After the meal the two stayed a long while in conversation. As squires were preparing the beds,16 baskets of all the finest fruits were served them: dates, figs and nutmeg, cloves and pomegranates, and electuaries for dessert, with Alexandrian gingerbread, pliris and arcoticum, resontif and stomaticum.17 Afterwards they drank many a drink, sweet wine without honey or pepper, good mulberry wine, and clear syrup.
The youth was astonished by all this, for he had never experienced anything like it; and the nobleman said to him: ‘Friend, now it is time for bed. Don’t be offended if I leave you and go into my own chambers to sleep; and whenever you are ready you may lie down out here. I have no strength in my body and will have to be carried.’
Four strong and nimble servants promptly came out from a chamber, seized by its four corners the coverlet that was spread over the bed on which the nobleman was lying, and carried it to where they were ordered. Other squires remained with the youth to serve him, and saw to his every need. When he requested, they removed his shoes and clothing and bedded him down in fine, white, linen sheets.
And he slept until morning, when dawn had broken and the household was awake. But he saw no one there when he looked around and so he had to get up alone, although it bothered him to do so. Seeing he had no choice he arose, for there was nothing else to do, and pulled on his shoes without help; then he went to don his armour, which he found at the head of the dais, where it had been left for him. After having armed himself fully, he approached the doors of chambers he had observed open the night before; but his steps were wasted, for he found them tightly closed. He shouted and knocked for a long while: no one opened them or gave a word in reply. After having shouted a long while, he tried the door to the great hall; finding it open, he went down the steps, where he discovered his horse saddled and saw his lance and shield leaning against the wall. He mounted and rode all around, but he found none of the servants and saw no squire or serving boy. So he went straight to the gate and found the drawbridge lowered; it had been left like that so that nothing might prevent him from traversing it unimpeded whenever he came there. When he found the bridge lowered, he thought that perhaps the squires had gone into the forest to check the traps and snares. He made up his mind to set off at once in pursuit, to see whether any of them would explain to him why the lance bled (if it were possible for him to know) and tell him to where the grail was carried.
Then he rode off through the gate, but before he had crossed the bridge he felt it drawing up under the hooves of his horse; but the horse made a great leap, and if he had not done so both horse and rider would have come to grief. The youth turned around to see what had happened and saw that the drawbridge had been raised; he shouted out, but no one answered.
‘Say there,’ he said, ‘whoever raised the bridge, speak to me! Where are you that I can’t see you? Come forward where I can see you and ask you about something I want to know.’
But he made a fool of himself shouting like this, for no one would reply. Then he headed for the forest and found a path on which he discovered fresh hoofprints of horses that recently had passed by.
‘This makes me think,’ he said to himself, ‘that those I’m seeking passed this way.’
He rode swiftly through the forest following the tracks as far as they went, until he saw by chance beneath an oak tree a maiden crying, weeping, and lamenting, as though she were a woman in great distress. ‘Wretched me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was born in an evil hour! Cursed be the hour I was begotten and the day I was born, for I’ve never before been made so miserable by anything! So help me God, I shouldn’t have to hold my dead lover in my arms; it would have been far better if he were alive and I were dead! Why did Death, which tortures me, take his soul instead of mine? When I behold lying dead the one I most love what is life to me? With him dead, indeed I have no interest in my life or body. So come, Death, and take my soul and let it be a servant and companion to his, if he’ll deign to accept it.’
Her grief was caused by a knight she held in her arms, whose head had been cut off. The youth, after catching sight of her, rode right up to where she sat. As he came before her he greeted her and she, with head still lowered and without ceasing her lament, returned his salutation.
And the youth asked her: ‘My lady, who has slain this knight lying in your lap?’
‘Good sir,’ said the maiden, ‘a knight killed him just this morning. But your appearing here is truly remarkable: as God is my witness, they say that one could ride for twenty-five leagues in the direction from which you have come without finding a good, honest, and proper lodging place. Yet your horse’s belly is so full and his coat so shining that he couldn’t appear more satisfied or his coat smoother had he been washed and combed and given a bed of hay and oats. And it appears to me that you yourself have had a comfortable and restful night.’
‘Upon my word,’ he said, ‘I was as comfortable as I could possibly be, and it’s only right that it should show. If you were to shout out loudly from this spot, it could easily be heard at the place where I slept last night. You must not know this country well or have travelled through all of it, for without a doubt I had the best lodgings I’ve ever enjoyed.’
‘Ah, my lord! Did you sleep then in the castle of the noble Fisher King?’
‘Maiden, by our Lord and Saviour, I don’t know if he is a fisherman or a king, but he is most noble and courteous. All I can tell you is that late last night I came upon two men, sitting in a boat rowing slowly along. One of the men was rowing while the other was fishing with a hook, and this latter showed me the way to his house last night and gave me lodging.’
And the maiden said: ‘Good sir, I can assure you that he is a king, but he was wounded and maimed in the course of a battle so that he can no longer manage on his own, for he was struck by a javelin through both thighs and is still in so much pain that he cannot ride a horse. Whenever he wants to relax or to go out to enjoy himself, he has himself put in a boat and goes fishing with a hook: this is why he’s called the Fisher King. And he relaxes in this way because he cannot tolerate the pain of any other diversion: he cannot hunt for flesh or fowl, but he has hunters, archers, and gamesmen who hunt his forests for him. That is why he likes to stay in this hidden retreat, for there’s no retreat in the world more suited to his needs, and he has had a mansion built that is worthy of a noble king.’
‘My lady,’ he said, ‘what you say is true, upon my word, for I was in awe last night as soon as I was brought before him. I kept back a little distance from him, and he told me to be seated beside him and not to consider him too proud for not rising to greet me, since he didn’t have the means or strength. And I went to sit beside him.’
‘Indeed he did you a great honour by having you sit beside him. And as you were sitting beside him, tell me whether you saw the lance with the tip that bleeds, though it has neither blood nor veins.’
‘Yes, upon my word, I did see it!’
‘And did you ask why it bled?’
‘I never spoke a word.’
‘So help me God, let me tell you then that you have done ill. And did you see the grail?’
‘Quite clearly.’
‘Who carried it?’
‘A maiden.’
‘Where did she come from?’
‘From a chamber.’
‘And where did she go?’
‘She entered another chamber.’
‘Did anyone precede the grail?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Only two squires.’
‘And what were they holding in their hands?’
‘Candelabra full of candles.’
‘And who came after the grail?’
‘Another maiden.’
‘What was she holding?’
‘A small silver carving platter.’
‘Did you ask the people where they were going in this manner?’
‘No question came from my mouth.’
‘So help me God, now it�
�s even worse! What is your name, friend?’
And the youth, who did not know his name, guessed and said he was called Perceval the Welshman. But although he did not know if that were true or not, he spoke the truth without knowing it. And when the damsel heard him, she stood up before him and said as in anger: ‘Your name is changed, fair friend!’
‘To what?’
‘Perceval the wretched! Ah, unlucky Perceval, how unfortunate you were when you failed to ask all this, because you would have brought great succour to the good king who is maimed: he would have totally regained the use of his limbs and ruled his lands, and much good would have come of it! But understand this now: much suffering will befall you and others. And understand, too, that it came upon you because you sinned against your mother, who has died of grief on your account. I know you better than you do me, for you do not know who I am. I was raised with you for many years in your mother’s house; I am your first cousin and you are mine. Your failure to have asked what is done with the grail and where it is carried is just as painful to me as your mother’s death or the death of this knight whom I loved and held dear, who called me his dearest friend and loved me like a good and faithful knight.’
‘Ah, cousin,’ said Perceval, ‘if what you say is true, tell me how you know it.’
‘I know it,’ said the damsel, ‘as truly as one who saw her buried in the ground.’
‘May God in His goodness have mercy on her soul!’ said Perceval. ‘You’ve brought me terrible news. And since she’s buried in the ground what reason have I to continue onwards, for I had set off only because I wished to see her again? I must change my course and if you wish to accompany me I’d be truly pleased, for I assure you that this dead knight will bring you help no longer. The dead to the dead, the living to the living. Let us go on, you and I, together. It seems foolish to me for you to watch alone over a corpse; let us pursue his killer, and I swear to you that either he will force me to surrender or I him if I manage to overtake him.’
And the maiden, who could not hold back the grief she felt in her heart, said to him: ‘Good friend, I can not possibly go off with you and leave my knight until I have buried him. If you’ll heed my suggestion, follow that cobbled road over there, for that is the path followed by the wicked and boastful knight who took my sweet love from me. But so help me God, I haven’t told you this because I want you to go after him, though I do wish him grief as much as if it were me he’d killed. But where did you get that sword hanging at your left side, which has never spilled a drop of blood or been drawn in time of need? I am well aware of where it was made and the name of the man who forged it. Be careful; don’t trust it, since it will surely fail you when you enter the fray, for it will shatter to pieces.’
‘Dear cousin, one of my host’s nieces sent it to him last evening, and he gave it to me. I consider it a fine gift, but if what you’ve told me is true you’ve given me cause for worry. Tell me now, if you know: if it were broken could it ever be repaired?’
‘Yes, but it would be difficult. If you knew the way to the lake beyond Cotouatre,18 there you could have it rehammered, retempered, and repaired. If by chance you go there, go only to Trabuchet’s shop; he’s the smith who made it and if he cannot repair it, it will never be repaired by any man alive. Be careful that no one else touches it, for they could never restore it properly.’
‘Indeed, if it were to break,’ said Perceval, ‘I would regret it dearly.’
Then he left and she remained, for she did not wish to leave the knight whose death had brought such sorrow to her heart. Perceval followed the tracks he found along the trail until he overtook a lean and weary palfrey walking along ahead of him. The palfrey was so thin and wretched that Perceval thought it had fallen into evil hands. It seemed to be as overworked and ill-fed as a horse that is hired out: overtaxed by day and poorly cared for at night. The palfrey appeared just like that. It was so thin that it trembled as if suffering from glanders;19 its mane had all fallen out and its ears drooped down. Before long it would be good only as food for the hounds and mastiffs, because there was nothing but hide hanging over its bones. The lady’s saddle on its back and the bridle on its head mirrored its own pitiful state. It was being ridden by the most wretched girl you have ever seen. Yet she would have been fair and noble enough had she had better fortune, but she was in such a bad state that there was not a palm’s breadth of good material in the dress she wore, and her breasts fell out through the rips. The dress was held together here and there with knots and crude stitches. Her skin looked lacerated as though it had been torn by lancets, and it was pocked and burned by heat and wind and frost. Her hair was loose and she wore no hood so that her face showed, with many an ugly trace left by tears rolling ceaselessly down her cheeks; they flowed across her breasts and out over her dress down to her knees. Anyone in such affliction might well have a very heavy heart.
As soon as Perceval saw her he rode swiftly in her direction, and she gathered her dress around to cover her flesh. But holes appeared everywhere, for as soon as one was covered a hundred others opened. Perceval rode up to her in her pale and miserable state, and as he neared he heard her woefully lament her troubles and affliction: ‘My God, may it not please You to suffer me to live long in this state! I’ve been miserable for so long, I’ve endured so many woes, and I’ve not deserved it! My God, since You know that I’ve not deserved any of this, may it please You to send me someone to lift from me this misery or to deliver me Yourself from him who makes me live in such disgrace. In him I find no mercy, yet I cannot escape him alive and he refuses to kill me. I don’t understand why he desires my company in this state, unless he just enjoys my disgrace and misfortune. Even if he had absolute proof that I deserved this misery, still he should have pity on me now that I’ve suffered so long – if I were at all pleasing to him. But surely I don’t please him when he forces me to follow after him in such misery and shows no concern.’
Then Perceval, who had overtaken her, said: ‘Fair one, may God protect you!’
When the damsel heard him, she bowed and said softly: ‘Sir, for your words of greeting may your heart have whatever it desires, though I have no right to say so.’
And Perceval, blushing with shame, replied: ‘Dear friend, what do you mean? I’m absolutely certain that I have never seen you before or done you any harm.’
‘You have,’ she said, ‘for I am so miserable and full of woe that no one should greet me. I sweat with anguish whenever anyone stops or looks at me.’
‘Truly,’ said Perceval, ‘I was unaware of having wronged you. I assure you I didn’t come here to cause you shame or injury, but because my path led in this direction; and since I’ve seen you so miserable, poor and naked, I could never again be happy until I learned the truth: what adventure has reduced you to this sad and painful state.’
‘Ah, sir,’ she said, ‘have pity! Say no more, just fly from here and leave me in peace! Sin has made you stop here; now hurry on, it’s the best you can do!’
‘I’d like to know,’ he replied, ‘what fear or threat would make me flee when no one is pursuing me.’
‘Sir,’ she said, ‘don’t be offended but flee while you still have the chance, lest the Haughty Knight of the Heath, who seeks nothing but combat and battle, should catch us here together. For if he found you here he’d surely kill you on the spot. He becomes so angry if anyone stops me that if he gets there in time he beheads all those who speak to me. He killed a knight only a short while ago. But first he tells each one why he holds me in such disgrace and misery.’
Even as they were speaking the Haughty Knight came out of the woods charging like a thunderbolt across the sands and dust, shouting: ‘You will pay for lingering with this girl! Your end has come for having detained or delayed her a single step. But I won’t kill you before I’ve told you what shameful and evil deed she did to cause me to make her live in such disgrace. Listen now and you’ll hear the tale.
‘Recently I had gone off int
o the woods leaving this damsel in one of my tents – and I loved no one but her. Then, by chance, along came a young Welshman. I don’t know where he was headed, but he managed to force her to kiss him, so she told me. If she lied to me, what harm is there in it? But if he even kissed her against her will, wouldn’t he have taken advantage of her afterwards? Indeed yes! And no one will ever believe he kissed her without doing more, for one thing leads to another: if a man kisses a woman and nothing more, when they are all alone together, I think there’s something wrong with him. A woman who lets herself be kissed easily gives the rest if someone insists upon it; and even if she resists, it’s a well-known fact that a woman wants to win every battle but this one: though she may grab a man by the throat, and scratch and bite him until he’s nearly dead, still she wants to be conquered. She puts up a fight against it but is eager for it; she is so afraid to give in, she wants to be taken by force, but then never shows her gratitude. Therefore I believe this Welshman lay with her. And he took a ring of mine that she wore upon her finger and carried it off, which makes me angry! But before that he drank and ate his fill of the hearty wine and three meat pies I had put aside for myself. But now my love has a splendid reward, as you can see. Anyone who makes a mistake must pay for it, so he won’t make it again. You can imagine my anger when I returned and learned what had happened. And I swore, and rightly so, that her palfrey would have no oats and would not be reshod or groomed, and that she would have no other tunic or mantle than what she was wearing then, until I had defeated, killed and decapitated the one who raped her.’
When Perceval had heard him out, he answered point for point: ‘Friend, rest assured that she has done her penance: I am he who kissed her against her will, and she was upset by it. And it was I who took the ring from her finger, but I did no more than that. But I do acknowledge that I ate one and a half of the three meat pies, and drank as much wine as I pleased: but there was nothing foolish in this.’
Arthurian Romances Page 59
