The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  “There was murder in her eyes! I could see it! Death and destruction! She cannot leave! She would be lost! Lost forever!”

  “There’s nothing I can do. You’re more than welcome to try, if it’s that important to you.”

  “I know who she is. I know her history. She’s drenched in blood. Hundreds have died at her hands!”

  “In defense of her country and her God!”

  “But it’s neither right nor seemly that a maiden should take such work upon herself!”

  “I won’t argue with you, Father. There she is. You talk her out of it.”

  Bradamant had emerged from her cell. She was fully armored, her sword at her hip, her helmet in the crook of her arm. In the brilliant sunlight she glowed like a bar of white-hot iron and the abbot had to shield his eyes from the intolerable glare, but whether it was from the sun or her anger he could not tell. Reinhold could look at his sister with undazzled eyes. He was accustomed to her and did not mistake the blaze of her fury for the less vehement flame of the sun.

  She went directly to the quivering abbot. “Father, I want my horse brought to me immediately. I’m leaving.”

  “Lady Bradamant! You cannot do this! I can understand and even condone killing in the defense of our nation and our faith, yes, but not the cold-blooded murder I see in your face. You can’t kill even a godless Saracen to satisfy your own lust for blood and revenge. No, no, no! Absolutely not!”

  “Would you rather that I murder myself?” she growled, drawing her sword and falling to her knees. “It’s the only alternative you leave me.” As both men looked on, too shocked to move or protest, she placed the sword’s hilt against the earth and the point at the center of her breast. Hands clasped behind her back, she leaned onto the sharp point. In the melodrama of her gesture she had forgotten that she was fully armored. It is possible that the two men realized that she was in fact in no danger of skewering herself, but it is more likely that the terrifying sight of the girl leaning against the sword point was much too disturbing to allow such details to be noticed.

  “Would you rather that I die of guilt? Should I throw myself onto this blade? Wouldn’t it be better for me to die in battle, with at least a modicum of honor? If Rashid bests me, might he not at least regret my passing? And if I die at his hands, could I die any happier? And it’d only be right and fitting if it’s Rashid who killed me, since he’s the source of all of my misery. But whatever Fate has in store for me, you may trust that insidious Marfisa shall die first!”

  “But Lady Bradamant! I beg you!”

  “I haven’t the time to argue with you,” she replied, rising to her feet and resheathing her sword. “Have my horse brought to me, or I’ll fetch him myself.”

  The abbot wilted like lettuce beneath her hot gaze. Shaking his head like someone who has just received a sharp blow to the temple, he went to do her bidding.

  “I’ve brought a lance for you, Bradamant,” said Reinhold as his sister unfolded the surcoat that Fiordispina had given her, which was of somber brown silk embroidered with a pattern of intertwined cypress branches. This tree never recovers from the first blow of the axe, instead, it withers and dies from the wound. Bradamant thought it fittingly symbolic of her mood. It never occurred to her why Fiordispina might have chosen that image.

  “Shall I come with you, Bradamant?”

  “No, it’s not necessary. It’d be better if you returned to the emperor.”

  She glanced down at the finely-embroidered coat; she felt its texture; the scent of frankincense and jasmine rose to her nostrils and an odd smile crossed her face.

  “No, Reinhold. I have a better idea. Ride to the head of this valley. There is a château there and someone waiting whom I think you would surprise and please very much.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In which Bradamant meets a Queen

  and has some difficulty in crossing a bridge

  Bradamant crossed through the Quercy region, skirting the town of Cahors since she wanted to avoid any of the delays that might come of passing through towns and villages and, fording the Garonne, entered Languedoc—marking the halfway point of her journey. She had left the hamlet of Millau miles behind when she saw a woman accompanied by three knights approaching her on the road ahead. Behind them followed a long procession of decorative pages and damsels. She moved to the side of the highway to allow this parade to pass.

  The woman, she saw, was elegantly dressed. She was very pale with eyes like chips of ice. Her straw-blonde hair hung in heavy waves like a meringue around her waist. She rode a saffron horse whose pelt was perfectly matched: one hair of gold for every three tawny ones. Bradamant did not recognize the device on the shield that hung from the woman’s saddle. Neither did she recognize the three knights, who were as pale and cold-eyed as their mistress and whose armor was of a strange and foreign design. After these four had passed—without so much as a glance toward the warrior-woman who courteously waited beside the road—Bradamant stopped one of the pages, a boy about fifteen or sixteen years old, and asked who the woman was.

  “My Lady’s an emissary from the Queen of the Lost Island—that some call Iceland.” he explained. “She was sent here to meet with Karl the Great. That shining shield she carries is a gift from the queen herself. It’s made of real gold!”

  “Iceland?” repeated Bradamant. “I’ve heard of neither it nor its queen.”

  “She wouldn’t be happy to hear that,” said the page. “But I’m not surprised. It’s a land that lies beyond the Arctic pole, hundreds of leagues by sea from the farthest point of Europe. The queen considers herself the most beautiful woman in the world—indeed, she thinks her beauty is such a gift from God Almighty that it constitutes a miracle in itself. Not finding any man in her own country whom she considers worthy of basking in her effulgence, she’s sent that shield as a prize for Charlemagne to award to the knight he considers in his opinion to be the paragon of all the world. This knight, then, would be the one most deserving of being the queen’s paramour. Not finding such a man in any other country, she’s convinced that only at the court of the great Karl will there be the mightiest and most courageous knight of all.”

  “No doubt. Well, I wish her luck,” said Bradamant. “And who, by the way, are those three knights with her?”

  “They’re all kings in their own right, from Sweden, Gothenburg and Norway, and peerless warriors they are, too.”

  “If that’s true, why doesn’t the queen simply choose one of them?”

  “They are suitors for her hand, and each has been her lover at one time or another. Just to see her smile they’ve accomplished deeds that the gods themselves disbelieve and men will talk about to the end of time. But even then, the queen is still unconvinced there’s no one in the outer world who may surpass even these stupendous knights.”

  “She must be hard to please.”

  “I heard her myself tell them that she wasn’t very impressed with their accomplishments since they’d been limited to only their small, frozen part of the world. You should have seen their faces! I thought they would cry. She said that since she respected Charlemagne above all the other rulers of this planet, only the supreme champion of his domain might seriously ask for her hand. That’s what the golden shield is for. The emperor’s to award it to whomever, in his opinion, is the most valorous of all, whether it be in his court or another’s. Now, she told her three rival suitors, the three kings, that if any one of them can best Charlemagne’s champion, then he shall be the beneficiary of all her love and desire.”

  “And just for that faint chance they have traveled all this way?”

  “Wouldn’t you do the same if you were in love?”

  Bradamant, of course, had no ready answer for that.

  “The kings,” the page continued, “have traversed frozen seas and overcome incredible obstacles and dangers in their resolve to either win the shield or die at the hands of its new owner. Now, kind knight, if you’ll pardon me, I’d better catch up
with the others.”

  Bradamant did not press more questions on the boy, but let him go. Her mind was preoccupied with what he had told her. As she allowed Rabican to saunter down the now-empty road, hazed with yellow dust raised by the procession, she pondered gloomily about the violent contests that were certain to begin as soon as word of the Icelandic queen’s challenge and prize became known. She frowned in disapproval. No good could come of this, she decided. It would only prove to be an unnecessary and trivial distraction, the cause of endless quarrels, dissent and antagonism at a time when Frankland desperately needed the coöperation of every knight, knights whom Charlemagne needed to fight for Christianity and Frankland, not a golden shield and the bed of some chilly, conceited foreign queen.

  Then, these depressing thoughts predisposing her to morbid brooding, Bradamant passed into gloomy reflection on the transference of Rashid’s affection to the perfidious Marfisa. She recalled everything she had ever heard or read about the Saracen warrioress, which was a mistake because there was nothing that did not but serve to increase her jealousy and anger. Though she had herself never seen Marfisa, she had heard more than enough about the mahogany-skinned Amazon. She was Agramant’s proudest jewel—ebony stained red with the blood of ten thousand victims. He had heard how with bared teeth and ululating howl Marfisa would cut a swath through a Christian army like a scythe through a field of ripe wheat. How even strong men would flee before that terrifying, magnificent banner of jet-black hair. Yet Marfisa’s sword could not have pierced Bradamant’s breast as cleanly or fatally as did the mere imagined image of her in Rashid’s arms.

  Bradamant became so preoccupied that she let Rabican choose the path. She drifted like a boat that has slipped its painter, carried by whatever random wind or tide happens to catch it. The reins hung slackly from her fingers as her spirit wandered. It was not until the sky began to grow dark that she realized that she had not given a thought as to where she was nor to where she was going to sleep. She looked over her shoulder and saw the last of the sun plunging under the horizon like a frightened duck. A cold wind was rising and, memories of the previous winter being too uncomfortably vivid, she had no special desire to spend the night alone beneath the stars. The air felt damp and chilly and the rising full moon was ringed with a pale halo, threatening a cold rain or possibly even snow. She spurred Rabican out of his daydream and began looking in earnest for someplace to stay.

  After a mile or two, she saw a serf walking with his dog alongside the road, evidently returning home from his work. She stopped the man and asked if there might be anyplace nearby that would put her up for the night.

  “Good or bad, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “A night in the rain would be worse.”

  “Aye, it does promise to turn ugly,” agreed the laborer, looking at the sky, where the nascent moonlight was being blotted out by ragged, opaque clouds, “but there isn’t anything closer than half a dozen leagues—well, except maybe Tristan’s castle.”

  “And what’s wrong with that place?”

  “Nothing, I suppose, but not everyone’s successful in being accommodated. Its hospitality has got conditions.”

  “And those might be?”

  “Well, I don’t know from personal experience you must understand, my lady, but what I’ve heard is that anyone wanting to stay at the castle must first fight for the privilege and then defend it.”

  “Defend it?”

  “Aye. Once you’ve gained admittance, you’re obligated to fight anyone else who shows up to keep your place. If you’re beaten, you must give up your room and sleep outdoors.”

  “And if no one else shows up?”

  “No problem. You get to keep your bed and enjoy the lord’s generosity—and I hear that, barring this one quirk, he’s a very gracious host.”

  “What if three or four or more knights all arrive at the same time? What happens then? Do they all have to fight one another for the privilege of a warm bed and hot meal?”

  “Not at all. The lord of the castle, you see, has considered every angle. In fact, he’d even consider a Saxon.” Since the man seemed to expect Bradamant to make some comment about this last remark she said, “And why not?” He shook his head as though she had disappointed him in some way. “If his guests,” he continued, “all arrive at the same time, they’re all welcome to stay. But if a lone knight arrives even five minutes later, why, then he has to fight every single one of his predecessors, one after the other.”

  “And I take it that if the lone knight arrives first and half a dozen arrive later, he has to fight them all to keep his bed?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m surprised that anyone gets a minute’s sleep.”

  “I hear it’s rare, my lady.”

  “Is that all then?”

  “Not quite. There’s just one more rule. If an unaccompanied lady arrives, then she must compete in beauty with any who arrive later.”

  “One wonders what the point is to all this?”

  “I suppose it provides the lord with some entertainment, my lady.”

  “All right then—I’ll take my chances. Where is this place?”

  “About two and half leagues that way,” he replied, pointing in the direction she had been traveling. Bradamant thanked the man and gave him a coin for his trouble. She spurred Rabican on, but the horse could not go very quickly. A light rain had begun to fall and the road was dark and muddy. It was nearing nine o’clock when she saw a gleam of lights through the trees and soon the castle gate loomed on her left. She dismounted and, leading Rabican by his reins, went to the heavy door and pounded on it. Eventually a peephole swung open and the bloodshot eye of a porter peered out at her. At his gruff inquiry she replied that she was desirous of lodging for the night.

  “You’re out of luck,” he replied. “The whole place is taken by a party of ladies and knights and supper is just about to be served.”

  “It’s not their meal yet,” Bradamant said, “if I understand the rules of this place. Go tell your master I’m waiting and that I know his custom and that I expect him to observe it.”

  The porter grumbled, but agreed to do as she said, leaving her to wait, stamping her feet in the chilly drizzle. She thought that it seemed like more than half an hour before the man returned and she was perfectly correct. He told her to stand back while he opened the gate.

  In the bailey beyond Bradamant saw, silhouetted against the torches that flared behind them, three knights who, even in that poor light, looked surly and put-upon. Good God, she thought, they’re the same three knights I passed this afternoon! She remembered that their strength and prowess were supposedly matchless and they were certainly large enough to lend considerable credibility to that reputation. That their moods were obviously foul would do nothing to abate that power, she feared. Their faces were longer and more somber than the horses they sat on. But then, Bradamant told herself, neither did she have any intention of spending the night in the rain—which was now coming down in a heavy shower—hungry, cold and wet.

  The bright windows of the castle were crowded with ladies and pages, anxious to witness the duel that was about to take place in the fire-lit yard—an unexpected entertainment. Bradamant, for her part, was as glad to see the porter beckon her through the gate as a cunning lover might be to hear—after waiting hours—the bolt on his sweetheart’s door softly withdrawn. She climbed onto Rabican’s back and rode into the bailey, which had been laid out as a tilting field. She trotted past the waiting knights as far as she could, turned and—without further preamble—came at them at full gallop, the touch of her spur igniting the intelligent Rabican like a match applied to a rocket. She lowered her lance, letting the three men decide which among them would be the first to meet her charge.

  One of the three dug his spurs into his horse, lowered his own lance and charged, but his weapon did not come within inches of Bradamant, whose point caught the defender’s helmet and flung him from his saddle like a rag doll. Bradamant rein
ed Rabican to a halt, returned to the far end of the field and charged again. The second knight joined the first in the mud and, a few moments later, the third landed headfirst in a puddle, imbedded like a tent stake.

  Before the three men could regain their feet, Bradamant had approached the castle and demanded her right to shelter for the night. The door was immediately flung open, dazzling her with light that poured through the opening like molten butter. “That was magnificent!” cried the figure that emerged. “Wonderful! I can hardly believe it!”

  “Well,” said Bradamant, “are you going to let me sit out here in the rain all night, or are you going to let me in?”

  “Of course you can come in, and welcome too, but first you must swear an oath.”

  “What would that be?”

  “It’s just a formality, I assure you. Do you swear to go out and tilt with anyone else who may show up tonight?”

  “Of course. I understood that before I even got here.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. Had to make it formal, you know, nothing against you, of course. Well, now that that’s over and done with, come in! come in! The porter will take care of your animal.”

  She dismounted and handed the reins over to the old man who abandoned his efforts to dislodge the still-embedded knight to the man’s companions. Her host stood aside as she strode past him and entered the hall. It was warm inside and redolent with the savory scents of hot food. There was a semicircular table facing a fireplace as large as a serf’s hut, around which were seated the golden ambassadress and her company. At the sight of the damp, disheveled knight, the woman rose and graciously extended a hand in greeting, introducing herself as Lady Ullania. Whatever miserable personality her queen may be burdened with, thought Bradamant, her representative is certainly no refection of it. In spite of pale, cold eyes the woman’s smile was honestly warm and friendly as she led Bradamant to a place close to the fire. Bradamant unbuckled her sword and handed it to a servant, but when she removed her helmet, there was a discreet gasp from her audience as thick, bronze tresses tumbled to her shoulders. In the flickering, flaring light of the fire and the hundred candles that illuminated the room, the removal of her helmet was as dramatic as the raising of a theater curtain, revealing the marvelously-painted scenery that lay behind it, or as though the sun had just appeared through a rent in stormy clouds. Lord Tristan blinked his eyes because he had thought, just for a moment, he had caught a glimpse of paradise.