Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight

by Katherine Paterson

  “I came today from the castle called Wild Mountain,” Parzival said. “I passed the night there in some splendor.”

  The young woman looked startled. “You must be jesting,” she said. “No one comes upon Wild Mountain by chance. Only those who are meant to find it are brought to it. You are a stranger here. Perhaps you do not know then about King Anfortas the son of Frimutel.”

  Parzival confessed that he did not know this king, so the young woman continued. “Anfortus is the eldest of five noble children. One is long dead, and three of them live on in misery. The fifth, Trevrizent, is a hermit, who has chosen the path of poverty for God’s sake. Anfortas, for all his wealth, lives in great pain. He can neither sit up nor lie down, neither ride nor walk. Even propped among his pillows, the agony is more than he can bear. If only you had been the one. If only you had seen him, you could have rid him of his suffering.”

  “But I did see him,” Parzival said. “I saw the king and many wonderful and strange things there in Wild Mountain.”

  “Why,” she said, “you are Parzival. I did not recognize you in the armor of a knight. Do you remember me? I am your cousin Sigune, whom you met on the road to Arthur’s court. I told you your true name. And since that day, you have been to Wild Mountain. Then tell me the good news. Tell me that the king is healed.”

  “Can you be my cousin Sigune? I didn’t recognize you; you’ve grown so pale, and what has become of your beautiful hair? Come, Cousin, let me help you bury this knight.”

  “There is only one thing on earth that could ease my pain,” Sigune said. “Tell me that the king is released from his. I see his sword bound at your waist. Dear Cousin, the marvels you have seen are nothing compared to those that are to come to you if”—she looked up into Parzival’s face—“if you asked the question.”

  “What question, Cousin?”

  Sigune’s pale face grew whiter still. “I cannot believe it. You were taken to Wild Mountain. You saw the marvels of that place. You saw the Grail itself and the awful suffering of its king—and you did not ask the question?”

  Parzival was alarmed by the change in his cousin’s manner. “What question should I have asked? Tell me. I don’t understand.”

  “Get away from my sight. I can’t abide to have you in my vision, you perfidious knight,” she said. “Have you no shred of compassion?” The woman was wild with rage. “You may live, but in the reckoning of Heaven, you are already dead!”

  “Dear Cousin,” Parzival pleaded. “Please. I promise you, whatever I may have done, I’ll make amends.”

  “Do you think to make the amends of a knight?” she asked, her voice cruel with sarcasm. “There are no amends for what you have failed to do. There is no longer need for you to follow the rules of chivalry. You were shorn of all knightly honor at Wild Mountain.” Sigune turned away from Parzival, her eyes on the pitiful figure in her lap. When she spoke again, her voice was so low that Parzival had to bend down to hear her words. “I will not, I cannot say another word to you,” she said. “Go. My only hope in this world is that I will never again have to look upon your face.”

  Four

  Under Curse

  WHEN Parzival saw that it was useless to plead with his cousin, he mounted the sorrel and spurred him to a gallop, wanting only to leave this cursed place of sickness and death. But the farther he rode, the more the grief he had left behind crowded the narrow spaces of his heart.

  No amends! How could that be? He had meant no wrong. Indeed, all he desired was to be a man of knightly honor and courtesy—to be a man of whom his wife, his mother, and his foster father, Gurnemanz, could be proud—and it had brought only disaster. Bathed in perspiration, Parzival took off his helmet and slowed his sorrel to a trot.

  Suddenly, he saw ahead of him in the road a sorry sight. It might once have been a horse, but now the poor creature was nothing but bones with skin stretched over them, and the skin itself was near worn through. He recalled the nag his mother had given him those days long ago when he was a raw and happy boy. Why, that old mare would look like a mighty warhorse compared to this wretched beast.

  Parzival had had no warning that there were another horse and rider ahead. Now he saw why. Every bell had been ripped from the sad beast’s saddle. Indeed, the saddle itself no longer fit the horse’s poor, swayed back; and more pitiful than the mount was the rider. It was a woman, but she wore no gown, only a tattered shift, belted with a piece of rope.

  When Parzival came alongside her, she looked at him with alarm and covered herself with her arms. “Go away and leave me alone,” she said. “I saw you once before, and since that terrible day I have had nothing but misery on your account.”

  “My lady,” Parzival said, “whatever I have done or left undone, since I have become a knight no one could say that I have ever been unkind to a lady.”

  “You were most unkind to me,” she said. “You would have my ring and my brooch. And see what has become of me because of that.”

  “Madam,” Parzival said, recognizing the duchess he had met on that day he left home in search of Arthur’s court, “let me cover you with my cloak and then I will make amends for this wrong I did when I was but a foolish boy.”

  “Leave me,” she cried. “Or my husband will return and kill us both.”

  In fact, the jealous Duke Orilus had already heard the sorrel’s whinny and was returning to see who had met his wife along the path. Quickly, Parzival put on his helmet and spurred forward to meet the duke. The poor duchess was distraught. As much as Parzival had wronged her and her husband had punished her unjustly, she did not wish either man to die on her account.

  It looked as though someone was sure to die, the fighting was so fierce. Part of the duke’s fury was his own guilt that he had left his wife unprotected that time before when, as he thought, she had given a stranger her favors. Now he fought like the very dragons that adorned his shield. Parzival was his equal in fury, determined to make amends, at least for the childish behavior that had caused the duchess so much humiliation and pain.

  They struck at each other with lance and sword, charging until both horses were in a lather. But neither man could unhorse the other. The duke, in desperation, snatched hold of a buckle on Parzival’s armor, but the strong young knight grabbed the duke around the waist, hoisted him from the saddle, and hurled him through the air as though he were a bundle of twigs.

  Parzival leapt off the sorrel and raced to where the duke lay gasping upon the ground.

  “You have humiliated this good lady without a cause,” Parzival cried. “If you will not restore her to favor and give her back her good name, I will not let you live!”

  “I cannot do that,” Duke Orilus replied. “She has given me too much grief—be—traying me with some stranger in the woods.”

  “Then you are lost.” Parzival raised his sword.

  The duke did not want to die and said so.

  Parzival lowered his sword arm. “There is a lady in Arthur’s court who has suffered humiliation on my account,” he said. “Go there and say that the Red Knight has sent you to offer her your service.”

  “That I will do and gladly,” the duke answered.

  “But,” said Parzival, “that is not all. I cannot let you go unless you repent of your wrong to this good lady, your wife.”

  When the duke saw that Parzival would not relent, he swore finally that he would restore his wife to favor. Parzival let him stand and returned to him his sword and lance.

  “Now that you have sworn,” Parzival said, “I will tell you that this lady is completely innocent of any wrongdoing. I know, for I was that foolish youth. Here is the ring I took from her against her will. The brooch, I’m sorry to say, is gone. I gave it in payment to a greedy man. You, sir, have nothing to forgive. Your wife has never betrayed you. I only pray that she will forgive us both.”

  This the good duchess was glad to do. Her husband wept to think of the wrong his jealousy had caused. He gave her back her lovely garments
and procured a beautiful mare for her to ride, its saddle trimmed with hundreds of silver bells. Duke Orilus and his duchess asked Parzival to go with them to Arthur’s court, but he sadly refused. His cousin had told him that his failure at Wild Mountain stripped him of all knightly honor. How could such a one approach the noble Arthur? He bade the now happy duke and duchess farewell.

  Parzival traveled alone for many a weary day. It began to snow, though it was not long past the feast of St. Michael and the Angels and so not yet winter. To Parzival, night and day, summer and winter were the same dreary time. He mounted his horse at dawn and rode past dark, but he did not know where he was going.

  Nor did he know that Arthur had ridden out from the court at Camelot with his queen and a large company of knights and ladies. The king had decreed that this would be a time of hunting and pleasure. No one was to joust or seek adventure in battle. Arthur’s men had made a camp of bright-colored pavilions with banners flying. The word of this encampment soon spread through the countryside, so that Duke Orilus and his duchess quite easily found their way there. When the duke sought the lady to whom he was to offer his service, he found to his surprise that it was his own sister. As for Sir Kay, that knight was somewhat disquieted to realize that the foolish youth he had despised had sent yet a third knight to Lady Cunneware’s protection.

  Since Parzival did not know that the king of the Britons was encamped nearby, he had no way of knowing when he woke up that snowy morning that one of the king’s falcons had flown out from its falconer the day before and had not returned. This same bird was in the tree above his head, and when he set out on his day of aimless travel, the bird, who felt at home in the company of knights, followed him.

  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?”