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

by Robin Cook

  “There you are: entry to the Castle of Wonders. Not quite the normal one, but it’s the one you need.”

  Gawain, loosening his sword in its scabbard and grasping the bulky shield the ferryman had given him, stepped forward through the door. He found himself at the edge of a large grassy area that was surrounded by the walls of the castle. To his right was the main building, which was the side of the castle he had seen from across the river. Then he heard the firm sound of the door closing behind him. He turned involuntarily to see that his side of the door had no handle. Undismayed, he continued his examination of the castle. The walls to his left were made of smoothed dressed stone, and five towers rose as high again. He had an uncomfortable feeling that the building was constructed as much to keep people in as to keep others out.

  He walked across the grass to where a double staircase led up to an imposing door made of beaten bronze. One of the double doors was slightly open, and it yielded easily to his touch. He found himself in a large room that must have been half the length of the castle. He looked up at the soaring columns and trumpet vaulting and noted the beautiful ceiling decorations. Deep blues and shimmering greens, with dark spots here and there, reminded him of peacock feathers. Around the walls were many couches, lavishly upholstered in silks and taffetas in a variety of colours in flowing designs that quite dazzled him. He walked over to the windows and realised this was where he had seen the ladies walking to and fro that morning. Yet where were they? All was silent. He became aware of every little noise he made as he moved round the room. Each creak and jingle seemed magnified by the oppressive silence. It irked him.

  He looked round, wondering what to do, and noticed a door in the interior wall that divided one half of the castle from the other. The door opened easily and he stepped through. Again, the door clicked shut behind him with a very definite sound. He was dazzled by myriad reflected lights and could not see properly to begin with. When his sight returned, he realised this must be the Great Hall of the castle. It had the same high ceiling as the other room but had a kind of gallery running round the top. The ceiling was made of some kind of reflective stone and, as the sunlight not only came straight through the windows but was also reflected off the river, it was difficult to see properly. The floor was inlaid with jasper, chrysolite and reddish sard, and was so highly polished that when he stepped forward he slipped and almost fell. At that moment he heard a strange grating sound. He shielded his eyes from the glare and saw a large bed at the other end of the room. This, he realised, must be the Lit Merveil. Suddenly it moved on wheels of bright red rubies.

  Gawain fought back panic, gripped his shield tightly and stepped carefully forward. As he did so, the Lit Merveil jerked away from him. What was this? It was almost funny to watch, but at the same time there was something sinister about it. But he had no time to consider further, for suddenly it made a harsh grating noise and came at him. He had to move quickly to the side to avoid it hitting him, and in doing so he slipped and fell. He got up quickly and tried approaching the Lit Merveil, and this time it shot away from him, several yards across the room. He followed it, but before he got at all close it rolled swiftly to the other end of the room, and then suddenly came at him once more. It was massively constructed and if it hit him it would do serious damage. Again he moved out of the way to avoid a collision, and this time he stayed on his feet. He realised in some dim, instinctive way, that he somehow had to gain control of the Lit Merveil. He had to get onto it. It was going to be the Lit Merveil or him in some obscure way. It was a game of sorts. He had to outwit it.

  Gawain went forward and feinted to one side as the Lit Merveil darted away, but this time in the direction he anticipated. He realised that a decisive move might be his only chance. He did not like to think what it would be like if the Lit Merveil actually hit him. He made another feint and the Lit Merveil dashed off, then it came at him at great speed. This time he jumped up and landed on it. The Lit Merveil stopped. There was complete silence, then a quivering, and it shot off with incredible velocity. The Lit Merveil struck the wall a glancing blow that caused it to spin dizzyingly on its own axis. Gawain hung on for dear life. He had scarcely recovered before the Lit Merveil was off again and this time struck the wall a great jarring blow. It banged and jerked, started, stopped, turned and span, as though trying everything it could to throw him off. Then it began to slow; its movements became less violent and Gawain began to feel that somehow he had ‘won’.

  A surge of gratitude went through him and he found himself murmuring a prayer to Christ. As he did so, he looked up and saw a strange murky fog enveloping the gallery round the top of the room. He sensed something sinister was about to happen and instinctively pulled the great thick shield over himself. Suddenly a large stone flew down and hit his shield, almost causing him to lose his grip on its straps. Then came another, and another, until a hailstorm of jagged lumps of rock rained down on him from all round the room. They battered his shield, dented his armour and ricocheted off into the walls and floor.

  Finally, the battering ceased, but he sensed the onslaught was not over. A crossbow bolt thudded into his shield. This was even more dangerous, and he twisted and turned as the bolts came thick and fast. They struck his armour, and one drew blood as it penetrated his shoulder between the plate and the cuirass. Another found the gap at his knee and a sharp pain shot up his leg. He began to bleed in several places.

  Just when he thought he could withstand the attack no longer, the rain of bolts ceased and the murky fog began to clear. He sat up cautiously and snapped off the bolts stuck in his shield. He was just about to get off the Lit Merveil when the door opened with a mighty crash and a huge peasant burst in, dressed in what looked like fish skins. Beneath bristling brows he had fierce, glaring eyes. He brandished an enormous club and Gawain prepared to defend himself, but the peasant bawled, “Don’t be afraid of me! You can be afraid of what comes next instead. You’re only still alive because some devil is protecting you, but you won’t last long now.”

  Gawain got off the Lit Merveil and prepared himself for whatever might come. He wiped the blood off his hand and took a firm grip of his sword. There was a great rumbling and thudding and, accompanied by a furious roar, a huge lion leapt into the room. Gawain braced himself. The lion circled, snarled and paced, clearly deciding on the moment of attack. Suddenly it leapt and Gawain thrust his shield up. The lion’s claws sank into it so deeply it could not withdraw them, and then a dreadful struggle began. Gawain hung onto the shield at all times, even though he was lifted right off his feet at one point. He could feel the lion’s hot breath on his face as they both slithered across the floor. Then he saw his opportunity: he thrust his sword up the inside of the leg that was stuck in the shield. Blood poured out. The lion roared in pain and anger, but Gawain sensed that the advantage was now with him. However, at that moment he slipped and felt claws rip down his side where the front and back plates of his armour joined. It was a desperate moment. Both were losing blood. Then, as the lion began to weaken, Gawain thrust his sword deep into the lion’s heart. With another deft blow he took off the leg that was embedded in his shield. With a dreadful roar that rose and then fell to a fearful gurgle, the lion collapsed dead on the floor.

  Gawain, covered in blood and panting with exertion, felt the whole room begin to spin and fell into a dead faint. Crashing to the floor, the sword dropped from his numb fingers.

  However, the contest had not gone unobserved. Indeed, it was with breathless excitement that many of the ladies of the castle had followed the deathly struggle with the Lit Merveil and the lion. Quickly, Queen Arnive sent some of her attendants down to tend Gawain. Taking no heed of the pools of blood, they knelt down and unlaced his helmet. For a moment they thought he might be dead. Carefully, they loosened more of his armour. His face was as pale as death and flecks of blood glistened on his mouth and chin. As they removed his chain mail the wounds bled anew. Carefully, they staunched the flow. One of the ladies took
a piece of the fur from Gawain’s surcoat and held it under his nostrils to see if he was breathing. It moved! They managed to get some water between his teeth, and the involuntary action of swallowing roused him. He opened his eyes. At first he seemed not to comprehend what was going on, and then a wan smile flickered round his lips.

  “Dear, ladies, I must apologise…”

  “You have achieved wonders,” said one lady. “More than any other man.” They all smiled down on him.

  “But I have some wounds…” He grimaced as pain shot through his arm.

  “Yes… We will take care of you,” the lady said.

  Then all was hustle and bustle as more ladies hurried down to help. They carried him to where a bed was ready and fetched herbs and salves at the instruction of the queen. They cleaned the blood from his many wounds and made him as comfortable as they could. Arnive administered healing draughts and laid poultices on his open wounds. Gawain was too weak to ask any questions.

  “Lie there and sleep,” said Arnive. “Cundrie la Sorciere often visits me and she will bring me more medicine.”

  Gawain attempted to thank her, but she put her finger to her lips,

  “There will be time for all that later. Now you need to sleep.” She placed a herb on his tongue that made him feel delightfully drowsy, and he sank into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 12

  Gawain’s deep sleep was not to last, and he awoke after a short while, tormented by images of Orgeluse. One after another they came at him: Orgeluse smiling contemptuously at him, Orgeluse with an enchanting raised eyebrow, Orgeluse of the beautiful curve of the neck, Orgeluse of the graceful delicate hand, Orgeluse of the scornful laugh, Orgeluse the serene beauty. He tossed and turned in his bed, unable to find a comfortable position, unable to rid himself of these fevered images, unable to calm his racing mind. He dislodged some of the bandages and some of his wounds began to bleed again. When finally the sky began to lighten, not only did he feel not rested at all, but there were also bloody stains on the bedding. He regarded them disconsolately. The loosened bandages revealed wounds encrusted with thick scabs. He moved cautiously when getting up and was relieved that they did not bleed afresh.

  He found his clothes neatly laid out. He put them on and, as there seemed to be nobody around, decided to have a look for himself at the rest of the castle. He realised he was on the second floor, and when he left the bedroom he came into a larger room. At the other end there was an arch and the beginning of a staircase. As he approached, he could see the staircase went up the central tower of the castle. He made his way up and found at the top a most extraordinary room. It was circular, and in the middle was a pillar made of highly polished reflective stone. It, and the many arches of the room, was decorated in a dazzling array of jewels and stones. He immediately recognised diamond, amethyst, topaz, garnet, chrysolite, sard, rich red rubies and deep green emeralds. They studded the vaulting and the window pillars and reflected the light in a myriad of glancing, coloured beams that quite confused his senses. The reflections shifted and changed as he moved round the pillar and seemed to show images of what was going on around the castle – he saw people riding or walking, fishing or herding cattle – but they also merged with each other – mountains and woods seemed to clash with each other or appear upside down or twice their size. It made his head spin, and he sat down at a window to try to make sense of what he was looking at.

  Scarcely had he done so when Queen Arnive came in. She was accompanied by her daughter, Sangive, and her granddaughters, Itonje and Cundry. Gawain sprang to his feet, wincing only slightly at the pain the sudden movement caused him.

  “Why are you here?” enquired Arnive. “You should be sleeping. You must allow time for your wounds to heal.”

  “With your skilful help I am already nearly well again. But who are these beautiful ladies?”

  Arnive duly introduced them as being of royal blood, but did not tell Gawain that Sangive was his mother and Itonje and Cundry his sisters. Nor did they recognise him, for he had been sent away to the court of King Arthur at a very young age and had never seen his family again. Arnive knew that this was not yet the moment for this secret to be revealed.

  The introductions over, Gawain’s attention returned to the marvellous pillar and he begged Arnive to explain.

  “It is indeed remarkable, and it has strange magical properties. The great sorcerer Klingsor brought it here, although it is said that he stole it. It comes from the kingdom of Tabronit, where Secundille is queen, she whose husband is the mighty Feirefiz. What you see reflected is all that is going on for six miles around the Castle of Wonders, and he who looks into it sees what is closest to his heart.”

  At this, Gawain immediately got up to watch what the pillar might reveal, and what did he see? Orgeluse! His heart jumped. She was making her way along the side of a field of yellow corn and was clearly coming in the direction of the castle. She was leading a knight on horseback by the bridle. A pang of jealousy shot through Gawain. She must have taken this stranger knight for her own. Queen Arnive was watching Gawain closely.

  “Yes, that is Orgeluse, Duchess of Logres, and the knight who accompanies her is called Turkoite.”

  “I will fight him. He is clearly looking for a challenge and I must win Orgeluse from him. Besides, he is coming to the meadow where I fought Lischois Gwelljus.”

  “No! No! You are no fit state to fight,” argued Arnive, and the other three joined in begging him not to consider such a course. “He will surely kill you. You are not yet recovered from your wounds, and then all your efforts in mastering the Lit Merveil and the lion will have been for nothing! You must not do this!”

  “I have to,” replied Gawain simply. “It is a matter of honour. Please, cease your weeping and bring me my armour.”

  The ladies were much distressed but did as he asked, and it was with much difficulty that Gawain got into his armour without causing his wounds to break open again. He made his way to the ferryman, who willingly took him on board.

  He grinned. “I see you made good use of the shield.”

  “Yes, I have to thank you for that. It certainly took a battering.” Gawain exchanged a wry glance with the ferryman.

  “I’m glad it stood the test. At least you’ve come out alive, but now you need a spear. I can give you one. That Turkoite only jousts; it’s his way. If you unhorse him, you win. Mind you, nobody has done it yet.”

  When they arrived at the jetty, the ferryman went off to fetch Gawain a spear while he led Gringuljete onto the shore. The ferryman came back and handed him a stout lance of considerable length. In his present state it was as much as Gawain could do to hold it level, but he found a way by pushing his shield further forward than he would normally hold it. He just hoped Turkoite had not noticed his difficulties. However, he had no cause for concern: when he looked up, he saw Turkoite was too busy prancing about shouting his challenge and looking for approval from Orgeluse. He watched her lean forward on her white palfrey, put her hand on Turkoite’s arm, whisper something in his ear and then canter off to watch from a distance, the very picture of grace and elegance. Gawain mustered every ounce of determination and cold-blooded concentration. He was not going to lose.

  The two knights thundered towards each other, lances aimed at the centre of the other’s shield, every muscle tensed for the mighty collision. Gawain guessed correctly that his spear was slightly longer than his opponent’s so at the last possible moment he forced his shield up some inches, causing his lance to pass over the top of Turkoite’s shield. In this way Gawain was able to catch his opponent under the chin and lift him clean out of the saddle. Gawain quickly wheeled his horse and cantered back to receive Turkoite’s submission. He was unconscious on the ground when both the ferryman and Orgeluse came hurrying up.

  “What a magnificent blow!” said Orgeluse, and for a minute Gawain thought she was going to congratulate him. “And you with your shield all battered! I’m sure all the ladies watching will be ful
l of admiration.” Her tone became more sarcastic. “You may wish to go back inside the castle, where I am sure you will be made most welcome. I wonder if that shield will last another fight – or, indeed, if you will. The wounds you received from the lion will probably prevent you taking up the next challenge. I didn’t call you ‘goose’ for nothing. Go back to all the ladies; I am sure they will make you feel better.” She cast him a contemptuous glance, but then suddenly the contempt disappeared and a quite different expression flitted across her beautiful features. It contained something vulnerable and sad but disappeared before Gawain was even sure he had seen it.

  “You need not trouble yourself about my wounds. I have sworn you service and you have accepted it. I am ready.” He was determined not to show any of the hurt and humiliation he was feeling.

  “In that case, ride along with me. Now comes the most important test.”

  Gawain spoke briefly to the ferryman, who had picked up his shield for him, and he instructed him to take Turkoite to Queen Arnive.

  The queen and her ladies could be seen behind the castle windows. They were watching, and knew both the danger posed by Orgeluse and that their freedom depended on Gawain surviving the trial of the Ford Perilous, towards which she was now leading him.

  They rode on over meadows blooming with all kinds of wildflowers, but Gawain thought that Orgeluse was more beautiful than all of them. He still found it difficult to reconcile her beauty with her cutting remarks and wounding sarcasm. He had to admit that he deserved some of them, but as they rode along he was mostly silent, not wanting to provoke her sharp tongue. After a while they entered a forest of redwood, tamarisk and brazil trees, and as the way gradually descended the forest became denser, darker and more silent.

  “This is the forest of Klingsor,” Orgeluse said enigmatically, but offered no further explanation. After a time, Gawain became aware of the sound of rushing water. Suddenly she stopped. They were on the edge of a ravine and at the bottom a river squabbled and bullied its way down between the rocks. She pointed. “That tree over there is guarded by the one who has caused me the greatest sorrow. This is the only way across. You must leap the Ford Perilous and then bring me a garland from the tree.”