,
Take my word for it, even if you had twenty lives to spend.”
At the conclusion of this dire warning, the man implores Gawain to take another road and go far from the Chapel, swearing to him, “I will keep your secret and never tell anyone.”
Gawain thanks him for his advice and offer, but he refuses. If he were to run away, “I would be a cowardly knight and nothing could excuse me.”
Gawain proceeds to the Green Chapel, which, like the Green Knight himself, appears to be an evil, monstrous thing. The “chapel” is really a mound of earth with “thick matted grass” growing upon it. “Inside,” the poet tells us, “it was all hollow, only an old cave or a crevice of an old crag.”
Seeing this, Gawain is struck with horror:
“Oh Lord,” said the noble knight,
“Is this the Green Chapel, then?
Here I might find, around midnight,
The devil saying his matins.”
It seems the right place for that knight in green
To perform his devotions in the devil's fashion.
Now in my five wits I feel it is the fiend
Who has trapped me with this tryst to destroy me here.
This is a chapel of ill omen, may an ill fate befall it!
It is the most cursèd church that ever I came into!”
Gazing about in horror, Gawain calls out for the Green Knight to show himself. And he begins to hear the sound of a weapon being sharpened. Eventually, the Green Knight emerges, dressed as he was a year before, and carrying:
A gruesome weapon,
A Danish ax, new-made, for dealing the blow,
With a massive blade curving back toward the shaft.
In keeping with their agreement, Gawain removes his helmet, baring his “white and naked” neck to the Green Knight’s axe. But even as he is committed to facing the blow with courage, he sees the axe from “the side of his eye” and flinches as it falls.
The Green Knight holds back the blade and mocks Gawain for his cowardice, reminding him:
“I neither flinched nor shrank, man, from your stroke.”
My head flew to my feet and yet I never flinched,
And you turn faint-hearted before hurt comes to you,
And so it seems clear that I must be called the better knight.”
Gawain reminds him that it isn’t entirely fair, for “if my head falls on the stones I cannot put it back on.” However, he accepts the rebuke and agrees to remain still.
The Green Knight heaves the axe in preparation for a vicious strike, then stops suddenly before reaching Gawain’s neck. Gawain grows angry, since it seems that the Green Knight is sporting with him, drawing out his anticipation. Gawain demands that he deliver his blow and be done with it. The Green Knight raises the axe again and brings it down, but, instead of cutting through the neck, he merely grazes Gawain’s skin with the edge, giving him a “cut on the side that barely broke the skin.”
Seeing the blood running down his neck, Gawain leaps to his feet and draws his sword. Having completed his end of the bargain, he is now free to defend himself if the Green Knight should attack him again.
But the Green Knight simply leans upon his axe and watches Gawain, admiring his courage. He explains that he has no wish to strike again. The first blow that hovered over Gawain’s neck was in recognition of Gawain having fulfilled his part of the bargain with honour. The Green Knight was testing his courage and had no intention of actually killing him.
The second blow, which delivered the small cut, was because Gawain failed to turn over the magical sash he received from the lady, whom the Green Knight reveals is actually his wife:
“I planned the whole thing.
I sent her to test you, and I am convinced now
That you must be the most perfect knight ever to walk the earth.”
The Green Knight tells Gawain that his failure to uphold the bargain is forgivable because he did not keep the sash out of treachery or lust, but “for love of your life, and I blame you less for that.”
Gawain is ashamed. Taking off the magical belt, he throws it to the knight, cursing his own cowardice that has caused him to forsake “my own nature” and make him “guilty and a liar.”
The Green Knight laughs and says that, because Gawain has confessed, he is forgiven. He returns the belt to him, and Gawain decides to wear it as an act of penance, a reminder of “my failing, and the frailty of wayward flesh.”
As Gawain is about to depart for Camelot, the Green Knight discloses his true name: Bertilak of the High Desert. And he reveals that the old lady who lives at the castle is actually Morgan Le Fay, the infamous sorceress who studied under Merlin and has now become known as “Morgan the Goddess.” Morgan, who often functions as an antagonist in Arthurian legend, devised the Green Knight disguise to test the Round Table, “put its pride to the proof,” and also terrify Guinevere (an added bonus).
Gawain returns shamefacedly to Camelot, where he narrates his full adventure, including his failure. But while Gawain is disheartened, Arthur comforts him. Laughing together, the whole court of Camelot agrees that everyone will wear a green sash just like Gawain, turning it from a symbol of shame into one of honour.
What we learn from the story:
As a monster figure, the Green Knight is complicated. He does not easily fit into a category of monstrosity such as giant, dragon, or ogre. On the one hand, he is a knight, a symbol of chivalry and civilization. But he is no ordinary knight, distinguished from the nobility of Camelot by both his height and colour.
A lot of ink has been spilled about the “greenness” of the Green Knight. As with any colour, green can symbolize a number of things. For the medieval mind this could be nature, the wild, paganism, Satan—or even all these at once. We see these elements combined in the poem’s description of the Green Chapel, which resembles, more than any church, a pagan burial mound, belonging to the days long before the British Isles were Christianized. Overrun by nature’s “thick matted grass,” it is a place, Gawain says, where you might find “the devil saying his matins.”
In the twenty-first century, we are the inheritors of Romanticism’s veneration of nature as idyllic and essentially good. But medieval writers did not generally share this view. The wilderness is a place of hardship and temptation, and nature is where the Devil dwells. This idea has a long tradition, stretching all the way back to the gospel accounts of Jesus’s temptation in the desert, a story that itself echoes Old Testament characterizations of the wilderness.
As with the other monsters we have looked at previously, the Green Knight’s monstrosity is based on the threat he poses to civilization. He is all the things that Camelot, representative of civilized order, is not. A force of nature, breaking in upon the artificial splendour of Arthur’s court, a pagan, devilish intruder into the Christian celebration of Christmas. Even his weapon of choice, a Danish axe, is a token of a bygone, savage era, a symbol of the wild pagan Vikings who overran Britain in the Early Middle Ages.
As the Green Knight reveals to Gawain at the end of the poem, the whole ordeal has been a test concocted by the sorceress Morgan Le Fay. In this poem, Morgan and the Green Knight who serves her take on the role of tempter, a Satan figure testing the virtue of Arthur’s knights.
But what is the nature of this test? And does Camelot pass? Does Gawain?
On this, the poem remains ambiguous.
Arthur’s “young blood” and “wild brain” are read by many scholars as signs that he is lacking in wisdom and restraint, a view that is supported when he leaps up to take on the Green Knight’s challenge for himself. Others, meanwhile, read this as a testament to Arthur’s courage, that he is willing to take on the tasks that are normally reserved for his knights.
Then, there are the knights of Camelot. Are they cowardly for sitting in silence as the Green Knight challenges and taunts them? The poet does not say one way or another, but the Green Knight certainly thinks so. And it is not a good look for their chivalry and bravery, that they let their king take on the challenge because they are too stunned to act.
Gawain demonstrates tremendous courage by agreeing to the game, but even he ultimately fails when he conceals the lady’s sash. Gawain condemns himself as a coward and a liar, as one who has failed to live up to chivalry’s exacting standard. And while King Arthur and his court absolve him of any wrongdoing, we are left to wonder if they are correct to do so, if they have not missed the warning contained in the Green Knight’s game.
The poem itself frames its story within a larger context of once-great fallen powers. Both the opening and closing lines situate Camelot as the cultural inheritor of Troy and Rome, cities synonymous with glory and pride, but also tragic destruction. We are reminded as we enter and exit this tale, that Camelot, like Rome and Troy before it, is destined to fall.
Knowing what we do about Camelot’s tragic end, it is difficult to read this story and not feel the overshadowing presence of that doom. Personally, this is how I’ve always tended to interpret the poem: as a grim foreshadowing of Camelot’s ultimate unraveling. The Round Table fellowship is built on grand, knightly ideals like courage, sacrifice, and integrity, and its continued existence depends on these values being upheld. If Gawain is the only knight courageous enough to take on the Green Knight’s singular challenge, and even he fails, what does that mean for the rest of Camelot?
However much we may blame or excuse Arthur’s court for their fear, and Gawain for compromising his knightly courage, the Gawain-poet suggests that we are seeing the early seeds of Camelot’s downfall. For most medieval accounts of King Arthur, it is not primarily Guinevere’s infidelity that leads to destruction (that is a narrative far more popular with the Victorians), but rather the failure of the Knights of the Round Table to practice the virtues of chivalry, and the resulting chaos that ensues.
As a monster-figure, the Green Knight is unique. Not only does he highlight the weaknesses and potential downfalls of civilization, as embodied in Camelot, but he also presents a coherent moral challenge. Rather than being defeated or outdone by Gawain, the Green Knight is the one who demonstrates greater courage and self-mastery, offering Gawain a painful warning about his own frailty. And though Arthur’s court dismisses this warning with laughter, we in the audience are left to wrestle with its implications.
I hope you enjoyed this third entry in the medieval monster series. In the next instalment, we will encounter the story of a Viking warrior and his battle with an undead foe.
Have you read Sir Gawain and the Green Knight before? And what do you think the poet is suggesting at the end?
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Andrew LiVecchi
If you enjoyed this post, please consider checking out my epic fantasy novella, Son of the Thunder Goddess. It builds on a lifelong love of mythology and literature and engages with a lot of the themes I wrestle with in my Substack posts.
I’m using W. S. Merwin’s translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight from the Alfred A. Knopf edition.
I could write a whole post just about this part of the text and how it engages with medieval ideas of chivalry and courtly love. It’s especially interesting because in most works of Arthurian literature, Gawain is a womanizer who doesn’t think twice about having sex with married women.