Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages

I

TITUREL

At the time when the bold hero Vespasian was called away from the siege of Jerusalem, to be made emperor of Rome, a rich man of Cappadocia, named Parille, or as the Romans called him, Berillus, followed in his train. He was brave in war, and wise of counsel in times of peace, so the emperor gave him large estates in Gaul. His virtues were inherited by his sons, grandsons, and later descendants. One of these, Titurisone, married a noble maiden, named Elizabel, but they had no children. The knight was much distressed at the thought that a noble and chivalrous race should end in him. Once, when he was quite elderly, a soothsayer came to the castle, and asked for a night’s lodging, which was as usual granted. That evening, when he was sitting alone with his guest, the knight began to discourse of the sorrow of his life, and the stranger told him that he ought to make a pilgrimage to the church of the Holy Sepulchre, and lay a crucifix of pure gold on the altar. Titurisone followed the wise man’s advice, and he and his wife had the pleasure of having a son born to them. As the boy grew up, he showed rare gifts of mind, great piety, and unusual strength. He had received the name of Titurel at his baptism, a name that soon became known throughout the length and breadth of the land.

When the boy grew to man’s estate, he went with his father to fight against the heathen. He showed such marvellous prowess, that his father began to praise him, and prophesy great things for his future; but the lad modestly said that he had only done his duty like others.

When the victorious army returned home, Titurel was not to be tempted to remain at court, but hastened away to his native place. Arrived there, he did not go first in search of his mother, but made his way to the chapel, dressed in the robes of a penitent. He approached the altar bare-foot, and presented the booty he had brought from the war. Having prayed for God’s blessing on all his undertakings, he rose from his knees, and, going into the castle, hastened to embrace his mother.

Titurel sometimes took part in the crusade against the Saracens. His gallant deeds were so numerous that they became noised abroad, and his name was held in honour by Christians and infidels alike.

Many years passed on. Titurisone and his wife both died, leaving a large inheritance to their only son. The change in his outward fortunes made no difference in Titurel—he remained as humble in the sight of God and man as before; he had more to give away to the poor and needy, that was the only use of wealth in his eyes.

One beautiful spring morning he went out to walk in the wood. Coming to a soft mossy bank, he seated himself, and looked about him. Flowers filled the air with their perfume, birds were singing in the trees, and a gentle breeze whispered among the fresh green leaves. He felt full of peace and joy; it almost seemed to him as though God were speaking to him in the songs of the birds, the rustle of the foliage, and the murmur of the brook. The sky was blue, one soft fleecy cloud alone was visible. He was surprised to see it coming as if towards him with extraordinary speed, and yet it was not driven by the wind. At last it sank to the earth before him, and out of it came an angel, who spoke to the hero in a deep melodious voice like the sound of the organ in church.

“Hail, chosen hero of the Most High! The Lord hath called thee to guard the holy Grail on His mountain, Montsalvatch. Set thy house in order, and obey the voice of God.”

The angel stepped back, the cloud closed round him like a silver veil, and he floated away to heaven.

Titurel went home in a state of ecstasy. He divided his wealth among his servants and those who had most need of it, after which he returned fully armed to the place where the angel had appeared to him. Once more he saw the cloud in the sky, and this time it was fringed with the gold of sunshine. It went before him, showing him the way to the goal of his pilgrimage. He went on and on through vast solitudes. At length he came to a deep dark wood, and after that to a mountain, the sides of which seemed too steep to climb. But the cloud preceded him, and he followed, dragging himself up precipitous rocks, past great abysses that made him dizzy to look into, and through thickets of thorn. Often he felt so weary he could hardly drag one foot after the other, and was tempted to despair of ever reaching the top. But a voice seemed to speak to him encouragingly at such moments of weakness, and he found strength to struggle on. At length he reached the top of the mountain. He saw a bright light before him, it was the Sangreal borne in the air by invisible hands. Beneath it knelt a number of knights in shining armour. Seeing him, they rose to their feet, and cried,—

“Hail to thee, chosen hero, called to be guardian of the holy Grail!”

He did not answer, his eyes were fixed on the sacred vessel, which was like a cup of emerald-coloured jasper, encircled by a stand of chased gold. Lost in the wondrous sight, he prayed for strength to guard what was put under his charge.

And in good truth Titurel was worthy of his high calling. He, with the help of the other knights under his command, prevented any infidels from approaching the holy mountain. Many years passed away, and the vessel never came down to earth. So Titurel determined to build a castle and temple on the mountain-top worthy to hold and protect the Sangreal.

When the grass, ferns, and stones were cleared away, it was discovered that the rock, or core of the mountain, was one entire onyx of enormous size. This was flattened into a flooring, and polished with great care; and upon it the castle was built. Now came the more important task of rearing the temple, but they were in doubt as to the plan and shape that would be most fitting.

One morning when Titurel awoke, he prayed that he might be enlightened to know how to build the church, and when he went out he saw the entire ground-plan clearly marked out on the rock-foundation, and all the miraculous materials that were wanted, ready piled up in huge stacks. So the knights worked hard all day long, and the invisible powers worked all night. It was wonderful how quickly the walls rose, and the church was finished. It was circular in form, and had seventy-two octagon choirs, every two of which supported a belfry. In the midst rose a tower with many windows, and openings with pointed arches. The topmost point of the tower was a ruby, out of which rose a cross of clear crystal surmounted by a golden eagle with outstretched wings. Within the building, sculptured vines, roses, and lilies twined about the pillars, forming bowers, on whose branches birds seemed to flutter as if alive. At every intersection of the arches was a glowing carbuncle that turned night into day; and the vaulted roof was of blue sapphire, in which a miracle of art was to be seen. The sun, moon, and stars placed there by the builders, moved in the same order as the real luminaries in the heavens.

In the wide inner space of the great temple a second and smaller sanctuary was built, resembling the first, but far more beautiful. This was the place intended for the Sangreal, should it come down to earth.

And now the work was finished. The hour of consecration had come. The bells rang. The priests began to chant the hymn, and a chorus of angels joined in: “Glory to God on high, peace on earth, good will to men.” At the same moment a sweet perfume filled the air, the sacred vessel descended and floated over the altar in the inner sanctuary. A deep and solemn silence reigned in the mighty building. Then the invisible choir began to sing: “The glory of the Lord has arisen in Zion! Praise Him, ye faithful, and make known His holy name.” The priest spoke the blessing, and the consecration was complete. Titurel did not move for some time after the others had withdrawn. He was lost in wonder and joy. He did not touch the vessel, for he had not been told to do so.

The building had taken thirty years to complete. After the consecration, a dove appeared every Good Friday carrying a wafer from the holy sacrament in its bill. It dropped the wafer into the sacred vessel, thereby keeping up the miraculous powers of the Grail, which provided food for the knights who guarded it, and healed any wounds they might sustain at the hands of the unbelievers who sometimes attacked them.

Time passed on, and Titurel was four hundred years old, but no one looking at him would have thought him more than forty. One evening when he entered the sanctuary and turned his eyes upon the Grail, he saw that it had a message for him. Drawing near, that he might read the letters of fire in which all such commands were issued, he read that he was to take a wife, so that the chosen race might not die out of the land. He called the knights of the Temple. They saw what was written, and said that he must obey. With one accord, all fixed upon the Lady Richoude, daughter of a Spanish chief, as the most worthy maiden to be his wife. The wooing was done by solemn embassage, and neither father nor daughter was deaf to the call. The marriage took place, and on the same day Titurel received the honour of knighthood, which he had always refused before out of humility. Two children were born to Sir Titurel and his wife; a son named Frimutel, and a daughter called Richoude after her mother. Twenty years later Titurel lost his wife, and was once more alone in the world, except for his children, to whom he was devoted.

Richoude, who was very lovely, married a king whose realm lay far away from her old home; and Frimutel married Clarissa, daughter of the king of Granada; by her he had five children. Two of them were sons, Amfortas and Trevrezent by name, and three daughters, Herzeleide, Joisiane, and Repanse.

Titurel was no longer able to bear the weight of his armour: he passed his time either in church or with his grandchildren. One day when he went, as he often did, to gaze at the holy Grail, he saw written in letters of fire on the rim of the vessel, “Frimutel shall be king.” The old man’s heart was full of joy. He called his son, his grandchildren, and all the young heroes who served the Sangreal, around him, and told them what had been ordained. He then desired his granddaughter Joisiane to place the floating Grail upon the altar; for she, as a pure virgin, could touch it. She obeyed, and then the old man put the crown on his son’s head, and blessed him and the assembled brotherhood.

Titurel lived on, and saw many joyful and many sorrowful things happen. Joisiane married King Kiot of Catalonia, and died at the birth of her babe Sigune,

Her sister Herzeleide took the child, and brought it up with Tchionatulander, the orphan son of a friend; but after a time she lost her husband, and had to fly with her son Percival, leaving Sigune and Tchionatulander under the care of friends. But worse things than this were yet to happen. Frimutel thought his life at Montsalvatch confined and dull, he wearied of it, and went out to seek excitement in the world. He died of a lance-wound far away in the land of the unbelievers. His son Amfortas was crowned his successor, in obedience to the fiery letters that appeared on the holy vessel; but he had inherited the wild blood and roving spirit of his father; and instead of fulfilling the office to which he was appointed, he went out into the world in search of love and fame. At length he was brought back to his grandfather, sick unto death of a wound caused by a poisoned spear.

One day, while Sir Titurel knelt in the sanctuary praying for his grandson, whose life of pain was prolonged by the holy Grail appearing to him once in every seven days, he suddenly saw these words in letters of fire:—

“Murmur not, good old man; endure the load of others’ sins. A chosen hero shall one day climb the holy mount. If he ask, before nightfall, of the beginning and end of this tale of woe, then shall the spell be broken, and Amfortas cured, but the new-comer shall be king in his stead.”

Again and again Titurel read the mysterious words, and asked when the hero would come. He received no answer; but the words, “murmur not; endure,” shone brighter than before, and he bowed his head, leaving the future confidently to God.

II

PERCIVAL

When Queen Herzeleide had to fly from home with her little son on the death of her husband, she retired to a small house she possessed in an out-of-the-way district, and devoted herself to the education of her boy. She never spoke to him of knightly deeds, for she feared lest, when he was grown up, he should leave her to seek adventures, and should die in some tournament or feud. Notwithstanding this, young Percival grew up a bold, strong youth, fearless of all danger.

One day, as he was coming home from hunting, he met some knights riding through the wood arrayed in full armour. One of them asked him a question, which Percival answered at random. Then, going up to the knight, he asked what strange garments those were that he and his companions wore, and why they had golden spurs. The knight was amused, and answered the lad’s questions very kindly, adding, “If you want to know more of knights and knighthood, you must go to King Arthur’s court, and there, if you are worthy, you may perchance be made a knight yourself.”

Percival could not forget what he had heard and seen. He cared no more for hunting, and spent his days and nights in dreaming of swords, knighthood, and battle. Herzeleide asked her son what ailed him, and when she learnt the cause of his sorrow, her heart was filled with terror lest, inheriting his father’s heroic spirit, Percival might meet with his father’s fate. At length she gave way to the lad’s entreaties, and let him go, but with a breaking heart.

Percival felt the parting with his mother very much; but youth and hope were strong in his heart, and thoughts of the joy of meeting again soon thrust the sorrow of parting into the background.

Lost in such reflections, he came to a meadow in which some tents were pitched. In one of these he saw a couch on which a beautiful woman lay asleep. She was richly dressed; her girdle blazed with precious stones, as did also the ornaments on her arms, neck, and fingers. He thought, as he plucked a flower, so he might also steal a kiss from the rosy lips of the sleeping beauty; but, as he did so, she awoke, and was very angry.

“Don’t be angry,” he said, throwing himself at her feet. “I have often kissed my mother when I have caught her asleep, and you are more beautiful than my mother.”

The lady gazed at him in astonishment, and listened to his boyish confidences about going to Arthur’s court, being made a knight, and doing great deeds thereafter. Suddenly a horn sounded at no great distance.

“That is my husband,” cried the lady; “quick, boy, get away as fast as you can, or we are both undone.”

“Oh, I am not afraid,” he said. “Look at my quiver; it is quite full; I could defend you as well as myself. Let me have one of your bracelets as a sign that you are not angry with me.”

As he spoke, he slipped the bracelet off her arm, left the tent, mounted his horse, and rode away.

Shortly after this Lord Orilus, the lady’s husband, appeared, and with him many knights. When he heard from her what had happened, he fell into a passion, and swore that he would hang the “impudent varlet” if he could catch him. But though he set out at once in pursuit, he could see nothing of the youth.

Meanwhile Percival continued his journey. That night he slept in the forest, and went on his way next morning at an easy pace. As he was passing under a rock, he saw a maiden sitting by a spring that gushed out of it. She wept bitterly as she bent over a dead man, whose head lay in her lap. Percival spoke to her, and tried to comfort her by saying that he would avenge the death of the murdered man, for murdered he was sure he was. He then told her his name, and she said that she was his cousin Sigune, and that the dead man was her old playfellow Tchionatulander, who had met his end in trying to gratify a silly wish of hers—a wish she had no sooner given utterance to than she repented. She had lost a dog, and had wanted to have it again. That was the cause of all her sorrow.

“He was a real hero,” she continued, “and one of the knights of King Arthur’s Round Table. Your mother made him governor of her wasted lands. He conquered the robber hosts, slew their leader, wild Lahelin, and flung his ally, Orilus, Lord of Cumberland, from his horse, so that he only escaped by the help of his troopers who bore him off the field. When he promised to get me back the dog, he challenged Orilus to single combat before King Arthur and his knights, the prize of victory to be the setter that Lord Orilus had caught, and kept, when it ran away from me. The challenge was accepted, but the time of meeting was put off for a while, because Orilus was suffering from an unhealed wound. Meanwhile the Lady Jeschute, fearing for the life of her husband, sent me back the dog. Tchionatulander and I regarded the matter as settled, so we set out together to go to the sanctuary of the Holy Grail, where we were to be married. As ill luck would have it, we met Orilus and his wife, and in spite of all the entreaties of Jeschute and myself, the two knights quarrelled and fought. Orilus recovered from the stunning fall; but my dear love—oh that I had died instead! It was my fault, all my fault.”