by Ron Miller
As the procession drew nearer, Bradamant saw to her horror that the frail old woman was tightly bound from neck to waist and that she was tied to the saddle like a sack of meal. Her hands and bare feet were dead white from the lack of blood and a filthy gag had been thrust into her toothless mouth.
Just as the majestic Po River, arising from Mount Viso, fed by the Ambra, Ticino, Adda and other tributaries, increases in might as it rushes toward the Adriatic, just so did the ferocious wrath of Bradamant increase with every new outrage. What she had heard of Marganor’s evil was bad enough, but this visible evidence of the hatefulness of his crimes so provoked her anger that she decided that he must be punished no matter how large an army he might be able to muster. And he would be deserving of no quick death, either, she decided with a lack of charity that was less Christian than it was Bradamantine.
“We must save that old woman,” she cried to Marfisa and Rashid, “before we do anything else!”
Without turning to look, confident that her companions would do as she did, Bradamant leaped into her saddle, drew her sword and charged the men.
It’s unlikely that Marganor’s men had ever before experienced an attack so ferocious, so savage, so bloodthirsty. It was as though a furious tiger had descended into a pen of sheep. In the brief moment it took for Rashid and Marfisa to join her, Bradamant had already strewn the road with a half dozen bodies, some clutching at their escaping entrails or at fountaining stumps, others still and lifeless. The remaining men, seeing that the screaming she-devil was about to be reinforced, dropped their arms and bolted. Just as a wolf, surprised by a hunter, will abandon its prize and flee, these cowardly ruffians leaped from their horses, stripped themselves of their armor, threw their swords and daggers to the ground and vanished down the muddy road, into alleys or over the precipice that surrounded the town, preferring their chances with the jagged rocks below to the certainty of disembowelment by the Fury in their midst. In less than two minutes, Bradamant found herself in possession of two dozen horses and an old woman.
She approached the latter and, as gently as she could, removed the gag that had been tied so tightly she had to cut the knot away.
“Will you come with us?” she asked as she unfastened the ropes that bound the skinny arms. “We’re going to Lord Marganor’s castle to rid it of its vermin and to avenge its crimes against women.”
Old Jaudenes, whose rheumy eyes had gazed with unfocussed incomprehension and whose raw mouth hung open, slack and drooling, gasped at the sound of Marganor’s name. A spark kindled in each dull eye—first the right, then the left—as she grasped Bradamant’s arm; the latter was surprised at the strength in those fleshless fingers. It was like being gripped by the talons of some large raptor. Jaudenes began weeping, which distressed Bradamant, as she begged the knight not to take her back to Marganor’s castle.
“Come on, old woman,” interrupted Rashid with rough kindness. “Don’t you want to see your mistress avenged?”
“We’re wasting time,” grumbled Marfisa. “She’s just an old servant-woman. Whatever her role in this affair might once have been, we’ve no use for her now. Peel her off Bradamant, Rashid, and let’s get going.”
Rashid agreed and, none too gently, pulled the hysterical woman away from his lover and, lifting her weightless body from her own half-dead mount, placed her on Frontino, behind him, where she immediately latched onto his back like a limpet. As soon as she was in place, he spurred the great horse and galloped down the road, Marfisa close behind. Jaudenes’ shrieks rapidly disappeared among the echoes of clattering hooves.
Bradamant chose three likely-looking mounts from among the abandoned animals and led them back to the lodging-house, where Ullania and her handmaidens waited. “Take these,” she said, “and we’ll be on our way.” The two maids stared at Bradamant’s blood-splattered face and armor with patent horror, but the icy Queen looked upon her with an expression that could only be described as admiration—and even affection.
It took only a few hours to cover the two leagues that separated the women’s hamlet from Marganor’s castle, so it was still well before noon when Bradamant found herself looking down upon a sizable, prosperous-looking town or two or three score large, elegant houses. There was neither a wall nor a moat surrounding them. From the center rose a precipitous crag, like a crooked tusk, and balanced atop this was an opulent castle. Without a word between them, the avenging band spurred their mounts and descended into the town. At the first steps down the trail, old Jaudenes had begun to wail but a few short but vivid words whispered into her ear through Rashid’s clenched teeth served to shut her up, leaving her shaking and sniffling no less than before, but silently.
As they approached the town, Bradamant saw that, though there was no wall, entrance was limited to two or three heavy gates. No one obstructed them as they rode through the nearest one of these; nevertheless, the thick wooden door was swung shut behind them and barred. She turned and looked all around at the surrounding street and houses. Both seemed deserted until she began to catch glimpses of furtive, pale faces, like fish peering from their dark grottoes. The atmosphere was rank with fear.
They turned a corner and there, at the base of the crag, waited Lord Marganor and a horde of brutal-looking men.
“Halt, there!” he cried and Bradamant, Marfisa and Rashid, having nothing better to do, did as they were told.
“You’re my prisoners!” Marganor continued. “You’ll dismount immediately and surrender your arms. Those women with you . . . those women . . . By God!” he cried as he recognized Ullania, “you dare to return here? What insolence! Well, by God! I’ll guarantee you’ll regret that mistake! You’ll suffer more than a beating and a little embarassment this time! In the meantime, you three knights! Surrender, I say!”
Bradamant and Marfisa, who together had been leading their little procession, removed their helmets and threw them to the ground, shaking their hair so that it spilled over their broad shoulders. The sight of those two lovely faces—one dark and surrounded by a black cloud over which highlights shimmered like lightning, the other golden, like an ivory icon framed in liquid bronze—inspired Marganor to a blustering frenzy.
“You!” he spluttered. “You! You women! You dare challenge me?”
“I certainly do!” cried Marfisa, digging her heels into the flanks of her magnificent Arabian. The animal leaped faster than the eye could follow, a ruddy blur like the trail of a rocket. The Saracen warrioress did not deign to draw a weapon, but instead caught Marganor a blow on the side of his helmet with her fist. He slumped senselessly in his saddle, held there only by his stirrups.
When she saw Marfisa launch herself, Bradamant did likewise, with Rashid right behind her. The latter, without removing his lance from its socket, immediately slew five men, skewering them one after the other as easily as one might select cocktail shrimp. The sixth went down carrying the point of Rashid’s shattered lance protruding three feet from his back. With her golden lance flashing like lightning Bradamant was as devastating as a thunderbolt let loose among the enemy, shattering and leveling everything it touched. Those few that survived the touch of her invincible weapon ran for any available door, pounding down those that would not open. After five minutes only the three knights and a streetful of corpses remained. Marfisa had climbed from her horse and was busy trussing the still-groggy lord. She tied his hands behind his back and then, grasping his bound wrists, hauled him to his feet. The man shrieked and cursed as his shoulders threatened to tear from their sockets, but Marfisa only shook him all the harder until he shut up. The man looked at the carnage that surrounded him with dumb astonishment.
“Here,” the Saracen said, handing a dagger to Jaudenes, whose expression had taken on a kind of diabolical glee at the sight of her helpless tormenter, “if he so much as sweats too heavily, stick this in his heart. Well,” she said, turning to Bradamant, “what’ll we do now? If you’d like my suggestion, I’d be in favor of burning this unholy town
to the ground.”
“We’ll do just that,” was the reply, “if its citizens refuse to repeal Marganor’s laws and accept ours.”
This proved to be no particular difficulty once the three knights were able to ferret out the town’s leading citizens, most of whom had buried themselves as far away as possible from the zealous warriors. They had all heard Marfisa’s bloodthirsty proposal and, having seen her, had no doubt that the woman was not only serious but anxious to implement her threats. Indeed, she seemed more than capable, once released, of escalating the carnage past simple arson and wholesale slaughter. No, no, they hastened to assure their liberators, they loathed Marganor no less than anyone else, to say nothing of his ridiculous mandates. And why shouldn’t they? It had been no more pleasant for them here, without their wives, mothers, sisters, daughters and lovers, than it was for the women, deprived as they were of masculine company. Bradamant doubted this, looking around at the luxurious dwelling-places, inns and shops, comparing them with her memory of the squalid little village the women were forced to occupy. Besides, she harbored a suspicion that none of these men truly wanted for female companionship, Marganor or no Marganor. But at that they were neither better nor worse than anyone else, she concluded, cynically. They had done nothing that another wouldn’t have done in similar circumstances: kowtowing to the very one they loathed the most to save their lives. They all lived in fear of each other, trusting no one, not daring to denounce Marganor or his laws, silently watching as here a man was exiled, there one slain, this one deprived of his belongings, that one his honor. Yet, she thought, the cumulative plaint of those unhappy hearts must have been heard in Heaven after all, for didn’t just retribution in the form of herself and her friends finally descend upon this evil town? It might have been a long time coming, but once it did it made up for its tardiness with a punishment that was proportionally massive.
Now that it was safe to speak freely, the villagers showed no restraint in denouncing their deposed lord, in expressing their hate and anger. From every doorway and alley, more and more men and boys appeared, pouring into the open square until it was filled with the seething mob. No longer afraid to speak, they now protested the kidnapping or murder of their loved ones and, one by one, like mushrooms bravely springing up after a summer shower, weapons began appearing, first here and there, then every hand seemed to bear a flashing blade or a bludgeon. It was all the three knights could do to keep the mob from sweeping over the helpless prisoner like an angry tide. There was no thought of mercy—the trio simply did not want him to die too quickly.
Bradamant found herself wondering why such an enthusiastic army had not long before overwhelmed the evil lord, they obviously outnumbered his men ten to one.
Marfisa carried the bound man to a raised platform that overlooked the square (and once again Bradamant marveled at the prodigious strength in that sinuous body—the man must have weighed three hundred pounds even without his armor). There she removed the original bonds and, keeping an iron grip on her prisoner, stripped him naked. There was little danger of Marganor escaping: he was so terrified it was all he could do to stand. She retied the knots so tightly that Bradamant, who stood fifty paces away, could see his feet and hands turn bloat purply. Marfisat turned to the now-silently-expectant crowd and called for Jaudenes. The elderly woman painfully made her way to the platform and was helped up its steps. Someone, anticipating the Moor’s intentions, handed the old woman a sharply-pointed iron rod—evidently the skewer from some tavern’s spit. She shuffled over to the man whom she detested as much as any woman or man can loathe another human being. Marganor, who had been regaining a little of his composure, only had to glance at the crone’s face and he was on his knees, begging, whimpering, crying for mercy, his piggy eyes almost bursting from their sockets in his terror.
In five minutes the villain was covered with blood that seeped from a hundred different wounds, none of them fatal which, Bradamant concluded, was no doubt why Marfisa had insisted that the weak old woman be allowed to be the first to wreak her vengeance. Then, as a courtesy extended to a foreign visitor, Ullania and her handmaidens were invited to vent their rage as well. Marganor’s suffering at their hands was in direct proportion to their greater strength, which, unlike Jaudene’s, was in no way diminished by age or illness. When their weapons finally slipped from their wet hands, they fell to biting and scratching; yet, so powerful was the man that when the three women finally fell back exhausted Bradamant was amazed to see that he was still alive. Alive, but certainly no longer the fearsome creature he once was, this mewling, groveling, tattered thing. He looked like a bundle of bloody rags.
Just as some rivers are powerful torrents that can carry away houses, cattle and people, tear enormous stones from mountainsides and trees from their roots, but eventually reach the plains where they spread out, lose their strength and urgency so that a woman or child can cross it with impunity, so it was with the great Marganor. He had caused the strongest men to shudder until the strangers had arrived, beaten him to his knees, quelled his massive strength until now even the weakest child didn’t hesitate sticking a pin into him.
Leaving the man to what little remained of his fate, Bradamant and her friends turned their attention to the castle that loomed above them. As they climbed the steep steps they were met halfway by its chamberlain, who docilely and silently handed over its keys and a catalog of the furnishings and contents. These were turned over to the townspeople who didn’t hesitate to begin looting. Some of the treasures, however, Bradamant was careful to reserve for Ullania, who was surprised and pleased to discover her golden shield among them.
The knights agreed that they had successfully accomplished the mission they had set for themselves, perhaps even more successfully than they had anticipated. Before departing the town Bradamant and Marfisa searched out its leaders and extracted the promise that they would turn the administration of the village over to the women as soon as they returned. Indeed, all the existing laws pertaining to husband and wife were inverted. Marfisa made it quite clear that even rumor about this oath being broken would eventually reach her ears and they could count on her being less merciful than she had been today. Bradamant for her part insisted that the town fathers swear to God that no knight be allowed entrance to the village until he had taken an oath by whatever he held most sacred to be forever a friend to Woman and an enemy of Her enemies. If the knight happened to be married, then before he was allowed through the gates he had to swear to forever be subject to his wife and obedient to her every need. Marfisa promised to return in a year’s time and if either her’s or Bradamant’s laws were being flouted, even the slightest of them, the town could count on the immediate enactment of its postponed conflagration.
It is difficult to plumb Rashid’s thoughts and opinions concerning all of this, though it must have been something of a revelation—whoever would have thought that lovely, gentle, thoroughly Christian Bradamant—to say nothing of his own sister—harbored such unlikely, radical and for all he knew heretical ideas—he surely must have regarded it all as something of an ominous harbinger.
At Bradamant’s suggestion, their final act was to have Drusilla’s remains removed from the unhallowed tomb in which Marganor had disposed her and placed together with her husband’s in the finest corner the village church possessed. Above their new resting place Bradamant hung Marganor’s armor and shield as a trophy. Then, her work at last brought to a satisfactory conclusion, Bradamant and the two other knights mounted their horses and rode from the town. As she passed the blood-soaked platform, Bradamant saw that poor old Jaudenes had fallen asleep beside the huge, still-quivering body, the bloody pick still in her hand, exhausted from her happy work.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In which Bradamant and Rashid must again part company
and Marfisa tells a story
Once again Bradamant had to part with Rashid. It was perhaps even more difficult than it had ever been before, but she could not deny t
he necessity of it—for what little consolation that provided her grieving heart. Had his carefully-explained reason been anything other than the preservation of his honor she might have had some cause to find fault in their parting, to doubt that the fire of his passion burned less ardently in his breast than in hers. If he had wanted to go off to find great wealth, it would have meant to her that he valued gold and silver over the days they might have spent together. But it was, after all, a matter of his honor and it would have been to his discredit and shame if he chose to not defend it. And if she had insisted on his remaining with her, it would have been to her own discredit and shame, for, she knew, it would have been clear evidence that her love was shabby and trifling and her wisdom shallow. If I truly cherish Rashid’s life above my own, she repeated to herself, unconvincingly, then I ought to value his honor above my pleasure in the same ratio that I hold honor above life—especially since life is preferable to any pleasure.
Rashid, she decided, must complete his sworn duty to his liege. It would only be to his shame if he deserted Agramant for no good reason. Also, it was her duty, she believed, not to insist that he remain with her—which she knew he would have done had she pressed the issue. The dereliction of her own duties to Charlemagne were still a source of much guilt and she couldn’t bring herself to ask someone she loved to undertake the same irresponsibility. That she more than half hoped he would on his own accord only added to her conflicted emotions. If he could not be with her now, she knew it would not be much longer before they would be together forever; but she also knew that if he stayed with her at the price of his honor she would never be entirely satisfied with him. Such were the arguments she wrestled with—and they relieved her pain as a bucket of oil quenches a fire.
So Rashid returned to Arles and Bradamant, in the company of Marfisa, returned to the service of Charlemagne.
