When she had done, Parsifal told Queen Connie the story of his quest. The tale was well worth hearing, full of mighty battles and courageous deeds, but Parsifal himself showed little interest in these. He dwelt much more on his time with the hermit Trevisant, who had taken him in just when he had given up ever achieving his quest, and on his regret that both Trevisant and his mother had died before he could see them again.
"Each of them gave me much," Parsifal said reflectively. "My mother gave me life, and the hermit gave me hope."
"Perhaps that was what they were meant to do," Nimue said quietly. "They set off, so many years ago, to find the one who would break the spell and heal their brother. They didn't find him—they created him. Do not mourn these two; save your regrets for those whose lives serve no purpose at all."
Terence stretched lazily in his chair and sipped his wine. "There was a third who rode with Trevisant and Lady Herzeloyde, wasn't there?"
Parsifal nodded soberly. "Yes, the armorer Trebuchet. When Trevisant stopped searching and made his home in the Gentle Wood, this Trebuchet rode on alone." Parsifal turned to Queen Connie. "That is the last part of my quest. I must find this Trebuchet to tell him that his master is whole again."
"But how will you find him? Have you heard nothing of his whereabouts?" she asked.
Nimue sighed quietly. "That is the question, my lady. The good Trebuchet has not been heard from for more than twenty years. He has been much missed in the Other World, for there is no one who crafts such swords as he." She glanced at Terence. "As your master knows," she added.
Terence laughed lightly. "Oh? Is Gawain's Sword Galatine the work of this armorer? Then he surely is a wizard. I know of none like it."
Parsifal turned to Piers. "I think Piers here knows where he is. Do you not?"
"I ... I'm not sure," Piers said hesitantly. "But I think I know someone who can help us. My father." Piers felt Terence's eyes on him, and he blushed.
"Your father?" Parsifal asked.
Piers nodded. "Yes. He's a smith. I know that a smith is different from an armorer, but my father is ... he knows how to ... I'm not sure. But I just think he might know where this Trebuchet is," Piers finished lamely. He couldn't tell his friends all that he was thinking, because he wasn't sure what that was himself. But he remembered how his father had mentioned a faery armorer when he gave Trebuchet's sword to Sir Ither, and he remembered how he had seen the ornate "T" of Trebuchet on some of the arms and armor in his father's shop.
"Then it is decided," said Nimue. "Because the last charge that King Anfortas gave me before we left Munsalvaesche was to take you back to your parents."
***
They left the next morning, Nimue and Terence riding together in the lead, followed by Piers and Ariel, with Parsifal and Conduiramour trailing behind the others, lost in a year's supply of laughter and easy conversation. As before, time and distance seemed to melt around them, and before long Piers began to recognize landmarks. There was the path to the village where his mother did the marketing in her simple but elegant gowns; there was the bridge where he had fished; and there, just over the hill, was the wooded area behind which his parents lived.
Piers heard his father at work before he saw the house, a regular beating of steel on iron. A slow warmth began to fill Piers's breast, and he cocked his head to listen. Heavy beats—nothing very fine or delicate. Horseshoes, perhaps. Or a plow. Nimue glanced over her shoulder, then made way for Piers to take the lead.
With Ariel at his side, Piers rode through the trees and then into the dusty yard. Everything was as he remembered it: the small but neat house and the low, broad, solidly built shop—doors wide open to catch every cooling breeze. Piers reined in his horse, and sensed the others spreading out around him and stopping as well. And then the red glow that shone through the door of the shop was blocked by a formidable shadow, and Giles the Smith appeared at the door, followed by the slight, graceful form of Marie de Champagne. They were unchanged, as if Piers had been away for only a few minutes on an errand to the village. Piers found he could not speak, but could only smile with grateful contentment.
Giles frowned and glanced quickly at the row of mounted visitors. He started to speak, then stopped as his gaze fell on Parsifal. He stepped closer. "Whence came thee by that armor, Sir Knight?" he demanded abruptly.
Parsifal met the smith's gaze squarely. "It was given me," he replied simply. "How else could such armor be gained?"
Giles could not tear his eyes from the armor. "Ay," he muttered. "How else indeed? But who gave it?"
Parsifal hesitated. "Know you this armor, friend?" Giles nodded slowly, and Parsifal began to smile. He dismounted and drew his sword from its scabbard. "And know you this sword?"
Giles looked at the sword, the same sword that he had given Sir Ither on the day when Piers had left home, and then the smith's hard, craggy face twisted. Tears began to flow down his cheeks, and he dropped to his knees before Parsifal. "Tell me, sir, I beg you. Let me not wait another moment. Is it well with my master?"
Parsifal nodded. "King Anfortas is well."
Giles bowed his head, and his body relaxed. Piers dismounted and walked slowly toward his father. "Then it's true," he said softly. "I hardly dared to think it, but it's true. You are Trebuchet, aren't you, father?"
The smith raised his head and stared, uncomprehending, at Piers, but before he could speak, Piers's mother gasped. "Mordieu! Mais ce courtisan gallant.... C'est mon Pierre!"
Piers smiled at her and said, "Hello, mother," but turned back to his father. Reaching out, he took his father's hand and raised him to his feet. "I've come home, father."
"Piers," the smith said softly. "I wouldn't have recognized you. You've grown a span, I believe, and where did all this muscle come from?" His eyes dwelt for a moment on Piers's arms.
Piers grinned. "Not from eating regular meals, I can tell you that." And then he reached out and clasped his father, and then his mother joined their embrace, and they were all crying.
When at last they had separated, Piers remembered the others. "Father, mother, let me introduce you to my friends. Father, this is Parsifal, the one you went away to search for. He healed King Anfortas."
Giles—or, rather, Trebuchet—looked intently at Parsifal. "Thank you," he said gruffly. His dark brow furrowed slightly as he gazed at the knight's face. "But do I know you?"
Parsifal shook his head. "No, but you knew my mother. Lady Herzeloyde."
Trebuchet took a deep breath, then beamed with delight. Piers hurried on. "And with Parsifal is his wife, Queen Conduiramour, and this is Nimue." Piers paused. "Mother, when you used to tell me stories about her, you called her the Lady of the Lake. And this is Terence, squire to Sir Gawain." Piers's mother gaped at them both, as if figures from a dream had come to life before her. "And finally," Piers said, "this is my good friend Ariel."
Piers's mother managed to shake off her paralysis and drop a deep curtsey to the company. Trebuchet bowed to Nimue. "Good day, my lady. Forgive me for not recognizing you, either. It has been many years."
"And you have always noticed a good suit of armor before you had eyes for people anyway, haven't you?" Nimue said, a dimple showing.
Trebuchet glanced at Parsifal's armor. "It is only that ... well, I made that suit."
Nimue chuckled. "We have come to bring you tidings. King Anfortas is healed, and Munsalvaesche has been delivered. Your quest in the World of Men is complete. The king has asked me to invite you to return to your place there."
Piers's mother was very still, her eyes on the dust, but Piers's father stepped back beside her and put one heavy arm around her shoulders. "I am glad that my master has been healed. I have prayed for him nightly. But I cannot return. My home is here now, with the wife I love."
"Why, that is my case exactly," interjected Parsifal. "I am weary of questing, and I wish to remain with my lady, Conduiramour. Perhaps, since we share the same dream, we might share the same home. Our castle of Belrepei
re could use an armorer and smith."
Queen Connie, who had been looking with interest at Piers's mother, said, "And I am very much in need of a lady-in-waiting. My own beloved dresser Lisette has only recently died. My lady, forgive me, but I have never seen a dress like yours, cut in such a marvelous style."
Marie de Champagne's eyes lit with a sudden fire. "It is my own design, my lady. It would look better with finer cloth."
"You shall have it," Queen Connie said.
Piers's mother turned beseeching eyes toward her husband, but the armorer was already nodding. "Ay," he said. "'Tis time." Then Trebuchet looked again at Piers. "And you shall live in a castle, as you always wanted, and you can become a squire and courtier."
Piers shook his head, his eyes gleaming. "I'd rather not, thank you. But do you think you could teach me to make nails?"
* * *
Author's Note
When the legends about King Arthur and his knights of the Round Table were first written down, there were no spelling rules. There were no dictionaries, no helpful rhymes about "i" before "e," and no weekly spelling quizzes. No one ever had to ask "Does spelling count?" because it didn't. As a result, different writers spelled words differently, depending on their taste, their country of origin, and sometimes, I suspect, according to their mood. This state of affairs wasn't all bad, of course (see "no weekly spelling quizzes" above), but it could be confusing.
The confusion seems particularly noticeable when it comes to names. The name of King Arthur's great knight Gawain, for instance, is also spelled Gawaine, Gawan, and (by the Welsh) Gwalchmai. (The Welsh tend to be independent-minded; for instance, their spelling of the name Merlin is "Myrddin.")
The story that I have retold in this book is an ancient one, but the first written form of it that we know is by a French poet named Chrétien de Troie, and he called his hero Perceval. Chrétien never finished his story, though, and so other writers took it up and wrote their own endings—each in his own language, using his own spelling. The hero became Percival, Parzival, Parsifal, and (to the Welsh again) Peredur. In my own retelling, I have followed the version of the story that was written in 1415 by a German knight and singer of tales named Wolfram von Eschenbach, but like earlier storytellers, I have spelled the names however I wanted. Thus Wolfram's Condwiramurs became Conduiramour; Meljahnz became Malchance; Antikonie became Antigone; Vergulaht became Virgil; and Parzival became Parsifal. I just liked those spellings better.
No matter how his name's spelled, there is no knight whose story has been told more often than Parsifal's. His story has been the basis of countless tales, songs, operas, movies, and at least one silly and self-important psychology book. Something about a wild man of the woods who wants to become a knight catches our fancy. Something about a quest for a miraculous, life-giving object (the Grail) speaks to people in all ages. There's even something deep and meaningful about how Parsifal achieves his quest—not by doing great deeds, but by asking one simple question. I don't pretend to understand why these things are so powerful—because I try very hard not to sound like a silly and self-important psychologist—but whatever it is, people love this story.
At any rate, I do.
—Gyrraldd Mwrys (Welsh spelling)
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Parsifal's Page Page 16
