He called her Oonagh.

If once he remembered with longing that Oonagh's jovial fairy husband, King Fionvarra, went to his revels on the back of a night-black steed with nostrils aflame, he dismissed it as disloyal.

Brian too had been tired, though he called it "blissfully weary." That depended something on the viewpoint.
When at last beside the embers of his camp fire, he spread his oilskin and drew a blanket over him, the night sounds of the forest, a-crackle with mystery, became the woodland spirits of King Arthur's men, blowing their ghostly horns by the light of the moon.

Likely the wee folk would come and dance beside the embers of his camp fire.
"By the powers of wildfire!" cried Kenny drowsily, "it is good to be alive!" In the morning there was mist and rain and Kenny tramped the sodden world in a mood of sadness.

Melancholy dripped from the wet white blossoms along the way.