Parzival

by Wolfram von Eschenbach

  ‘Look! What a pavilion! Your crown and lands would not fetch half the price!’

  ‘I will not have you rate it so highly, though I admit it belongs to a lord who cannot know what poverty means. But’, went on the Queen, ‘why doesn’t he come in himself?’ and she sent a page to inquire.

  Meanwhile the warrior was marching through the town in high state, waking those who slept. The gleam of many shields met his eyes. Ahead of him clarions rang out shrilly, shattering the air, a pair of timbrels were tossed and thumped, rousing the echoes. This din was heard all over the town, but it was mingled with the music of flutes, since the men were playing a march.

  Now we must not lose sight of their master’s entry, flanked by fiddlers on horseback.

  The noble knight was wearing a pair of light summer high-boots over his bare legs, one of which he had cocked up in front of him over his horse’s back. His full lips shone like rubies, red as fire. From each and every angle he was radiantly handsome. His hair was fair and curly where it fell away from the expensive hat that covered his head. His mantle was of green samite. At the front, trimmings of sable stood out black against a tunic of dazzling white. There was a great press of people trying to catch a glimpse of him, and many questions were asked as to who this beardless young knight parading such magnificence could be. The news went round in a moment, his retinue made no secret of it.

  These and the others began to make for the bridge. The radiance shed by the Queen brought his leg down smartly into position, he strained like a falcon that has sighted its quarry. The warrior felt he liked his quarters. As to his hostess the Queen of Waleis, she was quite content.

  It reached the ears of the King of Spain that the famous Pavilion which Gahmuret had acquired at Patelamunt at the request of the gallant Razalic had now been reared on the Leoplane, and it was a knight who told him. Abandoning himself to his delight, Kaylet gambolled like a deer.

  ‘I saw your cousin arriving in all his old pride,’ went on the knight. ‘There are a hundred banners planted on the greensward before his high Pavilion, and a shield, all green. On each pennant of cendale the brave man is displaying three Anchors ermine.’

  ‘If he is here with his crest and armour, believe me, you will see how he spoils another’s charge, how with his onrush he throws all into confusion! For a long time now King Hardiz has been giving me his fierce attention and pressing me hard, but when they cross lances here Gahmuret will lay him low! My fortunes are not yet on the way out!’

  Kaylet at once sent messengers to where Gaschier the Norman and handsome Killirjacac were encamped with a large retinue. It was at Kaylet’s request that they had come. Now they accompanied him to the Pavilion, where they welcomed the King of Zazamanc most affectionately. In their opinion they had had to wait too long before seeing him again, and they loyally said as much. Gahmuret asked them what knights were there.

  ‘There are knights from distant lands whom Love has goaded here,’ his cousin answered, ‘a host of fearless warriors. King Utepandragun has many Britons here. Yet one thing sticks in his flesh like a thorn: he has lost his wife, mother of Arthur. The lady went off with a priest well versed in magic, and Arthur chased off after them. We are now in the third year since he lost his son and wife. But his son-in-law, Lot of Norway, is here, an adept in chivalrous combat and a noble, sagacious knight who is as slow to do a treacherous deed as he is swift to pursue honour. His son Gawan is here, not yet of a strength to do deeds of arms. The boy was with me here. If he could break a lance, he says, if he could be sure he were strong enough, he would like to be doing a knight’s work! How soon the urge begins with him! The King of Patrigalt has brought a whole forest of lances with him: but his exploits do not count, for the men of Portugal are here! We call them ”the Daredevils”, they are bent on holing shields. There are the Provençals, too, with their brightly coloured blazons. The Waleis are here: they owe it to their weight of numbers here at home that they can press their attacks at will clean through the others’ onset. There are many knights unknown to me by name who have come in service of ladies. As to those I have named, we are all encamped in grand style inside the town at the Queen’s invitation. Now let me name for you those who have camped in the field outside and make light of our ability to make a fight of it. The noble King of Ascalun and the proud King of Arragon; Cidegast of Logroys and Brandelidelin, King of Punturteis. Bold Lähelin is there, too, and Morholt of Ireland, who has been forcing some acceptable ransoms from us. Out there on the plain lie the proud Alemans. The Duke of Brabant has ridden to this country for love of King Hardiz of Gascony. – The King had given him his sister Alize, so his services here were rewarded in advance. All these oppose me fiercely. But now I shall rely on you. Remember your kith and kin and help me by the love you bear me.’

  ‘If my service brings you any honour here,’ said the King of Zazamanc, ‘you must not feel indebted to me. Let us make common cause. Does not your Ostrich stand up as ever, scorning his Nest? Then you must carry your Serpent’s Head against Hardiz’s Demi-Griffin! I will cast my Anchor into the surge of his attack with intent to land – but he will have to pick his way ashore over his horse’s tail down on to the sand! If he and I were pitted against each other, either I would down him or he me, I guarantee you on oath.’

  It was with feelings of unmixed pleasure that Kaylet rode back to his quarters. Then, suddenly, there were shouts of two proud warriors being heralded, Schiolarz of Poitou and Gurnemanz de Graharz, who were jousting on the meadow. This promptly led to the Vesper Tournament,* for six rode up on this side, some three on the other, and these were joined by perhaps as many as a whole troop. These began the work of knights in earnest, there was no stopping it.

  It was still round about noon, and the King of Zazamanc was lying in his Pavilion, when it came to his ears that the charging squadrons were growing broad and long out on the plain, as is the way with the chivalric order, whereupon he too made his way out with many a gay pennant. He held aloof from the swift galloping, since he wished to study at leisure how both sides were acquitting themselves. His carpet was spread on the meadow, where charge was embroiled with charge and mounts neighed dolefully under lance-thrusts. Round him were squires and a clanging of swords. How they strove for glory whose swords rang out so! There was a loud splintering of lances – no need to ask where! His tent-hangings were serried charges, woven by knights’ hands!

  This noble sport was near enough for the ladies in the Palace to watch the warriors’ toil. But the Queen was sad at heart that the King of Zazamanc was not in the hurly-burly with the others. ‘Ah, where is the man of whom I have heard such marvels?’

  [Now the King of France had died, Gahmuret’s passion for whose wife had often reduced him to dire straits, and his noble Queen, impelled by her great longing, had sent to Kanvoleis to inquire whether Gahmuret had returned from the heathen to his native land.]*

  Great things were done by many a brave knight of slender means who did not aspire to the lofty prize proclaimed by Queen Herzeloyde in her Conditions, to wit, her lands and royal person. They were out for other pawn.

  Now Gahmuret too was caparisoned in that same armour by which his wife was to have been reconciled with Vridebrant of Scotland, who had sent it as a gift to make amends for the crushing load of battle he had laid on her. There was nothing on earth that could compare with it. Gahmuret gazed at the Adamant that was his peerless helmet. On it they laced an Anchor inlaid with precious stones, all of great size. It was indeed a heavy burden. The stranger was now caparisoned.

  With what was his shield embellished, you ask? A priceless boss of gold of Araby had been riveted on to it, a dead-weight for the man who had to bear it. It shone with a reddish lustre so that you could see your own face in it. Beneath it was a sable Anchor. I myself would not mind having what he ordered to be put on him, for it was many pounds in worth†. His tabard was of ample width – I doubt if any has taken its equal to battle since – and its hem reached down to the car
pet. If I am any judge, it shone like a live fire burning in the night. There was no spot of faded colour. Its dazzling light did not elude one’s gaze – a weak eye could have cut itself upon it! It was figured with gold torn from a rock in the Caucasus Mountain by the claws of griffins, who guarded it then as they still do today. People go there from Araby and gain possession of it by guile – there is none so rare in any other place – and take it back to Araby, where green Achmardis and rich brocades are woven. That tabard was not at all like other vestments.

  He quickly slung his shield round his neck. Here stood a fine charger clad in iron almost down to its hooves, and here were pages shouting his battle-cry! Seeing it ready he leapt into the saddle.

  The warrior expended many lances at full tilt. He cut clean through the others’ charge and out at the far side. The Ostrich followed hard after the Anchor. Gahmuret thrust Poytwin de Prienlascors over his cruppers and many other distinguished men whose surrender he obtained. All those knights who bore the cross – of poverty – reaped the benefit of the hero’s labours, since he gave them his captured horses. He was a source of heavy gain to them.

  Four identical banners were borne against him, displaying a Griffin’s Tail, beneath each of which rode a brave troop. Their lord was versed in battle-tactics. Though it was a Griffin’s latter half to which these men belonged, it struck like hail in battle. That expert knight the King of Gascony bore the Griffin’s forward half on his shield. His turn-out was such as ladies admire. Glimpsing the Ostrich on a helmet he spurred ahead of the others – .but the Anchor reached him first! The noble King of Zazamanc thrust him over his crupper and made him prisoner. There was a great mêlée there. Deep furrows were trampled flat as a threshing-floor, and swords did a deal of combing. A whole forest of lances were shattered and many knights were downed. I am told they picked their way back to the rear where the cowards were lurking.

  The fighting was now so near that the ladies were able to see clearly who were distinguishing themselves. From the spear of Riwalin, who sought a lady’s favour, splinters showered down like a fresh fall of snow. He was King of Lohneis and whenever he charged there was a sound of splitting and cracking. Morholt robbed the Inners of a knight by hoisting him bodily from the saddle on to his own before him, a rough trick indeed! The knight’s name was Killirjacac, from whom King Lac had just received such pay as a falling man earns from the ground. Killirjacac had been doing very well there: but the strong man had had an itch to defeat him without sword and so had taken the noble knight in that fashion.

  Kaylet thrust the Duke of Brabant over his crupper – the Prince’s name was Lambekin. What did his followers do? They gave him cover with their swords, those warriors thirsted for battle. Then the King of Àrragon pushed old Utepandragun over his horse’s tail down on to the meadow – the King of Britain! – where he lay in a bed of flowers! How courteous of me, when all is said and done, to couch the noble Briton so rarely under the walls of Kanvoleis in a spot untrodden by vulgar feet and, to tell the truth, unlikely ever so to be in time to come. He did not need to keep his seat on the horse he had bestridden! Yet he was not forgotten for long: those who were fighting above him gave cover with their swords. There was no lack of furious charging.

  Then up came the King of Punturteis. He was laid low before Kanvoleis on to his horse’s tracks, and there he lay while it sped on. This was proud Gahmuret’s work. – ‘Charge, my lord, charge, charge!’ They found his cousin Kaylet locked in the charge made by the men of Punturteis and about to be taken prisoner.

  At this point the going grew very rough. After King Brandelidelin had been snatched from his fellows they had taken this other king. Various noblemen were running or walking in armour. They had had their hides tanned for them with kicks and cudgels, their skins were black with bruises – contusions were the prizes these fine warriors got! I do not say it to adorn my tale, but rest was a thing despised here. Those worthies had been spurred thither by Love, with many a bright shield and crested helmet now coated with dust. The field was of short green grass sprinkled here and there with flowers. Falling upon this were such knights as had been destined for the honour. My heart can indulge such ambitions, provided I keep my seat on my steed!

  Now the King of Zazamanc rode out from the mêlée for a rested mount. They unlaced the Adamant, but only to give him a breather, not with any thought of bravado. They also peeled off his coif. His mouth was red and proud.

  The chaplain of a lady I have mentioned before arrived there attended by three little pages. They were escorted by sturdy young squires leading sumpters. These envoys had been sent by the Queen Ampflise. Her shrewd chaplain was swift to recognize the knight.

  ‘Bien sei venuz, beas sir,’ he said, addressing him in French, ‘on my Lady’s part and mine! That is, on the part of the Queen of France, who is pricked by the lance of passion you inspire in her.’ He handed him a letter in which the gentleman found greetings and a tiny ring meant as a safe-conduct and token of identity, since the lady had once had it as a gift from the Angevin. At the sight of her hand he bowed. Would you care to hear what it said?

  I who have been disconsolate ever since I knew I loved you, send you love and greetings. The passion you inspire in me is a lock and bar on my heart and on its happiness. I am dying of love for you. If your love is to elude me, then surely Love will do me mischief. Return, and from my hands receive a crown, sceptre and kingdom that have been bequeathed to me. The love you arouse has won it for you. As requital accept these costly gifts in four panniers. I also wish you to be my knight at Kanvoleis, chief city of the land of Waleis. If this comes to the eyes of the Queen there, what do I care? It could not harm me much, for I am lovelier and mightier than she and know how to lend Love’s exchanges more charm. If you have a mind to cherish a noble passion, then in return for love requited take my crown!

  This was all he found in the letter. A squire drew Gahmuret’s coif on to his head again. He had not a care on his mind. They laced on the hard, thick Adamant, he was now impatient to exert himself. Yet he gave orders for the envoys to be conducted into the Pavilion to rest.

  Wherever there was a press, Gahmuret made a clearance. Some had bad luck, others good. But whoever missed his chance of doing great things could still make up for lost time: there was ample opportunity to hand. They only needed to ride a joust here or join the charging squadrons over there. They dropped such refinements as ‘friendly thrusts’ as they are called. Staunch friendships were wrenched apart by the violence of their fury. In such cases crooked deeds are rarely straightened out again: there was no umpire to lay down the law as to what knights might or might not do. If a man won anything he kept it. Nor did he care if the other resented it. Those performing the high office of the shield there with scant fear for the cost had come from many lands.

  Gahmuret complied at once with Ampflise’s request that he should be her knight as conveyed to him in her letter. Just watch him, now that he is unleashed! Is it Love and courage that urge him on so? Great affection and strong attachment renew his powers.

  But now Gahmuret saw King Lot turn his shield to where the fight was thickest. Lot was borne round well-nigh face about, but Gahmuret prevented it. His charge broke the sides of the enemy’s wedge, and he unhorsed the King of Arragon with his bamboo spear. That king’s name was Schaffilor. The spear with which he had brought the proud knight down bore no pennant, since he had brought it with him from the heathen lands. Schaffilor’s friends defended him stoutly, but Gahmuret took him prisoner none the less.

  The Inners soon forced the Outers to make for the open country at great speed. Their Vespers were bringing a good yield of fighting! You would have thought it a thorough-going tournament, for many shattered lances lay around.

  Lähelin now grew furious.

  ‘Are we going to be put to shame in this fashion? It is the doing of the man who wears the Anchor. One of us two will lay the other where he will not lie softly before this day is out! They have come very ne
ar to beating us!’

  The momentum of their charge assured this pair of ample room. It was now something more than mere sport. They set about it with such a will that they threatened to clear the forest, for they had but a common need: ’Lance, sir, lance, lance!’ But in the end Lähelin was forced to suffer a cruel humiliation. The King of Zazamanc thrust him over his crupper to the full length, of his bamboo-mounted lance and collected his surrender. But however easily knights went down before him, I would find it pleasanter to gather ripe pears.

  There were many who, finding themselves on his line of attack, cried ‘Look out, here comes the Anchor!’ But an Angevin prince came galloping his way with upturned shield, expressing grief which utterly possessed him. Gahmuret knew its blazon. Why did he turn away? By your leave I will tell you. His affectionate brother, proud Galoes, fil li roy Gandin, bestowed it some time before Love had caused his death in single combat.

  Gahmuret unlaced his helmet. He cut no more paths through grass or dust with his attacks, as befitted his deep sorrow. He wrangled with himself for not having pestered cousin Kaylet to tell him what his brother meant by not joining in this tournament. Alas, he did not know how his brother had died at Muntori. Gahmuret already had trouble enough on his mind, tormented as he was by his love for a noble queen. (She too suffered great distress on his account subsequently and died of loyal grief.)

  Although Gahmuret was now in mourning he had nevertheless in the space of half a day broken so many lances that had a tournament ensued a whole forest would have been cleared. No less than a hundred painted ones had been issued for him, yet the proud man had squandered the lot. His bright pennants were now the property of the heralds and poursuivants, as was their privilege. He rode towards his Pavilion and was followed by the Queen of Waleis’s page, who bagged his precious tabard, pierced and hacked as it was. The boy then took it to show the ladies. It was still resplendent with gold, gleaming like a fiery furnace, and spoke of wealth and magnificence.