Parzival did not turn, nor did he answer a word to this bold challenge. This made Kay furious. He rode forward and whacked Parzival’s helmet with his lance so hard that it rang like a bell. The sorrel spun around at the sound. “Now,” cried Sir Kay, “I will beat you like a miller beats his donkey!” He trotted his horse to, the edge of the clearing, then spurred it into a full gallop.
When the sorrel turned, Parzival’s trance once again was broken. He awoke just in time to see a second knight charging toward him at full tilt. Sir Kay thrust his lance straight through Parzival’s shield, but Parzival struck back, knocking Sir Kay right off his mount. The unlucky steward fell against a tree, breaking both an arm and a leg.
As for Parzival, he turned once more to stare at the ruby drops upon the snow. He did not even notice the hole in his shield or that he had shattered his lance in the joust.
Sir Kay was carried on a pallet to Arthur’s pavilion, where all the court crowded about him, lamenting his injuries, kindly Sir Gawain most of all.
“Well, of course,” Sir Kay said sarcastically to Gawain, “it would not do for you to ride out to avenge me. I am only the king’s steward and
you are the king’s own nephew. It would not be proper for you to lower yourself to combat on my account. If the situation were reversed, if even the toe on your foot had been injured, I would rush out to defend your honor. But then that would be only fitting, considering your high birth. But you, my lord, are better known for your gentleness than your jousting. Why, it is often said that you more closely resemble your sweet mother than you do your bold father.”
Sir Gawain, being a true gentleman and knight, did not reply to Sir Kay’s taunts. “I do not think,” he said quietly, “that anyone has ever seen me run from a sword. I am, as always, at your service, sir.”
Sir Gawain rode out to meet the mysterious challenger, but he went unarmed. Courteously, he greeted the knight who had so rudely dispatched two of Arthur’s court. The knight did not answer; indeed, he did not even turn to see who was approaching.
“Sir,” Gawain continued, “since you refuse my greeting, does that mean you intend to meet me with force? Your skill is not in dispute, but you have insulted a king and his lady, and every knight at their disposal is eager to do battle against you. Why don’t you just come and let me take you with me to the king? He is my uncle and will forgive you if I ask on your behalf. I promise you will not lose any honor if you do.”
Again, the mysterious knight made no answer. Sir Gawain was not easily discouraged. He asked, he cajoled; at last, he even threatened, but the knight did not even turn his head to look at him. He acts as if he’s lost his senses, Gawain thought. Suddenly he remembered an occasion when he had lost his own. He had given his heart in love and his senses had seemed to flee. Gawain rode around to the sorrel’s head to see what the knight was staring at so fixedly in the snow. When he saw the three drops of blood, he threw his mantle down to cover them.
Parzival spoke then, but not to Gawain. “My lady,” he said, “do not leave me. Didn’t I save you from Clamide and make you my wife? Didn’t I give everything to save your people? Why do you hide yourself from me? And where”—he jerked his head up and looked about—“is my lance?”
“My lord,” said Gawain gently, “your lance is yonder. Shattered in a joust.”
“Hey there, sir. Do you mean to fight?” Parzival asked, seeing Gawain for the first time. “You’d best beware. I’ve knocked one or two men off their horses in my day.”
“I have no wish to joust with you,” Gawain answered. “There is encamped just over there a king and his lady with all his court. I wish to guide you to them. I promise no one will attack you if you come with me.”
“Who are you, gentle knight, and who is your king?”
“I am the son of Lot and nephew to King Arthur, who is encamped here. Perhaps you have heard of me as well. My name is Gawain.”
“Ah, yes, Sir Gawain,” Parzival replied. “They shall not credit me with special honor for being received kindly by you. It is well known that you receive everyone with kindness. And still I thank you, but I cannot go to Arthur’s court. I was there once before and on my account a lady suffered humiliation. Arthur’s steward beat her as though he were felling a tree. Until I can make amends for that, I will not appear before the king.”
Gawain laughed despite himself. “You have paid that account in full,” he said. “The steward lies now in Arthur’s tent with a broken arm and a broken leg. He was your second conquest of the morning. Sir Segramors, who is no mean fighter either, is in his own tent nursing a wounded pride. Now come with me, good sir, and give your greeting to our gracious king and his lady.”
Parzival could not bring himself to speak to the kindly Gawain of his cousin’s curse or the shame of Wild Mountain. He took off his helmet and followed as he was bid.
As Gawain and Parzival approached the camp, the Lady Cunneware saw them come. Even though his face was still filthy from rust and perspiration, she recognized Parzival. “You have sent three knights, one of whom was my own brother, to protect me, and today you yourself have made amends for that unjust beating the steward gave me,” she said as she greeted him. She kissed his grimy cheek and ordered her serving boys to see that he was bathed and provided with rich clothing.
When Arthur heard who the strange visitor was, he was delighted. He ordered the meadow in the midst of the camp to be cleared of snow in the shape of a great circle, so it would seem that his knights and their ladies were feasting at a giant Round Table. That night, Parzival was seated at a place of honor and all (except perhaps Sir Kay) rejoiced that the handsome Parzival had returned. Even Queen Guenever forgave him for the death of Ither, for, if the truth be told, there were few ladies in Arthur’s court who had not felt a fondness for that bold knight who had died so shameful a death—pierced by a javelin in the hand of an untutored boy. Duke Orilus begged forgiveness for the sins he and his brother Lahelin had committed against the kingdoms that belonged to Parzival and pledged full restitution.
Parzival was glad to pardon all who asked, even King Clamide, who had wronged his wife. He had no appetite for revenge that night when he saw how graciously they all received him.
Indeed, Parzival’s heart was lighter than it had been since the day he rode out from Queen Condwiramurs’s castle. Despite his cousin’s curse, he had made amends both to the duchess and to the Lady Cunneware. He could almost forget Sigune’s anger and the shame of Wild Mountain as every knight and lady drank to his good health and praised his skill and courage.
But his joy was not to last one single night.
“Son of Uther Pendragon!” A shrill voice pierced the merriment of the feast like a lance through a shield. The whole company turned to see, on the edge of the circle, a huge mule, saddled and bridled like the most noble of horses. Its rider, too, was dressed in a beautiful robe with a peacock hat, but the face under the hat made them all shrink back in repulsion. It was a woman, but what woman would want to claim her for a sister? Her black plait falling down her shoulder was as coarse as pig’s bristles. Her nose jutted out like a dog’s and her teeth were like the tusks of a wild boar. Her skin was like wrinkled leather and her nails like the claws of a lion.
Even those who had never seen her before knew at once who she was—Cundrie, whom some called the Sorceress, but perhaps should rather call the Prophetess, for she had never been known to tell an untruth.
“I do not greet you as king, son of Pendragon,” she said to Arthur, her voice grating as metal scraping against metal, “for you have allowed a malignancy into your circle. The Round Table is corrupted. Like a fruit with a worm in its heart, it will be destroyed from within. And you, son of Pendragon, have welcomed this worm into your bosom. I cannot greet you; you have lost all honor.”
Before the astonished Arthur could reply to this strange salutation, Cundrie rode her mule into the circle and stood directly before Parzival. She stretched out her clawed finger toward his face. “You call yourself the son of Gahmuret,” she said. “I would deny it except that I know that your pure mother was never false. Still, how are you his son? That man of honor. He has another son whom you would call an infidel—a son he had of a Moorish queen. Yet that son, infidel though he may be, is as noble as Gahmuret before him. While you, you—you have earned Hell eternally,” she cried. “May it begin for you here on earth. You were taken to Wild Mountain so that you might release that wretched king. Where was your compassion, son of Gahmuret and Herzoloyde? How could you fail to ask the question that would give Anfortas peace at last? You saw the bloody lance, the silver knives, the Grail itself, and yet you failed to ask. Woe, that I should be the one to say that matchless Herzoloyde’s son has so fallen from the height of Heaven’s honor to the lowest shame of Hell.”
Cundrie began to wring her monstrous hands in despair and weep so that great tears crisscrossed her hideous features. “Alas, Wild Mountain, that you have lost all hope of consolation.” With that, Cundrie left Arthur’s circle and disappeared into the shadows of the forest.
There was no more feasting that night. The joy of Arthur’s court vanished like the moon behind dense clouds. Parzival took leave of his friends. When Clamide asked him to plead with the Lady Cunneware on his behalf, he did so, and perhaps it was a little comfort to Parzival to know that Cunneware would have a noble husband to protect her now.