by Robin Cook
So Parzival’s training came to an end and Gurnemanz was very pleased with his protégé. He had grown very fond of him during their time together: so fond, in fact, that he was beginning to look on him almost like a son. His own three sons had all been killed in combat, and he began to think that Parzival might be a kind of substitute. With this in mind, he decided that perhaps he could offer him his daughter’s hand in marriage. He told Liaze of his wish and she was not averse, as she had seen much of the handsome young man in the last weeks. Gurnemanz arranged for them to be properly introduced, and she kissed him sweetly and they sat together at dinner. Parzival was much struck by her beauty and grace; however, with all the tact he could muster, he explained that he did not want to marry yet. He wanted to prove himself through knightly deeds and practise his fighting skills, and he begged leave to depart. The next day he left, giving deep and sincere thanks to Gurnemanz for all he had taught him, and with these words:
“When I have proved myself really worthy, and have won fame, if God wills it, I will return to ask for the hand of the beautiful Liaze, and I hope that doing so will bring both you and her great joy.”
And with that, he took his leave.
Chapter 4
It was all very well announcing his intention to seek adventure, but, truth to tell, Parzival had no idea of where to go or what he expected to find. His thoughts kept returning to Liaze’s beauty and grace, and his horse seemed to have a clearer idea of where he was going than he did. Hill and valley, all equally unknown to him, blended into a general impression. Yet he travelled on, never letting up speed. It was only when he looked up to see the sun sinking behind a mountain that he realised he should find somewhere to spend the night. The countryside was altogether much wilder here and the streams more quarrelsome and dangerous to cross. He felt a little concerned as a cool wind started to blow, and when he arrived at a deep cleft in the rocks he was forced to follow a defile beside the river, which held little hope of leading to some shelter.
After a short distance, however, he was much relieved to emerge into the open, to see a large castle in front of him. It stood high up on a hill and dominated the plain below. In the distance he saw where the river entered the sea, a harbour, more or less empty, and signs of an encampment, barely distinguishable in the half-light. Close by there was a bridge that provided Parzival his only route to the castle. As he approached, he realised that the bridge, swinging in the breeze, was a flimsy arrangement of ropes and boards and there was a considerable drop to the river, tumbling and thrashing over the rocks below. He hesitated and was more dismayed when fifty or sixty knights emerged from the castle and shouted at him, “Go away! Go back! You can’t come here!”
It was too late now to think of going anywhere else, so he coaxed his horse towards the bridge, but it refused to go any further.
“See! You can’t cross! You’re not wanted! Go away!” shouted the knights.
Parzival got off his horse, spoke soothing words, and set foot calmly on the bridge, the bridle over his arm. The bridge trembled, but he set one careful foot in front of the other and the horse trustingly followed behind. He concentrated on a slow and steady pace, absorbing the wild swaying of the bridge until he reached the other side. He had been so involved in leading his horse safely over, he was surprised to find the knights had all retreated inside the castle.
He looked speculatively at the massive gate and approached, wondering how to make himself known. Fortunately there was a large knocker on the postern, so he banged it hard. Silence. He tried again, and this time a window opened in the tower that flanked the gate and a pretty girl looked down on him. “There’s no need to keep banging like that. Do you come as friend or foe? If you’re an enemy, we have plenty of those down there.” She pointed down the hill to where he had seen the tents, now invisible in the deepening dusk.
“A friend!” he said, smiling up at the girl. “I’m just looking for somewhere to stay. If you have enemies, perhaps I can help.” He remembered the strange behaviour of the knights.
The girl looked a little mollified and said, “Wait a moment then.” The window closed and Parzival waited patiently till the postern opened. An elderly knight came out and enquired what his business might be, and Parzival repeated what he had said to the girl. With some reluctance, the knight called for the main gate to be opened and allowed Parzival and his horse to enter.
Everywhere there were signs of war: lances stood ready in doorways, bundles of arrows lay to hand, supplies of shot for slings were in piles. But what was more startling was the appearance of the inhabitants. Parzival thought the knight who let him in was gaunt, but he looked well fed in comparison with the figures who came to greet him. They were little more than walking skeletons, emaciated beyond belief, weak from hunger and only just able to keep a grasp on their weapons.
They took his horse and led Parzival inside the keep. He was helped to remove his armour, given water to wash with and provided with a fine sable mantle to wear. The knight introduced himself as Duke Kyot of Catalonia, explained that the castle was under siege and asked whether he wished to see the queen. Naturally Parzival assented, and while a message was sent to her, Duke Kyot explained that he was her uncle and had renounced fighting in order to devote himself to praying for her welfare. At that moment she appeared, with three of her maidens, at the head of the stairs.
“The Queen Condwiramur,” announced Duke Kyot. “This is her castle of Pelrepeire in the kingdom of Brobarz.”
She approached with the utmost grace and modesty, and kissed Parzival on the cheek. He bowed before her, took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“My noble queen…” he began, but she was so beautiful he was practically speechless. His heart beat strongly as he looked upon the most perfect face he had ever seen. She returned his gaze and saw what an effect she had had on him. Parzival was possessed of the strange sensation that he already knew her. She was somehow familiar, but how could this be? She, in turn, recognised her soulmate and held his gaze, struck by its innocence and trust, and then glanced away to break the spell.
“I welcome you as my guest,” she began, putting him more at ease. “We have few visitors at present and our hospitality is somewhat meagre. Tell me, have you travelled far?”
“Madam, I left the castle of Gurnemanz of Graharz this morning. He is a most noble gentleman.”
“From Gurnemanz? I can scarcely believe it. That is a two-day journey. You must have travelled with the utmost speed.”
“It is true. I continued at a steady pace and did not pause.”
“I know Gurnemanz well. His sister was my mother, and I have long been friends with his daughter, Liaze. No doubt you met her?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Come, I will do my best to entertain you. Uncle Kyot, what can we do?”
The two conferred and Kyot went to obtain some food. As a man who had abjured fighting in favour of praying, he was allowed through the lines of the besieging army. Sometime later he returned with a few loaves of bread, some cheese and a ham. The queen made sure the food was shared round before inviting Parzival to share the frugal meal. Through all this, although burning to ask questions, in particular about the queen and how she came to be besieged, he remembered the advice he had been given and let her lead the conversation.
When it was time to retire, he was taken to a room where a canopied bed had pride of place on a rich carpet, and all around many candles flickered, giving a holy sense of peace. Parzival dismissed the squires and tried to settle himself for sleep. This was difficult, as his mind went over and over the conversation with Condwiramur, trying to penetrate her mystery. “Who can this be, that suddenly I know she is all I could ever hope for?” He drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.
It was the darkest time of night when he was awoken by the sound of sobbing. Opening his eyes, he saw Condwiramur, dressed only in her smock, kneeling by his bed, the tears streaming down her face. The room was still lit by the gentle
glow of the candles and there was a strange contrast between the beautiful figure and the misery that enveloped her.
“Lady, what is this? Why are you kneeling here? You must not kneel to me. Come, tell me your troubles. I will gladly help you.”
“Ah Parzival! I need your love and understanding. Comfort me!”
Parzival took her in his arms and kissed away her tears while she told her story.
“The king, my father, died quite suddenly and left me to fend for myself. I have had wise councillors and my uncle Kyot has been ever helpful, but even he has not been able to prevent me being the object of many a nobleman’s pride and ambition, desiring to marry me and obtain my lands. The most powerful of these is King Clamide and his seneschal, Kingrun. Under Clamide’s instruction, Kingrun has devastated my towns and now lays siege to my last stronghold. Many of my subjects have been killed and the rest are dying of starvation. I am ready to throw myself from the highest battlement rather than subject myself to the sordid embrace of a man I cannot love. He slew my beloved Liaze’s brother.”
There was no doubt in Parzival’s mind as to what he had to do and he assured Condwiramur he would challenge Kingrun the next morning.
“But it is not only Kingrun!” she exclaimed. “Clamide will soon return and you will have to fight him too. Both are redoubtable warriors, hardened by many campaigns.”
“Let that be. Be they whoever, from far and wide, you shall be defended by me.”
Condwiramur, nestled in his warm embrace, looked up and gave him a smile of melting beauty. She slipped out of the bed and returned to her room unseen, no one any the wiser about this midnight encounter. Parzival slept not one wink, as his thoughts whirled around his extraordinary meeting with this beautiful queen.
The sun came up in a cloudless sky, the church bells rang and Parzival hastened to hear Mass in the castle chapel. That done, he called for his horse and armour and set out for his first battle as a trained knight. The gates swung open and out he cantered onto the jousting field, the heralds preceding him to take the challenge to Kingrun.
The formalities were soon concluded and the knights faced each other for the first joust. Kingrun could be pardoned for a little over-confidence, so many knights had he killed or taken prisoner, but he was wholly unprepared for the violence of the first blow. Parzival’s spear struck his shield with such force that his horse was forced back on its haunches, the girth of the saddle broke, and horse and man struggled in a cloud of dust. Parzival, eager to test his skills as a swordsman, dismounted and waited for Kingrun to get up. They set about each other with such vigour that sparks flew as metal hit metal. Kingrun had never encountered such a hail of blows. He was struck so hard and so fast it was all he could do to defend himself. His helmet received such a battering his ears rang with the noise until he became dizzy, missed his footing and fell. In a moment, Parzival had his knee on his chest and his sword at his throat.
“Surrender or die!”
“I surrender.”
“Take yourself to Gurnemanz of Graharz and offer him your service.”
“Then kill me now. You send me to my certain death. I killed his son.”
Parzival relaxed his grip a little as he considered this. “Then go and find the castle of King Arthur of Albion, and put yourself at the service of the maiden Cunneware, who you will find there. Tell her I have sent you to make amends for the shame she suffered because of me.”
Kingrun got up, retrieved his horse and returned to his lines. Parzival rode back into Pelrepeire, where he was hailed as the conquering hero. Condwiramur greeted him with delight, proclaiming him her knight and promising she would marry no other. Great was the joy of all the citizens, but this was marred by the fact that they had no food with which to celebrate. Just then, a watchman came running to say that two ships were approaching the harbour. Now that Kingrun was out of the way, Parzival led the citizens to the wharf. Both ships were laden with supplies and Parzival himself supervised the unloading of great sides of beef, venison and pork, casks of wine, barrels of beer, great quantities of bread and cheese, and many cases of apples. He made sure that they were properly paid for and distributed fairly before they all returned to Pelrepeire.
After the queen’s declaration of love and Parzival’s acceptance as her ami, it was assumed the marriage would take place with little delay and they would immediately share a bed. Indeed they did. But out of mutual respect and love, they spent a second chaste night together, although this was a secret between them. Parzival knew he had not yet earned her love and Condwiramur felt honoured by his devotion.
They woke the following morning to the news that King Clamide was approaching and in a mighty rage. Incensed by the defeat of Kingrun and impatient to seize Condwiramur for himself, he was urging his army to an all-out assault. Little did he know the defenders were no longer starving and weakened. Inside the castle there was the concentrated activity of men preparing to do what they did best. Parzival moved amongst them, giving instruction here and encouragement there as they steeled themselves for the attack. The walls were manned and the soldiers watched in silence as the army marched towards them.
First came the crossbow men, discharging volleys of bolts at the defenders. Under cover of this fire came the lumbering siege engines, which got the mangonels in range to hurl boulders at the walls. The siege towers were laboriously hauled up, and one set about the gate with a battering ram while the other attempted to get a platform onto the battlements.
The defenders knew their business and many attackers were killed by accurate archery. The pike-men gave short shrift to the attempt to get men on the wall and threw back the scaling ladders. Finally, the defenders’ fearsome incendiary weapon, Greek fire, struck terror into the attackers: both siege engines went up in pillars of flames and the cries of burning men rent the air.
At this moment Parzival ordered the sally ports opened and led out a squadron of cavalry. He struck down all who stood in his way, but the battle was by no means won and the advantage swayed back and forth between attacker and defender. Prisoners were taken on both sides, and thus Clamide found out that not only were the defenders well provisioned but Condwiramur also had a redoubtable champion. He told his trumpeters to sound a truce and gradually the fighting died down till a silence fell over the plain. It was with the greatest pleasure that Parzival accepted Clamide’s challenge, and the atmosphere changed to one of excitement and expectation as the besiegers cleared a space on the plain and the defenders crowded the ramparts.
Condwiramur, with all her ladies about her, watched with pride and joy as her lord rode out, his red armour and the plume of his helmet making a vivid splash of colour. A great cheer went up. Clamide waited, his black horse stamping impatiently. Condwiramur knew Parzival would win: it could not be otherwise. Yet still her heart pounded and she flushed with excitement.
Clamide and Parzival were well matched. Three times they rode at each other and the lances splintered. Three times fresh ones were supplied, but neither conceded an inch. Then they set about each other with swords, their horses wheeling and turning, champing and snorting with the effort until they sweated and staggered. Both men dismounted and continued the contest on foot. Clamide’s skill and experience protected him, but Parzival’s energy and the unremitting power of his blows began to tell. The king began to tire and Parzival, pressing his advantage, struck a mighty up-swinging blow that not only knocked the visor clean off Clamide’s helmet but took the crest off as well. Dismayed, Clamide retreated a few steps, but could no longer withstand the attack and fell to his knees. Parzival thrust him back and had his sword at his throat in a trice.
“Condwiramur will no longer suffer your advances. Look on your death!”
“Why kill me? She knows I will suffer a living death in failing to win her. You have the glory of my defeat and the honour of her hand. I yield myself, my lands and her to you.”
Parzival paused, remembering what Gurnemanz had taught him about the quality of
mercy and true bravery. He withdrew his sword.
“Very well. Then take your submission to Cunneware and do whatever she commands. You will find her at the court of King Arthur. You will also find your seneschal, Kingrun, there.”
Thus it was that Parzival became king of those lands and won a beautiful bride. He lavished gifts on all around him, and he and his lords were famed for their skill and bravery in the tournaments they attended. Condwiramur had her heart’s desire and they had each found their soulmate.
But the time came when they had to separate, for Parzival came one morning to her and humbly asked her leave to part for a while.
“I must go and find my mother,” he explained. “I owe it to her to tell her of all that has happened since I left her in the forest. I know I may have to travel far to find her, and surely adventures will appear on the way, but all I undertake will be for love of you.”
Condwiramur took both his hands in hers, looked frankly into his eyes and saw what this meant. She kissed him on the cheek and wished him Godspeed.
Chapter 5
The journey turned out to be much longer than he expected. Having started off with a reasonably good idea of where to go, he found himself increasingly confused. Woods had the disconcerting ability to turn him in directions he did not want to take, and the streams he thought he remembered did not always seem to flow in the right direction. His memory seemed to be failing him and he scolded himself for not having paid more attention when he first came to Pelrepeire. Yet his thoughts were much occupied with Condwiramur, so he was not always paying close attention. No matter, for his horse was taking him swiftly and confidently on.
However, the countryside became increasingly wild and mountainous, and as dusk fell he had to face the unpalatable truth that he didn’t know where he was. He was therefore much relieved, as he came down a narrow track towards a gloomy little lake at the foot of a precipitous cliff, to see a fisherman tying up his boat at a jetty. As he came closer, he saw that the fisherman wore richer clothes than one would expect. His cloak was of expensive material and he wore a broad-brimmed hat decorated with peacock feathers. His demeanour was one of great sadness, and when Parzival asked him if he knew of any shelter for the night, he looked solemnly at him and said, “There is only one place within thirty miles of this lake. Follow the foot of the cliff and then turn up to the right. Take care, for if you miss the way you really will be lost. Tell them I sent you. I will see you there myself later on.” He turned away and busied himself with his boat.
