The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  “Oh, it’s all right. I think I’m over it now.”

  “Over it? He was your lover, was he not?”

  “He was my lover, but I didn’t love him, if you follow me.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Father’s so cruel! He won’t let me have anything I really want. If he keeps torturing and burning every boy who only wants to sleep with me, why, how will I ever find someone who’ll want to marry me?”

  “I can see that you have a problem.”

  “I certainly do! Or at least I did,” she added, with a coy blush and downturned eyes. Bradamant waited, not certain what the girl was getting at.

  “You see, sir knight,” Fiordispina continued, “all of the boys who’ve courted me in the past have been gentle and well-bred, more interested in poetry, music and love-making than really truly manly things like, like—like sword-fighting and jousting and going to war and lopping heads off and defending the honor of their ladies and things like that.”

  “Well, Princess, not everyone can be a knight. Some people have to be poets and musicians, you know. They’re necessary, too.”

  “Well, they deserve to be burnt if they can’t fight for the privilege of loving me! What’s the good of a lover who leaps through the window at the first sound of a footstep outside my door? Who turns pale and swoons at the mere mention of my father’s name? Or even faints dead away? Who has to be dragged to the stake screaming and weeping like a child instead of taking half a dozen lives with him before facing his fate like a man?

  “Ah! And what kind of men do they pretend to be? Do they stand as straight and tall as you? Do they have your broad shoulders? Do they have your fine bronzed features and stern look? Do they wear such magnificent armor or carry such a splendid sword? No, no, no, they don’t!” she pouted, stamping a little foot. “Not a single one of them!

  “But you, Sir Bradamant,” she continued, putting her hands on the warrioress’ shoulders and pulling herself on tiptoe to look into Bradamant’s face, “you I could, can, wish, beg, desire to love!”

  To Bradamant’s astonishment and before she could protest, the girl lifted her face to her own and placed a gentle, lingering kiss on her lips. For a long moment she looked down into the princess’ large, moist eyes—they looked like two chocolates left melting in the sun—then carefully removed Fiordispina’s hands and held her at arm’s length. “Princess,” she began, but didn’t know what to say.

  “Oh, Sir Bradamant,” the girl sighed, “I do love you! Oh, please, please be my lover! Go to my father, tell him that you love me and that you want to take me away! Kill him if you must! Perhaps you should kill him anyway, just to be safe. It’s all right if you decide to do that, I won’t mind at all, I promise.”

  “Princess, what you ask is impossible.”

  “Oh, no! it’s not! I love you! I think I’m loving you more every minute! Yes! I am! I am loving you more every minute! There! See? I love you more now than I did a minute ago! And if I love you this much, then you must love me! You will learn to, anyway! Just wait a little bit, it’s bound to happen.”

  “No, no. That’s not what I meant. Princess—Fiordispina my dear—”

  “Oh! Sir Bradamant! See? I knew it! I told you so!”

  “—Fiordispina, you mustn’t call me Sir Bradamant. I am Lady Bradamant. I’m not a man. I’m a woman.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes. A woman. One who’s chosen to make a career of the martial arts, like Hippolyta or Camilla or Dido. This is usually considered to be a manly thing, I realize, but it’s not expressly barred to my sex and my family didn’t discourage me. Far from it, as a matter of fact. The result is that I prefer to wear armor and carry a sword and lance—so of course I can appreciate your mistake. You mustn’t feel badly about that, though, many people have made the same error. You see, now, that what you ask is quite impossible.”

  The poor girl had fallen back two or three paces, as though Bradamant had struck her, her face gone chalk white. “No!” she cried, pressing the back of one dainty hand to her mouth like the heroine in a melodrama.

  “I’m sorry, but there it is.”

  “How could you do this? Look!” she said, holding out an empty palm. “Here is my poor heart, ripped from my bosom, basking in the warmth of your eyes! Without that light, it will wither and die like a rose shut away in a dark closet. How could you do this?”

  “I’ve done nothing, Princess, except admit to what is the simple truth.”

  Fiordispina threw herself to her knees. “It is true! I believe you! But you are no less handsome for that; your eyes, your face, your voice, your every movement are no less wonderful! Everything that I loved about you is unchanged!” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing. “I thought that at last my passions need no longer remain unquenched! And then to discover that the man I love is a woman . . . Oh God! The cruelty!”

  “Please!” begged Bradamant, embarassed beyond all measure. “Try to calm yourself!”

  “Who’s torture could be more cruel than mine? If I were in love with anyone else, I’d know what to do, I’d know how to pluck the lone rose from among the thorns. But this longing can never be fulfilled. Did my happiness so offend Aphrodite that she’s chosen to punish me this way? Is my perversion so offensive that she’s making an example of me? In all the ways in which lovers can be made miserable, there is always a remnant of hope—but what hope has Love left me?”

  Bradamant had no ready answer. She was becoming convinced that the girl was mad—most of her ranting made no sense whatsoever and what did made the knight feel quite uncomfortable. “Look here,” she said, taking the hysterical girl by her shoulders. “What you’re doing, what you’re asking, is impossible, unnatural, ungodly. There’s no reason for you to feel about me the way you think you do. I’m a woman, just as you are. Never, among all my travels, have I ever discovered a woman loving another woman, neither among humans nor among animals. One woman just does not appear beautiful to another woman, no more than a mare to a mare, or a doe to a doe. You must be tired or ill and I should see you home.”

  “I don’t believe you!” cried the princess, throwing her arms around Bradamant.

  “That I’m a woman? It’s true.”

  “No! I don’t believe it! You are lying to me cruelly!”

  Bradamant didn’t reply, but instead gently peeled away Fiordispina’s arms and stepped back a pace or two, meanwhile untying the shoulder straps that held her brunia in place. She let it fall to the ground with a heavy clatter. She then untied the laces of her undertunic and pulled it open. At the sight of Bradamant’s breasts, the princess gave a weak groan and fell to the ground in a swoon. The warrioress ignored her as she rearmored.

  “Look here,” she said, stooping over the prostrate girl, “I really think that I need to get you back to your home.”

  “I’m sorry,” murmured the princess. “I feel as though I’m bound by a knot that would embarass even Alexander.”

  “I’m sure. Do you think you can stand and walk now? I’ll help you home.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Half supporting and half carrying the princess, who, to Bradamant’s infinite disgust, sniffed and snuffled all the way, the knight followed the trail over the low ridge and discovered that Fiordispina’s château, which was rather more a large hunting lodge, though no less impressive for all that, lay less than a mile ahead, nestled cozily at the head of a narrow valley.

  As she passed through the gate in a low, vine-covered wall, Bradamant noticed a charred beam that rose vertically from the midst of what appeared to be the still-smoldering embers of a large bonfire; the blackened remnants of ropes were still tied to iron rings attached to the sides of the beam by heavy staples. The stench of cold, scorched fat made her wince at the grim reminder of yet one more failed promise.

  Though the king and his houseguests were not at the moment present, the butler welcomed Bradamant warmly and servants were immediately sent to retrieve her horses. S
he told no one of her conversation with the princess—and she hoped that no one would ever learn of it—only that she had found the girl alone in the woods and apparently ill. She was taken to the kitchen where a cheery crew of cooks gave her wine and hot bread and stew. “There’s a cellarful of spirits,” said the cook, “left over from the emir’s conversion. As a faithful Mohammedan he can’t touch the stuff now.”

  “Not that it keeps him from looking longingly at the cellar door,” added an assistant.

  “Not did it make him think of getting rid of a single bottle, either!”

  “Fortunately, he’s not much into prosyletizing.”

  “You ought to see his hands shake when he watches his dinner guests go through a few dozen bottles of his finest vintages!”

  Though not especially enjoying being reminded about Marsilius’ traitorous and heretical conversion to Mohammedanism, Bradamant nevertheless spent a very pleasant hour or two in the kitchen. She always enjoyed watching skilled people do things expertly. Besides, it all reminded her very pleasantly of home. She found a chair, tipped it back against a wall where she would be out of the way and munched apples while she watched the crowded kitchen staff prepare the evening meal. Bustling with single-minded purpose at their particular tasks were dispensers, cupbearers, fruiterers, a baker, brewer and wafer maker. Someone was using a mortar and pestle to grind meat into a paste for blankmanger. A butcher had his own corner, where he was expertly dissecting a side of beef that hung from a ceiling hook. The sauce cook and poulterer shared a space and everyone had an inexhaustible quantity of small boys as helpers, who flitted with incredible speed and accuracy among everyone’s legs like flies in a stable. Outside a launderer was washing the tablecloths, napkins and towels; nearby was a steaming scullery where a skinny young girl washed the utensils.

  The big, central fireplace had half a dozen spits turning in it, while iron, lead and copper pots and cauldrons hung on chains and hooks, their contents stirred with long wooden spoons by assistants so young they had to stand on precariously high stools, their expressionless faces red and glistening from the heat.

  Bradamant enjoyed watching the long-practiced choreography—as crowded as was the low-ceilinged, timbered room was, no one got in the way of any one else; there was not so much as a joggled elbow. It all looked very much like the interior of a large watch.

  She sipped the heavy, sweet wine and felt, for the first time in months, peaceful—the scene filtering through steam, smoke and drooping eyelashes, the acrid smell of ashes and scorched fat, the ordered choreodrama of the dark figures, might just as easily been in the kitchens of Montauban.

  When she next saw Fiordispina, the girl looked much the better for her rest and change of clothes.

  “I hope, Lady Bradamant,” she said, “that you will consent to dine with us here and to stay the night. It’s the least that I can do for—for imposing upon you as I did.” The girl glanced shyly at the floor and blushed delicately with practiced ease.

  Bradamant would much rather have continued on to the monastery but saw no way to gracefully decline the princess’ earnest invitation; she had no desire to further embarrass the girl. Besides, it was getting dark and she still did not know her way.

  “I’d be delighted,” she lied.

  “That’s wonderful! I know Daddy and his friends will love to meet you, as soon as they get back. There’s a room all ready for you at the head of the stairs. You’ll find clothes there, too, that I think you’ll find more, um, appropriate—ah, more comfortable for dining. You can go wash, change and relax a bit. Dinner won’t be for an hour or two. You’ll hear the bell.”

  Bradamant thanked the princess and went to the room, where she found a wooden tub of hot water steaming near the fireplace. Stripping herself of her armor and boots and undergarments she lowered herself into the water, which was scented and still almost scalding. Within arm’s reach on the floor was a bowl of soap and she scooped out a handful. It was perfumed—an unaccustomed and rather disconcerting luxury—and as she scrubbed it into her hair the heavy scent seemed as heady as wine. With the aid of a coarse cloth, she washed her face until the skin felt raw, then splashed the lather away with handfuls of still-steaming water. Standing, she soaped herself from the neck down and sluiced away a week’s worth of dirt and weariness. Stepping from the tub, she found an enormous towel, as abrasive as steel wool, which she used vigorously, until she felt as raw as a peeled carrot.

  On a table by the tub she found brushes and combs and, with the aid of a small polished steel mirror, she did what she could with her unruly hair. She noticed that a selection of cosmetics had been laid out for her, small jars of sheep fat, kohl and rouge, but she didn’t know what to do with them and only sniffed at them suspiciously.

  Fresh clothing had been laid neatly across the bed. There was a pair of hose and soft slippers. The dress was a long-sleeved floor-length tunic of simple lines but exquisite material and workmanship. To cover it was shorter surcoat, sleeveless in deference to the season. Slipping the clothing over her head, Bradamant tried unsuccessfully to recall the last time she had worn a dress. It was a peculiar sensation, such weightless and comparitively insubstantial clothing, to someone accustomed to leather, heavy woolens and steel mail, and she felt uncomfortably and incongruously naked though nothing showed of her but her hands and face. The discovery of a beautifully embroidered linen shawl that draped her almost to her knees was a welcome addition.

  She had only just completed the final touches of her toilet when she heard the clang of a distant bell—evidently the call to dinner of which Fiordispina had spoken. Slipping her feet into the soft leather slippers, Bradamant opened her door and went out onto the balcony overlooking the great hall, turned, went down the stairs and followed the bustling, chattering crowd that were apparently as hungry as she.

  There were already two dozen people in the dining room, some of them seated at the long, broad wooden table, the remainder milling and chatting. Platters and bowls of steaming food were being carried from the kitchen and piled on the already crowded table.

  Bradamant, always uncertain and uncomfortable at any sort of social occasion and with an abiding dislike of crowds, stood in the doorway feeling self-conscious and obvious. By twos and threes, the company became aware of the tall figure in the doorway. The room became quieter, except for a dull buzz of speculation. Bradamant felt every eye upon her, as though she were being prodded by dozens of damp fingertips.

  Her borrowed dress and surcoat were of deep green silks and her shawl a golden ochre that together splendidly complimented her honey-colored skin and weathered bronze hair; the long, draped lines made her slender height seem even greater—an impression not dispelled by the fact that the top of her head just brushed the low lintel. She looked like painted caryatid.

  She began to fidget nervously under the silent scrutiny, suddenly feeling too clumsy, uncouth and obvious to dare move.

  “Lady Bradamant!” cried a familiar voice, and she turned to see Fiordispina, dressed entirely in a white silk dress embroidered with silver thread and pearls, her sunny face embedded in a meringue of dark hair. She looked as transparent and insubstantial as a blown glass souvenir.

  “My lords and ladies!” she said, ducking past Bradamant. “This is my friend, the brave Lady Bradamant, who saved my life this afternoon, when I was lost and feverish. I might have died if she hadn’t found me and carried me back home!”

  There was a murmur of astonishment at this remarkable and unexpected speech while Bradamant blushed furiously, angry with herself for being embarassed and even more angry with the brainless princess. Fortunately, she was glad to see, most of the guests only glanced at her with dull, empty eyes—almost immediately losing interest in the newcomer.

  Bradamant was guided to a seat between a large, greasy-looking woman on her right and an angular, ill-looking man on her left. She was disgusted at the latter’s snuffling as he unsuccessfully tried to stem a constant flow of mucus by the
force of nasal inhalation alone. The sound alone was nauseating, though not half so stomach-turning as the sight of him swallowing after a particularly bulky-sounding snort. Bradamant was horrified when he turned his rheumy eyes toward her, her own eyes riveted on the green stream that drooled unchecked over the matted moustache.

  “I don’t recall seeing you here before, my lady,” the man said, following this observation with a hacking, bubbling cough.

  “I’ve only just arrived,” replied Bradamant.

  “Are you related to the princess?”

  “No. I’d never even met her before today.”

  “You don’t look anything at all like her, you know.”

  “I don’t suppose I do.”

  “I’ve not been well lately.”

  “So I can’t help observing.”

  “I’ve got boils on my bum.”

  Bradamant hurriedly dropped her knife on the floor and used the effort to pick it up as an excuse to turn to the woman on her right. She found the fat face regarding her with hostile curiosity.

  “Do I know you?” the woman asked.

  “I don’t think so,” replied Bradamant.

  “You’re staring at me in a very familiar manner—familiar for a stranger, that is.”

  “Pardon me, my lady, I meant no offense.”

  “You’re a rather strange-looking young woman.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your nose is much too large you know. Men prefer petite noses. See mine? Isn’t it just the most perfect little button?”

  “Yes, my lady,” replied Bradamant, who thought it looked more like a doorknob.

  “What happened to your hair? It’s all every which way.”

  “I had to cut it, my lady.”

  “Well, that was a very bad idea. You should never do it again. It looks just too dreadful.”

  “I don’t have any such plans, my lady.”