The Squire's Tale by Gerald Morris

Author:Gerald Morris [Morris, Gerald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

8. Pelleas the Stupid

At nine o'clock the next morning, after a pleasant evening spent with Sir Carados's family, Gawain and Terence arrived at Sir Pelleas's Dalinbrook Castle. The gate was open, and a few servants stood around, listlessly sweeping the path.

"Seems he's not home yet," Gawain said.

They waited outside the gate for about twenty minutes before Sir Pelleas arrived, carrying his helm on his saddle. His armor was dusty and stained, and his face drawn and weary. When he saw Gawain and Terence, though, he stopped abruptly, looked almost pleased, replaced his helm, and readied his lance.

"Sir Pelleas!" Gawain called.

"Make ready for battle, recreant knight!" Sir Pelleas shouted back.

"I'm not a recreant knight, and I won't make ready for battle!" Gawain replied promptly.

"I beg your pardon?" Sir Pelleas raised his visor and looked at Gawain, puzzled.

"And I'm not from Lady Ettard," Gawain added.

"Oh, I see." Sir Pelleas drooped. "Well, what do you want, then?"

"I'm a wandering knight in search of adventures. I would like to hear more about your plight. Perhaps I can help."

Sir Pelleas trotted closer, his face downcast. "I thank you for your offer, O knight, but there is no help for one such as I. My life is doomed to despair and disappointment."

"Oh, I daresay it's not so bad as all that," Gawain said bracingly. "Perhaps you could tell me about it inside." He gestured toward the open gate. "After you've cleaned up, of course," he added.

Sir Pelleas sighed deeply, then said, "Very well. To recount my woes can only be painful to me, but I shall grant your wishes, I, whose own wishes are so far from being granted."

An hour later, Sir Pelleas joined Gawain and Terence in a somber, rather chilly room. "Forgive me for taking so long, O knight. Lady Ettard's dungeons have a great many insects."

Sir Pelleas was a strong-looking, exceptionally handsome knight, with a carefully trimmed chestnut beard covering a firm chin. He wore a richly woven maroon blouse, trimmed all over with gold lace, and burnished black stockings. If he was a bit sober in appearance, he was at least elegant. "I am Sir Gawain, of the Fellowship of the Round Table," Gawain said. "I am sworn to help those in distress, and so I offer you whatever services are in my power."

"I thank you," Sir Pelleas said. "But nothing is in your power."

"Suppose you tell me your ... your woes," Gawain invited.

Sir Pelleas sighed and signed for Gawain to be seated. Terence stood beside his chair while Sir Pelleas paced.

"I love the most beautiful woman in the world," he began, his eyes fixed dreamily on the rafters. "She is the most perfect example of ladyhood to be found. In no matter is she lacking. Her nose is a vessel of beauty, straight and white, which no desecrating freckle has ever been permitted to touch. I've written a sonnet to her nose. Would you like to hear it? It goes: 'J'entends de la musique, c'est son museau, son nez—'"

Gawain choked. Sir Pelleas stopped reciting and waited patiently.

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