Parzival by Katherine Paterson Read Free Book Online Page B

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