Girdles, Garters, and Grandmasters, OH MY!

Of British Orders of Chivalry, there exists none higher than The Most Noble Order of the Garter, or Order of the Garter for short. While there are over 100,000 members of the Order of the British Empire, such as Sir Ian McKellen and Sir Patrick Stewart, The Order of the Garter is restricted to only 24 official members and a few supernumerary members in addition to the Monarch and the Prince of Wales. The monarch alone is able to extend membership, without necessarily needing to consult the British Government, as the case is with the Order of the British Empire. The Order was founded by King Edward III in 1348, presumably to gather a circle of allies to support his bid for the French Crown. Medieval Scholars have also drawn several connections to the girdle portrayed in Sir Gawain and the Green Night. Not only is there a similar eroticism associated with both the garter and the girdle, but one of the purported authors of Sir Gawain, was closely associated with a high-ranking member of the order. In addition, the motto of the order “Honi soit qui mal y pense,” (“Shame upon him who thinks evil upon it,” or “evil to him who evil thinks”) appears in slightly altered form within the poem itself in lines 640 to 655. In any case, rarely do the lines of romantic fiction and reality cross so neatly, that those knowledgeable in history and literature might understand so easily. 

with help from Wikipedia articles "Order of the Garter" and "Order of the British Empire"

john the nightwatchman

You hadn’t planned on living your life fighting monsters. Sure, your father and your own local town shaper had once regaled you as a child with tales of heroes slaying beasts. Sure, you’d fought with Hrothgar’s army for many a season, so it’s not like you were unacquainted with the smell of blood or the stench of battle. But this? This was utter nonsense: an enemy that refused to die? Refused to parley? Gave no quarter? (For gods’ sakes, he ate your friends). In all your years of fighting, you had never seen nor ever imagined yourself facing such viciousness, such a monstrosity. You sigh. You could still see the beast, clutching the body of some poor wretch, coming through the open doors during one of the shaper’s performances. Sick beast, it held the body up, using it as a shield against your blows. It was sickening, trying to pierce his hideous hide with your ash spear, only to have your hits absorbed by his ugly guard. You managed to nick him, scaring him off, but not before he tore through more of your comrades. You shiver at the memory. You were no stranger to funeral pyres, witnessing others’ and contemplating your own, but it was a shame all the same for your friends to die (in front of their wives and children, no less). You stamp your feet a little against the night’s cold. Admittedly, it didn’t bother you too much, what with your warm fur coat. You just needed something to remind yourself where you were. That’s all these night watches are good for, getting lost in your thoughts. You hated that. You were a warrior, plain and simple. Leave the thinking to the kings and schemers. Too much thinking and not enough action was always a bad thing, you knew. A snore erupts from your comrade on the opposite side of the door. He’d fallen asleep an hour or two ago. You blink, suppressing your own yawn. Midnight watches were actually good for two things: thinking too much and sleeping. A twig snaps. You glance over. It was probably nothing. Twigs snap all the time actually. Not many people knew that. New guards especially were prone to worrying over snapping twigs. You stifle a chuckle. Unferth, in particular you recall, had worried over many a snapped twig in his day.  Unferth, the “hero” as he likes to think of himself, strutting about the ranks, isn’t a bad person per se. He is one of Hrothgar’s finest thanes after all. He’s simply irritating, when you think about it. When that beast broke into the hall, the first thing he did after proper funeral rites was promise to kill the beast, gain glory, elevate himself. You scoff. Unferth, the “hero.” What does he know of family? What does he know of true responsibility? A crash falls in the woods. You perk up again. You squint your eyes, but see nothing. An owl or lonely wolf might snap a twig, but rarely make a noise like that. You’re tempted to wake your fellow, but decide against it. Moments later, you hardly even notice when the beast lowers his arms and snaps your neck.