‘Downcast or cheerful, my mother told me to greet them all. God keep you,’ said the boy. ‘It’s a sad thing I see in your lap there. Who gave you that wounded knight?’ And he went on unabashed, ‘Who shot him? Was it with a javelin? It looks to me as if he’s dead, ma’am. If you will tell me about the man who killed him I will gladly fight him, provided I can ride him down.’ And the stout lad clutched at his quiver full of keen javelins. He still had the two gages he had torn from Jeschute when a deed of youthful folly was done. Had he learnt his father’s noble ways, which remained with him all his life, the tilting would have been more on the mark, back there where the Duchess had sat all alone! Now, thanks to him, she was to suffer great misery. For a year and more her husband did not approach her. The woman was much wronged.
Now hear about Sigune. She could express her grief most dolefully.
‘You have much to commend you,’ she told the boy. ‘All honour to your sweet youth and charming looks! The day will come, I know, when you will be blessed with good fortune. No javelin came his way: this knight lost his life in a joust.* You are of loyal stock to feel such pity for him.’ Before she would let him ride she asked him his name, declaring his looks bore the marks of God’s own handiwork.
‘ “Bon fiz, cher fiz, bea fiz” – that’s what they used to call me, those who knew me at home.’ At these words she at once knew his name. Now hear him named by his true name so that you may know who is lord of this story as he stands there talking with the girl.
‘Upon my word, you are Parzival!’ said she of the red lips. ‘Your name means “Pierce-through-the heart”.† Great love ploughed just such a furrow through your mother’s heart. When he died, your father left sorrow for her portion. It is not to boast that I tell you, but your mother is my mother’s sister, and I will tell you plainly who you are. Your father was an Angevin. On your mother’s side you are a Waleis and born of Kanvoleis. I know for a fact that you are King of Norgals too and by rights should wear a crown in the capital city of King-rivals. This Prince, who kept his faith unscarred, was slain on your account whilst guarding your lands, as always. My sweet young charming man, two brothers have done you great wrong: Lähelin robbed you of two kingdoms; Orilus has slain this knight in battle with the lance and your paternal uncle as well. Me too he has left in misery. This Prince from your country served me irreproachably while your mother was fostering me. Dear, kind cousin, let me tell you how it came about. It was a Setter’s Leash that brought him this sharp death which he got in the service of us both, bringing me to the extremity of grief, so much do I love him. Where were my poor wits, that I denied him enjoyment of love? From this prime source of grief my happiness is slashed to shreds and now I love him dead!’*
‘Cousin,’ he said, ‘your sufferings grieve me, and my disgrace is great. If ever I have power to avenge it I will settle the account.’ He was all impatient to go and fight, but she gave him the wrong direction, fearing he would be killed and she take greater harm.
He took a broad, paved road that led to the men of Britain. Whoever came riding or walking by, whether knight or merchant, he promptly gave all a greeting, declaring his mother had said he should. Nor had she erred in giving him this counsel.
With the approach of evening, great weariness came over him. Soon the simple fellow saw a fair-sized house; Within lived a churlish host of a kind that still sprouts from boorish stock today. He was a fisherman, a man without a saving grace. With hunger for guide the boy rode in and told the master how famished he was.
‘I’d not give you half a loaf in thirty years,’ said the man. ‘If anyone thinks he’ll catch me being generous, all for nothing, he’s wasting his time! I don’t fend for any but myself, after that my children. You won’t get in here if you wait for the rest of the day. But if you had a penny or something you could pawn, I’d take you in at once.’ The boy offered him Lady Jeschute’s brooch there and then. When the boor saw it his mouth broke into a grin. ‘If you will stay with us, dear child,’ he said, ‘all of us here will treat you with respect.’
‘If you feed me well tonight, and tomorrow show me the right way to Arthur whom I love, this gold will be yours.’
‘I will,’ said the boor. ‘Never did I see so well made a boy. I’ll take you up to the King’s Round Table to see what comes of it all.’
The boy stayed the night there. Next morning saw him miles away – he was scarce able to wait for daylight. His host made ready and ran ahead, while the boy followed on horseback: both were in a hurry.
Sir Hartmann of Aue, I am sending a stranger to the Palace to visit your lord and lady, King Arthur and Queen Ginover.* Kindly shield him from mockery. He is no fiddle or rote. In the name of all that is seemly let people find something else to strum on! – otherwise your Lady Enite† and her mother Karsnafite will be dragged through the mill and their reputations lowered! If I am to twist my mouth to jibes, with jibes I will defend my friend!
The fisherman and the noble boy were approaching a great city: they were near enough to see that it was Nantes. ‘God be with you, child,’ said the one. ‘Look, that’s where you ride in.’ ‘Do guide me further,’ replied the backward youth. ‘I’ll take good care I don’t! The retainers are all so fine, it wouldn’t do at all for a peasant to approach them!’
The boy rode on alone to a fair-sized meadow bright with flowers. No Kurvenal‡ had reared him, he knew nothing of fine manners, as is often the case with a stay-at-home. His bridle was of bast and his little palfrey very feeble – its stumblings often brought it to its knees. No new leather had been nailed to its saddle anywhere. As to samite or ermine, not a bit could you see on him. He had no need of cords for a mantle: instead of suckeny and surcoat he had taken his javelin. His father, whose style was highly spoken of, was better dressed on the carpet at Kanvoleis.
Riding towards this lad who had never known the sweat of fear there came a knight whom he greeted as usual with a ‘God keep you! That’s what my mother told me.’
‘God reward both you and her, young sir,’ said the knight. A son of Arthur’s paternal aunt, the warrior had been reared by Utepandragun and was moreover laying claim to Britain as his heritage. His name was Ither of Gaheviez and he was otherwise called ‘The Red Knight’, for his gear was so red that it infected the eye with its redness! His charger was a swift sorrel, its crinière red all over, its trappers were of red samite, his shield redder than fire. His surcoat, well and amply cut to his figure, was all red. Lance-head and shaft were both of them red. The warrior’s sword was all red as he had wished it, but well hardened at its edges. And the finely chased goblet which this King of Cucumerlant had standing in his hand, having seized it from the Table Round, was entirely of red gold. His skin was white, his hair red. Frankly he addressed the boy.
‘A blessing on your good looks! It was a fine woman brought you to the world. Bless the mother that bore you! I never saw so handsome a form. You are die very glance of Love, her victory and defeat. For the joy of many a woman will triumph in you, then grief for you lie heavy on her. Dear friend, if you are going in, please tell Arthur and his men that none shall see me run away. I shall gladly wait here for any who cares to arm for a joust. Let none of them think it a romantic adventure: I rode to the Table Round and claimed my lands. My clumsy hand snatched up this cup, and so the wine was spilt into my lady Ginover’s lap. This I did to assert my title. Now had I, instead, upended a burning wisp of straw, I would have smeared myself with soot: but this I did not do!’ said die gallant warrior. ‘Nor did I do so for die sake of plunder: my Crown exempts me from the need. Now, friend, tell die Queen that I splashed her without intent, in die presence of nobles who forgot their weapons. Kings or princes, why do they let their host go thirsty, why do they not fetch his golden cup for him? If they do not, their bounding fame will lag behind!’
‘I will do as you ask,’ die boy replied, and leaving him, rode into Nantes.
Here little children followed him into the courtyard before th
e Palace, where there was a great stir. He was at once the centre of a jostling crowd. Iwanet, a frank young page, leapt forward and offered him company. ‘God keep you!’ said the boy. ‘My mother told me to say so before I left her house. I see a lot of Arthurs here – which is to make me a knight?’ Iwanet laughed. ‘You can’t see the right one here,’ he said, ‘but you soon will.’ And he led him into the Palace where the noble Household had foregathered. Above the din he managed to say ‘God keep you all, especially the King and his Lady! I had strict orders from my mother to give them a special greeting. Those, too, whose fame entitles them to a seat at the Table Round. But one thing escapes my knowledge: I do not know who is master here within. A knight I saw shining red all over gave a message for him that he will wait for him outside there. I think he wants to fight. He is sorry too that he spilt the wine over the Queen. Oh, if only I had received his trappings from the King! I would be very happy then, it looks so fit for a knight!’
The fearless lad was charged and jostled from side to side. They examined his appearance, which told its own story – handsomer progeny was never sir’d or madam’d. God was in a pleasant mood when he made Parzival, whom no terrors could abash.
And so the boy in whom God had contrived perfection was brought into Arthur’s presence. To dislike him was not possible. On leaving the Palace where she had been splashed with wine the Queen, too, had a look at him.
‘God reward you for your greeting, young sir,’ said Arthur as he gazed at the raw young man. ‘I would gladly deserve it with life and wealth, I assure you!’
‘Would to God it were so! It seems a year to me, all this time I go unknighted. I cannot say it makes me very happy. Now don’t put me off any longer but do what it takes to make a knight of me!’
‘I shall gladly do so as long as honour is with me,’ replied his host. ‘You are so very charming that the gift I shall make you master of will be a magnificent one. Believe me, I should hate to be denied. Wait until tomorrow. I shall equip you well.’
The noble youth stood there trampling like a bustard. ‘I do not ask for anything here,’ he said. ‘A knight came riding towards me. If I can’t have his armour I shan’t care who talks of the King’s gifts. My mother will give me something just as well, she’s a queen, you know.’
‘The man this armour sits on is so formidable,’ Arthur told the boy, ‘that I dare not give it you; Even now, and through no fault of mine, I am denied his favour and lead a wretched life of it. He is Ither of Gaheviez and has shattered all my happiness.’
‘You would be a mean king to stick at such a gift. Give it him,’ said Keie, ‘and unleash him on Ither out there in the field. If anyone is to bring us back the goblet, here stands the whip, there the top. Let the boy flog him round – they’ll commend it to the ladies! He must face odds in many a tussle yet. I am concerned for the life of neither. To win a boar’s head one must sacrifice the hounds.’
‘I should be sorry to deny him, but I fear he may be killed, this boy I should be helping to knighthood,’ was Arthur’s loyal response. But the lad accepted the gift – with dire results as it proved.
And now he raced away from the King, while young and old pressed after him. Iwanet took him by the hand and led him past a low gallery. He surveyed it from end to end. It was indeed so low that he witnessed a thing up there which saddened him.
It was the Queen’s pleasure to be sitting there in person with knights and ladies at the windows, and they all began to observe him. The proud and radiant Lady Cunneware was sitting there too. She never laughed nor ever would till she saw the man who held the palm or was destined to win it. Else she would rather die. She had refrained from laughing altogether till the boy went riding past. But now her lovely lips parted in a laugh that caused her back to smart! For Keie the Seneschal seized my lady Cunneware de Lalant by her curly hair, he wound her long tresses round his hand and clenched her without a door-hinge.* Her back was taking no oath, yet a staff was so applied to it that its weight sank through clothes and skin till its swishing died away.
‘You have dismissed your good name with contumely,’ he said, quite beside himself, ‘but I am the net that retrieves it. I shall hammer it back into you so that you feel it in your bones. So many worthy men have ridden to Arthur’s forecourt and into his Palace and failed to make you laugh, and now you laugh for one who has no notion of knightly deportment!’
Anger leads to great excess. His right to strike this maiden, whose friends were so very sorry for her, would not have been upheld before the Emperor. Even had she been a knight, these blows would have been unseemly, for she was a princess born. Had her brothers Orilus and Lâhelin been looking on, fewer blows would have been struck there.
Mute Antanor, whom from his silence people thought a fool, had refrained from speech for the same reason as she from laughter. He was going to say no word till the maiden laughed who had just been thrashed. And now that she had laughed he opened his mouth and said to Keie ‘God knows, Sir Seneschal, it was because of the boy that Cunneware de Lalant was beaten. He will fritter your jollity away for that one day, however lonely and friendless he may be.’
‘Since the first words you utter are to threaten me, I swear you will have little joy of it!’ Antanor’s hide was tanned for him, and clouting fists had much to whisper in the ears of this knowing fool – Keie was swift to act. Young Parzival had to stand by and watch while Antanor and the lady suffered. Their distress angered him to the very core. He kept on clutching at his javelin, but there was such a throng before the Queen that he could not hurl it.
Then Iwanet took leave of fil li roy Gahmuret, who set out alone for the meadow to join Ither. He brought Ither news that none of those within were eager to break a lance. ‘The King made me a gift. I told him, as you asked me, that you spilt the wine accidently and were annoyed at having been so clumsy. Not one has relish for a fight. Give me what you are riding on and all your gear as well. It was given me up at the Palace. I’m to be made a knight in it. If you begrudge it I’ll take back my greeting. So if you are wise you will give it me.’
‘If Arthur gave you my armour,’ replied the King of Cucumerlant, ‘and granted you succeed in winning it from me, then he also gave you my life! So this is the way he favours his friends! Was there something in the past that earned you his good will? – Your services are prompt to find their reward.’
‘I dare to deserve what is due to me, and there is no denying that he gave it me! Hand it over and stop your wrangling! I will be a page no longer, I must follow the Calling of the Shield.’ He snatched at the other’s bridle: ‘You are Lähelin, aren’t you, of whom my mother complained to me?’
The knight reversed his lance and thrust at the boy with such might that he and his little nag came tumbling down on the flowers. The warrior was quick-tempered. He beat the boy with the shaft so that blood sprayed through his pores in a cloud. Parzival, good lad, stood enraged on that meadow. He clutched at his javelin, and there, where helmet and vizor leave a gap above the coif, the missile pierced Ither through the eye and then the nape, so that he who was the negation of all that is perfidious fell dead.
The death of Ither of Gaheviez gave rise to women’s sighs and laceration of heartfelt grief. He left them a legacy of moist eyes. Any that harboured sentiments of love for him saw her happiness routed, her gay spirit overwhelmed and escorted into the rough.*
Naive young Parzival turned him over and over. He could not tug anything off him – what a strange affair it was! Helmet-lace or knee-pieces, his fine white hands failed to loosen or otherwise twist any off. Yet he tried and tried again, this lad so little favoured with good sense.
The war-horse and the little palfrey whinnied so loudly that Ginover’s page and kinsman Iwanet heard it before the walls at the moat’s edge. Hearing the charger’s fretting and seeing no rider in the saddle, the alert boy hastened to the scene, drawn by the friendship he felt for Parzival.
He found Ither dead, and Parzival in a child’s
perplexity. He quickly ran along to them, and congratulated Parzival on the honour he had won at the expense of the Lord of Cucumerlant.
‘God reward you! Now tell me what to do. I don’t know much about this. How do I get it off him and on to me?’
‘I can show you that,’ Iwanet proudly told fil li roy Gahmuret. The dead man was despoiled of his armour there on the field of Nantes, and it was laid upon the living, who nevertheless is still inspired by great simplicity. ‘Your buskins ought not to stay beneath your armour. From now on you must wear only knightly attire.’
This did not please Parzival at all. ‘Nothing my mother gave me shall ever leave my body,’ said the good lad, ‘for better or for worse.’
To Iwanet, who was no child, this seemed rather odd, yet there was nothing for it but to agree: he did not lose his patience with him. He encased him, over his buskins, in two jambs of gleaming steel. With them went a pair of spurs worked in gold which were attached not by leathers but silken cords. These he fastened on. Before offering him his hauberk Iwanet laced on his knee-guards. And so, suffering it with keen impatience, Parzival was armed from heel to crown.
The stout lad then demanded his quiver. ‘I will not hand you any javelins: the Order of Chivalry forbids it,’ said the noble page Iwanet. He girded a sharp sword on him, taught him how to draw it and commanded him never to flee. He then led forward the dead man’s long-legged castilian. Scorning the stirrups, Parzival leapt fully armed into the saddle. His manly vigour is still commended today.
Iwanet further taught him how to manœuvre behind his shield and watch for his chance to harm his enemy. He pressed a lance into Parzival’s hand much against the latter’s will. Nevertheless ‘What’s this for?’ he asked.
Parzival Page 9
