What follows is an extract from J. Simon Harris’s new translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. You can read an interview with Josh about his translation in this issue

Excerpt from Fitt IV (lines 1998-2090)

NOW the New Year draws nigh, and the night passes,

and the day drives into the dark, as the Lord commands.

But the wild weather of the world awakened outside:

clouds had cast the cold keenly down to the earth,

with enough of the nip of the north to sting the naked skin;

the snow fell sullen and bitter, biting the beasts of the wild;

the whistling wind whipped down from on high

and filled every valley with vast snowdrifts.

The knight was listening close as he lay in his bed—

though his lids are closed, he sleeps little.

By each cock that crowed, he knew the hour.

Suddenly he sat up, before the day had dawned,

for the light of a lamp still gleamed in his chamber.

He called to his chamberlain, who quickly answered,

and he bid him to bring him his byrnie and saddle his steed.

The servant bustles about and brings him his outfit,

and he gets Sir Gawain geared up in splendid style.

First he clad him in his clothes to keep out the cold,

and then his equipment, which was carefully kept—

his paunce and his breastplate brightly polished,

the rings of his rich chainmail rocked of rust—

and all was as fresh as it was at first, and his gratitude was

            quite keen.

            He’d donned each sparkling piece,

            wiped to a shimmering sheen;

            the most gallant from here to Greece,

            he bade him bring his steed.

---

As he threw the finest threads on himself—

his surcoat with the sign of shining achievements

emblazoned on velvet, and virtuous stones

embedded all over the borders, and embroidered seams,

and a lining of fair fur from the finest pelts—

yet he did not leave the lace, the lady’s gift:

that Gawain did not forget, for his own good.

When he’d belted his blade on his bulging haunches,

he twined his true-love token twice about himself,

sweetly swaddled around his waist, that knight.

The girdle of green silk well suited that gallant hero,

such a rich display upon that royal red cloth.

But the warrior wasn’t wearing the girdle for its wealth,

nor for the pride of its pendants, polished though they were,

and though the glittering gold glinted upon the ends—

but rather to save himself, when it comes time to suffer,

to abide, without debate, the baleful blow of sword

            or knife.

            The bold knight, fully clad,

            comes swaggering outside,

            and thanks the noble lads

            profusely with delight.

---

Then Gringolet was geared up, that great big horse;

and having stayed in the stable, safe and sound,

that proud horse pined for the spur to gallop.

The man approaches his mount and inspects his face,

and he solemnly said, and swore by his oath,

“There are men in this castle with a mind for character!

May the prince who supports these people rejoice!

May the lovely lady be loved in the fullness of life!

When they cherish a guest out of goodness and charity,

when they hold honor in their hand, may the good Lord

of heaven on high reward them, as well as all of you!

And if I lead my life on earth for long enough,

I’ll compensate you somehow, if I can.”

Then he steps into the stirrup and saddles up.

His servant hands him his shield, which he slings on his shoulder.

He spurs Gringolet with his gilded heels,

and he starts over the stones, standing no longer

            to prance.

            His man was next to ride,

            bearing his spear and lance.

            “I trust this castle to Christ—

            may He give it fair chance.”

---

The bridge was drawn down, and the broad gates

unbarred and borne open on both sides.

He blessed himself quickly, and crossed the boards.

He praises the porter, who knelt before the prince

and gave him God and good day, that Gawain be saved.

And he went on his way with his one man

who would teach him the path to that perilous place

where he’s meant to receive the mournful stroke.

They passed by peaks where the boughs are bare;

they climbed by cliffs where the cold clings.

The heavens were high, but ugly and ominous.

Mist moistened the moors and melted on mountains;

each hill had a hat, a huge mantle of mist.

Brooks bubbled and broke on the banks about them,

cascading through cracks and crevices, shimmering down.

The way through the wood was wild and devious,

until it was soon time that the sun rises in that season

            of year.

            They’re on a mountainside,

            the white snow everywhere;

            the man he rode beside

            bid his master wait here.