by Ron Miller
Her reception was, if anything, more gladsome than the last. The wholesale slaughter of the Saracens at Arles and the subsequent embarrassment of Agramant (the upshot of the great battle Bradamant had instigated but had not seen the finish of) was already famous, as was the liberation of Marganor’s people. She was of course recognized long before she entered the Christian camp and adulation spread from her like the bow wave of a ship. Officers and soldiers poured from their tents, cheering, waving and calling her name. Bradamant responded with only a nod of her tawny head—duty insisted that she be there and fate insisted upon her adulation but she did not have to be happy about either. She noticed with some disapproval that for her part Marfisa did not deign to smile and wave at the crowding men, who were all but throwing themselves at the Moor’s feet.
As she and her companion approached the center of the camp where sat the great pavilion that marked Karl’s headquarters, Renaud, Richard, Reinhold and a dozen of her other relatives rushed to greet her. She dismounted and tolerated with grim courtesy the laudation that swept over her while Marfisa looked down with the supercilious amusement of the hawk she resembled.
After Renaud had embraced and kissed his sister, he asked who her companion was. “She looks awfully familiar,” he said.
“This is Marfisa,” Bradamant replied. “The great Saracen Amazon.”
“Good God!” he cried. “Marfisa? Marfisa is your prisoner? The Marfisa? The emperor will be very pleased, indeed!”
“No, no! She’s not my prisoner, Renaud. She’s here of her own free will. She’s come to join our cause.”
“Oh, really? Well, an even greater victory, sister! Karl will want to see both of you at once.”
“Good, for I want to see the emperor myself.”
The mention of Marfisa’s name was like a boulder dropped into a pond—a wave of excitement spread in ever-increasing velocity. Every tent in the camp was deserted as thousands shoved and craned their necks trying to catch even as much as a glimpse of the two near-mythical women—the gleaming Christian warrioress and the dark Saracen champion whose fame had been sung from Cathay to Cordova. There had not been many Christian knights or soldiers who had ever encountered Marfisa and lived to meet her a second time, which is why her name had been recognized while her person had not.
Renaud, Richard and the others had to plow a kind of furrow through the crowd to allow Bradamant and Marfisa access to Charlemagne’s tent. Even the sight of drawn swords was scarcely sufficient to discourage the curious, cheering mob. Only the appearance of the emperor himself served to quiet the throng, like oil spread over a troubled sea. He enfolded Bradamant into his enormous arms, then extended a hand in greeting to Marfisa who, for the first time in her life, dropped to her knees in obeisance—of all the kings and emperors she had met in her illustrious career, whether pagan or Christian, whatever their valor or wealth, none but Charlemagne had been accorded the honor of her bent knee and bowed head.
Inside the pavilion, every lord and paladin—including most of Bradamant’s brothers and cousins, with the exception of Roland (who was rumored to have gone mad as the result of some misbegotten romance)—were gathered in a broad semicircle around the dias that supported the emperor’s throne. Karl took his place and gestured for Bradamant and Marfisa to join him, thereby elevating both above every knight, prince, baron and king present, and not one gainsaid them the honor.
“My lord,” began Marfisa. “High and mighty Charlemagne, my glorious and august emperor, your white cross is honored from the Indian Ocean to the Pillars of Hercules, from snow-bound Scythia to arid Ethiopia. Nowhere does a juster monarch reign. Your unbounded fame has attracted honor and praise from the farthest end of the earth, as the needle of a compass is inexorably drawn toward the magnetic pole. Yet, I came originally not to honor you but to make war on you. I couldn’t allow any king, however just and mighty he may be, to hold any law other than my own. To this end I’ve drenched battlefield after battlefield with Christian blood and I would have continued this slaughter unabated if I hadn’t been befriended by one who has in turn made me your friend. I still had the hot blood of your good knights steaming on my hands when I learned my true origins and my relation to Rashid—and through him my relation to Lady Bradamant. But there’s more to my history than even she knows—how after I’d been stolen from Atalante I was sold as a slave to a Persian king, how I killed him when he attempted to rape me. I killed all his courtiers, too, for good measure, and forced his princes and princesses into exile with the result that I was able to take over his kingdom. By the time I was eighteen, I’d won six more kingdoms. By then, such was my pride and my greed, I determined to overthrow you, my lord, as well. I might’ve succeeded, I might’ve failed, but the point is moot now for I’ve learned that we’re related through my father, the first Rashid, who was both a kinsman of yours and a loyal vassal. And if my father was kin and vassal to Charlemagne, than so am I. I declare to you now that I’m putting aside all my jealousy, envy and hatred of your eminence. With your permission, I’ll be baptized in your faith after which I’ll return to my own kingdom and baptize it in turn. I’ll then make war against Agramant in Frankland, in Cordova, in Afric, in any place in the world where Mahomet and Trivigant are worshiped!”
Charlemagne was obviously deeply moved by this ardent speech and Bradamant was absolutely astonished at Marfisa’s suave and unexpected eloquence. She suspected, if perhaps a little meanly, that it had been long rehearsed. The emperor’s only reply was to stand and embrace the dark woman. He kissed her on her forehead and declared—to the enthusiastic cheers of everyone present—his acceptance of her as kinswoman and daughter.
The baptism took place only a few days later. The emperor personally oversaw the appointments and spared no lavishness. He sent to Paris for his bishops and their clergy, with instructions to school Marfisa in the details of her new faith. Archbishop Turpin himself made the journey from Rheims to perform the baptism and it was Charlemagne’s own hand that raised the newly-created Christian from the consecrating font. As she stepped from the altar, Bradamant handed her the greatest gift she possessed: her sword.
* * * * *
When Bradamant was summoned to Charlemagne’s headquarters some two weeks after Marfisa’s baptism, she knew with a foreboding certainty that he wanted to speak to her about Rashid. She felt that her worst fears were confirmed when she saw the big man wringing his hands fretfully. It took a great deal to worry an emperor who had conquered the better part of Europe. Need details about Charlemagne--some homely stuff.
“I’ve been sent an—ah—interesting proposal by King Agramant.”
“A proposal?”
“Yes. And since it concerns you, at least indirectly, I thought you had some right to know about it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Bear with me and you will, I hope. As you well know, this war with the Saracens has been going on for years—nearly as long as you’ve been alive—and its only real result has been the spilling of a sea of blood from both sides. It frightens me to think how many brave Christian souls have died in our cause, and to what end? What’ve we gained? The line between Christian and Saracen Europe goes one way now, another way later, like a tug-of-war between two equally matched opponents. This war with Agramant could go on for another decade with no more result than ten thousand more lives thrown away and a hundred more cities destroyed. Now Agramant has suggested a way by which we can end this fruitless conflict honorably, with no more lives lost than that of one man from either side.”
“I can’t imagine how that could be arranged, my lord,” said Bradamant, with a numbing feeling as to whom one of those men must surely be.
“Let’s see,” replied Karl, fumbling with a scrolled manuscript. “Dum dum dum. Here it is. Hm. You can read it for yourself, but in short he offers to end our dispute and prevent the shedding of the blood of endless numbers of men on both sides by putting into the field my boldest warrior against the boldest of
his own. Dum de dum. Ah yes. These two knights will be proxies, each assuming the burden of their respective armies, fighting until one is victor, the other vanquished. Et cetera, et cetera. The pact that Agramant offers is that the sovereign of the loser must pay homage to that of the winner.
“I tell you, Bradamant,” he continued, spreading the parchment smoothly on the tabletop with his huge hands, “I confess that even though at the moment I hold a slight advantage over my enemy, I’m sorely tempted to accept this scheme. After all, I’m blessed with a superfluity of puissant champions, any one of whom would surely be more than a match for any of Agramant’s knights.”
“Who would you choose?”
“Renaud, I believe. Roland, of course, would be my first choice, but, well . . . I don’t think there’s any need to bring up his present troubles.”
“Yes,” agreed Bradamant, “my brother is second only to Roland. I think it’s just possible that I myself couldn’t beat him.”
“Modestly put, my dear. I’ve discussed Agramant’s proposal with my generals and they’ve agreed with me. I’d have the support of all my armies, who’re weary beyond measure, weary in body and soul. No one, from the highest rank to the commonest soldier, truly wants to see this war dragged on. They’d rightly prefer to spend what’s left of their lives in their homes with their families, whether that be castle or hut, highborn or low. Too, I fear my armies may eventually mutiny—would mutiny if it became known that I declined an offer such as this one. Already I feel as though my control is incomplete.”
“And when will this duel take place? Some months from now, I would imagine?”
“It’s set for next week.”
“Set? You’ve made your decision, then?”
“Yes, I have. I told Renaud not fifteen minutes ago.”
“And Agramant has chosen Rashid.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Of course . . .”
Even the indomitable Charlemagne was frightened at the transformation that took place before him, as though a conjuror had promised to turn a flower into a rabbit and had instead produced a tiger. All of the emperor’s pagan roots stirred beneath their church-imposed dormancy. He found long-forgotten talismanic Latin coming to his lips. This rush of superstitious awe seemed much more appropriate to the elemental spectacle of Bradamant’s fury than any Christian prayer. It was as though the emperor had dropped an ember into an urn of Greek fire—the girl seemed to burst into a golden flame, expanding to fill the chamber like an unbottled genie, her dark eyes like sunspots in that lambent face.
Charlemagne knew better than to insist on the formality of giving the girl permission to leave his presence—she was no longer wholly aware of where she was. She had no recollection of departing the emperor’s tent, or of charging through the camp like a stone flung from a catapult, or of throwing herself into her tent where, to Marfisa’s horror and astonishment, she gave unrestrained vent to her anger and frustration. Her face was as white and clammy-looking as cheese, her lips were pulled back from her gleaming teeth in a fearsome rictus as they ground like millstones. She tore her armor from her and threw it to the ground, ripped her tunic to shreds with her nails, which were torn from her fingertips. Bloody trails were splashed across her bared bosom. She pulled at her hair until it came free in tangled skeins. She grasped her sword in both hands and hacked at everything in sight. She chopped her bed into kindling and threatened to fell the central pole of the tent.
Fearing that her friend was having some sort of fit or seizure, was perhaps even in the possession of some demon, which was perhaps closer to the truth than she suspected, Marfisa grappled with Bradamant, trying to pin her arms to her sides; yet even her prodigious energy was scarcely sufficient to hold the thrashing body, slippery with blood and tears. Fortunately, Bradamant, in her frenzy, exhausted herself long before Marfisa’s strength gave out. She was thrown onto a bed by her terrified friend, where she lay, racked with strangling sobs.
“The thankless, ingrateful heathen!” she choked. “How could he agree to this duel? If he kills my brother, I’ll detest him to the day I die! He’ll have murdered our love as surely as if he had driven a lance through my heart. I’d make it my sworn life’s work to see him as dead as Renaud!”
“He may not succeed in killing your brother.”
“Oh, and that’d be so much better? Seeing Rashid dying at the hand of Renaud is something I couldn’t bear—the idea is unthinkable! I couldn’t live after that. I wouldn’t!”
“I don’t believe I ever told you,” said Marfisa, a blush suffusing her dark face with a ruddy glow, like cherry liqueur in chocolate, “that I once nearly killed Renaud myself.”
“You?”
“Why’re you so surprised? He’s never told you? It happened many years ago, when all our careers were still young. Shall I tell you all about it?”
“Could I stop you?”
“Don’t be obstinate,” said the Moor and began to relate
MARFISA’S STORY.
I once met Renaud and Iroldo, along with a knight named Prasildo, by the River Drada. It was Prasildo who recognised me. “Unless I’m greatly mistaken,” I heard him say, “what we see here is a heathen maiden named Marfisa. You can search the whole world, every kingdom, every road, wherever you will, but you’ll not find anyone fiercer.” It was clear that my reputation had preceded me and I admit that I found it gratifying to hear myself so greatly appreciated. I could see the baron wasn’t finished, so I kept my peace, curious to see what further truths would issue from his lips. “Therefore, Renaud,” he continued, “if you joust with her it’s at your own peril. I’ve no qualms in suggesting that we turn back right now”—good advice, I thought, though I would have hated missing a good fight—“and the sooner the better. Believe me, you won’t regret it. I don’t know if she’s taken notice of us—if not, we still have a chance of escaping with our lives. But once she’s gotten hold of us, her talons’ll never let go. There’s just no defense against power like hers.”
I could see that Roland and Renaud foolishly doubted this, from the utter contempt with which they looked at their fellow knight. No doubt they thought him the rankest coward instead of the very wise man he truly was. I remember hearing Renaud laugh. “Well,” he said, “I’m very grateful for your concern, but I think I’ll just test this maiden for myself, if you don’t mind.” I was sure I’d never heard anything so foolish in all my life.
It was nearly noon. Renaud took up his shield and lance and charged me. At least one of this gang of conversationalists, I thought, has some courage. It would be a shame that he’d have to be the first to die, but there you are. As I watched him gallop toward me, I considered his horse already mine. I settled into my saddle and awaited the collision. But just then—when no more than a yard separated our lance points—a herald arrived at the riverbank and Renaud stayed his charge. He bore a message from King Galafron, to whom I owed my allegiance at that time. “The king has only you, Lady Marfisa,” he cried, “and all his hopes are in your hands. It’s to you alone that he pleads help, to allow your courage and power to bring you everlasting fame.”
“And how am I to do this thing?” I replied with considerable annoyance. I didn’t mind the flattery so much, you understand, as the interruption in the duel. I was anxious to get on with it, as I’m sure you must understand.
[“Of course,” replied Bradamant.]
Well [continued Marfisa], the herald replied that Galafron desired me to capture Agrican, the emperor of Tartary. “He thinks he can oppose the whole earth!” cried the herald. “His Highness, King Galafron, desires that you either slaughter him or put him in his proper place!”
“Now just a moment!” I answered hotly. “Have no fear about me being slow to join a battle! As soon as these three knights are my prisoners—which should be quick enough I imagine—I’ll turn them over to you and be on my way to Agrican. And tell Galafron I’ll do my best to take the man alive.”
Then, seeing
there was little time to be wasted, I turned back to where Renaud waited. I shouted to him and to his companions that, seeing as I had pressing business elsewhere, I’d take them all on at one time.
[“Good heavens, Marfisa!” cried Bradamant. “Had you no idea whom you were facing?”
“I doubt it would have mattered much,” Marfisa replied and continued with her story.]
Prasildo was the first to spur his horse, taking no notice, apparently, of his more famous companions. His lance shattered like an icicle against my armor. In truth I scarcely noticed the blow. Prasildo, however, certainly did. He flew from his saddle like a stone from a sling, landing on the sandy riverbank with a heavy thud.
“Quickly now!” I cried to the others. “Hurry up! You heard the herald, so you know I’m in a hurry! Agrican’s doom awaits me!”
Iroldo was next. I could see that I had the advantage of his fury—going into a fight angry is always a mistake. Seeing his companion made my prisoner obviously upset him. Well, if he missed his friend I made him happy, for Iroldo soon joined Prasildo on the riverbank.
That left only your brother.
You have to know that the lance I was bearing was as massive as the trunk of a fair-sized tree. It was made of bone and sinew. Renaud’s weapon looked no smaller or less formidable. Nevertheless, when its point struck my helmet, it may as well’ve struck the stone turret of a castle. There wasn’t a fragment left that was larger than my thumb. It was a shame to see something so beautiful destroyed, but there you are. Angry at the needless delay I’d been forced to undergo, I struck Renaud a blow with the butt of my lance—the first blow I’d struck during the entire duel! I bent the man backwards so far his head nearly touched the rump of his horse. When I glanced at the weapon in my hand I saw to my surprise that it’d split its entire length. I’d used that lance one hundred and six times and it’d always held, so you can’t only imagine the force of that blow, but the shock it gave me to see the lance ruined. I was amazed—and saddened, for there was my faithful and favorite weapon destroyed and for nothing: Renaud retained his seat. I cursed the gods in my anger, accusing Macon of being evil and unjust and calling Trivigant a horny old goat. “Why,” I cried to them, “do you allow that knight to keep his saddle? I dare either or both of you to descend from heaven and show yourselves! Cowards! Select whatever weapon you prefer and I’ll guarantee to leave your corpses spread across the field! You don’t fear me because you know I can’t fly into the heavens, but if I can find a way be forewarned! I’ll kill all of you gods! I’ll burn Paradise! I’ll raze the towers of heaven to the ground!”
