The Iron Tempest (26 page)

She sat in the tower, her ever-lengthening hair fluttering in the warm breeze like the pennants of a ship straining at its anchor, its increasing inches her only calendar of the passing weeks, hugging her knees, staring with red-rimmed eyes at the empty horizon. “Why am I tearing my heart to pieces for someone who only avoids me?” she asked herself. “How can I love someone who disdains me this way? Can I give my soul to someone who despises me? How can I appeal to someone who cannot hear me? What does it take to kindle his lofty love? A goddess, descending from heaven to throw herself at his feet? He knows, he
knows
, that I love him above all else—above life, honor, my emperor and even, to my shame, my God—but he won’t have me, not even as a slave. He
knows
the agony I must be going through, he knows my heart is throbbing out its very life for him, but he’d rather see me die before he’d answer my cry for help! Is it because he’d rather not see my agony, hear how my heart is breaking? Could he be that great a coward?

“Oh God!” she cried aloud. “Stop him! Stop him! Or make me forget him! Return me to the happy innocence I enjoyed before I ever saw him, when I was answerable to no one but myself.”

There was, of course, no answer other than the distant cry of ravens protesting at being chased from the bean fields. She slammed her fists onto the floor. “I was a fool to have thought You’d listen to my pleas for Your pity! You’re a cruel god! You take pleasure in my tears! My agony is only a nectar for you to sip at your pleasure.

“No . . . No, I’m wrong in blaming You. The burden must be placed where it truly belongs: on the back of my unreasoning desire, desire that carries me aloft on Icarus’ wings, so high that the passionate sun singes me, then melts away my pinions so I crash back to the earth. But I don’t die from the fall, no matter how much I desire to. Instead, my love grows new wings and I rise to again be scorched by the sun of Rashid’s scorn and again I fall and again and again . . .”

She buried her face in her hands, sobbing even though her eyes had long since been wrung of their last tear. Standing, she went to the parapet, from which the sunny, luxuriant landscape looked to her as barren and lifeless as the surface of the moon because it was empty of Rashid. She grasped handfuls of her hair and pulled until she hissed with the pain; she beat at the stone until the skin of her fists tore away and each blow left a cheery red polka dot. She clawed at her chest as if to tear out her heart. When she struck herself in her breast she felt a sudden, sharp pain. She pulled open the bodice and found that a little wooden crucifix that the abbot had given her had imbedded itself into her skin. When she pulled it away, it left a deep, red mark. She felt the painful, cruciform depression with her fingertips.

She remembered that she had brought an apple with her; she squatted on the floor and bit into it.

“Perhaps I’m mistaken,” she considered as she wiped juice from her chin, “in putting all the blame on my passion. No—it’s myself I should blame for allowing that passion into my heart in the first place. Like an invading cuckoo, it’s driven out the rightful occupants, not the least of which was Reason. But now that passion has usurped rationality, it’s in control, like a madman at the reins of a chariot. It’s leading me to my death as surely as a runaway horse plunging for the edge of a cliff—and knowing that death is inexorable only exacerbates my pain.”

She tossed the apple core over the parapet, wondering idly if it would hit anyone.

“But then, why should I blame myself at all? What have
I
done that’s so wrong except to love Rashid?
Rashid!
” she snorted. “Did you expect my frail, weak woman’s senses to be overwhelmed by you? Should I’ve shielded myself from your astonishing good looks, from your magnificent presence, from your shrewd wit, like Perseus had to shield himself from Medusa’s stony glare? Should I’ve hidden myself in a pit, like the pale, sightless creatures that, buried in lightless caverns, avoid the brilliance of the sun? What about those who encouraged me? Those who made me promises of happiness if I pursued you?

“Oh God—even if Merlin and Melissa lied I can only blame them for misleading me and make them my enemies for life—which they are, I swear it! They entranced me with their unholy magic, they enslaved me with false hopes. Why? Why did they do this to me? What had I done to them? Was it because they were jealous of my sweet, safe, blessèd tranquility? I can hate them for their duplicity, but the truth is, damn it to hell: I love Rashid anyway.”

* * * * *

For all of Bradamant’s vigilance, it was the abbot who saw the knight first. He caught the glint of armor even before he could clearly discern the horse and its rider. He rushed to the gate and down the road, fearfully certain it was Bradamant’s pagan lover and anxious to meet the man before she discovered him. He had gone a hundred yards, impelled by sheer momentum, when he slowed, panting like a teakettle, and mopped his broad red brow with a huge handkerchief. He walked another fifty yards, then stopped, again breathless. He propped his vast rear against a low stone wall, to wait for the knight.

The rider slowed as he approached the abbot, then stopped expectantly, saying nothing. The man had arrived with the sun behind him and the abbot, shade and squint his eyes though he did, could not make out the stranger’s features; he was only a shadow in the glare.

“Good day, good knight,” said the abbot and was disconcerted when the man laughed in response; he was not at all in the mood to appreciate anything funny.

“Make up your mind, Father,” came the reply in a pleasant voice.

“Make up my mind? About what?”

“Never mind, good Father. I assume you’re from that abbey I see yonder?”

“Yes. That’s the monastery of Vallambrosa and I’m its abbot.”

“If it is, then I’m looking for someone who may be there.”

“There’s no one there but my brothers.”

“It’s a woman I’m looking for.”

“Even
I
can tell the difference, sir. And I can assure you that an abbey is the wrong place to . . .”

“She’s quite beautiful,” the knight persisted. “Lean-faced, very tall. Her hair is dark honey although her brows and eyes are black as iron.”

“No. I’ve seen no one like that, I tell you. The only women are the wives of the serfs who live nearby. Believe me, tall and lean would not describe any of them.”

“She would have been dressed entirely in white armor.”

“No, no, Sir Rashid! I keep telling you, she’s not here!”

“Rashid? Why did you call me that?”

“Did I?”

“Why did you call me Rashid?”

“Isn’t that your name?”

The knight did not answer for a long moment. Then, instead of replying, he reached up with both hands and lifted his helmet away from his face. The abbot stared with incomprehension at the lean countenance, with its hawk nose and serious dark brows and eyes framed by a mop of bronze hair.

“
Bradamant!
” he cried, crossing himself with a shaking hand.

“Then you
have
seen her!”

“Merciful Mother of God!”

“Get a grip on yourself, Father, for heaven’s sake. I’m her brother, Reinhold. Now tell me, where is she?”

The abbot crossed himself and pointed toward the abbey with a shaking finger. He watched with eyes that were as fearful as they were astonished as the uncanny stranger rode by him and on down the path and thought of the unholy lies that had just passed his lips.

Bradamant was in the courtyard when her brother entered. She looked up at the sound with eyes dulled by disappointment. She blinked twice.

“Reinhold!” she cried, dropping the pails of goat’s milk she had been carrying and rushed to the rider, who looked down at his sister with amazement.

“Good God, Bradamant!” he said, swinging down from his saddle and embracing her. “Whatever have you done to yourself?”

“It’s a terrible story, Reinhold,” she said. “Will you come and sit with me?”

As Bradamant and her brother sat in the shady garden, she explained, as briefly as she could, how she had come to the abbey and why she had lingered there so long.

“Yes,” said Reinhold, staring at the ground and wringing his hands in discomfort, “it’s news of Rashid that sent me searching for you.”

“News?”

“Yes.”

“Something’s wrong! Oh, Reinhold, please don’t tell me he’s dead!”

“No, no—he’s alive all right, and well enough, so far as I know.”

“But he was supposed to have met me here!”

“And he
was
on his way when he was—distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“If you’ll only stop repeating me, I’ll be able to tell you what happened much more quickly.”

In spite of Bradmant’s impatient silence, Reinhold told his story leisurely, ignoring his sister’s agony, as she squirmed and writhed, so filled with anxiety and impatience that she threatened to shoot off sparks like a supercharged Leyden jar.

As Bradamant sulked and fidgeted, her brother told her what had happened to Rashid after she had left to pursue the late Count Pinabel. The Saracen had easily defeated the count’s champions, of course, thereby canceling their obligation (which, had they but known it, was being rendered null and void by Bradamant’s simultaneous cancellation of Pinabel). Rashid had not noticed until then that Bradamant was gone. Assuming that wherever she might have gone, she would eventually find her way to the monastery, he asked for and received directions for Vallambrosa and immediately headed in its direction. He had not gone more than a few miles, however, when he met a knight named Mandricard, king of the Tartars and one of the fiercest of all Saracen warriors. There was an old feud between the two men and, while Rashid was more than willing to let it pass, Mandricard insisted on fighting it out then and there. Rashid shrugged and went to it. It was a terrible battle and continued until the sky began to grow dark, but Rashid of course eventually emerged victorious. Victorious, but terribly wounded [here a choked gasp from Bradamant]. He was too weak to regain his saddle and had just resigned himself to dying among the blood-splattered trees when a party led by Emir Marsilius found him. The Emir was on his way to the hunting lodge that was even then sheltering Bradamant. Marsilius, who had traitorously and heretically aligned himself with the Moors, immediately recognized both the eagle
argent
displayed on a field
azure
and the potential benefit of rescuing its famous owner. He had the injured knight’s wounds field-dressed as best as they could be, placed him in his own palanquin and, after sending a single man back to his lodge with an explanation for his daughter and their guests, headed directly for Agramant’s headquarters at Arles.

That must be what kept the emir away the night I was at his lodge!
Bradamant thought with dismay.
My God! Rashid was only a few miles away while I was dallying with those delicate fools!

By the time they arrived at Arles, Rashid was in a profound fever, delirious and near death [another strangled gasp from Bradamant]. Agramant’s doctors feared the worst and, in truth, had Rashid been delivered even a few hours later it might have been too late. The king assigned his personal physicians to the case and they eventually pronounced Rashid’s life no longer in danger, though he needed much rest and attention. Agramant had Rashid transferred to the royal tent, where the king could himself keep watch over his favorite knight. All around Rashid’s bed he piled the spoils of Mandricard’s defeat, all the stolen arms, armor and shields.

“Now,” concluded Reinhold, “(and this is the difficult part so you must be brave, Bradamant dear), Rashid’s chief nurse during his convalescence was a warrior-maiden named Marfisa. She is to King Agramant what you are to Karl. I’ve seen her myself: tall, dark, raven-haired—as beautiful in face and body as she is proficient in the use of arms. I’ve fought her myself and it’s only by the grace of God that I emerged alive and I can tell you that few enough can make that boast. She’s a demon with a sword.”

“I’ve heard of her,” Bradamant replied in a strangled voice.

It was obvious to everyone (Reinhold continued) that Marfisa and Rashid were in love: they were seldom seen apart—indeed, she was at his tent day and night—and (“so I am told,” said Reinhold) everyone in Agramant’s camp assumed they had plighted their troth and that the wedding would take place as soon as Rashid was completely well. Agramant was overjoyed at this news. Not only did it do wonders for the morale of the pagan army (“which has just been driven from Paris, if you haven’t already heard”), but he fully expected the union to produce a race of superwarriors with which he would sweep the Christian nations from Europe.

“This can’t be true!” cried Bradamant.

“I heard it all from an absolutely reliable source,” her brother replied. “A friend’s cousin has a nephew who knows a page in the Moorish camp. Besides, what other reason could there be for this Marfisa to linger in Agramant’s camp? Indeed, there’s no good reason for her to be there at all. She apparently came on her own volition, immediately upon getting word that Rashid lay there wounded. And once he did recover, she remained. They’re never seen except in each other’s company. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway, and I have no reason to disbelieve it.”

“And I have no reason to disbelieve you, but no desire to believe you, either. Are you sure there’s no chance you’re mistaken?”

“I can’t see how. I’m told that Marfisa has a reputation for being aloof, condescending and absolutely contemptuous of anyone she considers beneath her—which appears to be everyone, by the way; only with Rashid has she shown any kindness and gentleness. I can speak from my own experience that the she-devil would far rather be butchering Christians on a battlefield than playing nurse. Why else would she change, than for love?”

Bradamant leaped to her feet. Her eyes were like red-hot rivets, her face livid and her lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl that frightened even her brother. She was furious with jealousy, outrage and anger. There were no tears, no self-pity, no breast-beating. Without speaking another word she strode directly to the wooden shed where her weapons and armor had long ago been put away. There was no door handle, just a lock on a massive chain that passed through a pair of heavy iron staples. Without hesitation, she grasped the chain with both hands, placed one foot against the door and pulled. With a metallic shriek, the staples were wrenched from the wood. She threw the chain aside, ripped the door from its leather hinges, stepped inside and reappeared a moment later with her arms piled high with her belongings. Still silent, she marched with her long, purposeful stride to her cell.