by Robin Cook
“Perhaps they won’t think to look up here,” she gasped as she opened the door, revealing a spiral staircase. Gawain pulled the door shut behind him and they climbed up to find themselves at the top of one of the taller towers. Gradually they got their breath back and listened for sounds of pursuit, but they exchanged hardly a word. There were just nervous glances, and both found it difficult to look the other in the face. All seemed quiet and they were beginning to think they might be safe, but their hearts sank as the door opened and they heard a voice saying, “They must be up here. Let’s get them out!”
Gawain looked round. There was a chessboard hanging on the wall by a large iron ring. He took it down and pulled the long bolt out of the door. “Let’s see what we can do with these,” he said, taking up a position in the doorway.
The first knight came clattering up the staircase, and Gawain was able to parry the first blow with the chessboard and use the bolt to force the knight back. There was some cursing from below, and two more knights attempted to force their way up. Not to be outdone, Antikonie took the heavy stone chess pieces and hurled them over Gawain’s shoulder. She proved a good shot and more than one knight sustained painful blows on the face from a flying bishop.
“Oh!” said Antikonie, glancing out of the window. “Here’s my brother!”
There was more shouting and the stamping of feet at the bottom of the stairs, and then came the voice of the enraged Vergulacht.
“What do you mean you can’t get them out? He’s unarmed, isn’t he? Get him down, I tell you!”
Then, amidst the hullabaloo, another voice: Kingrimursel. “What are you doing? Let me through! I promised him safe conduct!”
“But he’s tried to corrupt my sister!”
“Then what’s she doing up there with him? You owe me his safe conduct! You promised me!” Then Kingrimursel’s voice shouted upstairs. “Gawain!”
“Yes?”
“I’m coming up to help you.” Get out of my way, I tell you! Make way!”
There was a lot of jostling and cursing as he shouted at the knights to make way. They retreated down the staircase and an angry Kingrimursel appeared, armed with a sword and dagger.
“My apologies. Vergulacht gave me his word, and I am honour-bound to protect you. But what’s happened?” He looked rather sternly at Antikonie, who suppressed a giggle and blushed.
“It’s all a mistake…” she said.
“Mistake?”
The angry king shouted, “Bring me those recreants or I’ll have the tower pulled down!”
“What? I tell you, you are at fault here too,” Kingrimursel shouted downstairs.
“Don’t you accuse me of fault!” cried Vergulacht.
Then there was more shouting as the king tried to bully his knights into attacking up the spiral staircase. But the men objected, and after a lot of remonstrations and mutual accusations, the king realised he would have to compromise. At Kingrimursel’s suggestion, he agreed to submit the problem to the Council of Knights.
Down they all came from the turret, Kingrimursel looking haughty, Gawain somewhat shame-faced and Antikonie a little dishevelled but defiant. Gawain thought she looked completely irresistible.
When Antikonie saw Vergulacht’s expression of annoyance and contempt, she was quick to have her say first.
“Don’t forget, you sent Sir Gawain to be entertained by me. You have no right to jump to conclusions about how I interpreted that word. Your assumptions are based entirely on the prejudices of an old knight past his best.” The old knight in question’s jaw dropped, but before he could remonstrate, she went on. “How dare you raise such a hullabaloo? By what right do you judge me? You, dear brother, have acted hastily and without thought. You had no business to join in this attack. How humiliating – for us both.”
She tossed her head and stared Vergulacht down, who shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He knew his sister in these moods, so he left, muttering under his breath, to call the council meeting, followed by his knights.
Antikonie too excused herself and left Gawain in the company of the steward of the palace. But before long she reappeared, having changed her clothes and tidied her hair, and she acted the perfect hostess. Gawain could not help but marvel at her self-possession. This was not to say there were not moments of amused embarrassment as their eyes met. Both could acknowledge the game being played.
At length, Kingrumursel and Vergulacht reappeared.
“This is a very complicated matter,” explained the king, “because I have found out, in the course of the discussion, that the accusation against you, Sir Gawain, is false. You have been confused with Ehkunat – it was he who committed the crime. You were present at the same event at which Kingrimursel’s master was killed, I believe” – Gawain nodded – “which means that the challenge from Kingrimursel has been dropped.”
“But what has not been ignored was the king’s intervention when a safe conduct had been agreed,” said Kingrimursel.
“Indeed not,” added the king, “but it was taken into account that the rules of hospitality—”
“Dear brother,” interrupted Antikonie, “I hope you are not going to say something you will regret.”
“Please don’t misunderstand! I merely report the decision of the council. They stated that it was impossible to decide either way, but in any case amends have to be made by Sir Gawain for his part in the incident. You, my dear sister – please, let me finish…” – he could see Antikonie was about to interrupt again – “are to have no blame attached at all. But Sir Gawain is a different matter. To maintain my honour, and that of my kin, his breach of etiquette cannot go entirely unacknowledged. So a solution has been arrived at. Some two weeks ago, as I roamed the forest in search of adventure, I met a knight dressed all in red. I make no bones about it, he made short work of me and sent me flying backwards over my horse’s crupper. Then he made me swear to take up the quest of the Holy Grail and said that if I had not found it within a year, I should surrender myself to Queen Condwiramur at Pelrepeire.”
Antikonie was gazing intently first at her brother, then at Gawain as the strange story unfolded, and she realised Gawain knew who the Red Knight was.
“I explained all this to the council,” said Vergulacht, “and they decided, unanimously, that this quest should be taken over by you, Sir Gawain.”
There was a moment’s silence while Gawain and Antikonie took this in. Kingrimursel was clearly in agreement. Gawain, quickly considering the situation, took Vergulacht by the arm and said, “Gladly I take on this task.”
There was no hesitation in his voice or manner, although when he turned to Antikonie he suddenly did not feel quite so sure. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“Lady, I will ever hold you in my heart as the noblest I have met. You have shown me great kindness, and may you ever be renowned for that. I beg your permission to leave on this most mighty of quests.”
There was a certain serenity and dignity about Antikonie’s manner as she proffered her hand. “I recognise in you a great warmth of heart. I shall not forget you. Had circumstances been different, who knows…” Her voice trailed off as Gawain pressed his lips to her hand.
Neither wanted to prolong the leave-taking, and soon Gawain was issuing orders for his horse and his armour, while Antikonie busied herself packing a mule with provisions. Gawain allowed himself just one backward glance as he passed through the castle gate, yet Antikonie did not look up. And so he spurred Gringuljete into a canter down the forest track.
Chapter 9
Like his friend Gawain, Parzival had many challenges and difficulties to surmount. He met one trial after another and there seemed to be no end to his adventures. He travelled far and wide, over sea and mountain, and never failed to meet an encounter with bravery and courage. Yet sometimes he was assailed by doubt and wondered whether it was all worthwhile. While he had originally set out to find his mother, it now seemed as though his steadfastness to Condwiramur w
as being tested too. He told himself he was doing it for his beautiful wife and that he must prove himself to be steadfast in his love for her. But that was not the whole story. His failure at Montsalvaesche was seared into his soul. The humiliation at King Arthur’s court burned within him. Yet, despite all the confusion he felt, at night, when he looked up at a crescent moon, forming, so it seemed to him, a chalice, he knew he could not give up the quest that he had set himself: he must find the Grail again.
He comforted himself that he had made some progress. As Sigune foretold, the sword that Anfortas had given him had indeed shattered on its second blow. Yet all was not lost – a providential meeting with Cunneware had revealed to him the words of the spell needed to make the sword whole again. Parzival, after many trials, had been able to reforge the blade in the spring named Lac, and this moment of grace inspired him to think that he would find Montsalvaesche once again.
Though it was a struggle for him to keep his doubt and disillusion at bay, often something occurred that raised his spirits. And so it was that one day, as he made his way disconsolately through a dense forest, he came across a humble dwelling next to a little stream. Just behind it was a simple grave with a rough headstone. Intrigued, Parzival stopped, dismounted and called out, “Is anyone there?”
“Yes,” answered a woman’s voice from within the little house, so Parzival approached, leaving his horse to crop the grass. The window was covered by a piece of sacking, and as he approached the lady drew it to one side. He quickly took in her pallid face and the emptiness of the little room behind: there was only a table and chair, a crucifix on the wall and a straw pallet. She gestured to him to sit on the bench in front of the window.
“Thank you,” he said gravely.
“This is the first time a man has visited me here,” she said, and Parzival immediately wondered how she had come to be there at all.
“How do you manage to live here?” he enquired. “This is very far away from any help, and there is no sign of cultivation.”
“My food is brought each week by Cundrie la Sorciere. I am alone with my sorrow.”
Parzival considered this strange answer and then noticed that although she was dressed like a nun she wore a garnet ring.
“I didn’t know nuns wore love tokens,” he asked with a smile, looking pointedly at the ring.
“This is indeed an engagement ring, but it came from a man I was never able to marry. Duke Orilus killed him. However, before God he is my husband, and I remain true to him, virgin though I am.”
“Sigune!” exclaimed Parzival, hastily removing his helmet.
“Parzival!” she rejoined. She even smiled, somewhat weakly. “How are you getting on with your search for the Grail? Have you learned more of its true nature?”
He shrugged his shoulders and explained how fruitless his quest appeared to be and how much he missed his beautiful wife.
“I sometimes wonder what it is all for. I have suffered intensely, even though I only ever want to do the right thing. No matter what I do, I never seem to get any closer. And you dealt with me harshly enough.” He glanced up at Sigune, to see how she reacted to his reminder of their last meeting. She was as serene as ever.
“I only made you aware of your own error. It was a hard lesson, but perhaps you have learned more than you think. Recognising one’s own faults is never a pleasant experience, but your struggles are not in vain. The soul must be tempered in the fire of selfknowledge. Only through your own suffering can you develop the compassion that heals.”
Parzival thought that although she might be right, he could not say he felt much better for it.
“I feel my burden of suffering threatens to crush my spirit…” He faltered.
“Come!” she said, a warmer smile illuminating her wan features. “All is not lost! See, you have found me and now I can help you on your way. This is no chance meeting. You are not so far from Montsalvaesche! Cundrie la Sorciere only left two days ago. I am sure you can find her tracks. She does not ride fast so you might catch up with her.”
Parzival was reluctant to encounter Cundrie again, but he saw the sense in Sigune’s words.
“Let me give you something to eat,” said Sigune, handing him a piece of bread and a beaker of water. Parzival gratefully accepted and thanked her for her help. There was something so fine and pure and noble about her, for all her sorrow, that he could not help but be in awe. He washed down the bread with a gulp of water and then Sigune pointed him in the right direction and solemnly wished him well. Deep in thought, he soon found the trail and followed it quite easily for some miles.
Much encouraged, he began to feel more optimistic – at last he seemed to be getting somewhere. But then his heart sank again when he lost the trail over a stretch of rocky ground. He cast around for clues but found nothing. He would have to make a guess and hope for the best. At that moment, however, he heard the unmistakeable sound of a horseman making his way through the undergrowth and was suddenly confronted by a fully armed knight, who challenged him belligerently.
“What are you doing here? Nobody approaches Montsalvaesche without confronting death! Prepare yourself.”
Parzival, resigned to taking up the next challenge, whatever it was, laced up his helmet and looked for a suitable place to begin his charge, and the Grail knight did the same. As they wheeled their horses Parzival noticed that he was very close to a steep ravine, its precipitous sides well concealed by the bushes. The two knights met with a thunderous clash, but neither gained advantage so they retreated to charge again. Parzival was now galloping from the other side and was able to strike a glancing blow that not only unhorsed the Grail knight but was also sufficient to send him tumbling down head over heels to the bottom of the hidden ravine. Parzival’s horse, however, careered on, and he realised that he would be following the knight over the edge in a second. He flung his spear away, grabbed an over-hanging branch and was left dangling there as his horse stumbled, tripped and plunged over the edge with a terrifying whinny.
Gingerly Parzival lowered himself from the tree, dropping the last few feet on to the ground, and peered over the edge of the ravine. He saw his horse was lying dead at the bottom and the Grail knight was scrambling up through some stunted trees on the other side. He turned away and considered his position. All was not lost – there was the Grail knight’s horse, looking at him with its ears pricked up. It was a fine horse, strong in chest and sound in leg. This was a joust well won. He found his spear and mounted the horse. It felt good.
Parzival was much encouraged by this encounter, for at least he seemed to be getting closer to Montsalvaesche, and he now had the benefit of a Grail horse too. Despite losing Cundrie’s trail, the quest now seemed a little less hopeless and this kept his spirits up in the following weeks.
It was one cold morning in early spring when, quite unexpectedly, he had another significant meeting. A group of pilgrims were walking down the track, some were old and some young, some had a noble bearing apparent in spite of their humble clothes, some were poorer folk, some were barefoot, and many were helping themselves along with staves. Amongst them were an old knight and his wife and two girls Parzival took to be his daughters. He asked them where they were going.
“We are going to Santiago de Compostela,” said the old knight. Then he added, rather reproachfully, “Why are you riding in full armour, as though for war? Don’t you know what day it is?”
“Forgive me, but I have been travelling for a long time and I do not know what day it is.”
“It is Good Friday. Unless you are a heathen you must know what that means.”
“I used to know. But God has brought me nothing but shame and misfortune, and I have lost interest in such things.”
“Lost interest in Good Friday!” said the old knight, aghast. “When Christ gave his life so we could live! You are in a sorry state.” He shook his head in disbelief, then added, “Not far from here is a holy man who may be able to help you.” He began to point back
up the track when one of the girls interrupted.
“Father! Why are you so harsh with him? Can’t you see he is freezing cold – in body and soul? Invite him to come with us.” The girls looked up, eyes bright with interest, and the old knight did indeed invite him, but Parzival could not accept. It was too tempting.
“Thank you. You are most courteous and thoughtful, but I must make my own way.”
He raised a hand in thanks and moved off in the direction the old man had indicated, but he began to feel the stirrings of remorse. He turned and looked back at the little group, still standing in the road. They gave a wave.
What if God really could help him? Perhaps his sorrows could be assuaged through faith alone. Perhaps God was Love – if only he knew what that meant. At that moment, he decided to give himself over to the forces of destiny. If God knew what was best, then he would see where his horse took him. He dropped the reins. The horse had come to him under unusual circumstances; perhaps it was to guide him to his next step. There was certainly nothing to lose. He must just be ready.
After a short while, he had the strange sensation of thinking that he recognised his surroundings, but he could not think why. There was something about a rocky little outcrop… and then a little stream… and surely that twisted oak… then he saw a little altar made in the rock, and a casket, and it came back to him. This was the hermit Trevrezent’s dwelling where he had sworn Jeschute’s innocence to Duke Orilus and had made him take her back. What a strange coincidence! But this time the hermit was there and greeted him. “Welcome to Fontane la Salvaesche! How is it you ride in armour today? Come, dismount, and warm yourself by my fire.” He gestured towards the rough shelter built across the rock face.
“Thank you,” said Parzival, swinging a leg over his saddle and easing himself to the ground. “I need your help.”
Trevrezent looked at him quizzically.
“Indeed. But first, come in and tell me how you came here.”