Arthurian Romances (83 page)

What Perceval had heard made him weep, and he wanted to go to speak with the holy man.

‘I should like to go there,' he said, ‘to the hermit, if I knew the path and way.'

‘My lord, if you wish to go there, keep right to this path before you, over which we came through the depths of this thick forest, taking careful note of the branches we bound together with our hands as we came through the woods: we made these signs so that no one would lose their way while going to this holy hermit.'

Then they commended one another to God and asked no more questions.

Perceval set out on the path, sighing deep within his heart because he felt he had sinned against God and was very sorry for it. Weeping, he went through the thicket, and when he came to the hermitage he dismounted and removed his armour. He tied his horse to a hornbeam and entered the hermit's cell. In a small chapel he found the hermit with a priest and a young cleric – this is the truth – who were just beginning the service, the highest and sweetest that can be said in Holy Church. Perceval knelt down as soon as he entered the chapel, and the good hermit called him over to him, for he saw he was humble and penitent and that the tears flowed from his eyes right down to his chin. And Perceval, who was very much afraid that he had sinned against Almighty God, took the hermit by the foot, bowed before him and with hands clasped begged him to give him absolution, for he felt in great need of it. The good hermit told him to make his confession, for he would never be forgiven if he did not first confess and repent.

‘Sir,' said Perceval, ‘it has been over five years since I have known where I was going, and I have not loved God or believed in Him, and all I have done has been evil.'

‘Ah, dear friend,' said the worthy man, ‘tell me why you acted in this manner, and pray God to have mercy upon the soul of His sinner.'

‘Sir, I was once at the manor of the Fisher King, and I saw the lance whose point bleeds beyond doubt, and I never asked about this drop of blood I saw suspended from the white iron tip. I've done nothing since then to make amends, and I never learned who was served from the grail I saw. Since that day, I have suffered such affliction that I would rather have died; I forgot Almighty God and never implored Him for mercy, and I've not consciously done anything to merit His forgiveness.'

‘Ah, dear friend,' said the good man, ‘now tell me your name.'

And he answered: ‘Perceval, sir.'

At this word the hermit sighed, for he recognized the name, and said: ‘Brother, a sin of which you are unaware has caused you much hardship: it is the sorrow your mother felt at your departure from her. She fell in a faint on the ground at the head of the bridge in front of the gate, and she died from this sorrow. On account of this sin of yours it came about that you did not ask about the lance or the grail, and many hardships have come to you in consequence. And understand that you would not have lasted until now had she not commended you to God; but her prayer was so powerful that God watched over you for her sake and kept you from death and imprisonment. Sin stopped your tongue when you saw pass in front of you the lance
that bleeds unceasingly and failed to ask its purpose; when you did not inquire who is served from the grail, you committed folly. The man served from it is my brother. Your mother was his sister and mine; and the rich Fisher King, I believe, is the son of the king who is served from the grail. And do not imagine he is served pike or lamprey or salmon. A single host that is brought to him in that grail sustains and brings comfort to that holy man – such is the holiness of the grail!
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And he is so holy that his life is sustained by nothing more than the host that comes in the grail. He has lived for twelve years like this, without ever leaving the room into which you saw the grail enter. Now I wish to impose your penance for this sin.'

‘Dear uncle, that is what I desire,' said Perceval with all his heart. ‘Since my mother was your sister you should call me nephew and I should call you uncle, and love you the more.'

‘That is true, dear nephew, but listen now: if you feel remorse for your soul, you must have true repentance in your heart and go each day to do penance in church before going anywhere else: that will bring you blessings. Let nothing deter you from this duty: if you are anywhere near a church, chapel or altar, go there as soon as the bells ring, or earlier if you are awake. This will never hurt you; rather, it will improve your soul. And if Mass has begun, your visit will be even better. Stay there until the priest has said and sung it all. If you do this with a true heart, you will yet improve yourself and win honour and salvation. Believe in God, love God, worship God;
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honour gentlemen and noble ladies; arise in the presence of the priest – it is an easy thing to do and God truly loves it, since it is a sign of humility. If a maiden seeks your aid, or a widow or orphan, help them, and you will profit. This is the full penance I want you to do for your sins if you wish to regain the graces you used to enjoy. Tell me now if you are willing.'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘most willing.'

‘Now I would wish you to remain here with me for two full days, and in penitence to take only such nourishment as I do.'

Perceval agreed to this and the hermit whispered a prayer into his ear, repeating it until he knew it well. And in this prayer were many of the names for Our Lord, all the best and holiest, which should never be uttered by the mouth of man except in peril of death.
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After he had taught him the prayer he forbade him ever to say it except in the gravest of perils.

‘Nor shall I, sir,' said Perceval.

So he remained and heard the service and his heart filled with joy; after the service he worshipped the Cross and wept for his sins. And that night for supper he had what the hermit liked, though there were only herbs –
chervil, lettuce, and watercress – and barley and oat bread, and clear spring water; and his horse was bedded in straw and given a full bucket of barley.

Thus Perceval acknowledged that God was crucified and died on Good Friday. On Easter Sunday Perceval very worthily received communion. The tale no longer speaks of Perceval at this point; you will have heard a great deal about my lord Gawain before I speak of Perceval again.

After escaping from the tower where he had been attacked by the mob my lord Gawain rode until he came, between the hour of tierce and midday, to the foot of a hillock upon which he saw a tall and mighty oak, thick with leaves that cast a deep shadow. He saw a shield hanging from the oak with a straight lance beside it. He hurried towards the oak until he saw beside it a small Norwegian palfrey; he was quite surprised, for it was most unusual, or so it seemed to him, to find a palfrey together with a shield and arms. Had the palfrey been a charger, he might have assumed that some squire, who had gone off through the countryside to seek his glory and honour, had climbed this hillock. Then he looked beneath the oak and saw sitting there a damsel who would have seemed very beautiful to him had she been happy and joyful; but she had thrust her fingers in her tresses to pull out her hair and was manifesting every sign of grief. She was lamenting for a knight, whose eyes, forehead, and lips she was kissing repeatedly. When my lord Gawain approached her he saw the knight was wounded: his face was cut up and he had a severe sword gash in his head; blood was flowing freely down both his sides. The knight had fainted again and again from the pain he suffered, until at last he fell asleep.

When my lord Gawain came there, he could not tell whether the knight was dead or alive, so he said: ‘My beauty, do you think this knight you're holding will survive?'

‘You can see that his wounds are so serious that he could die from the least of them,' she replied.

And Gawain said to her: ‘My sweet friend, awaken him, if you don't mind, for I wish to ask him news of the affairs of this land.'

‘Sir, I won't awaken him,' said the maiden. ‘I'd let myself be ripped to pieces first, for I've never loved a man so dearly and never will again as long as I live. Since I see him sleeping peacefully, I'd be a wretched fool if I did anything that might cause him to complain of me.'

‘Upon my word, then I'll awaken him,' said my lord Gawain. And so with the butt of his lance he touched the knight's spur; the knight was not upset to be awoken in this fashion, because Gawain had nudged his spur so very gently that he did not hurt him. Instead the knight thanked him and
said: ‘My lord, I thank you five hundred times for having nudged and awoken me in such a courteous manner that I've felt no pain at all. But for your own safety I urge you not to proceed beyond this spot, for that would be a great folly. Take my advice and stay here.'

‘Stay here, my lord. Why should I?'

‘I'll tell you, upon my faith, since you wish to hear it. No knight who crossed these fields or took these paths has ever returned, for this is the frontier of Galloway: no knight can ever cross it and return with his life; and no knight has ever returned except me, but I'm so grievously wounded that I don't think I'll live to see the evening. For I encountered a knight who was bold and brave and strong and proud: I'd never before encountered such a bold one or tested myself against one so mighty. Therefore I advise you to turn back rather than descend this hillock.'

‘Upon my word,' said my lord Gawain, ‘it would be a base decision to turn around: I didn't come here to turn back. It would be reckoned the worst sort of cowardice if I were to turn back after having chosen this road: I'll go forward until I learn why no one can return.'

‘I clearly see you are determined to go,' said the injured knight, ‘and you will go, since it is your desire to increase and enhance your honour. But if it would not displease you, should God grant you the honour to return this way – which honour no knight, not you or any other, has ever had at any time, nor do I believe ever will in any event – I would like to beseech you to ascertain, if you please, whether I am dead or alive, whether I'm better off or worse. If I am dead, in charity and in the name of the Holy Trinity, I beseech you to take care of this maiden and see that she is not disgraced or abused. And may it please you to do so, for God never made or conceived of a nobler, better bred, more courteous or more gracious damsel. It seems to me that she's very sad now on my account, and rightly so, for she sees me near to death.'

My lord Gawain assured him that if imprisonment or other unforeseen misfortune did not detain him, he would return there to him and give the maiden the best advice he could.

Thus he left them and rode on across plains and through forests until he saw a mighty castle, to one side of which was a large seaport filled with many ships. The castle, which was very splendid, was worth scarcely less than Pavia. Beyond it were the vineyards and a mighty river flowed around all the walls down to the sea: thus the castle and town were completely encircled by it.

My lord Gawain entered the castle by crossing a bridge, and when he had
climbed to the strongest place in all the castle, in a garden beneath an elm he found a maiden all alone gazing in a mirror at her face and neck, which were whiter than the snow. Her head was encircled by a narrow band of orphrey. My lord Gawain spurred his horse to a canter towards the maiden and she shouted to him: ‘Slow down! Slow down, sir! Go easy, you're riding too recklessly. You shouldn't hurry so and quicken your horse's pace: only a fool rushes up for no reason.'

‘Maiden,' said my lord Gawain, ‘may you be blessed by God! Tell me now, dear friend, what you were thinking when you, without reason, cautioned me to slow down?'

‘I do have one, I swear, sir knight, for I know just what you are thinking.'

‘What then?' he asked.

‘You want to grab me and carry me down this hill across your horse's neck.'

‘That's right, damsel.'

‘I knew it well,' said she. ‘Cursed be any man who thinks that! Be careful never to try to put me on your horse! I'm not one of those silly girls the knights sport with and carry away on their horses when they go out seeking adventure. You'll never carry me on your horse! However, if you dared, you could take me with you. If you are willing to take the trouble to fetch me my palfrey from this garden plot, I'll go along with you until you encounter in my company misfortune and grief and trials and shame and woe.'

‘And is anything more than courage needed for these trials, dear friend?' he asked.

‘I don't believe so, vassal,' answered the damsel.

‘Ah, damsel, where can I leave my horse if I cross to the garden, for he could never pass over that plank I see.'

‘It's true he couldn't, sir, so give him to me and cross on foot. I'll care for your horse as long as I'm able to hold him. But hurry back, because I couldn't do much if he became restive or were taken from me by force before your return.'

‘What you say is true,' he said. ‘If he escapes or is taken from you, I'll not hold you responsible, and you'll never hear me say otherwise.'

So he entrusted his horse to her and departed, but he decided to carry all his arms with him. For if he were to find anyone in the orchard who wished to prevent him from fetching the palfrey, there would be a fight or battle before he would be persuaded to return without it.

Then he crossed over the plank and found a gathering of many people who looked at him in amazement and said: ‘May a hundred devils burn you, maiden, for such an evil deed! May you go to perdition, for you've never loved a noble man! You've caused many a one to lose his head, and it's a very great pity. Sir knight, you intend to lead away the palfrey, but you don't yet realize the troubles that still await you if you lay a hand upon it! Ah, sir knight, why do you continue to approach it? Truly you would never come near it if you realized the great shame, the great trials and great sufferings that will befall you if you lead it away.'