Parsifal's Page (3 page)

Piers nodded and turned his horse. Parsifal was already across the meadow and into the woods. Piers urged his horse on, but he didn't catch up until he came to Sir Ither's clearing. There was Parsifal, holding Sir Ither's body by his ankles and dragging it around in a circle. One of Parsifal's short spears protruded from the visor of Sir Ither's helm. Parsifal looked up as Piers entered the clearing. "How do you get this stuff off?" he asked.

It took Piers and Parsifal over an hour to remove Sir Ither's armor and buckle it securely onto Parsifal, whom it fit perfectly. Parsifal walked slowly around the clearing.

"It is very fine," he said gravely. "But it will be difficult to run."

"But knights do not run," Piers said. "They ride horses."

"I do not know how to ride a horse," Parsifal said thoughtfully. "I shall have to learn." He walked around the clearing again, then tried to take off his helm. After a moment, Piers helped him.

"See, here is the strap to pull."

Parsifal took off the helm and took a deep breath. "That's better. I couldn't see, and the sounds were all wrong inside there. Must I wear this hat often?"

"It's called a helm," Piers explained. "And you only need wear it when you fight."

"That's good." Parsifal moved his arms stiffly. "How shall I fight, though? I cannot draw my arms back far enough to throw my javelin well."

Piers had been hoping for this opening. "Oh, sir, you mustn't fight with a javelin! It is common and rude and not knightly."

"Knights do not use javelins?" Piers shook his head, and Parsifal said, "But this fellow had a spear, too."

"That's not a spear; it's a lance. Knights hold their lances against their bodies and ride their horses toward their enemies and hit them with the points of the lances."

Parsifal's eyes widened. "That is what knights do?" Piers nodded again, and Parsifal looked earnestly at the page. "Tell me truly. Are knights not very clever?"

"Oh, sir! Do not say that! Knights are the noblest and finest of all men!" Parsifal shook his head thoughtfully. "Indeed they are!" Piers protested. "You will see when you are used to it. The lance is the very prince of weapons. And a fine sword is nearly as grand."

Parsifal's brow cleared. "Yes, of course. The sword." He withdrew from the scabbard the sword that Piers's father had given Sir Ither. "Yes, this is good. Such a weapon makes me feel strong." He waved the sword in the air, clearly still struggling against the confines of his armor. He turned to Piers. "Knights do not
wear their armor all the time. How do they take it off at night?"

"The same way they put it on," Piers replied.

"But I cannot do that without you. And how will I put it back on in the morning?"

Piers hesitated, then said, "I could ride with you, if you like. My former master is dead, and I did not wish to serve such a man anyway."

"Oh, that will be all right, then," said Parsifal, smiling happily. "I like you."

Piers liked Parsifal too, but he could not help thinking how far his star had fallen in just one day. This morning he was page to a royal prince, a nephew of the late king, Uther Pendragon, and now he was a page to an unknown rustic with great strength and grand dreams but nothing else to recommend him. Still, it's better than being a blacksmith, he reminded himself.

"What is your name?" Parsifal asked.

"Pierre," Piers said. "It is French."

"Oh, are you French?"

"Yes," Piers said. It was half true, anyway.

"Is that why you wear a funny hat?"

Piers started to reply angrily, but stopped himself. Just because his new master was ignorant did not mean he could behave discourteously himself. He would have to show Parsifal how knights behave by example. "It is
un chapeau d'un courtisan,
" he said grandly.

"Is that French for 'funny hat'?" Parsifal asked.

Piers sighed. "Something like that," he said resignedly.

"Pierre?" asked Parsifal, a crease on his forehead.

"Yes, Sir Parsifal?"

"'Sir'? Why do you call me 'Sir'?" Parsifal asked curiously.

"It is how one speaks of knights."

"But I am not a knight until I have done great deeds. The king said so."

Piers realized that he was unsure of the protocol here. Parsifal was right. "What should I call you then?"

"Parsifal. It is my name."

Piers felt sure that a page did not call his master by his given name, but he could think of no other option here. He resolved privately never to use the name unless they were alone. "Very well ... er ... Parsifal. Did you have a question for me?"

"Oh, yes. I was just wondering what I do with the armor when I have to make water. Must I take it all off?"

Piers cringed at the indelicacy of the question, but in fairness he admitted that it was something Parsifal should know. For the next few minutes they explored the various hinges and openings in the armor that enabled a knight to relieve himself with relative convenience. Parsifal found these fascinating, and Piers
could only hope that the novelty would wear off and his new master would soon stop playing with his armor.

Piers rode in his pagely position behind Parsifal and watched his master try to stay in the saddle. It was not a pretty sight, but even in the course of one afternoon, Piers could see improvement. Although the depths of Parsifal's ignorance continued to amaze Piers, Parsifal was also an astonishingly quick learner, and he never forgot anything. It had been awkward getting Parsifal into the saddle for the first time, but when he promptly fell off the other side, it had been much easier to get him up again. By the time that Parsifal had learned how to stay on his horse, he was able to climb into the saddle unassisted. Piers knew from his mother's stories that some knights never did learn to mount their horses while in armor and always required some assistance. While there were surely gaps in Parsifal's knowledge, Piers could discern no limits to his physical strength and coordination.

Piers smelled woodsmoke, and then a moment later saw a peasant's cottage over the heath where they were riding. He sighed with resignation, and sure enough, as they drew near to the cottage, Parsifal slowed his horse and bowed his head politely to the gawking yokels outside the little hut. "How do you
do?" Parsifal said. "I hope that you are well today."

The peasants did not answer, but Parsifal did not seem to mind. He touched his horse with his heel and cantered away again.

Piers rode by the hovel, eyes straight ahead. There did not seem to be anything he could do to squelch Parsifal's incurable desire to greet every person whom he encountered, but he did not have to join him in his plebeian habits. The first time that it had happened—Parsifal had stopped to greet a greasy pork-butcher on his way home from market—Piers had suggested that it was not very knightly to say hello to every person, of every station in life. But Parsifal had only said, "Before I left home, my mother told me to greet all I met."

"Perhaps she meant for you to greet all other knights," Piers said.

"She did not say so. I will do what my mother said." Parsifal's voice was pleasant—indeed, it had never been anything but pleasant—but Piers heard the finality of his decision.

On the other hand, Piers had won the dispute over where he was to ride. When they had at last set off, Piers had fallen into position behind his master. Parsifal had complained that he wanted Piers to ride beside him, but Piers had been adamant. No page should ride alongside his knight. It was not seemly. At last Parsifal had conceded the point, perhaps because his mother had not told him any different.

About a mile after the peasant's cottage, they came upon a long tent made of what seemed to be silk. As they drew near, Piers could see a table set with a large dinner, and a beautiful woman seated at one end of the table. She was alone, and Piers's heart began to race. This looked like the beginning of an adventure, if his mother's stories were anything to go by.

Parsifal stopped and dismounted awkwardly. "How do you do?" he said. "I hope you are well today." The lady started to reply, but Parsifal did not wait for her. "I am hungry," he said.

Piers then watched with astonishment as Parsifal strode to the table and picked up a whole roast chicken and began gnawing on it. "Sir!" Piers cried out, dismounting at once. "You musn't—" Then he caught himself. A page should never reprove his master, especially in front of a lady.

As for the lady, she had risen to her feet, one hand over her breast, her face showing equal parts of astonishment and fear. Piers wanted to reassure her that she was in no danger, but a page should be quiet in his master's presence, and he had to content himself with smiling reassuringly at her. She did not seem reassured.

"I beg you, sir knight, do not hurt me," the lady said faintly.

"Oh, I won't hurt you. Do you have anything to drink?" Parsifal said. At least that was probably what
he said. It was hard to make out his exact words since he was speaking through huge mouthfuls of chicken. In less than a minute, the chicken was gone, and the bones were scattered carelessly about the table, leaving greasy spots on the pure white tablecloth. Parsifal reached for a flagon of liquid and began drinking right from the jug.

"What is this?" he declared. "It tastes funny."

"It's ... wine," the lady whispered.

"Is that what wine tastes like? Bleah!" Parsifal cleared his throat and spat noisily onto the table. "Haven't you any water, ma'am?" She shook her head, and Parsifal shrugged. "It's just as well, I suppose. The more I drink, the more I have to make water, and it's not so easy in armor, even though I have this little door here." Parsifal pointed at his little door, and the lady nodded rigidly, her eyes wide. Piers longed for a hole to open up in the ground for him to crawl into.

Parsifal started on a leg of lamb and gestured to Piers. "Come on, Pierre. Tuck in. There's plenty. You, too, ma'am." Piers shook his head and tried to communicate an abject apology to the lady with his eyes, but she did not look his way. She only stared at Parsifal in unblinking amazement. After Parsifal finished the leg of lamb, he leaned back and erupted with a loud belch. "There," he said happily. "That's better."

At this point the lady evidently felt that she should
occupy Parsifal with conversation. "Have you ... have you come far, sir knight?"

"I'm not a real knight yet. I have to do great deeds first," Parsifal confided to the lady. "No, we haven't come far. But I
was
getting peckish. Good thing you were here with all this food. Lucky. Do you do this often?"

"Do what?"

"Sit out here alone with a table full of food."

"I ... am awaiting my husband, Duke Orilus," the lady said. "It is his birthday, and this was to be a surprise for him."

Parsifal stood and stretched. "Well, it will still be a surprise for him, won't it?" He moved his hands over his armor a moment, then laughed. "The worst thing about armor is that it's hard to scratch your itches." He smiled at the lady. "Aren't you glad that you can scratch whenever you like?"

The lady smiled weakly and said, "If you say, sir."

"Well, Pierre and I must be off to do great deeds," Parsifal said. "I'll just kiss you now."

"What?" gasped the lady and Piers in unison.

"My mother said that when I met a fair lady I should give her a kiss." He stepped quickly forward, took the lady's arms in his two hands and lifted her off the ground. She struggled weakly, but Parsifal did not seem to notice, and he kissed her on her cheek and
set her down. Then he looked closely at her hand. "My mother also said I should take a ring from the fair lady I kissed," he said, and before either could say another word, he took a jeweled ring from the lady's hand. Then he walked back to his horse, dropped the ring in his saddlebags, and mounted. "Come along, Pierre," he said, smiling. "I'd like to do at least one great deed before dark."

Clearly Piers had a formidable task before him, if he was ever to make Parsifal a true knight. He began that evening, as they sat around a campfire eating a roast boar that Parsifal had killed with one of his javelins shortly after they made camp.

"Parsifal?"

"Yes, Pierre," Parsifal said around a mouthful of food.

"I need to talk to you about what happened back at that lady's tent."

"Did something happen? I saw nothing."

Piers cleared his throat. "It is only that your behavior there was not completely knightly."

Parsifal belched loudly. "In what way?" he asked.

"Well, there's a good example right there," Piers said, making the most of the moment. "Belching. Knights are not supposed to belch in front of ladies."

Parsifal frowned. "But sometimes I need to belch," he said.

"You must do it quietly when you are among ladies," Piers said.

"Why?"

"Because ladies don't belch, and we must respect their custom," Piers said firmly.

"Ladies don't belch?"

"No, they don't."

Parsifal pondered this for a moment, then said, "Sometimes when I have the gas, I don't belch but instead I—"

"And they don't do that either!" Piers said hastily.

Parsifal shook his head with wonder. "Truly, ladies are amazing creatures. My mother should have told me."

"Yes, that's another thing. What exactly is it that your mother told you before you went out?"

Parsifal smiled. "She gave me much advice. She used to be a lady in a castle herself, you know—the Lady Herzeloyde—and so she knew about knights and things. She said that I should be good and kind and should greet everyone I meet—but you already knew that."

"Yes," Piers muttered.

"She said I should always be good to ladies and never show them violence."

"She said that? Then why did you handle the lady in the tent so roughly?"

"Was I rough?" Parsifal looked concerned. "I meant
no harm. I just picked her up to kiss her better."

"But why did you kiss her at all?"

"Didn't you hear me tell the lady? My mother said that one day I would meet a lady who seemed to me to be fair above all others and that she would make me exceeding glad and that when we had kissed then I should give her a ring and she should give me one, and then we would be happy. I did not have a ring to give her, but she had one for me, so it was all right, was it not?"