They had them in total disarray when, quite by chance, through the forest came Perceval, mounted on a black, white-stockinged nag, skinny, mangy, weary, lame. His helm was split and dented, the laces broken; his shield was pierced in several places, its strap cobbled together from an old saddle-girth; his hauberk was holed, misshapen, rusty – it hadn’t been furbished for a long, long time; his lance was a makeshift effort – a stump of wood with the bark still on, though the head was well forged, with a sharpened tip; his silken surcoat was in tatters. For he’d been on the quest for the grail: he’d scoured many lands in search of it, but despite all his efforts he’d found no news at all. His stirrup-straps were tied to his saddle with string. So many countries he’d ridden through, so exhaustingly that his horse’s head was bowed, its neck sagging. Perceval was trying to drive the beast on, but you could have whipped it skinless and it wouldn’t have managed more than a walk! By Saint Sylvestre, he’d have been better off on an ass!

Gerbert's Continuation of Perceval