The Legend of Parzival: The Epic Story of His Quest for the Grail

by Robin Cook

  Meanwhile, our insouciant hero was trotting through the woods, whistling a little tune and admiring the morning, without the slightest idea of the trouble he had caused. He greeted the occasional peasant with the same words: “God be with you! That’s what my mother told me to say!” This caused some to look questioningly at him, but he delivered the words with such an engaging smile that most just smiled back.

  Then an even stranger thing occurred. He came out of the woods to a parting of the ways, and there he saw a pale and beautiful lady sitting by the wayside. Outstretched, his head upon her lap, lay a knight. Close by, horses cropped the turf, attended by a squire and a maid. He stopped, dismounted and went to the melancholy little group. He paused. The lady looked up with the saddest grey eyes, grief upon her face.

  “Why are you so sad?” he asked.

  “Because my lord is dead,” she answered.

  The young man shuffled awkwardly, rather shame-faced for not noticing. “Oh… I’m sorry…” he stammered. “Perhaps I can help you?”

  The lady looked at him, taking in his lame horse, his strange, ill-fitting clothes and his home-made javelin. “You are kind,” she said, “but there is no help for this. He died in combat with a powerful knight.”

  “I’m going to be a knight! Perhaps I can find this big man and fight him.”

  The lady looked at the lad again, marvelling at his naivety and enthusiasm. “You are a fine-looking young man. Perhaps one day… What is your name?”

  “My mother always calls me bon fils, beau fils, cher fils. But mostly bon fils.”

  The lady’s expression changed and then colour rose to her cheeks.

  “Then you are Parzival! Your name is Parzival.”

  “Parzival?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “Yes – your mother is my aunt. I held you in my arms when you were a baby. You are an Angevin and a king. I am Sigune, and this knight, the Prince Schionatulander, died defending your land of Norgals. He was slain by the Duke Orilus.”

  “Then that is to my shame!” said Parzival. “I must seek to avenge myself on this duke. Tell me which way to go. I must find Arthur and then fight Orilus… Or I will find Orilus and fight him and then find King Arthur.”

  Sigune was so alarmed by his impatience and resolution, and feared so much for his safety, that she directed him down the wrong road.

  So eager was he to get on his way that it worried him not one jot that the road seemed so long. Only when night fell did he concern himself with where he might stay. As luck would have it, he found a fisherman’s cottage by a lake, where he asked for lodging.

  “Only if you have some money,” replied the fisherman roughly.

  “I have no money, but I have this,” said Parzival, offering the brooch he had taken from Jeschute. The fisherman’s eyes glinted greedily.

  “That’ll do,” he said. He led the lad into the cottage, where he offered him a bowl of soup and a bed of straw in exchange for the valuable jewel. Parzival was happy enough.

  The following morning, the fisherman, who had suffered some qualms of conscience, took him over the hill to a crossroads and directed him towards Nantes, where he assured him King Arthur was to be found.

  Parzival rode on all morning until finally he crested the brow of a hill and saw the town down in the valley before him. Its crenellated walls enclosed a jumble of buildings huddling around a fine-looking castle. Suddenly, a rider galloped out of the gate and up the hill towards him. As he came closer, Parzival saw that this was a knight in full armour, and everything about him was red. His horse was a roan, his armour and shield gleamed darkly in red, and the plume on his helmet and the pennant fluttering from the tip of his lance were red. Parzival stared in amazement as the knight rode right up to him.

  “Young man,” said he, “can you take a message for me?”

  “Why, yes… yes!” he replied in excitement.

  “Good. I am Ither of Gaheviez, the Red Knight, and have just snatched this goblet from King Arthur’s table, before Queen Guinevere herself. He will not grant me the lands he owes me, so I have challenged him, or one of his knights, to combat.” The Red Knight gestured with the heavy golden goblet. “Tell King Arthur I am waiting for him here.”

  Parzival made his way down the hill, his head spinning with the excitement of it all. Taking a message for a real knight! To King Arthur! However, when he got to the town he was even more astonished at all the busy activity. There were so many knights and squires and fine ladies, and horses, and saddlers and blacksmiths working, he scarcely knew where to rest his gaze. He easily found the street which led up to the great hall of the castle, but how was he to know who was King Arthur? So many people were richly dressed it was difficult to know which one was finer than another. At length, he accosted a well-dressed man.

  “God be with you – as my mother told me to say – can you help me? I’m looking for King Arthur… unless you are King Arthur…?”

  The man looked quizzically at this strange figure, and smiled a little. “No!” he said. “I’m not King Arthur, but if you go on up there you will come to the great hall. You will find him there. You’re lucky, because this is the time he receives requests from the townsfolk.”

  “How will I know him?”

  “He’s the one wearing the crown. On the throne.”

  Parzival nodded, but the man could see he had only half understood. Where could he have come from? Yet there was something about the lad which commanded some respect.

  Parzival went up to the hall and spoke to the guard outside. “God be with you – as my mother told me to say. Are you King Arthur? I’m looking for him.” Fortunately another knight heard him and came to his aid.

  “Here,” he said, taking his arm, “leave your horse over there and come with me. I’ll take you to King Arthur.”

  So Parzival entered the hall where King Arthur and Queen Guinevere sat, surrounded by their knights and ladies, listening to the petitions being brought.

  “God be with you – as my mother told me to say – I come with a message from the Red Knight, Ither of Gaheviez.”

  Conversation immediately died down and everybody listened attentively.

  “Yes, I know him, young man. What has he to say?” said King Arthur, looking down on this strange young man from his throne.

  “He says he is waiting for you at the top of the hill. He snatched the goblet from the table before Queen Guinevere. That was his challenge. But he said you could send another knight to fight him. I’ll go. I want his armour and I want to be a knight.”

  King Arthur and his knights exchanged glances, unsure how to deal with the unusual request and manner of the young man. Sir Kay, the seneschal, took command.

  “Easier said than done. You don’t become a knight just by asking, and as for the Red Knight and his armour…” He looked dismissively at Parzival and turned away.

  “But I can fight him! I know I can! Please let me!” blurted Parzival.

  “Ither of Gaheviez is a most experienced knight,” said Arthur, trying to find a way of dissuading the intemperate young man, “and you risk your life. He could kill you with a single blow.”

  “I can take this challenge,” said Parzival. “You must allow me.”

  There was something about his bearing and demeanour that made him difficult to refuse, and Arthur hesitated. Again, Sir Kay interrupted.

  “This is ridiculous! He is ridiculous. He will bring disgrace on us all.” He looked Parzival up and down with derision. “Look at you! You have no armour, no sword; your clothes are… contemptible. How dare you appear before the king and make such a demand?”

  “Well…” demurred Arthur.

  “Why don’t you let him go?” sneered Kay. “It will teach him a lesson.”

  “Thank you!” said Parzival, beaming, and taking the king’s hesitation for approval. “I will not let you down.”

  “What’s this?” interjected Sir Kay, but he could not carry on, because the whole assembly wa
s laughing at these exchanges, and this included the Lady Cunneware. A beautiful smile spread across the face of she who would not smile till the greatest knight of all came to court. Sir Kay saw it and was furious. He took her by the hair. “How dare you? So many great and noble knights have graced King Arthur’s court and you save your smile for this ragamuffin.” He slapped her.

  There was a shocked silence, and then Antenor spoke – he who everybody took for a fool, because he never spoke for the same reason Cunneware never smiled.

  “Sir Kay, be warned. This boy will one day make you pay for this.”

  Immediately, there was uproar. Ladies pushed Sir Kay away from Cunneware and men jostled and shouted. Parzival looked on in astonishment and grasped his javelin in readiness, but such was the stir created as people rushed to comfort Cunneware and remonstrate with Sir Kay that he found himself pushed out of the way. Everybody seemed to have forgotten about him.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed a knight pushing past him, and Parzival forced his way out of the throng, more determined than ever. He couldn’t really understand how this confusion had come about, or what his part in it was, but he knew one thing – he was going to fight Ither and become a knight.

  He found his lame old horse, ignored the grinning squires and set off out of the town gate and up the hill. He approached the Red Knight, who eyed him suspiciously as his old nag panted to a stop.

  “Arthur sends me to take up the challenge,” Parzival announced. “If I am to become a knight, I need armour, so I will have yours when I have defeated you.”

  The Red Knight looked at him disbelievingly.

  “What did Arthur actually say?”

  “I asked him if I could challenge you and he said, ‘Well…’ But I do know I can have your armour and your horse if I win.” He reached out to take the bridle of the Red Knight’s horse and a mailed glove smacked his hand away. The next moment he was dealt such a blow by the butt-end of the knight’s spear that horse and boy tumbled to the ground in a confusion of arms, legs and hooves. Parzival picked himself up, only to receive another blow flat across his shoulders, sending him sprawling in the dust.

  “Take that, you insolent young puppy!”

  A red mist descended on Parzival. He had never been so treated in his life. He rolled over, sprang to his feet and picked up his javelin. With a powerful swing, he threw, aiming for the gap between helm and visor. The javelin flew true, straight through Ither’s eye to his brain. He was killed instantly. Parzival watched as the Red Knight stiffened, swayed in the saddle, then crashed to the ground and lay still.

  Parzival was astonished and hesitated before cautiously approaching the inert knight. He tentatively lifted the visor and was somewhat appalled at the bloody eye socket which confronted him. He closed the visor and thought about what to do. He would take the armour, as Ither was clearly dead, but then he realised he had no idea how to get it off. Fortunately Ither’s squire had been watching the whole encounter and now came forward. He decided to help Parzival rather than provoke him further, and they worked together in silence as he showed Parzival how the buckles and fastenings worked. Finally the squire helped Parzival to put the armour on. He couldn’t help remarking, “In knighthood, what you did is regarded as a cowardly blow.”

  Parzival looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “That’s not how you fight,” the squire explained. “And you can’t wear these awful clothes under the armour.”

  “My mother gave me these clothes,” said Parzival simply. Then he swung easily into the saddle of the Red Knight’s horse. “Tell Arthur what I have done. When I get back, he can make me a knight. God be with you, as my mother told me to say.”

  The squire watched him disappear over the brow of the hill before going back into town to find the king.

  So our young hero set off without being entirely clear about where he was going, simply enjoying the surprising sensation of riding a superb horse and wearing full armour. What a pleasure it was to ride such an animal, which carried him easily through forest and ford, scarcely slackening speed.

  When night began to fall, Parzival approached a castle. He noticed its similarities to King Arthur’s in its many high towers and sturdy fortifications and solid gates, and he wondered how it had come there. Perhaps Arthur had done it somehow. Were all castles his? He also became aware that someone was watching him from the gate. This was the ruler of the castle, the Prince Gurnemanz, who watched his approach with interest. He noticed the disparity between the rider and his horse and equipment. This was someone who did not know how to ride, or bear a shield correctly, or manage a spear, and the sword was wrongly buckled.

  “God be with you,” said Parzival as he came up to the Prince Gurnemanz. “My mother told me that if I met a wise man with grey hair I should take his advice and learn from him. Perhaps you are that man?”

  Gurnemanz looked at him, trying to make out who he had to deal with, so strange were his opening words. He couldn’t help smiling at the reference to the grey hair, and there was something about the young man that interested him.

  “Come,” he said, “let me entertain you at least for this evening, and we can discuss anything else at our leisure.”

  Parzival suddenly realised that he was really hungry and he eagerly accepted the invitation. Tired though he was, he was full of questions. Why did Gurnemanz have a falcon on his wrist? What were all the towers for? Why did they have such narrow slits? Why did the wall go up and down along the top? Gurnemanz answered as best he could, but could not help marvelling at the naivety of the questions and the simple dignity with which they were asked.

  Once inside the courtyard, men hurried to take the horses. Parzival was reluctant to let them take his, and they had to reassure him that it would be well cared for. When he was inside they helped him off with his armour and were somewhat shocked at the rough garments he wore, and at the fact that he had no other clothes with him. They also noticed the bruising across his back and the congealed blood on the side of his head. Gurnemanz himself came to see and to help wash the wound. He also lent him some clothes so he could go in to supper.

  Parzival laid into his food with great gusto, wolfing down everything set before him. Gurnemanz looked on with a certain wry amusement. This was really intriguing! But his manners… He thought the least he could do was help Parzival with some advice about courtly society, and in the meantime – well – there must an interesting story here. As it was now late, he thought it better to talk the next day, and he had Parzival taken off to a room prepared for him, where he soon fell sound asleep.

  The following morning, Parzival awoke to sunlight streaming through the shutters and found a hot bath prepared for him, sprinkled with rose petals. This was wonderful! But he had barely stepped into the bath before five maids came through the door and helped him wash and massage his bruises. It all seemed perfectly normal to the maids, but our bashful hero knew not what to do. Although they offered him a sheet for his modesty, he insisted they all left the room before he stepped out. Then they laid out new garments for him to wear and helped him dress in scarlet hose, a tunic of russet brown and a matching cloak with sable trimming.

  Feeling very strange in his new clothes, Parzival went down and was greeted by Gurnemanz. They sat down together and Gurnemanz invited him to tell how he had made his way to his castle. Parzival told him of his life in the village with his mother and how he had left, about his meeting with Jeschute and the ring and the brooch, how Sigune had told him who he was, and how he had won his armour. Gurnemanz knew Ither, of course, and shook his head at the story, but otherwise he listened quietly, and noticed Parzival’s frequent references to his mother. When, at length, Parzival’s tale came to an end, he paused, and then said, “There is much to understand here, and what you have told me is most interesting. But, if you are to be the Red Knight, you must become worthy of your armour. There is much for you to learn.”

  “Oh yes!” Parzival said. “My mother told
me I would have to learn a lot, which is why she said I should take advice from a grey-haired man. She also told me—”

  “You could start by not talking about what your mother told you all the time,” interrupted Gurnemanz. “You make yourself sound foolish.”

  Parzival looked at him gravely but said nothing. Gurnemanz took this as acquiescence and offered to educate him in the ways of the world. The next days were spent in earnest conversation and instruction on etiquette and manners, interspersed with lessons in riding, sword-fighting and jousting. All his teachers, amazed to begin with by his ignorance, were then astonished at his quickness. He learnt all the points of a horse, and to wheel and gallop as though he and his mount were one. He learnt swordplay on foot and on horseback. He practised the joust, learning the proper use of the shield as well as the spear, and soon he was able to give as good as he got. They knew they had a redoubtable warrior in training. In the mornings and evenings he learned about the correct forms of address, and how to recognise rank, and how to converse with ladies. Finally, Gurnemanz summed up his training:

  “Here are some precepts which you should hold dear. I want you to remember them. First, never lose your sense of shame. Know what is worthy of you. Develop compassion for those less well off than yourself, and along with that goes humility. Be grateful for the good fortune of abilities and birth. With your own wealth, be neither niggardly nor extravagant. Moderation in all things. Do not ask too many questions – you know what you were like when you first came here – this can cause embarrassment to others and can also show your own ignorance. If you are asked a question, respond thoughtfully. Temper your martial valour with mercy, and make sure after combat you wash yourself and are clean in your personal habits. Be upright and cheerful and hold women in high esteem. You may glimpse in them a beauty of soul which leads to love of beauty and thence the love of all things, which is the Divine. And, remember this, man and woman are all one: they come from the same seed. I want you to think about that.”