The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  It was difficult, since both parents and emperor were anxious to introduce her to the Moorish knight—a singular social coup for her mother and father since everyone wanted their daughters to meet the handsome hero—, and she knew in her heart she was only delaying the inevitable. She was eager to confer with Renaud, but it was almost impossible to find him without Rashid being somewhere near. Therefore, when she learned he was planning to have dinner with their parents at the same time Rashid was to be judging a cattle show, she surprised everyone with her avid acceptance of the invitation to join them.

  The great dining hall was crowded with guests and servants, in spite of the fact that only a fraction of the emperor’s company was present at any one time. It was only by virtue of the Clairmont name and reputation that the family found a place at one of the dozen long, broad wooden tables that filled the dark, noisy, smoky room.

  The food that was brought to them was delicious and plentiful, though Bradamant barely tasted it. She fed herself automatically as she pondered how she could learn what had happened to Rashid in the months since the battle of Arles, while at the same time avoiding any possibility of having the true nature of their relationship revealed.

  “Look here, Father,” said Renaud suddenly, interrupting his sister’s brooding, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Of course,” the duke replied, jovially. Then, seeing his son’s face, said, “What could be so serious?”

  “Well, you know, during my sojourn with Rashid I grew to know and appreciate what a fine fellow he is.”

  “We’re all in agreement about that, of course, especially now he’s embraced Jesus Christ as his personal lord and savior.”

  “Yes, and that, of course.”

  “For nobility and worth, there’s scarcely a knight who can claim to be his equal.”

  “Outside our own family, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “That brings me to my point. For quality of blood and valor what better liaison could there be than one between the Clairmonts and the Reggios?”

  “What are you suggesting?” the duke said darkly.

  “Nothing more nor less than this, Father: that with Roland, Oliver and Astolph as my witnesses, as well as a very holy Christian priest who didn’t appear to have a name, I promised the hand of my sister, Bradamant, to Sir Rashid.”

  “You did what? You dared do such a thing?”

  Bradamant choked, spewing half-chewed mutton across the table. No one noticed since every eye was claimed by the duke’s wrath.

  “How dared you,” Haemon continued, pounding the tabletop in time with his words, “do such a thing without consulting me?”

  “I had no reason to think that you would disapprove.”

  “Oh, you didn’t, did you?”

  “Rashid is as noble and virtuous a man as one could ever hope to find.”

  “Nobility and virtue! Of what value are nobility and virtue if there’s no wealth to go along with them? This paragon of yours, he has no kingdom, there’s nothing in the world he can point to and say ‘This is my property’. What can he possibly offer this family, let alone your sister?”

  “I think you were very arrogant to have done this, Renaud,” added Beatrice, “and I think you ought to apologize to your father and your sister and go tell this Rashid person that it was all just a terrible mistake and that you’re sorry for any inconvenience it may have caused him. Bradamant! Where are you going?”

  But Bradamant, fleeing the hall, did not reply. She feared that if she opened her mouth her traitorous heart would shout the truth from it like a muezzin from his minaret.

  In her apartment, she tore the fine clothes away, letting them scatter around the room where they fell. They had suddenly felt as repugnant as the scales of some loathsome disease. She pinched out the light of the single candle and crawled beneath the downy comforter that covered her bed, turning her face toward the tall slit window. A fat crescent moon was slowly following the long-vanished sun like a high-peaked Egyptian ship foundering in an indigo sea, settling onto the jagged reefs of the surrounding rooftops. A shipwreck seemed the perfect symbol for her mood.

  There was a tap at her door and before she could shout for the interloper to go away her mother entered, carrying a candle whose glare seemed an intolerable intrusion.

  “Bradamant?”

  “Yes, Mother?”

  “Ah. I was afraid I’d awakened you.”

  “No, I was awake.”

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “I’m fine, Mother.”

  “I’m not surprised that Renaud’s indiscretion upset you. He really must apologize to you. I don’t know what came over him, to act as he did.”

  “It’s all right, Mother. He was only doing what he thought was best.”

  “We’ve been arguing for hours and he’s adamant about not retracting his promise to that heathen Rashid. Yes, yes, I know all about his supposed conversion, but it’ll take more than a Saracen’s word for me to believe he’s anything but a pagan at heart.

  “Everyone in the hall must’ve heard what Renaud said; now it’ll be all that I can do to quash the rumors he’s started. It must be all over the palace by now. Well, I must say I’m pleased to see you don’t condone what he did. The talk’ll stop soon enough once people see that you disown such a scandalous suggestion.”

  Bradamant didn’t know what to say, but she didn’t dare contradict her mother, didn’t dare allow her to know that she ran from the hall because Renaud had offered her what she wanted more than anything else in the world, and at the same time had made it even more impossible to obtain. It was as though she and Rashid were tied together by iron bars that allowed them to approach within a finger’s breadth of one another—but not an inch closer.

  Interpreting her daughter’s silence as agreement, Lady Beatrice continued with her fantasy.

  “Tomorrow I want you to tell everyone you meet that you’d rather die than marry that impoverished heathen—oh yes, heathen—as I said, I don’t believe for a moment that he’s foresworn his pagan gods and accepted Jesus Christ. A Moor’d say anything to worm his way into the emperor’s good graces and Charlemagne is just enough a conceited fool, like any man, to welcome a sweet-talking viper to his bosom.

  “You have no idea how proud I am, my dear, that I’ve such a noble-hearted daughter. If I thought for a moment you’d consider enduring this impudence of your brother’s, I swear I’d disown you. Just resist him with spirit; stand firm; he’ll never attempt—or dare—to coerce you by force.”

  Bradamant had nothing to say. She respected and loved her mother too much to lie to her and she could not tell her the truth. Indeed, it pained her to contemplate disobeying her parent—it was almost, but not quite, unthinkable. But it was no less unthinkable to consider making a promise she was unwilling to keep. She was unwilling because she couldn’t be otherwise, her love for Rashid having stolen from her all her once-considerable volitive powers.

  Her mother finally left the room and Bradamant fell back heavily onto her pillow. What am I to do? Do I have any right to desire what my mother wishes me not to desire? Doesn’t she have more power over me than I do? Do I have any right to take her wishes so lightly that I put my own over them? What greater sin could I commit, what sin could lie so heavily on the head of any maiden, what offense could be more, ah, offensive than that I take a husband against the will of the mother whom I should always obey?

  “Oh, wretched me!” she cried aloud. Should her reverence for her mother be so powerful a force that it can make her abandon her love for Rashid? Could it possibly create new hopes, desires, allegiances and loves for her? Or should she instead turn her back on the respect and duty that good children owe to good parents and consider only her own welfare, joy and pleasure?

  I know what I ought to do, I know what my obligations are as a dutiful daughter. I know these things, but how do they help me? Is Reason so weak that Passion can overcome it?
Can Passion do with me as it pleases, allowing me to do only what it dictates?

  I’m the daughter of Haemon and Beatrice! But I’m also, God help me, the slave of Love. If I offend my parents, no matter how much, I know I’ll eventually have their forgiveness. But if I offend Love, what then? Who’d be able to keep Eros from wreaking his fury upon me? Would he listen to one of my prayers, even a single excuse, or will he smite me dead on the spot?

  After everything that I’ve done to bring Rashid to the faith, what good has it been if all my efforts only serve to benefit someone else? I’ll die, I swear it, before I take any husband other than Rashid!

  Well, then, if I’m not obedient to my parents I’ll be obedient to my brother. He’s young and his brain hasn’t yet been addled by old age. His decisions will therefore be wiser and more prudent. This must be true because Roland always agrees with Renaud and Roland is the best and wisest man in the world. I have these two on my side, then, two whom the whole world respects, fears and honors above all the rest of the Clairmont family combined. And if everyone thinks these men the glory of the Clairmonts and the flower of Christendom, why then should I prefer my father to dispose of my hand rather than Renaud or Roland? I certainly have no reason to prefer it, especially since I was promised to Rashid before I was promised to the Greek!

  Having come to this convoluted decision, such as it was, Bradamant was overcome with a new worry: what if Rashid doubted her resolve? What if he believed she would prefer breaking her promises to him rather than defy her father? She climbed from her bed and relit the candle. Carrying this and too anxious to dress or even put on a robe, she padded barefoot across the room where she sat in the large chair behind the desk. She took pen, ink and parchment and composed this letter—

  Rashid darling,

  Whatever I have been to you I resolve to be until Death. Longer, if it were possible. Whether Love is kind to me or not, whether Fortune favors or scorns me, I remain an unyielding Rock of Faithfulness against which the Tides and Storms beat impotently. A Diamond can be worn to dust before Love’s anger or Fortune’s wrath can shatter my Heart. I am certain that such Fidelity was never before seen on this Earth or sworn to any Prince. No King or Emperor is so certain of the security of his State as you can be of your Dominion over my Heart and Soul. You will never need moat or battlements for fear of losing them to another for no assault will ever come that my Love cannot resist.

  Gold and Jewels and other Riches will never be enough to vanquish me; no Price can be put upon a Noble Heart. Never will I see a Crown—that could so easily dazzle the eyes and minds of the common rabble—nor any Beauty—which has such great power over the fickle soul—that could please me more than you do.

  You need never fear that the Shape you have engraved on my Heart can ever be sculptured into a new Form. Your Likeness there can never be removed. I know that my Heart is not made of wax or clay because Love has already given it a thousand blows and it has not given way by so much as a single chip. If Love persists in trying to eradicate your image, to replace it with another’s, he will only succeed in shattering it into dust.

  Sincerely,

  [signed] Bradamant of Clairmont

  With a sigh of satisfaction, she folded the letter, sealed it, took it back to bed with her and placed it beneath her pillow. With first light of morning she would entrust it to a servant to deliver to her Moor.

  With that resolution, Bradamant fell into a deep but troubled sleep.

  * * * * *

  It would have been gratifying to a degree, but of little real comfort, had Bradamant known that Rashid was also going through his own torments. In spite of Lady Beatrice’s efforts to stifle the rumor that had spread from the dining-table argument like an ignited powder train; within hours it was common knowledge throughout the palace that Haemon had promised his daughter’s hand to Prince Leon. Worse, he learned that Haemon would not even consider him, and not because he was Moorish but because he was poor. He cursed the fortune that had been so generous to thousands less worthy than he. Of the wealth that Nature might dispose upon a human being, he possessed as good a portion as any man and far more than most. In handsomeness, every other man yielded, against his strength no one could stand, for generosity or nobleness no one surpassed him. But the great, ignorant rabble that populated the world admired only riches and without wealth it cared for nothing and valued nothing. “Why can’t Haemon give me a year?” he wondered. “If the old duke is so determined that Bradamant be an empress, then I could easily become an emperor in a twelvemonth. That’d be more than ample time for me to depose Constantine and Leon and take their thrones. Once I’d done that, Haemon could hardly say I was unworthy of his daughter! “But could it be, Bradamant my love, that you don’t grieve at leaving me for this Greek? Will Haemon, even with your brothers set against him, convince you to marry this upstart? What I fear more than anything in the world is that you feel greater loyalty to your father than to me, that you might see greater sense in marrying a Caesar than a common citizen. Is it conceivable that an imperial title, a regal name, wealth, glory and pomp could corrupt such a noble spirit and lofty virtue as is yours?” “Buck up, old man!” came a voice from the doorway and so wrought-up was the great knight’s nerves that he jumped like a startled kitten. “I’ve brought some wine for us. And it looks like you need it.” “Renaud!” “Indeed. I could hear you moaning halfway down the corridor. I take it you’re undergoing a wee bit of anxiety about Bradamant?” “And I shouldn’t? How can I endure a wrong like this? Haemon has every intention of disregarding your promise, sworn to me before Roland and Oliver and Astolph and that old holy man! I can hardly take out my vengeance against Bradamant’s own father! His death would not only set her against me, but you and all the rest of your family as well. What’d be the point of that, then? I want her to love me, not hate me, which she’d have every reason to do if I so much as harmed any of you. What’s left to me, then? How am I supposed to endure this? I’d rather die!” “Come, come—let’s not talk about doing anything rash, old fellow. Something’s bound to show up. Surely there’re other alternatives than killing Father or yourself?” “True. There’d be far more justice in seeing this accurséd Leon Augustus die, since he’s the source of all my misery. His father, too, just for siring the bastard. Paris won’t have paid as dearly for Helen nor Pirithous for Proserpina as my heartache is going to cost Leon and Constantine. “Yes!” he slammed his goblet on the table so violently that the red wine leaped from it like a startled cardinal. “So long as this Leon remains alive, he’ll try to claim Bradamant by force or by love. Well, he’ll just have to be content to be a god instead of a Caesar.” “That’s the ticket!” said Renaud. “Now you’re talking! Here, let me refill that drink.”

  * * * * *

  Bradamant was up, as she had promised herself, at the first light of dawn. She dressed—not in one of the rich costumes her mother so adored, but in the plain hose and tunic more suited to a modest knight of the cross—and searched out a sleepy servant upon whom she pressed the letter she had written the night before.

  “Deliver this directly to the Moorish knight, Sir Rashid,” she instructed. “Don’t hesitate if you value your life and don’t even try to think of what will happen to you if you fail! You haven’t the imagination!”

  After this, she went to the emperor’s apartment where, after considerable wheedling, she had her presence made known to the monarch, who was in the midst of his breakfast. As soon as Charlemagne learned that Lady Bradamant wished to see him immediately, he had her ushered into his bedchamber.

  “Well, my dear Bradamant! Just when I feared I would have to forego seeing you, here you are. Not the most convenient or seemly occasion, but how can I deny myself such a pleasure?”

  “You’re too kind, your highness.”

  “Have some breakfast?”

  “No thank you, your highness.”

  “The boar sausages are delicious.”

  “I’m sorry, your highn
ess, I’m just too upset and nervous to think about eating.”

  “All the more reason to, you know. You’ll get sick fretting on an empty stomach. A little food’ll put things into perspective for you.”

  “All right, your highness. I’ll have a piece of toast.”

  “Butter? Marmalade?”

  “Just plain, thank you.”

  “Better than nothing, I suppose. Well. What’s worrying you so?”

  “I have a great favor to ask of you, your highness, the greatest I’ve ever asked. If I’ve ever done you a deed that seemed to have done you any good, I pray that you won’t deny me this gift in return.”

  “You know you can ask me anything, my dear, and if it’s in my power I will grant it.”

  “You’ve always overindulged me, your highness.”

  “It’s one of the few pleasures I have. Besides, I could never adequately repay you for what you’ve done for the empire.”

  At that reminder of how easily she had shirked her sworn duties Bradamant had a twinge of guilt. She continued speaking, hoping that her face or voice hadn’t betrayed her. “You promise to grant me this favor on your royal word? I’ll swear you’ll see it’s just and proper.”

  The emperor looked closely into his guest’s face for the first time since she had entered the room. What he saw there made him drop his fatherly banter; his next words were spoken with all the solemnity of the emperor of half of Europe. “Your worth to me demands that I give you whatever you ask, even if it be half my kingdom. Yes, I will swear to satisfy you.”

  “I wish for you to make a proclamation. A proclamation that no man should be my husband who does not first show himself to be stronger at arms than I am. Whosoever should seek my hand must first either in a joust or with sword in hand test himself against me. Let the first who beats me hold me fast. Let who is beaten find a wife somewhere else.”

  “A request worthy of you, Lady Bradamant!” boomed the emperor, laughing. “Granted! It is done.”