The Christmas Knight

A Yuletide Arthurian Tale

“Gawain and the Green Knight” is one of my favorite Arthurian tales, although I never read it around the holidays. Though in general, the idea of a “medieval Christmas” sounds incredibly cozy to me despite the reality of that era being much harsher. I also quite enjoy the Victorian aesthetics of A Christmas Carol when December rolls around and if we get adequate snow—which unfortunately this year decided to give us a miss. So I decided to keep myself in the mood by writing an original story that combined the aesthetics of Christmas I enjoy, taking inspiration from stories like Poul Anderson’s Three Hearts and Three Lions, and of course the tales of King Arthur and Dickens’ immortal classic itself.

Although we are well past December the 25th, I believe the holiday season can last up until the New Year—there is the song about the Twelve Days of Christmas, after all.

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I. A Visitor out of the Snow

My friend Jack Nancarrow is enchanted by what many Celticists call “the Otherworld”, the native word for which we do not have due to the confusing cosmology. He has told me that, in short, the supernatural Otherworld exists parallel to our own, but operates under different laws from our own and contains utterly alien inhabitants. These include what many folklorists would categorize as boogies, goblins, ghosts, tommyknockers, and a plethora of other monikers for spirits. It is debated by the scholars—more so than the tradition-bearers—whether the inhabitants number among the dead and if the Otherworld is a pagan dimension for the deceased.

On Boxing Day, Jack burst into my home unannounced, garbed in a bright red and green tunic with a lumpy, feathered hat, white hose, and pointed leathern shoes. He feverishly related to me a tangible encounter he had with the Otherworld and its inhabitants from the December 21^st to December 25^th 1891. He has given me permission to relay it here.—

Jack set out from London on the morning of December the 15^th to the Welsh countryside. He had explained this trip to me as a means of holidaying in peace, away from “incessant, off-key carolers” and “misers pretending to change like Scrooge.” Always a more contemplative man to enjoy the snowfall from his firelit study while researching rather than indulge in Saturnalian feasts among kith and kin, his wishes did not surprise me in the least. He does not hate the season, being a firm Methodist, but he is the archetype of an introvert, preferring meditation or focused discussions on important matters or nothing at all.

He arrived in Cardiff on the evening of the 16^th and hired a carriage to take him to his rented cottage on the morning of the 17^th. The hills of the country were encased in a virgin sheet of snow, glistening under the sun and cloudless sky, though the wind gnawed through his heavy coat. He arrived at his cottage by the afternoon and sent his driver off with a generous fee for his services, then at once entered the little abode and went to warming the stone cold hearth. It was a little house with one story and three rooms. Though the exterior bore the façade of an ancient stone hut, the interior was perfectly modern with enough amenities to make Jack’s stay comfortable.

He spent most of the first two days lounging inside, reading, and fixing hearty bowls of stew and beef for himself. Although it was usually bright and clear, he remained out of the cold and simply observed the quiet landscape from behind frosted glass.

A massive snowstorm rolled in on the night of the 20^th, surrounding Jack’s cottage in a silky wall of white. The howling of the wind made it difficult for Jack to concentrate on reading or sleeping, so he whiled the night away in bed with a candle at his bedside, staring up at the ceiling. In doing so, he managed to put himself in some sort of “trance,” as he described it. In doing so, it lulled him into a sense of “dreaming while awake.”

The wind dropped to a low, groaning lull sometime, Jack estimated, when it transitioned to the early morning hours of the 21^st. By that point he, weary from listening to the storm, began to drift into the first layer of slumber and dreaming. This made what soon followed seem like a mere phantasm to my friend at first. A steady canter, cushioned and muffled by the snow rose in the darkness of Jack’s mind. Enraptured by the numbing blanket of sleep, he kept his eyes shut, breath even, and body still. Then came a sudden rapping upon the door to the cottage that pulled him full out of sleep. Jack leapt up, throwing on his robe and fumbling through the cooling rooms of the cottage—his fire and candles having gone out. The rapping continued until he seized the door handle and threw it open to find the most peculiar stranger standing in the shin-deep snow. It was a man bedecked in the armor of a medieval knight. He wore a solid breastplate over a knitted gambeson covered by a tabard depicting the device of a pine tree. He tucked his heavy helm under one arm and saluted Jack with the other, meeting his gaze with a sincere, friendly, blue-eyed stare.

“Hail, good man, may I rest my bones a while by your hearth?” he inquired in a booming, warm voice, speaking a mode of the Brythonic language.

Jack, being a native of Cornwall, understood the stranger’s request, albeit after a few moments of pondering and staring dumbly at him. “Yes,” he answered, finally. “Come in.”

The stranger bowed, brushed snowflakes out of his black hair and off his form, then entered the cottage. Jack bobbed his head hurriedly yet respectfully and darted over to the wood chest. The stranger’s armor clanked as he walked over to the couches around the hearth. He slowly doffed the graith on his upper body while Jack tossed logs onto the embers.

The stranger sighed and sank onto the couch, his gear resting beside his feet. “God bless you, good host,” said he. “To be let in alone is a great kindness. I believe the North Wind would have made my grave were it not for your charity.”

Jack paused for a moment to interpret his guest’s speech, noting many archaisms in it. “Is there some faire or exposition you’re attending?” he inquired at last.

His guest looked at him queerly, likely interpreting Jack’s own speech. “A faire of sorts, I suppose; it is a grand celebration for a small hamlet. Are you not also part of it?”

Jack shook his head, pumping the bellows meanwhile. “Which hamlet? I’m merely renting this cottage for Christmas and mean to remain out of the festivities.”

The stranger laughed heartily. “Why would deny yourself such a joyous observance of our Savior’s birth? Though silence and solitude are important, it would be more of a sin, I think, to not make merry on this occasion out of any week in the year.”

“I prefer to celebrate as a monk would, even if most would call me a ‘Scrooge.’”

The stranger frowned and furrowed his brow. “What is a ‘Scrooge’, friend?”

“Haven’t you heard Dickens’s story?”

“Who is ‘Dickens?’ Some upstart bard?”

Jack rose from the hearth as the flames climbed and crackled over the fresh logs, renewing the warm, hazy smell of burning wood in the air. He and the stranger locked eyes in silence for a few moments as they no doubt wondered if either man was from the same time or world.

“Who is our sovereign ruler?” the stranger inquired.

“Her Majesty Queen Victoria.” Jack’s words tumbled slowly from his lips. “Who do you believe is Britain’s monarch?”

“King Arthur, of course.”

Jack wobbled upon his legs and staggered over to a chair faced towards the stranger. “Just who are you?” he blurted.

“Casnar son of Gwyn.” The knight rose and approached Jack, an inquisitive look on his square face and dark squint in his eyes. “And your name and the name of your father?”

“Jack Nancarrow. My father’s name is Paul.”

“You speak the language of Britons yet you pledge fealty to a ruler I know not of? Does this Queen Victoria contest Arthur’s rule?”

“Not so! King Arthur is…” Jack struggled for the words—Dead? A legend? He did not know what to tell Casnar. Though the cavalier seemed good tempered, Jack could not help but remember that ancient warriors were likely as ruthless to potential enemies of their overlords as they were generous to kith and kin—even if their foes were also Christian.

Jack cleared his throat. “Sir Casnar.”

The knight raised an eyebrow.

“I do believed there is some kind of extraordinary event that has occurred. Would you, by chance, happen to have come upon a mound?”

Casnar nodded. “Why yes, it was by following place-lore to the hamlet that I came upon this mound, although I was not told a hut had been built upon it. Why? Do you believe that the Deep has something to do with this?”

Jack smiled as Casnar answered his question. “I see now.”

“What?”

“I do believe that the phenomena of the Deep—as you call it—has something to do with our meeting. Sir Casnar, I am from the year 1891 A.D. and I do believe that you’ve somehow entered my native era.”

Casnar blinked and scratched his head. “It could not be! I saw the lights of the hamlet yonder. I merely stopped here for the snows were too deep.”

“A hallucination, mayhap. You need a good night’s sleep, friend. I shall make up the spare bedroom for you. We may speak more in the morning.”

Casnar slumped back onto the couch, murmuring to himself while Jack saw to the spare bedroom. He helped gather up Casnar’s armor and led the wanderer to his quarters for the night. They bade one another a good night and retired.

II. The Pale Knight

Jack awoke the next morning to bright sunbeams streaming in through his window, reflecting upon the new fallen snow. Several strands of white clouds drifted lazily through the crystal blue sky. Zephyrs of snow stirred across the drifts, twinkling in the light of the morn.

The smell and soft sizzle of cooking bacon wafted into Jack’s room. He sat up and walked into the sitting room in his robe to find Casnar knelt beside the hearth with a pan upon the embers. Several slices of thick bacon browned upon the cast iron surface, grease bubbling at their crisping edges.

Casnar looked up and smiled at his host. “God give you good morrow, friend Jack.”

“You as well, Casnar.”

“Forgive me for raiding your stores, but I am famished from my trek last night.”

“No problem whatsoever! It smells wonderful.”

“Indeed! I’ve used a pinch of Indian pepper to season the meat. Have a seat and I’ll give you the first plate, it’s almost ready.”

Jack and Casnar breakfasted and palavered about their respective eras. Any lingering doubts Jack had of Casnar being a knight from the time of Arthur vanished during their conversation. Casnar spoke of his liege, land, and entire world with ultimate conviction and reverence. He admitted having only campaigned as far as Scotland and Ireland and due to his lesser status could not afford to adventure beyond Britain. Even for an apparent hedge knight, Jack observed that Casnar was well-spoken, trained, and outfitted as the most well-bred gentlemen in our age; he could only imagine what the most elite of Arthur’s knights or the king himself were like.

At the end of their meal, Jack offered to show Casnar the world he evidently found himself in. Though there was not much to see in their immediate area, he reckoned they might run into a buggy willing to give them a ride to Cardiff. They dressed, Jack in sturdy winter clothes and Casnar back in his mail against Jack’s insistence, then departed the cabin.

Stepping out into the snow, Jack breathed deep of the crisp, cool air, fresh and slightly watery. He surveyed the land and road towards Cardiff as Casnar emerged and tended to his steed. To his surprise, he glimpsed trails of smoke rising north and east of the cabin over some hills.

“Strange,” he muttered, “I thought there to be no one else for miles.”

Casnar followed his gaze and gave a joyful shout. “Lo! the hamlet I sought out! Let us go there, Jack.”

“It’s impossible, there wasn’t sign of anyone there when I arrived. I suppose it won’t hurt to look.”

Casnar led Jack through the snow drifts until they came to a plowed road flanked by low stone walls. Beyond them were fields with stubbles of wheat poking through the snow. The road wound up towards a cluster of low, circular huts with smoke puffing a dark grey out of the chimneys affixed to thatched rooves. On the wind, Jack smelt cooked goose and pork and a myriad of other spiced meats. Casnar took a long draught and laughed.

“The smells of Christmas, my friend! They’ve haunted my memories since I was but a boy. Hark! we’ve come in time for the carols.”

Indeed, as they approached, the sound of voices in a ringing chorus rose over the hamlet, beckoning the pair up the road. Full, buzzing bowstrings and hearty drumbeats accompanied the song which rejoiced the advent of Christ’s birth. Jack’s heart stirred as no music he had heard in his own time; not even operas by the masters came close to this peasantry’s mirthful ode. It seemed the whole population of the hamlet gathered at the center of the quaint abodes to celebrate; men, women, and children clad in thick woolen tunics and dresses, adorned with bright ribbons of red and white, stood arm-in-arm, swaying in time with their carols. Their faces were red-cheeked from the cold but they all smiled broadly and gave praise to their Savior with élan.

Casnar added his voice to the throng, loud and merry with his hands raised to the clear heavens. Jack merely laughed and admired the performance, his heart stirring with the joy of being among others at Christmas which he had not felt in a long time.

Once the song came to an end, a man emerged from the crowd and bowed his head before Jack and Casnar. “Welcome, friends!” he declared. “I, Prince Nodawl will be your host this Christmastide.”

Casnar knelt before Nodawl. “Oh Prince, I am honored by your hospitality. I, Casnar son of Gwyn, warrior in the court of Arthur, will return your generosity with any service you shall require.”

“A long way thou hast travelled to celebrate with us.” Nodawl smiled then turned to Jack who fumbled to his knee as he realized he was not a simple observer in this strange scene.

“Jack Nancarrow, Prince.”

“Welcome, from what corner of the world dost thou hale from to don such an elegant raiment?”

Jack opened his mouth, meaning to give Nodawl the same explanation he gave Casnar, but thought better of it and answered thus: “I am from Cornwall but obtained these in Brittany, my lord.”

“Ah, the styles of Ys are such queer aesthetics. Come, friends! It is high time to warm ourselves with spiced mead in my hall.”

Jack, Casnar, and the villagers followed Nodawl into a huge, circular hut. Several windows covered with thin membrane panes and a hole in the middle of the thatched roof provided some pale light to trickle in, but otherwise tallow candles and a roaring fire at the center illumination the space. Evergreen boughs hung on the walls and red and white berries dangled from the ceiling. Scents of smoke, earth, and fragrant, warm spices wafted through the heavy air. Nodawl beckoned Jack and Casnar to join him at a table beside the fire. His subjects took their places at other tables scattered throughout the hall; everyone stood behind their seats with their heads bowed. A short man in white and gold vestments stood beside the fire, opposite Nodawl. In Latin, he blessed the day and the meal, giving thanks for the noble and divine hosts in company with the feasters. Upon closing the prayer with a resounding Amen, the people all sat and dined as vassals carried platters of steaming food and drink to the tables.

The dishes Jack described as being incomparable to even the finest exotic meals one could acquire in the finest restaurant of Paris. In Nodawl’s hall, he supped on meats swimming in peppered sauces so tender they melted upon his tongue; the steam from vats of warmed, spiced mead intoxicated him with a mere inhale; and hearty bread filled with nuts and berries provided sweet and savory notes to round out his first feast with Nodawl.

They dined well into the evening, which came quite quickly thanks to the advent of the solstice. By then, the revelers were well-fed and lethargic, their attention upon a blue-robed bard beside the fire, plucking a harp and reciting poems of winter, God, and love. The verses moved Jack to the point of quietly weeping; Casnar, Nodawl, and the prince’s retainers and stewards seemed to take the minstrel for granted, but gave him their rapt attention, nonetheless.

In the middle of the bard’s performance, the doors to the hall slammed open. Shouts and screams rose up as the chill wind and white-clad figures breached the threshold. The blast of cold and snow seemed to sober up the feasters as they leapt to their feet and made way for the entourage of strangers. There were thirteen who entered the hall, but clanking of mail and gruff taunts from outside indicated more of them. They all wore snow white surcoats, breeks, cloaks, gloves, and even the rings of their mail were enameled white. Horns were fastened to their close-faced helms—from deer, ram, and even stranger patterns Jack recognized from African animals. Bright, piercing blue eyes peered out from the slits in their headgear, watching the quaking crowd with cool, languid gazes.

The man at the head of their train stood a head taller than all of them. A pair of nine-pointed elk antlers flared from the sides of his helm. He strode around the fire, up to Nodawl; the prince’s retainers shot to their feet, reaching for bodkins on their belts, but their liege, lifting a hand, prompted them to calm.

“The Night-Month is upon us,” drawled the pale knight in a shallow-breathed voice. “It has been too long since the tithe of winter has been satisfied.”

Nodawl scowled. “You waste your breath, blackguard, for we will not bend before your heathen ways.”

The pale knight leaned closer to Nodawl who shivered as the intruder spoke, “But how else may we survive this winter? The god of night keeps the sun away lest we give him a sacrifice to promise warmth and bounty come spring.”

“There is but one God!” cried the priest from across the firepit. “And He will deliver us into a prosperous spring and to His glorious kingdom should not one of us see spring.”

The pale knight spun, his mail clinking like shattering ice. “Your Christ is but a gilt mask you put upon the old ways. In your hearts you know the truth of this “holy day”; you feast now as your ancestors did, you hang the sacred branches and berries in your homes, yet ye all have forgotten the true meaning of sacrifice for the sake of survival.”

“There are ways to sacrifice and show gratitude to our maker,” said Nodawl, “without the slaughter of innocents. Leave us and other true believers be to rejoice in the birth of our Savior.”

The pale knight cast his gaze across the crowd. “We will leave you tonight. The children may yet be fatted for the gods ere we return—three days hence, the night you claim your Savior was born.”

“Thou will not return!” Casnar leapt to his feet, swaying from the drink. “If thou dost, I, Casnar son of Gwyn, will face thee alone.”

The pale knight’s followers laughed and murmured to one another. Nodawl and his people looked at Casnar with bulging eyes and gaping mouths. Jack merely blinked, looking around dumbly as he once again realized his position as participant—and not mere observer—in the phantastic situation.

Raising one hand, the pale knight silenced his men. “Thou wouldst face Gruffudd son of Cudyll in single combat?”

“If it would mean thine heathen plans would cease, I shall.” Casnar’s face hardened, his brow furrowing and teeth bared.

The pale knight, Gruffudd, lowered his hand. “I accept. Three days hence, we will return.” He spun on his heel and strode for the threshold. His lackies followed, bellowing taunts and oaths as they folded into the black-blue shadows of the night. Several men inside the hall slammed the doors shut and barred them as the voices of the intruders and hoofbeats from their steeds receded.

All eyes turned once more to Casnar whose steely countenance melted. He swayed and slumped in his seat, hiding his face behind his hand.

“A knight from Arthur’s court is sure to deliver us!” cried a woman in the crowd. The others around her murmured, then cheered. Casnar simply sank lower into his seat, hanging his head.

Jack leaned over to the knight. “What ails you, Casnar?”

“I could not hope to win against Gruffudd,” Casnar mumbled. He then looked up, seized a mug of mead and raised it. “This will be my last Christmas on Earth. God save Nodawl’s people.”

III. Casnar’s Concerns, Jack’s Joy

The next morning, Casnar resisted Jack’s attempts to get him to practice fighting. Instead, the knight had a mind to drink and feast with Nodawl and partake in caroling. He claimed to Jack, discreetly, it would be his final earthly rewards.

“Do you suppose Gruffudd is doing the same?” wondered Jack with a furrowed brow. Due to their distance from the cabin, Jack had to borrow some clothes from Nodawl. He did not feel his hardened gaze had the same effect whilst he was adorned in such flamboyant raiment.

Casnar shrugged as he downed his fourth mug of mead. “Gruffudd is damned. If he truly cared for the sanctity of his hill-people he would have baptized them all.”

“Yet if you lose, children will die.” Jack recalled how Dickens dubbed the journey Scrooge took with the first Ghost as viewing “shadows.” Although in A Christmas Carol, the only time that could potentially be altered was that of Christmas Yet to Come, Jack considered then how he might serve the knight as a guide, for Casnar’s own future hung in the balance.

Casnar dropped his emptied mug on the table, letting it land with a huge clatter. “King Arthur holds the most extravagant banquets this Christmastide. Dost thou know the reason why I celebrate here and not in Camelot?”

Jack shook his head.

“Because I am but a lowly man in his court, little more than a squire though I am well past the age. I feared I would be mocked or trodden over amidst the greater heroes of this age. If I fight and die to Gruffudd, at least it will be somewhat noble.”

“But what of when Gawain and the Green Knight? He too was forced to rise to an occasion where his life and honor was at stake.”

“Whom?”

“Ah,” Jack sought for the Welsh name of the famous knight. “Gwalchmai, I mean.”

Casnar blinked, then nodded. “He too chose to take up the giant’s ax on Christmas. Very well, I will sober myself and prepare.”

For the rest of the day on the 22^nd, and in the days leading up to Christmas Eve, Jack and Nodawl helped Casnar prepare for his duel. Jack had some experience with foil fencing, an entirely different world of sport from Casnar’s expertise in ancient warfare. When sober and even in mail, the knight was a deft, precise striker. His blows cracked against training pells with the speed and force of lightning bolts. Jack, and even Nodawl and the more martially inclined members of the hamlet, were amazed at his alacrity and technique; with each bout he unleashed flurries of blows with sword and shield, at the same time sliding his feet across the snowy ground as though he skated over ice.

During his respite, however, Casnar grimaced and continued to practice his strokes and footwork. He sighed and scowled after each combination.

“What’s the matter?” asked Jack. “In my time it is rare to see even the most well-trained officer fight as well as you have.”

Casnar laughed mirthlessly. “Believe me when I say I come closer to their skill than that of Gruffudd’s.”

“Do you not think you have at least a chance?”

“I would have a better chance if he was ill or wounded. He is no doubt far wiser in the ways of war than I, and who knows what secrets in the business of murder he gathered from his pagan demons?”

Jack rubbed his chin. “I see what you mean. Well, there’s no guarantee Gruffudd may take it as seriously as you—”

“He will and he does. He and his men are like wolves out there, lean and hungry to survive at whatever cost.”

“Yet their fervor may cause them to grow mad and desperate. They know little of the joy and purpose such a community as this can bring.”

“Verily a place as small as this is yet worth protecting. I thank thee, Jack, for reminding me what I shall fight for.”

Jack smiled, suddenly realizing the weight of the words he had spoken so easily and fluently. Mere days before, he had pulled himself away from community to celebrate Christmas in solitude. In the few hours before Casnar appeared on the cabin’s doorstep, he found some peace but that was small in comparison to the joy he felt feasting with Nodawl’s tenants.

Now I see what Scrooge felt, he thought, but the shadows of the future have yet to be changed.

IV. The Christmas Duel

The night of the 24^th came in a flash. Though Nodawl’s people tried to remain merry and continue festivities as per the tradition of their hamlet, an air of gloom permeated throughout the feasting hall; the carols and bard’s songs seemed more like prayers begging for deliverance than exultations for new beginnings; and even the warmest mug of mead felt cold.

Casnar partook in none of those as he waited in his armor on a bench beside the door, his sword laying across his lap and his shield-arm resting at his side. He watched the feasters quietly, his face hard but not angry. Jack approached him, extending a mug of mead towards the knight. Casnar looked down at it and shook his head.

“Many thanks, but I have not a mind to drink now,” he said.

“Nor I.” Jack jostled the mead. “For the best, I suppose.”

“What will become of thee once this deed is finished?” inquired Casnar.

Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t know if I will return to my era, but I feel as though this journey has been a lesson to me.”

“A lesson?”

“Indeed, one to teach me how I might enjoy the company of others again during Christmastime. To think Fate itself decided I shan’t be my usual idle self anymore for the holiday.”

Casnar smiled and opened his mouth to speak, but the tramp of hoofbeats outside gave him pause. The clamor and caroling in the hall ceased as well, all eyes turning to the doors. Casnar curled his fingers around his sword, standing and approaching the threshold. The doors flew inward, allowing a biting gust of wind laden with eddies of snowflakes to sweep through the hall. The flames of the yule-fire at the center whipped and shrank under the blast. Gruffudd, adorned in his enameled mail and white cloth, entered. Snow clung to his shoulders, helm, and arms, making him appear as a gloomy wraith wrought from ice.

His cold, blue gaze locked with Casnar’s dark eyes. “Art thou prepared?”

Casnar lifted his sword, its tip skyward, and he swore, “God as my witness! thou will not lay a hand upon an innocent this blessed night!”

Gruffudd swept his hand towards the snow-covered ground outside the hall, his lackies and their horses waiting in a circle. Their smoky torchlight made their shaggy, dark forms more demoniacal; they bared their yellow teeth in huge grins, shook spears laden with clacking bones, and cast wine, as dark red as blood, upon the snow.

Taking up his shield, Casnar followed Gruffudd into the cold. Jack walked behind the knights, alongside Nodawl and his retainers. The other folk, bunched together, left the hall and gathered near the pagans as they opened their circle for the two combatants.

Before entering the list, Casnar knelt as a boy from the hamlet rushed forth to secure his helm in place. He nodded at his impromptu squire before turning back to his opponent.

A boy in shaggy, black furs strode up to Gruffudd, presenting him with a sword encased in a leathern sheathe. The pale knight grasped the hilt and drew it, a silvery note slicing through the silence that wrapped through the crowd. Another boy secured a square shield to his left arm. He leveled his sword towards Casnar as the vassal of Arthur stepped into the heathen’s ring.

“God give thee strength, Casnar son of Gwyn,” said Nodawl.

The knights approached, saluting one another before dropping into fluid fighting stances. Gruffudd, as Casnar had predicted, moved and struck deftly within moments of the bout’s beginning. Casnar warded the blows with shield and sword, yet did not give ground.

In the midst of Gruffudd’s opening flurry, Casnar lashed out, interrupting the pale knight’s storm of steel with three swift cracks against his foe’s body and head. Gruffudd shuffled backwards, his icy gaze sharpening before he reengaged.

Jack and the people of Nodawl’s hamlet watched silently in awe as the duel unfolded. Even Gruffudd’s men, who began their spectating with great exultations of their warlord and jeers at their would-be victims, fell quiet as Casnar lasted evidently longer than they might have believed he would. The combatants traded blows almost equally, with Gruffudd plainly displaying more aggression than Casnar. The son of Gwyn, however, compensated for the strikes lain upon him by refusing to give ground or bend his hardy posture.

Well into the fight, the combatants separated, their shoulders slumping and breaths heaving. Their weapons shook in their grasps, lowering towards the snow.

“Respite!” called Gruffudd, his voice scant of breath. He retreated towards his men, several gathering around him; the boy who bequeathed his sword took the blade from him.

Casnar shuffled towards Nodawl and Jack, collapsing to his knees. “I have not much vigor left,” he admitted, gasping between words. The exertion of the fight warmed his body so much that steam trickled from between his mail in the cold air.

Jack pointed to Gruffudd who glowered at Casnar from across the list. “He might be strong as well but he is still a man, and you surprised him just as much as you surprised yourself!”

“What doth thou mean?” inquired Casnar.

“Days before tonight, did you imagine you could even last this long against him?”

Casnar looked down, shaking his head. “I did not. The next bout will be the last, I am certain.”

Jack helped Casnar rise to his feet. “Then make certain you are the victor of it!”

Casnar laughed. “Mayhap say a prayer for me. Many thanks, Jack.”

A prayer, Jack thought as Casnar entered the list and Gruffudd took up his sword again. Then, Jack realized what Casnar could possibly need to triumph—breath. Even in a sport as nonlethal as foil fencing, the strength given by constant, steady breathing was crucial to preventing fatigue. Jack’s own mentor imparted a method of keeping breath—“Pretend you’re singing a song, and breathing will come more naturally.”

At once, Jack recalled both a prayer and song, then loudly sang into the air:

            Gaudēte, gaudēte!
            Chrīstus est natus
            Ex Marīā virgine,
            Gaudēte!

All eyes, Christian and heathen, turned to Jack as he sang the refrain to his favorite carol—which he later realized likely had not been conceived before the early Renaissance. As he continued onto the first verse, several other voices, including Nodawl, the hamlet’s priest, and the bard, joined in the second issuing of the refrain.

Meanwhile, Casnar and Gruffudd circled each other. Their breaths steadying, their blades trembling to strike in their grips. Suddenly, Casnar struck first and followed with a fluid assault against the pale knight. It was as though he drew power from the Earth itself as he launched into what he likely thought was his last, desperate strike against the backwater oppressor, but to Jack looked like a series of strikes guided by divine inspiration. Each blow landed with a clang and clash against Gruffudd’s mail. The pale knight swung his sword and shield, but could not match the same might with which Casnar struck.

Then, with one heavy blow from his shield, Casnar sent Gruffudd sprawling in the snow. The caroling ceased and the heathens shouted and murmured as their warlord’s sword spun out of his grasp and landed with a dull clink. Casnar stood over Gruffudd, long trails of mist curling out from under his helm.

“Well,” Gruffudd gasped. “End it!”

“I will not take a life on such a holy night. Stand up, take thy men, and leave this place,” bade Casnar. “The duel is won. Should any harm come to Nodawl’s people, the wrath of Arthur will come down upon the trespassers.”

“Not so, ‘t would be more merciful to kill me than let me live in dishonor.”

Casnar chuckled. “Should thy men cast thee out, thou wouldst be welcomed into the fold of Christendom.” He tucked his sword under his shield arm and reached down to aid Gruffudd to his feet. “I am certain we may also spare some meat and drink from tonight’s Christmas feast.”

Gruffudd clasped Casnar’s hand and rose with his opponent’s aid. He brushed the snow off himself and turned to his men. “We dine here tonight,” he declared.

And so Gruffudd’s men followed Nodawl’s people into the hall. There they feasted and drank and sang through the whole night. On the dawn of Christmas Day, they returned to the hills with bundles of meat and casks of drink to haul on sledges to their own families. Though the heathens swore to remain true to their gods, Gruffudd promised they would see Nodawl and his people as treasured friends.

As Casnar and Jack watched the heathens go, the knight turned to Jack and inquired, “Well, what shall happen now, Jack?”

To which, Jack shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest if or how I might return to my own time. Although, I must say—”

Suddenly, a torrent of wind and snow swept through the hamlet. Jack lifted his hands to block the sharp barrage of tiny ice shards; he spun about to seek shelter, but tripped and his head crashed into and rock or frigid piece of wood and blackness clouded his mind.

He awoke to a Welsh farmer, garbed in modern clothes, prodding him. Jack found himself laying with a bare, snowy field, stubbles of wheat stalks poking through the white caul. He still wore the clothes Nodawl had lent him and recalled everything which had transpired since the early morning of the 21^st, but there were no other physical signs of Nodawl’s hamlet or any person he interacted with during that strange event.

Eventually, Jack made his way back to his cabin and back to me in London where he bade me to chronicle this episode. Whatever might have been the cause for Jack’s encounter, neither of us are certain, but it nonetheless renewed a sense of joy in my friend for spending Christmas amongst those dearest to him. Already, he has planned to throw a large party at his own house in town next year.

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Thanks for reading the “Christmas Knight” and for tuning in to each story Senchas Claideb published this year! There will be many more to come in 2024, but for now you can catch up and enjoy the entire catalogue of stories published thus far at the link below!

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“The Christmas Knight” © Ethan Sabatella 2023 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.