Leaning on two men, the nameless visitor
faltered into the feast before rising
his full height and showing himself to be
a youth of striking beauty, span, and stature.
His graceful features enchanted all those gathered.
He had the fairest and largest hands they’d seen.
The youth made a bold though modest demand of the king,
to promise him three gifts over twelve months.
The first, provide him food at the castle for the year;
the next two would come when the year was done.
The king said, Of course, a simple thing.
Would you rather petition for something more?
That is all, the young man said.
The king brought him to the steward, an ill-tempered knight,
with orders to attend to his needs. The steward complied
but refused to coddle such a villain who, after all,
had not even told the king his name.
The steward made up a name himself:
Beaumains—Fair Hands—because the pallor
of his hands was identity enough: he came from privilege.
For a year, the young man remained
meek and mild, taking orders from the steward
and eating meals among the boys of the kitchen.
The steward’s mocking label stuck: Beaumains.
The anniversary feast offered a way out.
A damsel appeared and implored the king for a champion
to rescue her lady. Their castle was besieged by a tyrant
who raged like a boar and was strong as seven men.
He was the Lord and Knight of the Red Lawns,
a savage sort, nothing was beneath him.
He delighted in bringing disgrace and death to his foes.
He’d shamefully hanged scores of knights from the trees.
Beaumains, unfazed, stepped out of the scullery
and requested the boon of taking on this adventure.
His third request was to receive the order of knighthood
from Lancelot. The king said all shall be done.
The damsel was aghast. Wait, what? she cried.
My lady is under threat of ruin from a beast,
and you’re sending a kitchen boy to the rescue?
Seriously? She stormed out and cantered away.
The courtiers lost no time with a horse and armor
for Beaumains. He took leave from the king and court
and galloped after the damsel to save her lady
from the red-toothed brute who stalked her.
While riding, Beaumains chanced to cross paths
with the steward and Lancelot and, against them, proved
his mettle as a man of arms. Dazzled, Lancelot
turned to giving the young paladin his knighthood,
but first he needed to know his real name.
Lancelot vowed to keep the answer unspoken
so Beaumains could rise in repute for his own deeds
not heritage, if any could be claimed.
Indeed, it could. He was born Gareth,
of royal blood. He was nephew to the king.
He told all to Lancelot and straightaway was knighted.
Not that any of this would impress the damsel.
She couldn’t have cared less, all the ritual,
the gibberish. When Beaumains caught up to her,
she cut him down: You stink of the kitchen, she said.
You are but a greasy sloth, a ladle-washer.
Fie on you! she cried, turning to go.
I know who you are—the steward’s knave.
Say what you will, Beaumains replied,
I won’t go from you until I’m done.
Believe me, you’re done, she said, watching
a man race toward them through the trees.
They learned he needed help to save his lord,
who’d been attacked and bound by six thieves.
Beaumains battled all six to the death
and freed the knight. Yet the damsel chalked it up
to happenstance, the bandits’ bad luck.
She seemed only bored by his success.
She reined her horse and changed the subject back
to shame. She told him to get downwind.
You smell like a pot boiling over, she said.
Maybe you should air out your armor.
Beaumains kept riding at some distance.
When the two came to a great forest
and river with only one way across,
the passage was barred by two greedy knights.
You’re going to turn tail, I suppose,
the damsel said. Not likely, he answered,
charging into the water at the first knight
and stunning him with an arcing blow of his sword.
The mercenary fell, taken down by the river.
Beaumains spurred his horse toward the second knight,
who charged to meet him. The two broke their spears
in the clash and drew their swords. The end was the same.
A blow to the helm left the second one dead.
Now the way was open for the damsel and her escort,
Beaumains, but she clung to her disdain,
insisting, You shine by accident not virtue.
She was relentless, but they continued their quest
for the lady. They came to a field, all black.
A black hawthorn was hung with a black banner
and, on the other side, a black shield.
A long black spear stood close by
and a great black horse dressed in silk
and, on the ground, a great black stone.
Approaching was a stout knight in black armor.
The damsel told Beaumains to flee while he could,
but he pushed back at this call for cowardice.
I know that’s what you want, he said, but no,
that’s not what I’ll do. I’m bound to stay.
So the damsel turned, warming to the Black Knight
and scoffing, This is but a kitchen page.
When asked by the knight if this was her champion,
she said, Oh, please! I can’t get rid of him.
He’s a scurvy, deceitful wretch, a miserable
schemer, that you would do well to dispatch.
In that case, it’s a shame he’s riding with you,
the Black Knight said. I can take him down.
Beaumains had heard enough. He slipped back
on his entitlement, declaring he was a gentleman
of royal lineage, and he would cross the lands
of the Black Knight anytime, allowed or not.
Both were now in a wrath. They thundered together
in a splinter of spears, and Beaumains ran him through.
Still, the Black Knight heaved his sword
and struck back, furiously hacking and thrusting.
After more than an hour of this, with Beaumains
equally lathered, the Black Knight toppled
over on the ground, dying on the spot. The victor
swapped for the loser’s fine horse and armor.
When Beaumains, in black, caught up to the damsel,
she resumed right where she’d left off,
sniffing, If you don’t mind, kindly
back away. Your nasty smell grieves me.
All right, he said, but I’ll finish the journey.
Whatever, the damsel replied, rolling her eyes
then glimpsing another knight trotting their way,
in green armor, his horse caparisoned in green.
The green one called to the lady, Is that my brother
the Black Knight? No, he killed your brother,
she said, and wears his harness. He’s but a knave,
a wily milksop trying to act manly.
In that case, he’ll pay for his triple offense,
the Green Knight said, of going rogue,
of murdering a noble knight, and of stealing his mantle.
He armed himself with a green shield and spear.
Beaumains avowed his honor as the two crashed
together in a single maelstrom of steel and gore.
On horseback or foot, neither had the better of the other,
much to the damsel’s distress. What’s up with that?
Is there a problem? she called. A kitchen page
holding his own with a bannered knight? Really?
It’s like a noxious weed overgrowing the corn.
There was nothing the Green Knight could do.
Beaumains felled him, and the Green pleaded for his life.
Only at the damsel’s request, the winner said
and, again, She must make the request of me.
She wasn’t about to abase herself to a knave.
She refused, and Beaumains unlaced the helmet
of the groveling knight to swipe off his head.
Spare me, the knight cried again.
Raising his sword, Beaumains heard her words:
Okay, stop, she said, let him be—
anyway, you’d regret it if you didn’t.
Beaumains stopped. Your command is my pleasure,
he said, and to the Green, You’re free to go.
The Green Knight knelt and thanked them both.
The damsel apologized for the harm he’d suffered
at Beaumains’ hand and for the death of his brother, the Black.
She said she hoped for his help to traverse the forest.
She said she dreaded the forest. Don’t worry,
he said, you both may lodge with me tonight
and, in the morning, I’ll help you cross this land.
They took their mounts and rode to his manor close by.
All the while, the damsel was raining rebukes
on Beaumains. And in the banquet hall, she refused
to let him be seated at her table. The Green
arranged for another seat, at a table to the side.
But he also spoke to the damsel, advising
she should relent: Kitchen knave or not,
he has the bearing of a knight, a nobility of action.
He should sit anywhere he likes despite you.
You do him wrong though he serves you well,
the Green Knight said. He took them both
the following day through the forest and pledged
to Beaumains his loyalty and force of thirty knights.
The damsel cursed the Green for this generosity—
this servility to a mere kitchen boy.
When the Green and the damsel went their ways,
Beaumains followed the damsel, to her chagrin.
No matter, she said, you’ll flee soon enough.
We’re getting close to the Pass Perilous, the way
to the castle whose double moats and murder holes
are failing its defense. We’ll see how you do.
A tournament happened to be under way nearby.
A knight in red saw Beaumains in black
and thought it was his brother. He stood corrected
when the damsel said, No, he killed your brother.
There’s more, she said. He attacked your brother
the Green and made him pledge, on pain of death,
his loyal support. Please, what can a misfit
do with support but collapse nonetheless?
They call him Beaumains because his fair hands
belie the armor he wears. They show his life
has been pampered and feckless, his privilege wasted and thrown
on a midden heap with the other rotting fruit.
Now he’s just a bore and a pest, she said.
He has no other purpose. The Red Knight
could no longer sit still on his mount.
He charged at Beaumains, who wheeled to meet his fury.
Both of the horses fell hard to the ground.
The fighters raised their shields and drew their swords.
They slashed and foined and hurled themselves at the other
like beasts bound and blinded by nature’s law.
After two hours of this, the damsel
was beside herself. What’s the trouble? she said,
He’s a kitchen boy! You can’t do better?
The Red Knight raged and doubled his strokes.
But to no avail. This was a replay
of his brother the Green Knight’s round surrender.
The Red cried for mercy and, as before,
Beaumains insisted only the damsel could grant it.
She did, and the Red Knight pledged his fealty
to Beaumains and the enduring allegiance of his fifty knights.
The three rode to the Red’s castle and stayed
until morning, when the guests renewed their standoff.
The damsel’s disgust was foul as ever when they left,
and, facing her rebukes, Beaumains continued to counter,
saying he’d be a fool to leave her side
because he gained respect by serving her.
Not my respect, she said. Be that as it may,
he sniped. That’s not what he needed.
Their Pass Perilous was always a pas de deux,
a magnets’ dance of visceral push and pull.
Her tirade of the day rose, no different
from yesterday. They were coming to a city
ruled by a lord eclipsed only by the king.
He hosted a tourney, and jousters filled the meadows.
Any of them could put you in your place,
the damsel said. You’d be back in the kitchen,
a stinking alms boy. Rankled by this,
he said, I’ll take them all, one by one.
You can’t stop blowing boasts, can you?
she said, sneering. You better flee or else.
But they kept to the road and reached the grounds,
where they saw a pavilion of indigo blue.
All around were shields and spears of blue
and horses with trappings of blue. The damsel said,
That’s the lord of the city, the Blue Knight.
He was brother of the Black, the Green, and the Red.
The Blue was master of five hundred knights,
a champion of arms and keen on the contests to come.
Beaumains in black and the damsel caught his eye.
He sent a page to see what they were about.
As the messenger came prancing their way,
the damsel looked aside toward her lady’s castle.
It wasn’t far—seven miles through the wood.
She said to Beaumains beside her, Don’t fight.
Her manner surprised him, her words less a demand
than a plea coming from a depth of concern, it seemed.
He said, I’ve come this far with you.
I won’t skirt a challenge to your freedom now.
That hasn’t been the point, really, she said.
I never believed I was in any danger.
But grace will end soon, up the road,
with the Lord of the Red Lawns and his bloody henchmen.
Beaumains, you’ll need all your strength, she said.
Red Lawns is fiercer than the Blue and his brothers
together, with their sparkling blades and flaring banners.
Ride past the Blue and his fun and games.
That would stain my honor and yours, he said.
I won’t do that. Well, then, she replied,
in a stroke, you take yourself too seriously
and not seriously enough. Danger is elsewhere.
Right here, he said, is a passage I have to take.
Listen, Beaumains, she said, I regret
my sharp words. They’ve been like lion’s teeth,
I know, slicing, tearing, grinding you up.
I know, she said. It’s what I desired. I’m sorry.
You desired? he asked. In truth, I’d rather fight
five knights at a time than hear any more.
As you wish, she said. You’ll hear no more….
It’s because you seemed so spoiled.
You were slopping in the kitchen, living off the king
and showing no sign of having worked before.
The world was yours, and you turned your back for bread.
You seemed like a boy wastrel, making nothing
but demands, a noxious paradox, a stain come to life.
You were a fetid cloud that wouldn’t burn off.
And you were willing to risk death for my lady.
I was willing to risk death for myself,
he said. But I welcome your softer words.
She smiled a moment. My name is Linet, she said.
You’ve served me well. My disgust was misplaced.
I appreciate it just the same, he said,
I do, because the more you tore into me
the stronger I was. I could use my anger
at your slurs against foes of any stripe.
An adverse inspiration, a twisted muse
is what you were. I owe you thanks for that.
Accepted, she said. But you wouldn’t feel
so assured, without some sense of birthright.
That’s something I can’t change, he said,
but only keep doing what I’ve done.
I’ve let my actions flesh what I am.
I won’t undo it all by running away.
Linet, he said, I’ve served myself, yes,
but I’ve put you and your lady first—
that’s the best I can do. I’m grateful,
she replied. Your best is what we’ll need.
I ask a lot, I know, she said. Still,
I give you respect because I’ve seen
your fierce-hearted turn. Only that
will save my lady from the coils wringing her castle.
I’ll say more: my lady is my sister
and, truly, she is my family, my people, my country.
She’s all of life to me. But Red Lawns?
He lords over meadows of blood and exults.
That’s who he is. Beaumains bridled.
Don’t fear, he said. With peace between us,
I can’t lose to a lord of desecration
whose end game is glory by salting the earth.
Copyright © 2025 by Sam S. Dodd