In theory, the desire to win his lady's approval will make a knight behave courteously and morally, just as the desire to keep the king's favor will make him act justly and honorably. In practice, however - even literary practice - the lady's charms and the lure of the warrior life are often enough to pull him off his pedestal and away from his ideal. A third force is needed, then, to balance these two opposing pulls in the figure of the True knight. This balancing force can be found in the third branch of the knight's traditional obligations: his service to God.

Taking the development of knighthood chronologically, it was the call to serve God that pulled the institution out of the so-called 'feudal anarchy' of the ninth to eleventh centuries and gave it a character of ideal beyond the simply heroic. In a world where the strongest took what they liked and the weak were left to fend for themselves, "the bishops in particular attacked [the] violent attacks on the defenseless and, more generally, on all whom the church defined as pauperes, such as the clergy itself, widows, orphans, and all who were unable to defend themselves or lacked protection" (Cardini 77). Where the bishops led aristocrats, milites (fighters), and the laity followed, and more and more restrictions were imposed on breakers of the peace and attackers of the defenseless. The next step in the process was to move from prohibiting the misuse of arms to exhorting their right use. This step was taken by Pope Gregory VII, roughly between 1070 and 1090. The concept of the miles Christi, the soldier of Christ, was already a commonplace in medieval thought, but it generally referred to martyrs or ascetics - "in short, to anyone who devoted himself to prayer and things of the spirit, combating sin by confronting the pugna spiritualis in the silence of his heart" (Cardini 78). Pope Gregory VII's innovation converted the miles Christi into the miles sancti Petri, the soldier of Christ "willing to use his sword in the service of the priesthood" (Cardini 78).

Another major force in support of this ideal was the Crusades, which provided a concrete, obviously pagan enemy to fit the established matrix of spiritual combat. To begin, they mobilized existing forces for a particular religious purpose. After the success of the first Crusade they combined the two, producing the militant religious orders from "the need to garrison troops in the territories that had been won in order to defend pilgrims, to assist the weak and the sick, and to extend 'permanently,' so to speak, the mobilization that had made the crusade possible" (Cardini 85). For a time the contrast between religious and secular knights threatened to split chivalry in two or subsume it altogether as only another religious order, but the previous obligation of the knight to his king and, later, the development of his obligation to a lady preserved the knight as a distinct figure from the monk, even the monk on crusade.

In terms of historical development, this religious understanding of 'True' knighthood is the middle stage of the knight's development, poised between the earlier 'Heroic' and the later 'Worshipful' knight, or between extreme service to king and to lady. The 'True' knight "is a radical Christian, a mystic and a providentialist who believes that knighthood is a 'high order' established by God to do 'true justice' in the world" (Kennedy 3). This True, Christian knighthood, which focuses on the service of God as the highest priority, is the most prominent ideal of Le Morte d'Arthur. Although it appears in other contexts and other quests, its greatest influence appears in the Quest for the Holy Grail.

In a world full of miracles and providential adventures, the appearance of the Grail of Arthur's court is by far the most miraculous and providential. The event is prophesied by King Pelles, who seems to be familiar enough with the workings of the Grail to know its whole future history and the steps necessary to accomplish that history. Despite, or perhaps because of, his familiarity with the Grail, however, King Pelles is not to be involved in the quest; that is reserved for the Knights of the Round Table. Pelles can only prophesy, apparently without malice, that "when this thing goeth about, the Round Table shall be broken" (610).

Arthur and the court know from Lancelot of the Grail's appearance and Pelles' prophecy. Therefore the Grail's appearance on Pentecost is not wholly unexpected, and the knights respond as to a religious event. They recognize the prophetic and marvelous events preceding it - the appearance of Galahad, the writing on the Siege Perilous, the marvel of the sword he pulls from a stone in a manner reminiscent of Arthur's early achievement. The event itself bears out their expectations. It is preceded by divine thunder and by "a sunbeam more clearer by seven times than ever they saw day," by which "all they were alighted of the grace of the Holy Ghost" (664). After this grace has struck them all dumb the Grail appears, feeds all of them with "such meats and drinks as he best loved in this world," and departs again. The miraculous and sacramental character of the event is recognized and proclaimed by Arthur in his prayer of thanksgiving.

Arthur's prayer is an appropriate type of response to such an epiphany: thanksgiving and a desire to know the will of God signified by it. The next immediate response, Gawaine's hasty vow "that to-morn, without longer abiding I shall labor in the quest of the Sangreal" (664), is also appropriate, though ill-timed. With such a clearly defined object before them, the knights' proper response is to follow, to quest, and to seek the will of God such a sign must manifest. Gawaine's vow mentions only the miraculous food and the desire to see what was formerly concealed from them, but even this is a response, albeit crude, to the outpouring of grace. The other knights' immediate acclamation and joining in the vow has the effect of a spontaneous response to God's grace coupled with a willingness to follow the divine will as expressed by the sign.

This immediate, enthusiastic response to an unexplained but miraculous sign is new to Arthur's court. The court is no stranger to miracles, marvels, and providential quests, nor do they generally object to being sent off to literally 'God knows where.' The appearance of the Grail, however, is unlike any marvel they have experienced before. It is preceded by prophecy and accompanied by subsidiary marvels in furtherance of the same prophecy. It does not come as a response to Arthur's custom by which, as Sir Kay reminds him, "ye have not used on this day to sit at your meat or that ye have seen some adventure" (Malory 657); that requirement has been fulfilled. Thus it is neither expected by nor at all directed to the king, despite his response of thanksgiving. Gawaine's oath has even less of the royal sanction: he practically interrupts the king to swear to a quest that has not been previously commanded or even mentioned. The other knights act in much the same way, even over royal opposition. The Grail, then, represents an unusual (for Arthur's court) direct test of God's will versus the king's. Due to their own sinfulness few of the knights succeed in completing the quest, but the great majority of them choose almost instantaneously to follow it. Arthur is thus placed in the position of either stubbornly asserting his own will or bowing to and supporting God's. His choice to mourn the loss of his knights rather than encourage their questing only undermines his authority, although it is not yet enough to bring him down.

The actual quest for the Grail, as might be assumed, is a testing ground that separates out the knights on the basis of their sinfulness. The three that achieve it, Sir Bors, Sir Percival, and Sir Galahad, all have the advantages of chastity and piety, in addition to Sir Galahad's prophesied success. They are also high in favor among the court: Galahad is acclaimed as "the best knight of the world," over and above Lancelot (662), and Sir Bors is Arthur's second choice to defend Guinevere when she is threatened in Lancelot's absence (791). The only knight to even approach their success is Lancelot himself, who is prevented by his sinfulness, particularly his immoderate love of Guinevere, from coming to the end of the quest. The quest for the Grail is the last major adventure of the book, since what follows concerns conflicts within the court itself rather than adventures or quests, so the differing success of the knights stands as the strongest judgement of them in the world of knightly adventure. Galahad, as prophesied, comes out the best, with Percivale and Bors close behind, but of the three only Bors returns to the world, and he is admittedly inferior to Lancelot in knightly skills. Lancelot does nearly as well, at least balancing the sin that keeps him back with deep penitence, but unlike the other three has not achieved a permanent balancing of his life - he continues to sin in relation to Guinevere, despite his attempts to avoid her. His penitence may ultimately save his soul - before he dies he "was houseled and anealed, and had all that a Christian man ought to have" (935) - but it is not enough to prevent the temporal consequences of his actions. Arthur and the best of his knights are dead, Guinevere is in a convent, and the fellowship of the Round Table, the "high order of knighthood," is irrevocably broken.

In Lancelot's actions and their consequences the inseparable unity of a knight's three loyalties is most clearly apparent. Early in Le Morte d'Arthur, he excels in all three: he commits himself utterly to Arthur's service; he is Guinevere's champion and loves her 'with the love of friendship' (Kennedy 112); and he is "utterly devoted to the High Order of Knighthood," to the point that "he has determined never to marry" lest it keep him from following his calling (Kennedy 111). His later immoderate love for Guinevere, culminating in adultery and the suspicions that lead to her condemnation, destroys all three relations. He has betrayed his king by the treasonous act of adultery with the queen; he has betrayed the queen by exposing her to the accusations of her enemies; and he has betrayed God by the sin of adultery. Only one of his loyalties was originally out of balance, but, uncorrected by the other two, it pulled them both out of balance and, because of Lancelot's prominence, brought down the Christian kingdom and the chivalric world of which he was a primary supporter.

Lancelot's pecadillos by themselves were not enough to destroy the genre of chivalric literature. On the contrary, they fueled it, as stories of the Round Table knights and their famous counterparts circulated and recirculated. As time and society progressed, however, the balance of the stories swung more and more towards courtly love, lessening the force and diminishing the presence of the other two aspects of the knightly ideal. Popular literature, far from providing an ideal to aspire to, provided an excuse and an encouragement to follow one's passions, provided that it was done according to the rules of the game. In an increasingly settled and rationalist society chivalric behavior, no longer necessary for protection and thus deprived of its major basis in society, drifted into an elaborate game for bored nobles, with occasional flashes of its previous brilliance, but overall without any substance beyond the game. It was into this world that Don Quixote was born.

Don Quixote is "one of those gentlemen who keep a lance in the lance-rack, an ancient shield, a skinny old horse, and a fast grey-hound" (Cervantes 13) - in short, one of Spain's impoverished gentry, prohibited by family and tradition from turning to a trade to enhance his failing resources. He lives in a time when Spain's imperial dreams are great, reaching to the New World as a means of restoring old glories - and finding only inflation and resources drained to the failing point. The books of chivalry "were the favorite reading material of the conquistadors" as well as the nobility back home; the distant descendants of the Round Table were informing colonial aspirations and glorifying battles of conquest (Wilson xii). Don Quixote partakes fully of this infatuation for chivalry; he "spent his free time (which meant almost all the time) reading tales of chivalry, with such passion and pleasure that he almost forgot to keep up his hunting, not to mention taking care of his estate" (Cervantes 13). Like his compatriots, he aspires to reincorporate chivalry into his world. Where they limit their enjoyment to reading and possibly writing, however, he goes all out, attempting to live word for word the lives he finds in the books of chivalry. Like them, Quixote is infatuated with the outward trappings and titles of chivalry rather than the spiritual core. In his obsession, however, he eliminates every other activity that could possibly serve as a surrogate for that core, and thus his actions appear mad while theirs appear - at least to them - admirable. In this way Don Quixote epitomizes the dilemma implicit in but never fully explored by Le Morte d'Arthur: where in the figure of the knight is the essential element, the one that takes precedence over every other when a conflict arises? In the Arthurian world the question is moot because there is a social support structure to help resolve such situations even without understanding. In Quixote's world, however, society has almost entirely ceased to support the knight in any form except possibly the courtly. As a result, Quixote's lapses in understanding are glaringly visible and raise all over again the question of what it means to be a knight.

On the surface, Quixote knows the duties of knighthood. He takes up his 'vocation' "as much for the sake of his own greater honor as for his duty to the nation," "traveling all over the world with his horse and his weapons, seeking adventures and doing everything that, according to his books, earlier knights had done, righting every manner of wrong, giving himself the opportunity to experience every sort of danger, so that, surmounting them all, he would cover himself with eternal fame and glory" (Cervantes 15). These aspirations roughly parallel the Arthurian system in which knights won glory by enforcing the king's justice throughout the realm. Quixote, following the pattern of Worshipful rather than True knighthood, sees righting wrongs as a means to glory rather than as an end in itself, but still he intends to right them, as a knightly thing to do. In the process he will test himself that he may serve better and win more glory. On the surface, these are true knightly intentions.

The problem, of course, is that he is trying to exercise these intentions in a system that no longer operates according to their rules. Spain still has a king, but he operates through courts and laws, not trial by combat and justice by knights errant. The method is thus skewed in its very foundations. There is a further problem, however. Quixote is aware of the king's existence; he even recommends that he turn to knights errant to keep the Turks out of Spain (Cervantes 364). However, this is practically his only relation to the king, and even this is a relation not of service but of giving advice. Don Quixote has never met the king of Spain. There is no bond of loyalty or service between them; Quixote is not one of the king's knights. He even criticizes the knights of the king's court: "With most of our knights, today, it's the damasks, brocades, and other rich fabrics they wear that rustle as they go, rather than any coats of armor; knights no longer sleep out in the fields, open to all the rigors of the heavens, lying there, armed and armored head to foot...today sloth triumphs over exertion, laziness over labor, vice over virtue, arrogance over bravery, and the theory of combat over its practice, which lived and shone only in the Age of Gold, the Age of Knight Errantry" (Cervantes 367-68). Although he pays lip service to the "brotherhood of knights errant," whom he sees as his predecessors and companions, he himself is the source of his knighthood, the interpreter of his own duties, and the provider of his own benefits, such as they are. Not only is Don Quixote a free agent in practice, knight errantry itself has become autonomous in relation to the king.

If Don Quixote were the knight he thinks himself, such a system might have a chance of being successful (although if he were the knight he thinks himself, he would almost certainly not have proposed it). He is not, however, and his misunderstanding of his relationship to his world twists his good intentions until they accomplish no good whatsoever. Besides the famous adventure of the windmills, which injures no one but himself, Quixote's early adventures into the justice of knights errant tend to have harmful consequences. On the surface, his adventures could easily have occurred in Le Morte d'Arthur: he comes upon a 'knight' whipping a child, or a string of men in chains, and determines to rescue them. By his standards, he succeeds: the 'knight' agrees to pay the boy reparation, and the prisoners are freed from their chains. In the end, however, justice is less well served than he thinks. Because the angry master does not operate according to the rules of chivalry, he is perfectly capable of swearing to do something and reversing himself as soon as the threat to himself is removed. An Arthurian opponent, defeated, would have quickly renounced his earlier behavior and taken himself off to present himself as a prisoner to the king. A Spanish farmer, however, only resents the interference in his affairs. As a result, Quixote's well-meant interference only earns the boy a harder whipping after he has turned his back, and justice is counteracted rather than served. The other incident is an even clearer example of the results of Quixote's interference. He frees the prisoners, as he intended, but does not comprehend that they are criminals condemned by the king's justice and thus should not be freed by any standard of knightly behavior. By ignoring the circumstances of society, he not only fails to do justice but actively opposes the king's administration of it - hardly the devoted service of a knight to his lord.

In practice, Don Quixote ignores the knightly duty of service to the king rather than trying to fit it into his system. Justice becomes not a function of the king's knights but of any self-proclaimed knights: "knights errant are exempt from the application of all laws and statutes...for them law is their sword, statutes are their spirit, and edicts and proclamations are their will and desire" (Cervantes 314). The 'knight errant' is his own authority and proclaims it unhesitatingly. The other societal knightly duty, service to lady, is similarly affected, but with the difference that ladies figure prominently in the 'books of chivalry' and thus must have a proclaimed place, if not an actual one, in the world of Don Quixote's knighthood.

Throughout his career, therefore, Quixote maintains the knightly requirement of courtesy towards all ladies, with the respectful caveat that he cannot acknowledge them more beautiful than his lady. This behavior, of everything he does, suffers the least in his application of it, since courtesy is in one way or another applicable to any level or time of society. His use of courtesy, however, is still out of joint with the actual circumstances he finds himself in. On his very first adventure he addresses a pair of prostitutes as "such noble virgins as you, by your bearing, clearly show yourselves to be" (Cervantes 19). He takes up the adventures of the shepherdess Marcela and the princess Micomiconica, although the help is in both cases unnecessary. His behavior in all these cases, although uncalled for, is at least disinterested; he expects no favors from the ladies he 'helps,' despite his assurances to Sancho that they will receive rich rewards from a princess sooner or later. His behavior to ladies in general is at least according to the best knightly standards, if not in accord with the situations at hand. However, it is not ladies in general, but the Lady Dulcinea in particular that dominates his knightly life and leads to some of his more extravagant oddities.

The need for a lady is such an integral part of the books of chivalry that it is the first thing Quixote addresses after he has acquired his armor and found names for himself and his horse Rocinante: "with his armor scrubbed clean, and his helmet ready, and then his horse christened and himself confirmed, he realized that all he needed and had to hunt for was a lady to be in love with, since a knight errant without love entanglements would be like a tree without leaves or fruit, or like a body without a soul" (Cervantes 16). The actual choosing is not difficult; "a very pretty peasant girl, with whom he was supposed, once upon a time, to have been in love" will serve admirably (16). Her actual characteristics or feelings in the matter are irrelevant, as his imagination will provide them according to need. All he requires is a seed of inspiration; provided with that, he rides merrily out on his first-ever quest.

Although 'Dulcinea' remains forever unaware of her knight's affection, or even his existence, she provides a good deal of the impetus for his questing. He credits her, in the best knightly tradition, with all his victories, even those as yet unachieved:

"Just tell me, with that lying viper's tongue of yours, who won this kingdom, and who cut off this giant's head, and who made you a count - all of which I consider as good as done with, finished, over - except Dulcinea's strength, lent to my arm as the mere instrument of her glorious deeds. She fights through me, and she conquers through me, and I live and breath in her, I take my life and my very being from her."

This description of her, practically religious in its fervor, echoes the knights of the books of chivalry in their highest flights of lovesickness. He indulges in all the expected behaviors, including extravagant madness on her account and extravagant efforts to free her from her 'enchantment.' Like Cappellanus' lover, Quixote credits Dulcinea with everything that might have value in him, even to his very being. Unlike Cappellanus, however, he takes the idea of the chaste lover to its furthest extreme, asserting first that he has seen Dulcinea only four times, and that she was unaware of each look, and later that he has never seen her, or at least never in her idealized form. This type of relationship eliminates Lancelot's immediate problem; Quixote is not likely to sin with someone he never sees and who never knows of his attentions. In another way, however, the nature of the relationship merely deepens Quixote's own problem. Although Dulcinea is supposedly his superior and authority in everything he does, he has no way of consulting her or receiving her orders, except through the charades of the Duke and Duchess. In practice this leaves him a free agent on this front also, responsible only to his imagination.

In theory, Dulcinea endows Quixote with all the virtues of knighthood: "since I've been a knight errant, I've been brave, courteous, open-handed, well-behaved, magnanimous, gallant, bold, calm, patient, one who can endure severe trials, captivities, enchantments..." (Cervantes 340). In practice, she at least keeps him chaste, since he has no opportunity to step out of his boundaries with her and no inclination, while she is on his mind, to do so with anyone else. This does not mean, however, that she is an entirely good thing for him. Besides the fact that she is a major factor supporting his madness, he places such an emphasis on his relationship to her that he can assert that "I live and breath in her, I take my life and my very being from her" (Cervantes 200). Such extravagant language, strongly echoing common terms for describing man's relationship to God, indicates something severely out of balance in Quixote's religious state. If he takes his very being from Dulcinea, he can hardly take it from God, let alone anything lesser, like his knighthood. Quixote suffers from the spiritual aspect of Lancelot's difficulty, a problem he shares with most of the proponents of the system of courtly love: he makes his lady his highest authority, and so has no moral compass beyond her unreliable (because human) goodness.

(c) 3 May, 2000
Updated 13 June, 2000
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