A royal of Arthur’s court, Pellinore,
made haste through the forest searching for a lady
who’d been seized at a high feast in the castle.
He was dutybound to bring her back.
The road took its turns, falling to a valley
and passing a well, where a woman cradled a man
in armor, helmet off, bleeding on the ground.
Sir, help me, she cried and cried again.
Pellinore had another priority. He kept riding.
He caught up to the missing lady, held in a pavilion
while the false knight who’d taken her battled
her cousin, who’d seen her and tried to wrest her away.
Pellinore stepped in, saving the day
with a sword blow that cleaved the false one in two.
Unnerved, the kinsman said, by all means,
take her back to the court—I can’t object.
So hero Pellinore and the lady set off.
The way was rocky and troubled, but the worst
was the scene they saw at the well he’d passed before.
The woman who’d cried there and her knight were dead.
The knight was a heap of steel and blood, the woman
almost gone. Only her head was left,
wrapped in a shroud of dirty, golden hair.
It looked like lions had torn her limb from limb.
The lady told Pellinore it was for him
to take the knight’s body to a hermitage for burial
and the woman’s head to Camelot. He agreed,
doleful at his failure to save the beautiful youths.
The queen condemned his wrong, and the seer Merlin
said more. He revealed the woman at the well
was Pellinore’s own daughter from an early affair,
and she killed herself when the knight, her love, died.
Life wasn’t worth living, she thought,
without the man of her heart. They were to be married.
Instead, she willfully fell on the knight’s own sword.
Their bodies lay for any hungry beast.
Pellinore’s shame and anguish never ceased
with that crying angel in mind, always calling.
Of course, of course, my daughter, sister, son—
what sufferer is not my blood?
The tragedy spurred a meeting of Arthur’s court,
where the king imparted a code of conduct to the knights:
Never fall to outrageous deeds or murder
and always flee treason. Never be cruel.
If mercy is asked, be merciful, he said.
Pay heed to the ladies, the gentlewomen, the girls.
Never ride into wrongful battle no matter
the payoff. Pellinore took it all to heart.
The men swore to the code at a feast each spring,
knowing that such rules were a fragile thing.
Copyright © 2025 by Sam S. Dodd