by Ron Miller
She made the long journey in a week, undelayed by any incident she was incapable of handling or particularly worthy of mention, to find that the emperor had scarcely overstated the truth. The pagan invaders had overrun Languedoc and Provence, pillaging every village and hamlet with unimpeded impunity. The southern sky looked like a distant forest with a thousand columns of smoke blending into an opaque, dun canopy. As she rode toward the city the evidence of Saracen cruelty grew by every mile, with every burned-out hut, every bloated body, every desecrated church or monastery. Her face grew set and grim. This devastation, she knew too well, was the price paid for her pursuit of Rashid.
The people of Marseilles were delighted to see their heroine and surprised and embarassed her by evidencing not an iota of resentment at her desertion. This unexpected, unearned generosity made her even more resolved to make amends, guilt being the powerful force it is.
Her first duty, as she saw it, was to take stock of the remaining defenses of Marseilles, such as they were. Being both a shrewd and capable leader, when she put her mind to it, it was not long before she had gathered a small force around her, which seemed to grow logarithmically, every man anxious to follow his white-armored champion.
It was not overlong before she and her makeshift army were daily wreaking vengeance upon the Moors. And, as Rashid’s return became ever more overdue, she exercised her frustration and anger upon her hapless enemy, laying waste about her with a savagery which awed and frightened even her own men. It never once crossed her mind to consider how Rashid might feel about her devastation of his comrades.
For each day that passed without word from Melissa, Bradamant grew more sullen and aloof, obsessed with the conviction that Rashid was lost to her after all. Her anxiety was too great to be assuaged by daily battles with the pagan hosts; it erupted like a suppurating wound, infecting all around her.
One night, while Bradamant tossed and turned fitfully on her cot, crying and whimpering as she fought her terrible dreams, her tent was suddenly illuminated by a familiar firefly light. She opened her eyes and saw that the sorceress had at last returned, but that she had returned alone. She not only felt her heart crack, she could hear it disintegrate, vaporizing like a Prince Rupert’s drop. Her head fell back lifelessly as she uttered a groan that lacerated even Melissa’s own rather more obdurate heart.
“Oh, my dear Bradamant!” she cried, hurrying to her side and taking one pale, limp hand in her own. “All is not lost! Rashid is alive and well and far from the coils of that serpent Alcina!”
“Then where is he? Has he forgotten me, then?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Then why isn’t he here?”
“I told you that I couldn’t carry him here by magic. Once free, he had to make his own way. But he has his hippogryph—”
“Papillon.”
“Yes, Papillon. He has Papillon to carry him.”
“Then what happened? Where is he?”
“Atalante.”
“Atalante? He’s still alive?”
“Oh, yes indeed.”
“ What has he done now?”
“Trapped Rashid by turning his love for you against him.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Rashid was on his way here, as quickly as he could go, and had already crossed the western ocean and was well past the borders of Frankland when he heard a tremendous noise beneath him. Landing to investigate, he discovered that a prodigious fight was taking place between two formidable knights. One of them was a horrible-looking giant, the other was a slim figure clad in gleaming white armor who was avoiding the two-handed blows of the monster’s club as deftly as a dancer. The giant’s flanks ran red from the dozen cuts he’d received from his opponent’s blade, though, giant-like, the wounds seemed not to bother him overmuch. Rashid saw that the knight’s horse lay dead nearby. At first he didn’t interfere. The white knight seemed in no immediate danger, so it would’ve been an impertinence to have taken sides without an invitation or an honorable excuse. Suddenly, the nimble knight slipped on a patch of moss, the giant stepped forward, raised his massive club and brought it down on the other’s head with a ringing blow that by all rights ought to have smashed the skull like a melon. The knight was stretched flat under this tremendous impact. The giant took the sword from the lifeless hand and, pulling off his victim’s helmet, prepared to administer the coup de grâce. As soon as Rashid saw the knight’s face he cried out in surprise.”
“Who was it?”
“You.”
“Pardon?”
“The unconscious knight in the white armor bore your countenance, down to the last hair and eyelash.”
“Maybe so, but it wasn’t me.”
“I know that, of course, but Rashid had no way of knowing it. With an anguished cry, he leaped from Papillon while it was still twenty feet above the glade and challenged the giant even before his feet struck the ground. The latter, not at all prepared for another fight, threw the false Bradamant over his shoulder and took to his heels. Rashid, abandoning Papillon as useless in the dense woods, pursued on foot. Eventually, the giant came to a château and disappeared into it, with Rashid hot behind him. Once your lover crossed the threshold, he was trapped.”
“Trapped? How? Is he imprisoned in some dungeon?”
“Not at all. Every door is wide open. He could walk out any time.”
“Then what’s keeping him there?”
“His love for you. He has every reason to believe that you’re somewhere in that castle, and he’s not going to leave without you. He’s searched every room, every nook and every cranny, without finding you (of course, since we know perfectly well that you’ve never been there), but always, no matter where he is, he can hear your voice from somewhere else, in the next room, through a wall, outside a window, around a corner.”
“This is some of Atalante’s magic, I suppose?”
“Of course. Just as it was Atalante who’d been disguised as you.”
“A disgusting thought,” Bradamant said as she rose from her cot and paced the tent, her hands clasped tightly behind her back, her chin sunk onto her steel-clad breast. Her face was livid with fury.
“I really resent this,” she growled. “I really do. What an abominable, despicable tactic! The damned impertinence of imitating me! If he wants so badly to be a woman I’d be more than happy to accomodate his wish. My God, I was a fool to have spared him!”
She stopped pacing, turned and faced the sorceress, who blanched beneath the basilisk glare of the enraged warrioress. “Where is this new prison? Obviously the only way to save Rashid is for him to actually find me.”
“I can’t argue with you about that.”
“Then it’s settled. We leave in the morning and you’ll guide me.”
The next morning, hours before dawn, Bradamant gave orders to her second-in-command sufficient to keep the Saracens harried for the week she expected to be gone—for Melissa assured her that Atalante’s castle was not at all far away.
The two women rode together and were well on their way by the time the first chord of the sun’s disk appeared above the horizon.
“When you first come near the castle,” said Melissa, “it will seem that Rashid has come out to meet you. Don’t be deceived. It’ll be only Atalante disguised. He’ll use his magic to make it appear as though Rashid is being overpowered by an attacker—the same ruse he used to trap Rashid—with the idea that you’ll rush to your love’s rescue and thereby fall into the magician’s trap. Both you would then be in his power.”
“Better there with Rashid than here without him.”
“No! You’re wrong! You’d never see him again, nor anyone else, I suspect. Atalante traps every knight and lady who passes his way with a similar trick. He greets them in the guise of whomever or whatever they most desire, whether it be girl, boy, man, woman, lady, knight, page, friend, brother, sister—sometimes it takes food, gold or animals—it doesn’t matter. The upshot is that th
ey’re lured into the castle and there they remain, forever searching for their heart’s desire. Atalante, of course, makes certain that their hopes and desires never abate, are never discouraged by so much as a jot, so his victims never once think of abandoning their hopeless quests and leaving.”
“I don’t think he could deceive me.”
“Don’t be a fool, Bradamant, or you’ll be as lost as the others. Once you fall into his power, there’ll be nothing I can do for you.”
“Nevertheless . . .”
“No, Bradamant. Don’t even think it. If you’re to defeat this wizard, then take heed: even though every sense insists that you’re looking into the living, breathing face of Rashid himself, and he’s begging you for help, don’t believe it—doing so for even a single instant would be fatal! As soon as he approaches you, slay him without hesitation. Harden your heart and remember that it’s only a simalucrum that you’re destroying, a lifeless illusion, not your lover.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“No, it won’t. Make your resolution now, brave Bradamant, before we even get near this evil place. The greatest test of your courage is facing you: to seemingly kill your dear Rashid. But your eyes, bewitched by Atalante, will be lying to you.”
“I’ll never save Rashid by being fainthearted.”
“That’s right.”
“Then I shall not be fainthearted.”
“I’m delighted to hear that. And I hope you’re right.”
Having made the resolution to slay the tormenter of both herself and Rashid, to Bradamant’s mind the deed was as good as done. She followed Melissa without the slightest notice of the landscape and road. Whether they were passing farmland or forest, plain or hill, village or city was of not the least concern nor interest.
Melissa saw that her companion was becoming overwrought and that long before they reached Atalante’s castle Bradamant would attain such a fever pitch of excitement there would be every danger that she would forget the sorceress’ injunctions. And if that happened, there would be nothing she could do to save her.
“Do you remember, Bradamant,” Melissa asked, in an effort to distract the girl, “when Merlin told you something of your illustrious progeny?”
“Of course.”
“He only told you of the great men. Haven’t you been curious about your female descendants?”
“Certainly. I’ve wondered about who they may be many times. Will they be brave, beautiful, virtuous?”
“Well, I can tell you something about a few of them, if you’d care to listen.”
“I’d be most grateful! To tell you the truth, I need something to take my mind away from Rashid. The journey seems to be taking longer with every mile we go, as though we’re going backwards with each step. My head’s spinning, my lady, and I’m afraid I’ll go mad long before we reach our goal. Then what good will I be to Rashid?”
“I’m glad to hear you realize that.”
“Oh, I do, I do. Just as I know that I’m obsessed with him. But what good does the knowledge of that obsession do me? My head still whirls and my heart still rattles like a drum.”
“I know. Then let me distract you for a few minutes by telling you something of your descendants.”
“Yes, I’d very much like to hear about them.”
“I see in the future,” said Melissa, her voice becoming distant and monotonic, as though she were talking to herself, “chaste women, mothers of emperors and kings, the immovable foundations of illustrious houses and resplendent empires. For all their feminine trappings, however, they are no less than knights, armored with every virtue: mercy, modesty, courage, prudence, piety, matchless self-restraint. I couldn’t begin, in the brief time of our journey, to list every one of the most worthy of your descendants—it’s going to be difficult enough just picking a handful from the thousands.”
“Thousands!”
“Oh, yes! I can see far into the future . . . There will be Isabel of Mantua, for example. Just to list her virtues alone would take all of our journey and more. And Isabel’s sister, Beatrice—perfectly named for she’ll bring happiness to everyone, let alone the crest of Lodovico, Sforza and Visconti—she’ll spread awe from the northern snows to the Red Sea, from the Indus to the western ocean. Another Beatrice will wear the crown of Hungary and another will be sainted in Italia.
“There will be Biancas, Constances, Lucretias and others, and Ricciarda, wife of Niccolò III of Este and mother of Ercole and Sigismondo, and Eleonora of Aragon, who will give the world Alfonso, Hippolytus and Isabel.”
“And these will be great people, too, I suppose?”
“Of course. Hippolytus will become a cardinal and Isabel will marry Francesco II Gonzaga of Mantua. Eleonora’s daughter-in-law, Lucretia Borgia, will grow in beauty and power like a rose in the rich soil of Venice. As tin is to silver, copper to gold, a poppy to a rose, glass to a diamond, so every woman living today compares to her. And I must at least mention Princess Alda of Saxony, the Countess of Celano, the wife of Azzo VI d’Este, Bianca Maria of Catalonia, Beatrice of Sicily, Lippa of Bologna . . .”
This anticipatory genealogy, which went on for hours, dazzled and confused Bradamant. It also filled her with an enormous confidence. How could she fail to find Rashid with the existence of such an illustrious progeny depending upon their union? If Melissa could so clearly see this future, did it not mean that this future existed? That it was ineradicably preordained? Could all those hundreds of heroes, princes, queens, emperors, popes, saints, conquerors, knights, scholars, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers—could all of them simply evaporate like so much smoke, as the gambler’s dream of a fortune vanishes with an unfortunate roll of a die?
As they came to the verge of a black forest, Melissa drew to halt. Bradamant, a few lengths ahead, turned and asked why she had stopped.
“I cannot go any further, Bradamant,” she replied. “Atalante’s castle lies not far ahead. He knows me well and I don’t dare take a chance that he might recognize me. If he were to see us together, he’d know that his trickery has been discovered. He would take Rashid and flee and all our journey would have been for nought.”
“I wish you’d go with me.”
“No. It’s impossible. But there’ll be no difficulty if you’ll remember what I told you.”
“I remember.”
“It’ll not be Rashid who greets you, you mustn’t forget that.”
“I won’t forget.”
“It’ll be Atalante,” persisted Melissa, “and you must not hesitate to kill him.”
“Yes, yes. I told you I would, my lady,” replied Bradamant curtly; did the sorceress think she was a child? “I know what to do.”
Bradamant saw the sorceress’ face grow sad and she was immediately ashamed that she had hurt her companion, friend and protector. But she was still angry and anxiously aware that Rashid was not far away. She stubbornly bit back an apology, spurred her horse and, without a backward glance, rode into the forest.
She found herself on a narrow path that wound and twisted like a snail-track among the enormous trees. The trees were so large and closely-packed that she felt as though she were passing along some interminable corridor. The dark, fluted walls were close enough to touch. She craned her neck in an effort to see their crowns. Above her the branches and limbs intertwined so densely that not a vestige of sunlight penetrated, only a dim haze, a perpetual twilight, illuminated the forest. There were neither animals nor birds. The air was chill and silent.
She had not gone two miles when she heard the echoing clash of metal on metal. She halted her horse and climbed from the saddle, slipping her sword from its sheath and placing her helmet over her head. She proceeded cautiously, the horse following, led by the bridle she held in her free hand. Another hundred paces took her to a small clearing, not much larger than a tilting field. In it a man was doing battle with a pair of repulsive giants—shaggy, naked, hairy beasts at least ten feet tall. He had obviously been holding his own; the
giants were covered with blood that poured smoking from countless gaping wounds. They did not seem particularly discommoded by these injuries, however, while the knight was obviously growing tired. There was little question that the giants were on the point of killing the man, sooner or later. They slavered and hooted like lunatics.
Bradamant was uncertain what to do. Honor and duty urged her to rush to the aid of the harried knight while love, impatience and all of the other constituents of self-interest urged her not to delay Rashid’s succor by even a minute. And how could Rashid be saved if she were injured or killed? Did she dare take that risk?
She was still engaged in this internal dispute when one of the giants struck the knight from behind with a rock the size of a hogshead. The man fell to the ground, stunned, his helmet flying and Bradamant instantly recognized her lover. It was Rashid who was being harried by these two monsters and was about to be murdered by them.
Her head spun. There was no question that it was Rashid. It was no illusion, no phantom. She told herself that it was not possible that she could be deceived so completely. Could any conjuror’s trick make her heart clench so painfully? Atalante might be able to fool her senses, but it could not possibly be within his power to deceive that ardent organ. “Why,” she asked herself, “should I place the evidence of my own heart second to what I’ve been told on trust? That must be Rashid because I can feel every atom of myself being drawn toward him like every particular drop of the ocean pursues the moon.”
But if that were truly Rashid before her, then that meant that Melissa had deceived her. Why? The sorceress had told her nothing of how she’d rescued Rashid from Alcina. Why not? Had something happened between her and Rashid, something that inspired such rancor and revenge that Melissa desired to have him killed by the very one who loved him the most?
This weird argument was decided for her when she heard Rashid’s voice crying for help. He had managed to elude the giants and reach his horse and was now galloping full-tilt into the forest, away from her. The giants, with an unharmonic bellow, leaped after him, not half a dozen paces behind the flying hooves. It was clear that they would soon catch the fleeing knight and finish the bloody job they had started.