The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  That very same battle, Bradamant thought, in which I met Rashid. It was during the defense of Monaco. There had never been such a horrible melée as when Rodomont of Salza single-handedly faced the army of Duke Namo. Bradamant had ridden through the very center of the battle, her lance lowered at Rodomont as surely and unwaveringly as a compass needle seeking the pole, but even though she nearly knocked him from his saddle, even her lance failed to penetrate the thick, black serpent skin he wore for armor. In return, he swung a mighty blow at her with his sword. It missed, fortunately, for it would surely have split her in two—instead it hit and instantly killed her horse. The animal collapsed, pinning the warrioress beneath its dead weight.

  This defeat had been an entirely new experience for Bradamant and she liked it not one bit. Humiliated and angry, she rallied ten thousand troops of her own—every one of them glad to follow her plain white flag—and set off in pursuit of the Saracen villain. She found him just as he was bludgeoning her cousin Roland into unconsciousness—and anyone who knows Roland knows what a feat that was. It was in a broad field, between two hills, well away from where the main armies were fighting. This was fine with Bradamant, as there would be no one to stay her revenge. With a terrifying cry, she launched herself into the man, her sword swinging like a scythe. Roland, quickly recovered, would have joined her but for the chivalric scruple that prevented him from attacking even a Moor while he was already fighting someone else. For three long hours Bradamant courageously fought Rodomont. During this time she noticed that the principal fray had overflowed into her little valley and she was now surrounded by fighting soldiers of both sides. Roland, at least, now had something to do and was busily hacking away at heads and limbs and torsos, which flew around him in a grisly débris. Gradually and reluctantly she found herself pulled away from her principal enemy, as he was from her. What happened after that has already been told, more or less: Bradamant spied a Saracen knight, helmetless, who was about to be delivered a fatal and cowardly blow from behind. Without a moment’s reflection she had torn off her own helmet and thrown it to him. In that same instant, she received a blow to her own head that knocked her from her saddle. As she spun into the bloody mud her last sight was that of Rodomont holding a sword stained with her own blood.

  “He was defeated again at that battle and disappeared soon after,” she finished. “What’s he doing in a place like this? A quiet retirement in the country hardly sounds like his style.”

  “I can tell you a little about that,” the girl explained. “After he failed to destroy Paris and after his defeat at Monaco, he fell into a kind of depression. He left Agramant’s side and wandered here and there until he eventually met and imprisoned Isabel, a princess of Galicia. She’d been mourning the death of her lover, Zerbin, whom Mandricardo had just slain. The poor man had died in her arms and she swore to him in his last moment on earth that she’d be forever faithful to his memory. Despondant over the the death of her lover and sickened by Rodomont’s foul advancess, she committed suicide—and revenge—by tricking him into killing her.”

  “Yes, I remember having heard something of this now that you’ve mentioned it.”

  “I believe that, in his own evil, perverse way, Rodomont was in love with her. I think it was that which drove him half mad after her death. In any event, ever since then he’s hidden himself away in this black castle. It guards the only pass through these mountains, which can be approached only by crossing a high, narrow bridge which Rodomont built in honor of poor Isabel. He challenges every knight who tries to take the pass, demanding that they either surrender all their arms and armor to him or face destruction at his hands.”

  “Why did he spare your knight, then?”

  “Because Rodomont desired me and knew that I’d be willing to do anything to see Brandimart’s life saved.”

  “I see the villain is little changed after all,” concluded Bradamant.

  They did not come into sight of the castle—really hardly more than a tor—until late the following morning. Bradamant was struck by the peculiar appearance of the large, loaf-shaped structure that towered near the castle and asked her companion what it might be.

  “It’s a kind of tomb,” Fiordiligi replied, “built of all the armor that Rodomont has collected.”

  Bradamant was impressed. It must have been ninety yards tall, dwarfing the simple cylindrical tower or keep that comprised the entirety of Rodomont’s modest castle. Its entire surface, from top to bottom, was encrusted with the arms of the knights who had prefered conceding to Rodomont than face certain death. The sight of that ignominious monument brought back to Bradamant the full recollection of Isabel’s sad story.

  Bradamant heard a shout from the tower and saw that their approach had been observed by a watchman. She did not hesitate, but kept riding toward the bridge that separated her from the castle, a high, narrow arch spanning a precipitous gorge that vibrated like the sounding box of a guitar under the force of the river that raged through it. The bridge was scarcely fifty feet from end to end and not even two yards wide—and there was no parapet, nothing to keep a clumsy horseman from plummeting into the abyss. Bradamant wondered if it might not be a natural arch, rather than a man-made span. Clouds of cold spray surged from the river below. The slightest mistep on the wet, slippery, slightly convex surface would be disastrous. Before she reached the bridge, however, the gate of the castle was thrown open and a knight appeared, clad in dull black armor from head to foot and mounted on an enormous black horse. He galloped to the farther end of the bridge, brandished his sword and shouted above the thundering river: “Halt, whoever you are! I don’t know what’s brought you here, whether you’ve lost your way or your wits, but I order you to dismount and strip off your arms!”

  “And if I don’t care to?” replied Bradamant.

  “Then I’ll kill you!”

  “I think not, Rodomont! I know why you’re here and what that tomb is for. It’s a symbol of your lust, cruelty and conceit! It’s the tomb of poor, innocent Isabel, whom you had your black heart so set on defiling that you cold-bloodedly murdered the helpless old monk who tried to shield her. Rather than be raped by you, that chaste maiden tricked you into beheading her! She turned you into her murderer instead of her lover. It’s her body that lies in that unconsecrated vault.”

  “I’ve made no secret of my motives,” shouted the black knight, “not that they’re any business of yours.”

  “Then why do you force the innocent to make penance for your own cowardly sins? If anything will placate Isabel’s soul, it’s your own blood. You murdered her—as you yourself admit—the whole world knows that. I can pay her far better obeisance than by donating my arms to her tomb. I can avenge her by killing you and it’ll please her all the more that I be the one to do it.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I’m a woman just as she was. I came here originally to release this maiden’s lover, whom you’ve illegally imprisoned, but my greater duty, I see, is to set Isabel’s soul to rest. If you defeat me, you may do with me whatever you wish and my arms will join the others’. But if I defeat you, which I shall, your horse and arms will be mine, as will be all the arms that desecrate Isabel’s tomb, and you’ll release your prisoner.”

  Rodomont laughed. “I know who are now. You’re a bigger braggart than I am, Bradamant!”

  “I never brag.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you don’t! Your earnestness is a credit to you, but it’ll take more than windy self-confidence to cross that bridge. You do know that we’re to meet in the middle?”

  Bradamant had not known that. She glanced at the narrow span, that now seemed no wider than a ribbon, its mossy stones wet with spray, half obscured by the chilly mist. It looked as slippery as ice. She would have to fight the pagan knight at the highest point of the arch where even the least misjudgement would be fatal.

  “So?” she said. “Is that a problem for you?”

  Rodomont laughed again—a grating bra
y that Bradamant was growing tired of hearing. “I’ve strangled lions in the great Afric desert,” he said, “ripped elephants open with my teeth and cut at least a million of my enemies into mincemeat, so I think I have some hope of despatching one cheeky girl playing at being a knight.”

  “Do you intend to do this by boring me to death?”

  “All right, my brave maiden. I’ll grant you everything you wish should you defeat me—not that I’d have any choice, seeing that I’d be dead. But, if you should fall at my hands, I will claim more than just your armor. You will concede to me your golden hair, lovely face, coral lips and especially those long, lithe limbs. You’ll love me where you now hate me. You’d need feel no dishonor at this—my strength is so profound that there could be no genuine disgrace in losing to me.”

  Bradamant’s wordless reply to this bragadoccio—to say nothing of the obscene suggestion—was to place her helmet over her head, take Rabican fifty yards further away, lower her golden lance, turn and charge. Rodomont lowered his own lance and spurred his great horse. The hooves of the two animals clattered on the bridge; stones flew as the fragile span vibrated like a spring under that tremendous pounding; it seemed to rebound like a diving board. The point of Bradamant’s lance caught the pagan just under his collarbone and lifted him entirely out of his saddle. He was lofted high into the air, like a pole vaulter, sailing in an arc over Bradamant’s head to crash onto the slippery pavement behind her with a sound like a locomotive derailing. Bradamant brought her horse to a gentle halt at the far side of the span, turned and carefully rode back to where Rodomont lay at the far end of a skid mark nearly fifty paces long. She had some difficulty getting around the body. Rabican had scant inches to spare, but that remarkably sure-footed beast could have walked on the edge of a sword. Safely past the fallen knight, she turned and asked, “Now which of us must submit to the other?”

  Rodomont, though conscious, did not, or could not, reply. He was still too stunned, though whether by the fall or by the fact that he had been defeated by a woman is perhaps a moot point. Still silent, he pushed himself to his feet and Bradamant, seeing the man stagger, was afraid he’d tumble off the bridge. Where moments before she would not have hestitated skewering him with her lance, she perversely did not want to see Rodomont die accidentally. However, instead of tumbling into the gorge he turned and walked unsteadily back to the far end of the span where he began to glumly and silently divest himself of his armor, throwing it to the ground with ill-concealed disgust.

  Bradamant, meanwhile, had returned to where Fiordiligi waited almost prostrate with anxiety. She helped the damsel back onto Rabican and recrossed the bridge, but Rodomont was no longer there. All that remained of the villain was a pile of his armor, his horse and his servant.

  “Good heavens!” exclaimed Bradamant, going up to the huge black animal and taking its reins. “It’s Frontino!”

  “Who’s Frontino?” asked Fiordiligi. “That old man?”

  “No, no—the horse! This is Frontino, Rashid’s horse! He was stolen from me more than a year ago.”

  “Who’s Rashid?”

  “He’s . . . he’s a Saracen knight. Whoever stole the horse must’ve been one of the unfortunates who failed to pay Rodomont’s toll. Well, it served him right, then. And speaking of Rodomont—Where is your master?” she said, turning to the watchman.

  “He’s gone, my lady,” replied the old man, “and I’ve no idea what I’ll do for a job now, thank you very much.”

  “Where’s he gone?” Bradamant persisted.

  “How should I know? Why would he tell me anything? I only work here. Or I did, anyway.”

  “Rodomont said nothing?”

  “Only that he swore not to take up arms again for a year, a month, a week and a day.”

  “I’ve come for this lady’s knight.”

  “I know, I know. ”

  “Well?”

  “Well what? Her man’s not here. What’d you expect? If a knight was foolish enough to fight Rodomont, then he was cast into the gorge never to be seen again. But if he was wise enough gave up his arms, then he was sent to King Agramant as a prisoner. Unless, of course, he were a Saracen knight, then he was free to go after abandoning his armor. But Agramant’s camp—that’s where your man is now.”

  “Rodomont promised to free him.”

  “And so he did. You only need take Rodomont’s sword to Agramant as a token of his defeat. The king will honor it.”

  Bradamant, feeling somehow cheated, took the sword and tied it to her saddle. Then, Fiordiligi and the watchman following, went to look at Isabel’s strange mausoleum. There seemed to be thousands of shields, swords, lances and pieces of armor attached to it, like a coral-encrusted wreck. She turned to the caretaker and said, “I want every piece of Christian armor taken down and locked inside the tomb.”

  “And who’s going to pay me to do this?”

  “This castle and bridge are mine, as lawful prizes. I give them to you. You can’t ask for more than that. Charge a fair toll to travelers and you’ll do well enough.”

  Bradamant took the point of her sword and engraved her name and that day’s date beside the heavy iron door that sealed the vault, so it would be known who had routed the black knight and opened the pass. She then turned to Fiordiligi, who sat disconsolately nearby, her head hanging to her knees, one hand wringing the blood from the other. She looked up as the warrior maiden approached and Bradamant flinched at the sight of such sadness. She knew all too well how devastating such disappointment could be.

  “What do you want to do?” she asked.

  “Pursue my love, of course” Fiordiligi replied, “wherever it takes me. I have Rodomont’s promise to you, for whatever it’s worth, so I have that much hope.”

  “You’re more than welcome to come with me at least as far as Arles. That’s where Agramant is now and that’s presumably where we’ll find Brandimart. But if you do accompany me, I’ll have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Anything!”

  “Once we arrive at Arles, I want you to carry a message to one of the king’s champions, a man named Rashid. He’s the most famous of all the Moorish knights, so you’ll have no trouble finding him. Anyone’ll be able to point him out. Tell him this: That he’s broken faith with another knight and that this knight wishes the whole world to know it. Tell him that he’s to put on his armor and his weapons and await the coming of this wronged knight, who wishes to do battle with him. Tell him that this knight returns this horse because he wants him to be well prepared.”

  “I’ll do this.”

  “Don’t say another word. If he asks you who this knight is, simply say you don’t know.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Fiordiligi, “but after what you’ve done for me, my life itself is at your service.”

  “Just your word and your memory will be sufficient.”

  Bradamant gave Frontino to the maiden to ride and the two women continued their journey, following the river that the watchman had told Bradamant met the sea not far from Arles.

  * * * * *

  It took nearly a week before Bradamant and her companion came within sight of the city, close enough to hear the sea pounding against the rocky shore. The Rhône passed close to its stone walls as a kind of semi-moat before entering the Mare Internum, its mouth forming the ship-filled harbor that the city protected. All of the vessels, Bradamant grimly noted, were Moorish. Within the walls she could see the tents of the Saracen army. Not half a league beyond the city was the camp of the great Christian army that had pursued Agramant all the way from Paris. At the sight of its flags and pennants she felt a pang of conscience, knowing that her rightful place had been with Charlemagne and not in the quest for her own revenge. Still, she had to finish what she had begun. She did not enter the city, but instead stopped just outside the wall while Fiordiligi went in to find Rashid and deliver Frontino and the message.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In which Bradamant, Marfisa and Rash
id meet on the battlefield and learn a surprising Truth

  Rashid did not know what to make of the message that the strange woman had left, and even more puzzled to find himself again in possession of Frontino. He was absolutely mystified. Who could possibly want to challenge him? Who had any reason to accuse him of breaking his faith? Who would simultaneously insult him and do him a kindness? He had tried to interrogate the beautiful maiden who had been the agent for his unknown benefactor, but she had managed to vanish as quickly and mysteriously as she had appeared. Was she some supernatural creature? Or the agent of a practical joker? He racked his brains as he strolled back into his tent (his injuries betrayed only by a residual limp), but could not think of a soul in all the world with whom he had such a mortal quarrel.

  “What are you scowling about?” asked the dark woman, who was slouched across a pile of cushions like two and one tenth yards of heavy rope.

  “I’ve just gotten Frontino back.”

  “That’s wonderful! And what, pray tell, is a Frontino?”

  “My horse. I lost him, oh, a year or so ago and now, out of the blue, he shows up again!”

  “So?”

  “Well, that’s the mystery. The person who returned it was acting for a knight who has challenged me to a joust.”

  “What?” said the woman, successfully hissing a word that had no sibilants, as she uncoiled from her pillows like a melanistic cobra. “And who’d be this rash suicide?”

  “I have no idea. If you’d asked me, I’d have told you that I didn’t think I had an enemy in the world.”

  “Everyone’s got enemies.”

  “You’re as cynical as you are bloodthirsty!”

  “I’m also practical and alive.”

  “There’s not a Moor who could hurt me and the only Christian knight who exceeds my prowess, if there is one, is Roland—and he’d certainly not confront me in such a cowardly fashion. It’s either a madman or a joke—what’s there to fear from either?”