PROLOGUE

N Arthur’s Isle    the hour had come

In the court of Camelot.     The cloister of knights

Roundabout the table     in bold fellowship sat.

Arthur awaited.     The air was cool,

The year still young,     and they yearned for his word.

Yet Arthur awaited.     In sudden alarm

Came the wizard Merlin     who in maelstrom of robes

And brooding brow     burst into their midst.

 

“God has been good     granted much to Britain

Under Arthur’s hand.     Attend my words

Which will flash like fire     but must firmly stand.

Excalibur must return     to its rightful place—

This heirloom was allowed     for an allotted time

For Britain to burgeon     robust in war.

Great wars you’ve won     over waves in far lands—

Lucius you leveled     your lands retained—

Victory, vindication     and valor are yours.

But Faerie’s gift     is finally recalled—

Kept, it condemns you—     and Camelot falls.

Hear a new word—     be wise and learn it!—

The High and Holy Grail.     Heaven’s gift

To this isle long ago     until it was taken

By Saint Joseph     to a sanctified place:

In Sarras it now abides.     Achieve the Grail,

The Cup of Christ     the Carpenter’s vessel,

Which bore His blood     as He bled on the cross

His side pierced     by the centurion’s pike.

Make no mitigation     there is no middle road:

The cup of Christ     or Excalibur—

The chalice or chastisement     the choice is yours.”

 

I · PERCIVAL SWEARS TO ACHIEVE THE GRAIL

 

O Arthur he avowed     aid to Galahad

Quick without question     that quest joining.

“Swear it,” said Merlin,     swiftly turning

On the new-made knight.     “Name yourself,

On Scripture speak     and sanctify your vow.”

He placed his palm     on the perfect word,

Ungloved of gauntlet,     and gave breath

To the air of the room,     resounding and true.

“I, Percival of Prydain,     by promise to Arthur—

God grant it so—     to Galahad’s aid

Swear my soul     for sanctity,

To attain at all costs,     till unable by death,

The gift of the grail,     our golden hope.”

 

From Palma to Palestine     Percival sailed,

On Roman roads     restless he traveled;

Pathward compelled     to the place of the Grail.

He thought then     to thank Heaven

With prayer and praise,     plaudits singing,

Te Deum laudamus     te Dominum confitemur.

 

Then without warning     the way was shut

His travels turning     to a trackless waste,

His refrains ran dry     and rolled to an end.

From palfrey he fell     face to his hands,

And let out laments,     lost all to tears.

 

Hadn’t that hermit     holding oak staff

Reckoned aright     the road to Sarras?

The forest he found     was fearful and dark,

Webbed and wild,     a waste of foul smell.

He slept not nor sat     for seven days

In that hollow hillside,     a heaven-less place

Where animals mated not    nor made a sound;

A boneyard bubbling     with black odour

Of corpses and carcasses.     A cry he heard then,

The first, and fairest,     a far distant singing,

Among oak and elm,     a redoubtable voice,

And Percival compelled,     by its power turned,

Saw this spectre     of silver-clad mail.  

 

II · HAWKCREST

 

OW there was a knight     known in those parts;

Hawkcrest they call him     for the clad of his helm.

Lord-less he was,     in leisure ruling,

King of his own keep.     From Kentish wilds

He’d hailed for awhile,     a haughty man,

A thankless thane     overthrown to pride,

From his master’s mark,    his merit taken

And faithless he fell     to disfavor and scorn.

Neither from negligence     nor weakness

Did he fall—he was fearless,     and fierce enough!

It’s true in tournament     he trampled his foe,

A princely opponent,     prevailed him by fiat,

Was judged the joust-winner.     The judges wit well,

For they feared him,     forced to agree,

And give him those gifts     which granted his fame.

Ah! then envy came,     dark angel of old,

Spun spacious castles     soft in the air,

Brought him bright dreams     of beddings of gold,

Shimmering sheets     that showered with light.

Alas overthrown     to his wealth doomed,

Ruled beyond realm     this warren of death.

 

He it was who sang     and Percival approached,

On a mare mounted,     but made no gesture,

Without a word     awaited Arthur’s knight

To utter a remark     and return his answer.

 

“Sir,” said Percival     sighing gratitude,

“My eyes have yearned     for your arrival,

Too little of life     lingers in this wood

Where foul flame rises     with fumes of poison;

My nostrils burn     so noxious is this place

Where I am not wanted     nor want to be!

To Sarras I am certain     my soul is bound,

But its location is lost.     My Lord King Arthur

This quest bequeathed me,     to quit so soon

Does dishonor him.     Deliver me the way,

Lead me from lostness,     allow me fair passage

Across this closed land.     I scorn this place

Of  stinking smell     and sleepless night!”

 

His uncanny companion     cocked his head,

The sound of his voice     strange in the air.

 

“You scorn my kingdom?     To cross it one must

Give tribute in gold     or gift of like value—

But if insult is added     the amount is higher.”

 

“Scorn is scarcely intended     I assure you,”

Percival persisted,     “but press you I must,

In Arthur’s name,     whose influence is great,

His reward rich,     his gratitude sincere.

It is Sir Percival who speaks     and asks kindly.”

 

“Another knight—     his name I forget—

Stood where you stand,     steedless and frail,

Asking assistance     yet insulting my land.

This Arthur offends me.     Therefore I deem him

Hewn of useless stock.     You’re not welcome,

You knights who nip     and niggle at fame—

Nor do I require     riches from Arthur,

Who little allowance     allots to his knights,

Muddy, malaised,     and mean of speech.”

 

The knight turned,     nose to the wind,

A breeze blowing.     The back of his horse

Faced Percival     with scented puffs.

 

“Sir,” said Percival,     speaking once more,

“You wish unwisely     for washed tollpayers

To appear in this place.     But perhaps you are right—

Since cross it I must,     the sin is mine—

I apologize absolutely,     unabashedly.

For a proud person,     a powerful man,

Suffers no fools,     and no fool are you

I can straight attest     if truly you are

That fellow of fame     who fears no peril

(‘The bold one in black’     I believe they call him)

Told of in those towns     I’ve traveled through.

Nor is your name,     unknown to those

That having harped idly,     hurling insults,

Felt the flick of steel     the flat of the sword

On their bare buttocks!     Braggarts of that sort

Deserve to be dealt out,     with death even perhaps!”

 

His opponent paused     for praise he loved

To hear of himself,     however little,

From unwashed wastrel     and wealthy alike,

So to flash his fame,     and fan it too.

Percival perceived this     plotting next

New numbers     to enumerate

His foe’s triumphs,     his flagrant gagnons.

 

“If modesty permit me     a monk’s song

Have I heard lately     a humble chanson;

Sung ‘tis true     solo sine choro,

By a bald monk     beaten down

By a knavish knight     who knocked him flat

(He was merry with mud,     hardly embarrassed by it!)

Restoring thereby     his repentant heart.

For among monks—     so his melody tells—

Why, a sinner he was—     ‘a serpent ‘mong fowls—

A robber, a wretch,     an unrighteous clerk—

Seducing servant girls,     a sacrist unholy!’

Why, sir knight, this monk     to sulfrous flames

Was nearing nigh     till you nudged him!

Let it not be said     ‘a knave steals worth

Only from the oppressed’,     for in that instance

You gave back to God     the gift of a soul.

Or am I mistaken?     May be that I am.”

 

Hawkcrest canted     with coy laughter,

Silver visage shaking     the void in his eyes.

 

“You scorn my fame?     Through might I won

This sovereign state!     Myself and alone

Raised it to renown,     made it resplendent,

And rest assured          I’ll retain it.”

 

Patiently Percival listened     his reply measured:

“Since scorn concerns you,     why scorn Arthur?

It’s an ill omen     often a prelude to war,

Though he seeks peace.     In this case he amicably

Expends his purse     to purposeful end:

To gain the Holy Grail     which God revealed

By day in a dream.     Division is useless here—

Fellowship we must find     and to friendship trust—

By Christ I beseech you     become our ally,

Allow Arthur’s knight     his adventure.

If you wish to share in it     I assure you

The grail makes greatness!     But Galahad waits.”

 

“How hardy you are     with hopeful illusions

And unwavering will.     My will is stronger.

Your passage is impeded,     Arthur’s power null.

His quest? I care not!     It’s careless at best,

To waste great wealth     and win nothing for it.

Ah! Galahad—     the name of your friend! ”

 

His laughter rang false     an offense to truth,

And Percival answered:     “My lord Arthur

Would not wish his name     awash in your spittle,

Yet your ears may melt     to uselessness at his name—

Galahad the Great—     his given title!”

 

Hawkcrest cooed again     with callous mirth

For all the forest to hear,     and fitfully replied:

 

“Your games are girlish,     by God, I cry for you,

Seeking for savior a man,     who can only sinful be.”

 

“Sinless, no, God save him,”     said Percival,

“Born a man among men—    but his might is divine,

That is to say,     sent from Heaven,

His innocence impedes sin—     he is impervious,

Why, he is the prince of purity,”     said Percival gladly.

 

“‘Prince of purity’,     ‘impervious to sin’,

‘Galahad the Great’?     Why girls he had

About him all over     this past afternoon!

To Turlock I took him     as a  true friend,

Shared my caches     my shipments of wine,

My women and wenches —     however low they were,

Why, Galahad gave no mind     gladly partaking!

Even lusty Lancelot     would look askance

On such bold behaviour.     A bastard, alas!

He killed one of my kin—     kissed my stepsister

Then murdered her     and mocked her corpse.

Even now in dungeon     alone to reflect

In solitary cell     he spits venomous words,

Cares not for the quest     considers it lowly—

A ‘nifty thing for knights’—     he named you thus.

He curses the Christian faith     as cause of his woes—

Renounces righteousness.     These ravings, understand,

Pass me by impervious,     for perfection to me

I find in finer things.     My own fate I own

As safely as my castle.     Alas, once my friend,

Galahad the Great     now given over to sin,

Is now my perfect prisoner     to dispose of at dawn.”

 

III · PERCIVAL’S FOLLY

 

E was not known,     this knight of Arthur,

For madness or malice     the mark of brute men.

Yet hate, full hate     now hammered his blood—

Without warning     his weapon unsheathed

He struck quickly     at Hawkcrest’s helm.

Alas, his armor impervious     the attack was weak—

But Percival persisted     his pummels frenzied,

Advanced the attack     acquired good ground.

His opponent parried     for his part quite well,

As unfazed as a fortress     in a fierce storm,

Until Percival prostrated     outplayed in combat,

Heaved heaviness,     his whole body in pain.

He’d allow the villain     this licence for falsehood,

An insult to Arthur     and innocent Galahad,

For a single offer     of cool refreshing water

To salve his scorched throat.     Strange laughter

From Hawkcrest came     with churlish peals

Bellowing bitterly     over barren land,

As he remounted his mare     and mocked him.

 

“Poor Percival!     Pursue your grail,

Real or unreal     it’ll render you good!

I sense simpleness     softness of hand

And mild manners     marking your years,

Betraying boyishness     abashed at mere words.

Get to your game then     go on your way now! —

By summer maybe    I might find you

At my gates again,     granted you’re wiser.”

 

Then Percival stood up     painfully breathing,

His pride punctured    this prince of Dyfed.

Percival uncertain     devised his words

To get through the gates     and gain the freedom

Of that noble knight     whose name was sinless.

 

“Certainly, sir knight,”     he said to the other,

You dealt me dearly,     demonstrated your might.

I’m indeed unworthy     to argue in combat

Your matchless mastery.     Merit I grant you

Over all others.     Arthur is better, perhaps—

Fealty forces me     to offer that answer.”

 

“Hah— by Heaven!     Who am I

To begrudge such boldness?     Ambition wins the day.

Why, even now,      I would have you join me.

Come to my castle     and commemorate 

Our adventure.     Everything is yours,

Whatever your will      it will be my pleasure.”

Cool and collected     conversing wisely,

Percival smiled     and spoke courteously.

 

“Well said, sir knight!     As one saintly bishop

Enjoined to another,     ‘Observe local customs—

In Rome do as the Romans.’     My religion, you know,

Commands I keep feasts     and cast off the fast—

Only I’m impeded     by obstinate wilderness.”

 

“Then Heaven helped you here!”     Hawkcrest cried.

“Laughter and luxury     you’ll find in my house—

Minstrels and ministers alike—     all manner of folk!

Our ritual is not Arthur’s,     but our virtue you’ll find

Is haleness and happiness—     we let humor rule us.”

 

“Then in Hawkcrest’s house     let humor rule!”

Percival proclaimed     with perfect tenor.

 

“However,” said Hawkcrest,     “I have two more rules

Which Order itself must obey.      I allow no man

To know my name.     Honor this custom

And we’ll have no hostility.     ‘Hawkcrest’ I’m called— 

Simply call me this     and we’ll stay friends.

As to the second     I insist by force

And natural necessity:     Never ask me to grant

The freedom of your fellow,     the failing Galahad.

I sense your unease!     you still wish his freedom.

But I deny all debate,     the decision is final.

One visit I’ll allow     where he languishes in prison,

Since his valor you avow     and veneration give.

To these rules remain true     and I’ll not reproach you.

Elsewise, be merry and mirthful!     Mind nothing

But pleasure and passion     Percival my friend.

Come let’s commence.     My concubines await me—

There my heart hearkens—      and I am hungry!”

 

Then they departed,     down through long marshes

In the heavy heat     to the House of the lord.

The name of Merlin    needled Percival’s conscience,

Recalling the quest,     casting his mind

Over road and river     where rested the grail.

Could he alone acquire     the Holy Vessel,

Risk reputation     for reward at Camelot,

But leave Galahad     alone in prison?

 

As for Hawk-Crest,     his helm towered

Grew and grew     gaunt in its shadow

Astride his steed     who seemed now

As a hungry hound     hunting for prey.

 

 

PART  TWO  WILL  CONTINUE  WITH  PERCIVAL’S

ADVENTURES IN THE HOUSE OF HAWKCREST

AND HIS MEETING OF THE MAID THECLA.