THE KNIGHT ERRANT is the hero of a romance of chivalry, a genre of literature with deeper origins, but which became wildly popular in sixteenth-century Spanish kingdoms. Both Teresa of Ávila and Ignatius of Loyola confessed to youthful fascination with these serial adventures; their accounts fairly begged to fuse with other readings, those telling of holy wanderings, saintly deeds, and spiritual journeys. Not unlike the filmic sequels and spin-off series that captivate people today, the early modern knights errant begat each other, across cycles of tellings and elaborate genealogies that seemed ceaselessly to expand and overlap.
The caballero andante is exhilarating. Peerless courage, cerebral ingenuity, his determination “to know the end of the adventure”… And who can resist even the most cloying of the knight’s inevitable companions? The loyal sidekick is a long-suffering, lesser creature, content to heap praise, become unnerved at crucial moments, and keep life amusing.
Hinterlands, dark forests, and thick groves —various landscapes of adversity— also vie for attention. It’s in these realms of the unknown that rival knights, dragons, and sorcerers appear, alongside damsels as wise and world-weary as they are beautiful. It's where hybridic monsters dwell. Consider Endriago, faced by Amadís of Gaul. The unhappy fruit of an incestuous union, Endriago rules over the Island of the Devil. He has glowing red eyes, and great teeth and claws. One would have thought his fish-like skin, covered in interlocking shells and impenetrable hair, would have been enough. But he is also massively winged and “as strong as a lion,” capable of astounding leaps and speed. “Although he eats and drinks sparingly, and sometimes not at all,” the author Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo thought to add, “it causes him no pain. He lives to kill men and other living animals.”*
But I’m drawn to the giants.
Almost always wielding a great smiter, the typical giant is tremendous, fearsome and furious. He can seem little more than violence embodied. For the giant is quick to anger. He serves most often as an obstacle or test along the knight’s way. The reader loses count of the giants narrowly defeated or thrown off a high tower.
The giant is frequently arrogant, jealous or vengeful. But these flaws come from somewhere. He is also the product of a tragic, monstrous story scarcely told. Often guarding some passage or treasure, or keeping an inscribed pillar safe from intruders, the giant has been enslaved by some prophecy, cut-off from what readers will associate with the normal, with even a measure of freedom. He is a reminder of other deep-seated fears and mysteries as well. The giant is lostness, a misshapen toiler who perseveres beyond the edges of acceptance, of happiness, of sanity.
He may be physically coarse and unnaturally strong, but the prowess of the giant in the chivalric romance lies elsewhere. What he truly brings into the field is something he has inherited from the Cyclops and the Minotaur and Goliath, something he shares with this or that Gulliver, Gollum and not a few Zombies: the ability to get in one’s head.
The giant might rest, smiter drooping, after another tremendous blow from his illustrious foe. He takes this reprieve to bellow about his creation, his life’s course, his damned purpose and plight.
How can the knight (and listener and reader) avoid feeling somehow responsible?
*Garci Rodríguez de Montalvo, Los quatro libros del virtuoso cavallero Amadís de Gaula (Zaragoza: Jorge Coci, 1508), Book 3. Translations mine.
charcoal drawings and watercolours by Kenneth Mills
I know this is a huge cliche and not cool enough for you, but a tarot deck with the energy of these posts would be amazing
Love it. Here's one of my favorite giants (I think he qualifies?), bedeviling a chivalric hero:
https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/51b3dc8ee4b051b96ceb10de/1517630397497-52JRKNQ1QKDLH75R72LU/image-asset.jpeg
Which raises a question: is capriciousness also a common trait among giants?