As he came to a river, he chanced to hear someone crying. He dismounted and went to see whether he could help the person in such distress. There on the farther side of the bank was a young woman, weeping over the body of a knight.
“God keep you, good lady,” said the boy. “My mother told me to say that.”
The young woman looked up at the strangely clad figure who was greeting her. For all his sackcloth and rawhide leggings, his voice was gentle with compassion.
“Tell me, my lady,” he said, wading across the shallow river, dragging his reluctant nag along behind him, “what is the matter? Why do you have such a sad thing in your lap?”
“This is the knight I loved more than life itself,” the poor maid said. “And now he is mortally wounded.”
“He looks mortally dead to me,” said the boy. “Was it a javelin harmed him? If so, I’ll gladly ride out and avenge his death.”
The maiden was insulted that the boy should think her noble knight had been brought low by a peasant’s dart. Only the coarsest of men would fight with a javelin. “No,” she said, “it was a lance. This noble knight lost his life in a joust.”
There was something about the rough boy that made the lady look at him more closely. She saw beneath his clothes, fit only for a buffoon, that he was truly well formed and handsome. And there was something quite familiar in his features.
‘What is your name¿”. she asked.
“Oh,” he said, “Young Master or Dear Boy or whatever you wish.”
“No,” she said. “Your true name is Parzival, which means Pierced-through-the-heart, because at your birth your noble mother’s heart was truly pierced. I know these things because your mother and mine are sisters. Your father was none other than Gahmuret of Anjou. And through your mother and father, you are heir to three kingdoms. But two brothers, Lahelin and Orilus, have done you wrong. They have stolen your lands and Orilus has slain this knight whom I love.”
“I will take my javelin and avenge these wrongs!” Parzival cried. “Just point me the way.”
But his cousin feared that the rash boy would get himself killed, so for love of her aunt, she sent him off in the opposite direction.
TWO
Parzival
AS hard as Parzival pressed her, his poor nag could not gallop; indeed, she could hardly toddle forward without stumbling. The day grew old and the shadows long, but the boy rode on. “God keep you!” he called out to everyone—knight or peasant—graybeard or child.
At last the boy felt nearly as spent as his poor beast. He came upon a house where there shone a light at the window and knocked upon the door. A surly face appeared. “God keep you!” the boy said. The man would have slammed the door in his face except that Parzival thrust his javelin in the crack to hold it open. “Kind sir,” he said, “my horse and I are very tired and hungrier yet. Would you give us a meal and lodging?”
“Give?” the man snarled. “I give nothing. Show me a coin before you dare ask favors.”
“I have no coins,” the boy answered. “But a good lady gave me this—” and he held out the gold brooch he had taken from the duchess earlier.
“Ah,” said the host, “come in, gentle sir. We will give you food and bed and send you on your way quite satisfied.” He reached greedily for the brooch, but Parzival held on to it tightly.
“If you will give me food and fodder for my horse and a place to sleep and then tomorrow lead me to the court of one called Arthur, this brooch shall be yours.”
“It would please me to take such a handsome boy to the Round Table,” the man said.
The next morning before daybreak, Parzival roused his host. The boy was so eager to get on his way that he didn’t even wait to take breakfast. They rode together until the great city was in sight. Despite his promise, his host refused to go farther. “Won’t you take me up and introduce me to the king?” Parzival asked.
“No,” the man answered. “I’m only a poor peasant. Those grand knights will despise me.”
So, reluctantly, Parzival gave the man the duchess’s brooch and rode alone toward the city. In his sackcloth and rawhide and riding bareback astride his broken-down nag, he made quite a sight on the road. Beggar children followed after, shrieking with laughter. “God keep you!” Parzival called to them.
Just then a knight approached. The knight was dressed in red armor. He carried a bright red shield and rode a great sorrel horse—as near to red as a horse can be. In his hand he carried a beautiful goblet of burnished gold.
“God keep you!” Parzival said. “That’s what my mother told me to say.”
“You are a good lad who does honor to his mother,” the knight answered. “I see you are on your way into the city.”
“Yes. I am going to Arthur’s court to ask him to make me one of his knights.”
The Red Knight looked Parzival over, from his sackcloth doublet to his cowhide buskins. He could hardly keep from smiling. “In that case, I would like to ask a favor of you.”