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. Gawain spoke before he could continue. "In French, of course."
"The language of love," Sir Pelleas sighed.
"But you're not a French-speaker yourself, are you?"
"Well, I'm not really fluent, but—"
"Yes, well, my own French is a touch rusty," Gawain said, "but I don't think you should call your lady's nose a
museau.
It means snout."
"Really? But I thought that the similarity in sound with
musique
was so effective."
"Ah, I daresay I'm mistaken," Gawain said affably. "I think, though, that I have grasped the perfection of your lady's nose. Perhaps we can move on."
"Ah, her eyebrows—" Sir Pelleas sighed dreamily. Gawain let out his breath and sank into his chair. After close to half an hour of rapturous description that included eyebrows, eyelashes, eyes, ears, hair, cheeks, neck, waist, and a full ten minutes on lips, Sir Pelleas caught his breath with a sob and concluded, "But she'll have none of me!"
Gawain let him sob for a moment, then said, "And ... what made you fall in love with this paragon?"
Sir Pelleas looked surprised. "Can you doubt it? It was love at first sight!"
"I see. But you
have
spoken to her, haven't you?"
"I am a newcomer to this land. I had never spoken to her before I pledged her my undying love."
"Look, Pelleas, are you sure you're not making a mistake? I don't mean to say that your love isn't deep and profound and all that, but shouldn't you know something more about a woman than her looks?" Gawain paused, frowning, then continued, "I rode into
"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. Gawain spoke before he could continue. "In French, of course."
"The language of love," Sir Pelleas sighed.
"But you're not a French-speaker yourself, are you?"
"Well, I'm not really fluent, but—"
"Yes, well, my own French is a touch rusty," Gawain said, "but I don't think you should call your lady's nose a
museau.
It means snout."
"Really? But I thought that the similarity in sound with
musique
was so effective."
"Ah, I daresay I'm mistaken," Gawain said affably. "I think, though, that I have grasped the perfection of your lady's nose. Perhaps we can move on."
"Ah, her eyebrows—" Sir Pelleas sighed dreamily. Gawain let out his breath and sank into his chair. After close to half an hour of rapturous description that included eyebrows, eyelashes, eyes, ears, hair, cheeks, neck, waist, and a full ten minutes on lips, Sir Pelleas caught his breath with a sob and concluded, "But she'll have none of me!"
Gawain let him sob for a moment, then said, "And ... what made you fall in love with this paragon?"
Sir Pelleas looked surprised. "Can you doubt it? It was love at first sight!"
"I see. But you
have
spoken to her, haven't you?"
"I am a newcomer to this land. I had never spoken to her before I pledged her my undying love."
"Look, Pelleas, are you sure you're not making a mistake? I don't mean to say that your love isn't deep and profound and all that, but shouldn't you know something more about a woman than her looks?" Gawain paused, frowning, then continued, "I rode into
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