Parzival (6 page)

The two of them, lost knight and lost bird, traveled together. The knight’s way was the harder, for the snow had covered any semblance of a path, and his horse would often stumble on rocks and fallen branches. At length they came to a clearing in the forest. There in the clearing was a flock of wild geese who, pausing on their southward journey, were searching the frozen ground for food. The falcon hurled itself like a stone from the sky upon the throat of one of the geese. The goose wrung itself free and, in a thrashing of wild wings, all the geese flew up and escaped. But the wounded goose left behind three drops of blood, bright red upon the snow.

Parzival stared at the blood as though dazed. Somehow, in those three drops he saw the warm cheeks and bright mouth of Condwiramurs, his wife. With all that had happened since he had ridden away from her, her face had grown dim, but now, staring at the snow, her lovely face was all that he could see. He could not take his eyes away, nor did he want to. He was like a senseless man, imprisoned in a dream.

Now it chanced that Arthur’s court was encamped hardly more than a javelin’s throw from that very spot. Just then a servant boy, who belonged to that same Lady Cunneware whom Parzival had vowed to help, came through the clearing on the way to run an errand for his mistress. He did not recognize his lady’s champion, now a knight in fine red armor. He ran as fast as he could through the snow back to the encampment to raise an alarm.

“Help!” he cried. “Help! There is a strange knight just on the other side of the camp. His helmet is badly dented and his shield is hacked by many conflicts. He’s come to threaten the king!” the boy shouted. “Shame on you, all you cowardly knights!”

Now every knight in the encampment wanted to rush out at once and dispatch this evil knight, but since Arthur had forbidden battle, they could not go until the king had released them from the ban against jousting.

The king and queen, however, were still sound asleep in their pavilion, so what should the eager knights do? Young Segramors, who was the queen’s kinsman, simply pushed aside the curtain and went straight into the king’s tent., He woke up the king and queen, and, hardly apologizing for his rudeness, told them what the servant boy had said and asked permission to challenge the mysterious stranger.

Arthur was angry both at the intrusion and the request. “If I let you go after I have expressly forbidden warfare at this place, everyone will want to joust and do battle. There’ll be no end to it.”

But Guenever was fond of her young cousin. She wanted him to gain honor in the sight of the Round Table knights, so she coaxed and pleaded until, finally, the king gave the young knight leave to go.

Segramors was delighted. He had himself armed as quickly as possible and followed Cunneware’s servant boy to the place just beyond the camp. There they spied poor Parzival still staring at the drops of blood upon the snow.

Segramors called out to him. “I do not know who you are, sir, but you should know that you have no business here. Why, it is almost as though you cannot see just yonder in plain sight the tents of a king encamped there with his many knights. You are foolish to threaten him thus. Surrender yourself to me now and save your life.”

Parzival, lost in the sickness of love, did not even hear this challenge. Segramors called out again, but still the visitor was silent. Indeed, he did not even turn his head to acknowledge Segramors’s threat.

Segramors spurred his horse into a gallop. At this, the sorrel whirled to spare his own life. As the horse turned him about, Parzival lost sight of the blood drops and found himself being borne down upon by a charging knight. He weighed his lance and knocked the startled Segramors right over the rump of his horse and into the snow.

The other knights, gathered at the edge of the clearing, could see Segramors dumped backward over his horse’s crupper. They waited, hardly breathing, for the strange knight to leap off his own horse and end the battle, but the visitor had already turned his back on Sir Segramors. What arrogance! The knights sent pages to pull the prone Segramors to his feet and lead him to his tent, where he could repair his wounded dignity. The knights themselves rushed to Arthur’s pavilion, all clamoring at once for leave to dispatch this haughty interloper.

It was Sir Kay who prevailed. His reputation for gallantry had been in doubt ever since that unfortunate day when he had beaten Lady Cunneware. “My Lord,” he said, “if you do not give me leave to trounce this menace once and for all, I will resign from your service. There he waits—waving his lance in sight of the queen. He is disgracing us all.” So Arthur gave his steward permission to challenge the stranger, perhaps thinking that Sir Kay had much to redeem since there were now three knights at court with the sworn duty to see that Sir Kay minded his manners.

Sir Kay took time to have his horse groomed and his armor polished. Then he sallied forth to the clearing with his pages in attendance and his banners streaming.

“Sir,” he called out to Parzival, “you must know that you, have insulted the king of Britain and his lady. You will not get by so easily with me as you did with that green boy who challenged you earlier. Turn and surrender at once, else it will go very hard for you.”

Parzival did not turn, nor did he answer a word to this bold challenge. This made Kay furious. He rode forward and whacked Parzival’s helmet with his lance so hard that it rang like a bell. The sorrel spun around at the sound. “Now,” cried Sir Kay, “I will beat you like a miller beats his donkey!” He trotted his horse to, the edge of the clearing, then spurred it into a full gallop.

When the sorrel turned, Parzival’s trance once again was broken. He awoke just in time to see a second knight charging toward him at full tilt. Sir Kay thrust his lance straight through Parzival’s shield, but Parzival struck back, knocking Sir Kay right off his mount. The unlucky steward fell against a tree, breaking both an arm and a leg.

As for Parzival, he turned once more to stare at the ruby drops upon the snow. He did not even notice the hole in his shield or that he had shattered his lance in the joust.

Sir Kay was carried on a pallet to Arthur’s pavilion, where all the court crowded about him, lamenting his injuries, kindly Sir Gawain most of all.

“Well, of course,” Sir Kay said sarcastically to Gawain, “it would not do for you to ride out to avenge me. I am only the king’s steward and you are the king’s own nephew. It would not be proper for you to lower yourself to combat on my account. If the situation were reversed, if even the toe on your foot had been injured, I would rush out to defend
your
honor. But then that would be only fitting, considering your high birth. But you, my lord, are better known for your gentleness than your jousting. Why, it is often said that you more closely resemble your sweet mother than you do your bold father.”

Sir Gawain, being a true gentleman and knight, did not reply to Sir Kay’s taunts. “I do not think,” he said quietly, “that anyone has ever seen me run from a sword. I am, as always, at your service, sir.”

Sir Gawain rode out to meet the mysterious challenger, but he went unarmed. Courteously, he greeted the knight who had so rudely dispatched two of Arthur’s court. The knight did not answer; indeed, he did not even turn to see who was approaching.

“Sir,” Gawain continued, “since you refuse my greeting, does that mean you intend to meet me with force? Your skill is not in dispute, but you have insulted a king and his lady, and every knight at their disposal is eager to do battle against you. Why don’t you just come and let me take you with me to the king? He is my uncle and will forgive you if I ask on your behalf. I promise you will not lose any honor if you do.”

Again, the mysterious knight made no answer. Sir Gawain was not easily discouraged. He asked, he cajoled; at last, he even threatened, but the knight did not even turn his head to look at him. He acts as if he’s lost his senses, Gawain thought. Suddenly he remembered an occasion when he had lost his own. He had given his heart in love and his senses had seemed to flee. Gawain rode around to the sorrel’s head to see what the knight was staring at so fixedly in the snow. When he saw the three drops of blood, he threw his mantle down to cover them.

Parzival spoke then, but not to Gawain. “My lady,” he said, “do not leave me. Didn’t I save you from Clamide and make you my wife? Didn’t I give everything to save your people? Why do you hide yourself from me? And where”—he jerked his head up and looked about—“is my lance?”

“My lord,” said Gawain gently, “your lance is yonder. Shattered in a joust.”

“Hey there, sir. Do you mean to fight?” Parzival asked, seeing Gawain for the first time. “You’d best beware. I’ve knocked one or two men off their horses in my day.”

“I have no wish to joust with you,” Gawain answered. “There is encamped just over there a king and his lady with all his court. I wish to guide you to them. I promise no one will attack you if you come with me.”

“Who are you, gentle knight, and who is your king?”

“I am the son of Lot and nephew to King Arthur, who is encamped here. Perhaps you have heard of me as well. My name is Gawain.”

“Ah, yes, Sir Gawain,” Parzival replied. “They shall not credit me with special honor for being received kindly by you. It is well known that you receive everyone with kindness. And still I thank you, but I cannot go to Arthur’s court. I was there once before and on my account a lady suffered humiliation. Arthur’s steward beat her as though he were felling a tree. Until I can make amends for that, I will not appear before the king.”

Gawain laughed despite himself. “You have paid that account in full,” he said. “The steward lies now in Arthur’s tent with a broken arm and a broken leg. He was your second conquest of the morning. Sir Segramors, who is no mean fighter either, is in his own tent nursing a wounded pride. Now come with me, good sir, and give your greeting to our gracious king and his lady.”

Parzival could not bring himself to speak to the kindly Gawain of his cousin’s curse or the shame of Wild Mountain. He took off his helmet and followed as he was bid.

As Gawain and Parzival approached the camp, the Lady Cunneware saw them come. Even though his face was still filthy from rust and perspiration, she recognized Parzival. “You have sent three knights, one of whom was my own brother, to protect me, and today you yourself have made amends for that unjust beating the steward gave me,” she said as she greeted him. She kissed his grimy cheek and ordered her serving boys to see that he was bathed and provided with rich clothing.

When Arthur heard who the strange visitor was, he was delighted. He ordered the meadow in the midst of the camp to be cleared of snow in the shape of a great circle, so it would seem that his knights and their ladies were feasting at a giant Round Table. That night, Parzival was seated at a place of honor and all (except perhaps Sir Kay) rejoiced that the handsome Parzival had returned. Even Queen Guenever forgave him for the death of Ither, for, if the truth be told, there were few ladies in Arthur’s court who had not felt a fondness for that bold knight who had died so shameful a death—pierced by a javelin in the hand of an untutored boy. Duke Orilus begged forgiveness for the sins he and his brother Lahelin had committed against the kingdoms that belonged to Parzival and pledged full restitution.

Parzival was glad to pardon all who asked, even King Clamide, who had wronged his wife. He had no appetite for revenge that night when he saw how graciously they all received him.

Indeed, Parzival’s heart was lighter than it had been since the day he rode out from Queen Condwiramurs’s castle. Despite his cousin’s curse, he had made amends both to the duchess and to the Lady Cunneware. He could almost forget Sigune’s anger and the shame of Wild Mountain as every knight and lady drank to his good health and praised his skill and courage.

But his joy was not to last one single night.

“Son of Uther Pendragon!” A shrill voice pierced the merriment of the feast like a lance through a shield. The whole company turned to see, on the edge of the circle, a huge mule, saddled and bridled like the most noble of horses. Its rider, too, was dressed in a beautiful robe with a peacock hat, but the face under the hat made them all shrink back in repulsion. It was a woman, but what woman would want to claim her for a sister? Her black plait falling down her shoulder was as coarse as pig’s bristles. Her nose jutted out like a dog’s and her teeth were like the tusks of a wild boar. Her skin was like wrinkled leather and her nails like the claws of a lion.

Even those who had never seen her before knew at once who she was—Cundrie, whom some called the Sorceress, but perhaps should rather call the Prophetess, for she had never been known to tell an untruth.

“I do not greet you as king, son of Pendragon,” she said to Arthur, her voice grating as metal scraping against metal, “for you have allowed a malignancy into your circle. The Round Table is corrupted. Like a fruit with a worm in its heart, it will be destroyed from within. And you, son of Pendragon, have welcomed this worm into your bosom. I cannot greet you; you have lost all honor.”

Before the astonished Arthur could reply to this strange salutation, Cundrie rode her mule into the circle and stood directly before Parzival. She stretched out her clawed finger toward his face. “You call yourself the son of Gahmuret,” she said. “I would deny it except that I know that your pure mother was never false. Still, how are you his son? That man of honor. He has another son whom you would call an infidel—a son he had of a Moorish queen. Yet that son, infidel though he may be, is as noble as Gahmuret before him. While you, you—you have earned Hell eternally,” she cried. “May it begin for you here on earth. You were taken to Wild Mountain so that you might release that wretched king. Where was your compassion, son of Gahmuret and Herzoloyde? How could you fail to ask the question that would give Anfortas peace at last? You saw the bloody lance, the silver knives, the Grail itself, and yet you failed to ask. Woe, that I should be the one to say that matchless Herzoloyde’s son has so fallen from the height of Heaven’s honor to the lowest shame of Hell.”