The knights came charging at them like wild things; Perceval, lance raised, rode full tilt to meet them, all the brothers following as fast as their horses could go. With a thrust of his lance of apple wood Perceval struck the first knight such a blow that it pierced and smashed clean through his shield, ripped and tore his mail asunder and sent the lance-head right through his body; may his soul be sent to the devils of Hell! Then he struck another so fiercely on his gold-striped shield that none of his armour was of any use: head and shaft plunged through his body – his soul had left it before it hit the ground.

But the match was very far from even: there were still thirty-eight against five in the contest, and all thirty-eight were more than keen. Perceval killed eight with his lance, I think, before it broke; then they harried him hard indeed, smashing his shield to pieces and hammering at him with their blades of steel like smiths on an anvil. Perceval, foaming with rage and fury, drew his sword and beheaded one of the fiercest foes: he was giving them awesome treatment! And the four brothers were proving their worth, launching themselves full tilt into the thickest press – Perceval needed their help as he drove in among them. He struck one knight a blow that smashed off his helmet along with an ear, his sword turning red as it plunged into brain; he clove another head to the nape of the neck; in all he severed seven heads. But he was sorely hurt and wounded,
for they were all hammering, raining blows, smashing rings from his hauberk and splitting his helm. The four brothers weren’t half-hearted: all were dealing mighty blows. Yet if they’d been wounded badly before, now they were even worse: all four had their helmets split, their shields smashed, their hauberks pierced and were covered with more, fresh wounds. One had taken a sword-blow to the head that had cut through to the skull; his three brothers pulled him out of the fray and covered him up in a sheltered spot before returning to the fight. So now there were only four of them; but they battled on and battered the enemy till only twenty of the forty knights remained, and they withdrew a little to regroup and arrange their arms. But Perceval charged into their midst, his shield set firm before his breast, and the three brothers were fired up and galloped right behind him, determined to do well. So battle was joined anew. Perceval wielded his keen sword so awesomely that the brothers recovered heart and the will to fight, seeing his noble display; and he kept dealing blows and sustained the assault till the afternoon passed and evening drew near. Charge after charge he mounted, bent on slaying the foe, and the three brothers were right behind him, though the fourth was helpless and watched the combat motionless. Perceval assailed and hewed the enemy with his brand of steel; but they, with little fear of death and little love for Perceval, rained a storm of blows upon him – and not with the flats of the blades but with the edges! They injured and wounded him fearfully. And the three brothers fared no better: such were their wounds that the enemy cast them to the ground with their guts spilling out. Then they turned on Perceval in a terrible assault – though only four of them now were left alive. They were sure they’d bring him down, but he attacked them back with furious sword-blows, beheading one and cleaving another’s head to the chin. But at that the last two cried aloud:

‘Oh, Perceval, it’s useless! Tomorrow the attack will begin again – you’ve exhausted yourself for nothing! In the morning, before you even wake, we’ll all be back at the castle together to do battle all over again – of that you can be sure!’

‘Damn you all!’ cried Perceval. ‘But come what may, before I leave here the battle will end for you as it has for your companions!’

‘We don’t fear you in the slightest – nor do we fear death.’

At that Perceval, sword in hand, spurred his horse forward and beheaded one and hacked an arm from the other and sent him crashing from his horse: all were now dead and slain.

Gerbert's Continuation of Perceval