The Iron Tempest (24 page)

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Oh, good!”

“I just want to get to bed. I’m exhausted and I want to be on my way early tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll do my
very
best not to disturb you. You’ll not even know I’m here.”

Bradamant, too gracious to exclaim her pleasure at that promise, and too gracious to express her doubts about it, merely nodded wearily, turned her back and began to undress by the light of the single candle. As she dropped her undershift to the floor there was a snuffling sigh from behind her.

“What’s the matter now, Princess?” she asked.

“You really
are
a woman, aren’t you?”

“Good heavens, are you still having doubts about that?”

“No, I guess not. I—I just . . .”

“Well, please unburden yourself of any lingering hopes that I am otherwise than what I am.”

“Yes, Lady Bradamant,” was the chastened reply.

Bradamant, furiously embarassed, wrapped herself in a linen cloak and turned back to the bed; Fiordispina was there, muffled to her chin in the billowing comforter, her fluffy head almost indistinguishable in so many important ways from the great feather pillow that engulfed it.

Bradamant carried the candle to the bedside and set it on the side table. “Are you ready to go to sleep now?” she asked her bedmate.

“Yes, Lady Bradamant.”

“Good night, then,” she replied, extinguishing the flame.The room was instantly flooded by the cool indigo moonlight that poured through the tall windows; the slanting, transparent curtains of light an icy aurora that cast shifting, submarine reticulations across the bed. She dropped the cloak to the floor and slid between the cool sheets.

There was neither sound nor movement from her neighbor; only the soft susurration of her breath, thank heaven.

Bradamant, thinking she was too tired to be able to sleep easily, did not know when she slipped into the dream. For all her prowess at arms, for all her strength and vigor and stature, for all her disinterest in womanly things, never had she been envious of the other sex. She did what she did because she enjoyed it and was good at it and was encouraged by people she respected and because it seemed absolutely right to her—but certainly never in order to deny her womanhood. Which is why the dream seemed so strangely disturbing, and disturbing in its fascination, perhaps even more disturbing in its implications, because Bradamant dreamed that she was a man.

She was still lying in the bed, on her back, uncovered, looking down the great, undulating length of a body as phosphorescent in the blue glimmering as a moonlit arctic landscape. It was an alien body, as unfamiliar as the sterile plains of the moon, but she did not doubt it was hers. Her new body seemed more a product of geologic forces than of biology. Great slabs of smooth, white dolomite, synclines and anticlines of muscle, stretched before her like an unexplored wilderness beneath the calculating gaze of the surveyor. Her hard, domed breasts were gone, replaced by ridged, glacial sheets; her smooth, concave stomach replaced by undulating ripples like a fossilized beach.

But it was the silver pylon, the great pillar of luminous chalk, the lotus-capped Egyptian column, the lone verticality in that fleshy desert that seemed to draw the moonlight like the sympathetic gnomon of a lunar clock, that attracted her gaze as inexorably as the boreal poles attract the shivering needle of the compass. It rose as lambently as a rocket from the darkness at the distant limits of her torso.

She heard Fiordispina whisper, the warm breath drifting through the labyrinths of her ear like the plaintive echoes of lost Eurydice:
I prayed to Mahomet and to your Christian God to give you the sex I preferred you to have. They took pity on me just as they would not deny succor to a poor soul lost in the desert, thirsting for water, tormented by the very memory of it, recalling every drop that had ever passed her lips.

Bradamant was unable to move, as fixed as the earthy formations she seemed to resemble. She felt the press of Fiordispina’s soft warmth, the small hands exploring the thick slabs of her muscular chest, the rippled stomach below the shadowed alcove of the ribs, the hard cords of her arms; she felt the moist pressure of lips on her neck and shoulders, the sharpness of the princess’ teeth, the cool tongue, curious as a ferret. She felt the princess’ mouth at the hollow of her neck, where the pulse beat like a prisoner’s fists against the wall of his cell, at the small, hard, masculine nipples, the tongue plumbing the well of her navel. She saw the princess rise above her like a lambent thunderhead, straddling her like an ivory Colossus, dark eyes crackling with electricity, the glistening tower below her vibrating with anticipation, like a supercharged lightning rod straining toward the imminent blow of the thunderbolt. Fiordispina was a giantess, hips and thighs bathed in the milky moonlight, shoulders and head disappearing into the darkness, lost in perspective, only the constellation of her eyes visible, flaming like Beta and Gamma, the baleful eyes of Draco. Then, with a sudden movement, she impaled herself on the tower, and once again, and again, with all the ferocity and determination of a high-pressure engine—until Bradamant vibrated in sympathy with the percussion, seismic shocks radiating from the incandescent epicenter, her body convulsed with the bone-snapping rictus of the strychnine victim.

* * * * *

Bradamant wasted no time in preparing to leave the following morning. Dawn was still an hour away when, after a hasty breakfast of bread and ale, she was saddling Rabican (having decided to make a present of the supernumerary horse to the château’s stable). Fiordispina had entreated her to remain for at least another day, but Bradamant had refused to argue the matter. Convinced more than ever that Rashid was waiting for her, she wanted to reach Vallambrosa by noon. Even the princess’ tears failed to move her, so she was a little embarrassed when Fiordispina appeared in the stables bearing parting gifts. One was a magnificent golden harness for Rabican, who looked a little abashed at such an extravagance, and a richly embroidered surcoat for Bradamant that the princess had made with her own hands. “It was for my poor brother,” she explained, sniffling bravely if a little overtragically, “but I’d rather you have it.”

Bradamant truly did not want any gifts from Fiordispina, certainly nothing bearing such emotional baggage, but could see no graceful way to refuse. She took the surcoat and thanked the girl and since the princess still looked expectant, sighed and put it on. Then, without another word, she threw herself into the saddle and, with scarcely a glance behind, just a brief one to assure herself that the princess was not following, rode off into the shadowed forest. As soon as the lodge disappeared behind her, she removed the garment, folded it neatly and tucked it away in her saddlebag.

Vallambrosa, as she now knew, lay not far away at the mouth of the valley. The trail, even in the predawn darkness, was broad, flat and easy. She felt confident of reaching the monastery well before noon and, at the thought of being so soon reunited with Rashid, her heart and spirit swelled like mushrooms after a spring shower.

Every mile that carried her further away from Marsilius’ château carried her further from its oppressive and corrupt atmosphere, and just as the clean light of dawn washed the dank remnants of night from the valley, her mind again felt pure, uncomplicated and confident.

The monastery of Vallambrosa was a sprawling collection of whitewashed buildings, surrounded by a low, meandering wall, in the midst of prosperous-looking vinyards and gardens. It lay just where the narrow valley broadened into the rolling plain, and the high, late summer sun flooded the open landscape with light and warmth. As she approached the abbey, she could not help but smile with approval, pleasure and relief at the sight of the busily-working monks, who for their part did not by even the most surreptitious glance acknowledge the presence of the stranger.

As she approached she was surprised to see a large number of tidy-looking huts among which a dozen naked children were playing, who stopped their games to stare in open-mouthed awe at the gleaming stranger. Obviously the homes of serfs, though she couldn’t imagine what they’d be doing on Church land.

As she dismounted before the heavy wooden gate, it swung open and a portly, bearded man appeared and approached her. He was at least a full foot shorter than she was, so that his height and diameter were virtually identical.

“Welcome to the Abbey of Vallambrosa, Lady Bradamant,” he said, smiling.

“You know my name?” she said, a little surprised—though not unpleased that for once her sex had not been mistaken.

“Certainly, my lady!”

She could only think of one reason for the abbot’s assurance. “Is Sir Rashid, the Saracen knight, here?” she asked anxiously, her heart leaping.

“Sir Rashid?” the monk replied, puzzled. “I don’t know of a Sir Rashid, Saracen or otherwise.”

“But, then, how did you know who I am?”

“Oh! Your fame precedes you, my lady. We may be well out of the mainstream of mundane events here at Vallambrosa, but we are not ignorant, no we are not, especially when a great holy battle between Christian and pagan forces rages across Europe and Afric. And of those great defenders of the faith, of whom Karl is the greatest, the deeds and piety of your family are second to none—except for, as I say, Karl himself, of course. You and your brothers and cousins are quite well known here, I assure you.”

“But has there been no other knight here? It would have been sometime in the last few days.”

“No, my lady, I’m sorry; you’re the first in many weeks.”

“He was to meet me here. He was going to be baptized in the faith.”

“Then I’m even sorrier. Perhaps there’s only been a delay?”

“Perhaps. I know that if he promised to come here, nothing would stop him.”

“Then he will surely come. If he’s meant to be baptized into our faith, God will not fail to guide him. Would you care to come in? You’re just in time to join us for our noontime meal.”

“Yes, thank you, I’d like that very much.”

“Come then. Don’t worry about your animal, it’ll be well taken care of. You will, of course, be obliged to leave your weapons inside the gate.”

“Of course.”

Bradamant handed Rabican’s reins to a monk who had silently materialized behind her, deposited her sword and shield in a wooden hutch that hugged the inside wall (which the abbot securely locked, she was pleased to see), and followed the abbot through the gate. On the other side was a courtyard filled with masses of flowers and the sound of tinkling fountains and humming bees. She was led through a viney arcade into a large, sunny dining room, already half-filled with monks. There was a pleasant clatter of crockery and murmuring voices and the air was rich with the smell of honest food. Bradamant’s nostrils flared appreciatively, glad to rid themselves of the memory of the mawkish delicacies of the previous evening.

“I apologize for the noise,” said the abbot. “Although our order has no vow of silence our members occasionally forget to show at least a little seemly moderation.”

Bradamant was far from offended: the noise was cheery and honest and openhearted.

She was offered an open space on a long, wooden bench and almost immediately trenchers of bread and cheese, slices of boiled ham, bowls of thick, steaming lentil soup, a pyramid of boiled eggs and an enormous pewter goblet of wine appeared. The abbot took a place alongside her, though he contented himself with only bread and wine.

“So tell me, my lady,” he said, “what brings someone of your eminence to our humble retreat?”

“The person of whom we spoke earlier, Father: Sir Rashid, the Saracen knight. I was to meet him here.”

“Ah, yes. The Moor. I’d very much like to know what interest a good Christian girl like yourself might have in a Saracen knight.”

“It’s a long story, Father.”

“Do I appear to be in a hurry?”

“Well, yes, you do, Father.”

“You are right!” he laughed. “I apologize; you’re hungry and tired and it’s unfair of me to impose my curiosity upon you before you’ve even begun to eat and rest. You’re welcome to stay at Vallambrosa as long as you like. As soon as you feel up to it, come to see me and we’ll talk things over. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“Thank you, Father. You’re very kind.”

“I’m supposed to be.”

The abbot left Bradamant to her meal, to which she returned with single-minded devotion, devouring everything that was put before her. As she pushed away the last bowl, a novice approached and diffidently asked if she’d care to be shown to her, uh, er, chamber. Bradamant was charmed to see that the youngster was actually blushing.

She was led to a low, distant wing of the abbey where she found a cell waiting for her. It was a single small room with whitewashed walls and a broad window, hardly large enough to contain a cot, a braided rug, a plain wooden chair and a small table. A rustic crucifix was the only decoration on the otherwise barren walls.
This is more like it,
Bradamant thought.

“This’ll be fine,” she said to the boy, who stammered and scurried away.

There was a bowl of water on the table with a neatly-folded towel. She removed her burnie and washed her face with the cold water. Then, wearing only her tunic, trousers and boots, she went in search of the abbot. She was eventually directed to his office, where she found him absorbed in a vast pile of parchment, scribbling furiously. Even though his visitor had been announced by the secretary, he looked up at her with blank unrecognition, his eyes still focused on his thoughts.

“Ah!” he said, his face suddenly clearing. “My dear Lady Bradamant! Come in! Come in! Please, have a seat; may I get you anything? No? Do you find your accommodations satisfactory? We don’t have the opportunity to entertain gentlepeople terribly often and I’m afraid that our hospitality is a little rustic.”

“No, Father, everything’s fine. Everyone’s been very kind. I certainly prefer the abbey to where I spent last night.”

“Ah, yes, the king’s hunting lodge I understand. Terrible, terrible,” he mourned, shaking his heavy head. “A terrible thing for the king—or ‘emir’ as he now prefers to be called—to have turned his back on his faith and, compounding the sin, to have allied himself with the darkest forces of paganism. And look what the result’s been! You needn’t tell
me
about the decadent debauchery that goes on up there—I’m altogether too much aware of it as it is. And the child! That poor, innocent princess who may never have the chance to accept Jesus Christ as her personal lord and savior.”