The Legend of Parzival

by Robin Cook

  Parzival was puzzled but followed the instructions, wondering who the fisherman was and why he had not accompanied him. He had not gone far up the track that left the cliff when he found, tucked into a fold of the mountainside, an extraordinary castle. It was clear that it was more or less impregnable, although the aspect of the castle was not threatening; rather there was an austere sense of power and the impression that mere violence would not have any effect. He looked at it in awe before urging his horse towards the drawbridge. A page appeared and asked him what he wanted.

  “The Fisher King has sent me,” he replied, not knowing quite how that title sprang into his mind. “I am looking for shelter for the night.”

  “Ah! The Fisher King! You are indeed welcome. Come this way.”

  Encouraged, Parzival followed the page over the bridge and through the gate to the courtyard, where he was greeted by a number of knights. Squires accorded him every courtesy: they came forward to hold his stirrup and take his horse, before taking him indoors so he could take off his armour and wash. He had the strange sensation that somehow he had been expected. This was reinforced when a knight brought him a most beautiful cloak made of cloth-of-gold.

  “This is from my lady the Princess Repanse de Schoye. It is hers, and she bids you wear it tonight.” This was said with a certain formality and Parzival realised he was going to be present at some important occasion. He put on the cloak and was led up a broad staircase to a large hall, where he saw three marble fireplaces burning piles of sweet-smelling logs. A hundred chandeliers illuminated the hall, and ranged around the room were a hundred couches, each seating four knights. In the centre, on the opposite side from the central fireplace, lay a frail, sickly man, warmly clad in furs despite the heat of the fires. Unbidden, the name ‘The Fisher King’ came into Parzival’s mind. The king beckoned to Parzival, grimacing in pain. He sat down next to the king and the knights looked on as an expectant silence descended. Suddenly, the door at the end of the hall was opened and a page ran in bearing a lance. Blood ran down from the blade and onto his hand as he bore it round the hall. The king groaned and a low moan went up from the knights before the page disappeared through the door again. Then, from the opposite end, a steel door was flung open and a remarkable procession appeared.

  First came two fair maidens, their hair hanging loose and with wreaths of flowers round their brows. They wore gowns of russet and scarlet wool, and bore golden candelabra. Behind them came two more, dressed in similar fashion and carrying two trestles of ivory. They bowed gracefully and set the trestles in front of the king. They moved to the side as eight more ladies entered, dressed in fresh green samite from Azagouc, their heads also wreathed in flowers. Four carried candles and four carried the most wondrous tabletop, a single slice of garnet hyacinth so thinly cut the candlelight shone right through it. They placed it ceremoniously on the trestle and withdrew to join the other maidens. Then two princesses entered, richly dressed, and on the tabletop each placed a pair of knives elaborately wrought in silver and so sharp they could cut through steel. Four more princesses bore candles that shed a holy light on the garnet hyacinth. Six more entered, dressed sumptuously in gowns of cloth-of-gold and brocade from Nineveh. They parted to either side, and then came forth the Princess Repanse de Schoye bearing that thing they call the Grail. Parzival looked on in wonder. A faint paradisal aroma suffused the air while ladies carrying a glass vessel filled with burning balsam came forward and the light was reflected all around the hall. The Grail was set down before the king, and Repanse de Schoye stepped back to take her place with twelve maidens either side of her. Chamberlains with bowls of gold came forward, pages bearing pure white towels followed, and the knights washed their hands as many other servants brought in tables and placed them before the seated knights. Then a most wonderful thing happened. As each stretched forth his hand towards the Grail, each received whatever sustenance he required, both meat and drink. All were served in golden bowls and fine glass goblets until they had eaten their fill.

  Throughout all this Parzival looked on and often wanted to ask a question, but he could never find the right words or the right moment. He also remembered Gurnemanz’s advice about not asking too many questions. He thought that if he waited then things would become clearer and he would know what to ask. While he hesitated, a page approached and offered him a sword. He stared at it and could see the sheath alone was worth a huge sum, as the handle was made from a single ruby.

  “Please take it,” said the Fisher King. “It stood me in good stead in many a battle, until I received a crippling wound. It will make amends for any lack of hospitality. It will not let you down.”

  Parzival looked gratefully at the king and drew the blade from the scabbard. It had strange signs, like writing, on it, but he could make out no meaning.

  Silence ensued.

  The moment passed. The Grail maidens stepped forward and carefully removed all they had brought in, and Repanse de Schoye took the Grail and carried it out. As she went through the door, Parzival gazed after her and glimpsed, down a long corridor, a frail old man lying on a bed, whose silvery-grey hair seemed to shine. The squires and pages set about clearing the tables, and everyone began to get up to leave.

  “You must be tired,” said the king at last. “Your bed is ready and you may retire.”

  Parzival thanked him and was escorted to a large room furnished with a bed covered in a cloth of many-coloured silks. Pages and maidens helped him undress and ensured he had every comfort before they withdrew, extinguishing the candles as they left. Everything had been done to ensure a good night’s rest, but Parzival’s mind was filled with all he had seen and he struggled to make sense of it.

  Finally he fell into sleep but was afflicted by dreadful nightmares. It seemed he was in a battle from which there was no escape. Whichever way he turned, his way was barred. He suffered endless buffets and blows, and when he finally awoke, in the dim light of dawn, he felt as though he had not slept at all.

  All was quiet as he got out of bed and went to the window, which gave out onto the silent forest, enveloped in grey mist. He went to the door and called for a page, but there was no answer. He came back in and saw that his clothes had been laid ready, along with his armour and his two swords. There seemed no alternative but to dress and arm himself. When he was ready, he glanced round the room one more time and then went out into a long corridor. A draught caused the carpet to lift and fall as he walked along, and although he looked into one or two of the rooms, there was nothing to suggest the castle had been occupied at all. The door of the hall was locked, and he began to feel unnerved by the creak and clatter of his own movements. He came down the wide staircase and into the courtyard where, at last, there was some sign of activity. His own horse, saddled and ready, was tethered to a post, and the grass was all trampled as though by a large company of men and horses. But how could he not have heard anything?

  He mounted his horse and made for the gate. Barely had he reached the other side of the drawbridge when the mechanism clanked into action and it was raised, his horse making a nervous sidestep as he turned to look back. The drawbridge rattled up and thudded into place. A window opened in the tower and a page stuck his head out and shouted, “Clear off, you silly goose. Why didn’t you ask the question?”

  Parzival was dumbfounded. The window closed and he stared stupidly at it for a moment.

  “Wait! Stop! What do you mean?” he shouted. But the tower just loomed silently at him.

  After a moment’s pause, he pricked his horse to move on and followed the path that he had arrived by, thinking to follow the tracks of the company that had left so early. But why had he been left behind? And why was a squire left to shout at him something he did not understand? Gloomily, he followed the tracks for a while, but then the road divided and they seemed to go both ways. He took a guess and continued for some time till the tracks became fainter and then finally disappeared completely as he came to a rocky area. He scouted aroun
d to see if he could pick them up again but to no avail, and he stopped and let his horse crop the grass while he considered his hopeless situation.

  At that moment he heard the sound of a voice, so he made his way towards it. As he came through a grove of beech trees he found a woman sobbing. There she sat cradling the body of an embalmed knight under a linden tree. He rushed forward.

  “My lady, what has happened? How can I help you?”

  “I cannot expect you to help me, here in this wilderness, where so many men have already died. But, tell me, what are you doing here, so far from anywhere?”

  “I passed the night at a castle some miles back.”

  “Ah! That can only be the castle of Montsalvaesche. It is the only place within thirty miles. It is where the ancient Titurel still lives, with his wounded son Anfortas, who waits to be relieved of his suffering.”

  “Indeed, I was strangely entertained by someone called the Fisher King, and saw a most wondrous ritual—”

  “You are Parzival!” she interrupted suddenly.

  “Sigune!” he said at the same instant, recognising her at last. “You told me who I am. But you are much changed by your sorrows. Let me help you bury your knight.”

  Tears were streaming down her face as she exclaimed, “Tell me, tell me what happened at the castle! I see you are wearing Anfortas’s sword. You know it will stay whole at the first blow, but at the second it will break and you will have to take it to be made whole at the spring named Lac. You need the words of a spell to bring the parts together. You have them? It is the Word Sword. And, of course, you asked the question?” She smiled through her tears. But when Parzival hesitated and looked down shamefacedly, she knew his answer. Her expression changed utterly.

  “What? You were present at the Grail ceremony, you received the sword, you saw the sick Anfortas, and you did not know to ask the question?”

  Parzival was stunned by her vehemence and could only stammer, “Well… no… I wanted to, but—”

  “You have missed a great opportunity. Did you not know you were expected? They were waiting for you. What are you doing now? What use are you to me when you can show no compassion when it matters?”

  “I’ll go back. It’s not so far. Then I can put my fault right.”

  “Don’t be so naive! Do you really think you can just go back to Montsalvaesche? You will never find it just like that. You have to be called.”

  Parzival gaped. Sigune turned away and he felt himself dismissed.

  Slowly he made his way out of the clearing and, ignoring her injunction, attempted to retrace his steps. But she was right. After an hour or so he saw nothing that looked remotely familiar, even though he was on a track that appeared to be in use. Disconsolate and troubled in soul, he was brooding on what he considered to be one of life’s great injustices when he noticed the tracks of two horses. He glanced back, wondering when they could have started, for they had not been there when he left Sigune. Then he looked up ahead and caught sight of movement in the distance. He put his horse to a trot and soon came up to a lady riding a palfrey in a terrible state of neglect. Its ribs stood out, there were sores round its fetlocks and its eyes looked dully from deep in the skull. More shocking was the fact that the lady riding it was practically naked. What little clothing she had only just covered her modesty and was full of holes to the extent you could see where the sun had burnt her skin in patches. Yet there was something of nobility about her, and Parzival was even more embarrassed when she immediately recognised him.

  “We meet again. Look and see what your deeds that day have reduced me to.”

  It was the Lady Jeschute. Tears ran down her cheeks as she tried ineffectually to cover her nakedness. Parzival hastily proffered his cloak, but she pushed it away. “I don’t dare take it. I have suffered enough because of you. And if you know what is good for you, you will ride away. My lord will happily kill you. He is just up ahead.” She shivered and gave Parzival a desperate glance. At that moment the track turned and there, some way off, waited the Duke Orilus, fully armed and ready for battle.

  “He waits to see I am following and then goes on. His only desire is to humiliate me.”

  As she said this, the duke put his spear into attack position, and drove his spurs into the flanks of his horse. Parzival just had time to close his visor and take evasive action by spurring his horse forward and round an oak tree, causing Orilus to abandon his charge and lose the advantage of surprise. Lady Jeschute shrieked and fled for shelter by a fallen tree. Parzival was quick to take in the costly extravagance of Orilus’s horse and armour. Fine steel greaves and knee-guards, a coif of mail and a flowing silk surcoat proclaimed his wealth. His shield bore a dragon and another reared its head over his helmet. Others were embroidered on his tunic and Parzival found himself dazzled by the glitter of precious stones.

  The horses wheeled and turned. Both knights broke their lances in the ferocity of the fight. Then they unsheathed their swords and exchanged blows, but they seemed evenly matched. Then Orilus tried another ploy. Ducking under Parzival’s guard, he grabbed him round the waist and pulled him from his horse. Parzival, with intense presence of mind, went with the fall, pulling Orilus with him, and both rolled on the ground. Orilus momentarily lost his hold and found himself being lifted off his feet in a vice-like grip. Before he knew what had happened, he was smashed down on the fallen tree and found himself looking at the point of a dagger.

  “Take your wife back. She’s innocent.”

  Orilus looked insolently at the young man and then suddenly twisted out of Parzival’s grip. “I’m not finished yet!” he exclaimed. But if Orilus was quick, Parzival was quicker and dealt him such a buffet on his helmet as made his ears ring. He seized the duke by the throat.

  “Don’t move, or I’ll slit your nostrils.” Parzival flicked his dagger, just enough to draw blood.

  “I surrender!” gasped Orilus, as the grip on his throat tightened. Slowly Parzival relaxed his hold and let Orilus get up.

  “Now, I demand you take the Lady Jeschute back into your favour.”

  “I cannot do that. What she did to me was unforgivable and has only caused me pain and humiliation. What’s it to you anyway? Come now, I will pay you well for my life. My brother is rich and will pay a good ransom, and I will acknowledge you as my overlord. Release me, and ask anything that I can reasonably do.”

  Parzival gave him a penetrating look and said, “Go to King Arthur’s court and offer yourself in service to the maiden there who was beaten because of me. But if you want to leave here alive, you must agree to be reconciled with your wife. Come with me and I will explain all.”

  Duke Orilus shifted uncomfortably and looked from Parzival to his lady, but he knew he had no choice but to obey. He looked down, swallowed hard and then opened his arms to Jeschute, who went to him in all her ragged disarray and took his kiss, despite his face being all bloodied from the fray. Then, with a gesture of genuine penitence, he wrapped her in his cloak and put her on his own horse while he walked beside. They followed Parzival as he led them further along the way.

  Before long they came to a hermit’s cell tucked under the overhang of a cliff and next to a little brook, though there was no sign of the hermit. Indeed, it was a place of more significance than they realised. It was the cell of Trevrezent, the brother of Anfortas, who had given up all knightly pursuits in order to pray for his brother. There they paused and approached the little altar in the rock. On it there was a casket containing holy relics, and next to it there leaned a spear. Parzival placed his hand on the casket and swore a solemn oath. Looking directly at Orilus, he said, “I was the one who came to the pavilion in the woods and caused your lady such disgrace. It was my own stupidity and she is entirely guiltless. She did nothing to be ashamed of. I took her ring and brooch, in the manner of a fool. Here is the ring. Give it back to her. I’m sorry, but I gave the brooch away.”

  The duke, astonished by this turn of events, took the ring, kissed Jeschut
e and returned the ring to her finger. “I have done you great wrong, but I hope I will be allowed to make amends,” he said. He turned to Parzival. “Allow me to offer you my hospitality and the opportunity to rest a while.”

  Parzival thanked him cordially but, taking the spear from the cell, explained that he must continue his search for his mother, although he was glad that he had been able to put right this wrong. And so they parted, Parzival disappearing into the forest and the duke and his lady returning to their own castle.

  Then, Duke Orilus and Lady Jeschute set off to keep his promise. When they arrived at King Arthur’s court, not only did they find themselves preceded by Kingrun and Clamide, but they also found out who the lady was that they must all submit to: Cunneware, Duke Orilus’s own sister. Great was their joy at being reunited, but Sir Kay suffered much at the arrival of these knights, for they had been sent by the man he had so despised, and he was overcome by shame.

  Chapter 6

  Arthur and the Round Table were on the move, for the king wanted to find the Red Knight: the man who had slain Ither of Gaheviez and who had sent first Kingrun, then Clamide and now Duke Orilus to offer their service to Cunneware. Arthur wanted such an outstanding knight to be a member of the Round Table and he gave instructions that no one should enter into combat with him without his approval, as he wanted no further unnecessary bloodshed.

  Parzival, meanwhile, had continued his search for his mother and Montsalvaesche. One day in early May, at Pentecost, when an unseasonal fall of snow had covered the ground, he rode through the wood and unwittingly came close to Arthur’s encampment. His approach startled a flock of geese, which flew up into the air with a loud noise. Only a few days before, Arthur had been out hunting and lost one of his best falcons. Now the noise startled it out of its roost; it flew up and wounded one of the geese, and three drops of blood fell to the ground. Parzival looked up at the commotion and then down at the snow. He had been in a reverie, thinking of his beautiful Condwiramur, so when he saw the drops of blood appear they seemed to him to form the image of her lovely face in the snow, and his soul filled with love. He drifted into a trance and never noticed when a squire who was out looking for the falcon caught sight of him and dashed back to the encampment to announce that an armed stranger knight was close by.