The Iron Tempest

by Ron Miller

  “No!” she gasped, pushing him away. She drew her knees to her chin, pulling her chemise over her legs. She was shuddering like a rabbit. “No, Rashid. Don’t.”

  “No? But why?”

  “I can’t; as much as I want to, I can’t. I dare not.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I’m willing, my love, more willing, more desirous, more anxious than I’ve been for anything in my life! See this stone in my hand? See how it falls when I drop it? Well then, I tell you with all my heart that it craved the earth no less inexorably, eagerly and impatiently than I crave you.”

  “And I you—but now I’m more confused than ever.”

  “But don’t you see? I’m a Christian and you’re a pagan.”

  “Well, if that’s all that’s bothering you, then there’s no problem!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There can be nothing simpler: I’ll convert—I’ll become a Christian!”

  “You’ll accept baptism?”

  “Of course. Why not? I would at this very minute lay down my life for you and be glad of it, if it would please you. So why should I balk at a baptism? Can it hurt so much? I’d be willing to immerse my head in fire for you, so it’d be small thing to immerse it in water.”

  “There‘s a monastery not far from here, at Vallambrosa. It can be done there.”

  “Then I’d be free to ask your father for your hand?”

  “Yes. And then you’d also be free to ask me for . . . more than my hand.”

  “Then it’s as good as done,” he said, rising to his feet. He held out his hands for hers and pulled her to him. “Let’s be on our way then. I’ve lost too many months already to want to lose even another moment.”

  * * * * *

  A day’s ride took the lovers beyond the forest. As they emerged from the wood, Bradamant heard a disturbing sound.

  “Someone’s crying,” she said.

  “No, it’s just the wind or the sound of a brook.”

  “No. It’s a woman crying. There! Look!”

  She pointed to a mass of white huddled between the massive roots of an ancient oak, like a load of freshly-washed sheets in the burly arms of a laundress.

  The sobbing woman did not look up as the two curious knights approached. Bradamant dismounted as Rashid squirmed uncomfortably in his saddle, as deeply disturbed by the display any strong female emotion, let alone tears, as is anyone so aggressively hypermasculine as he.

  Bradamant kneeled by the woman and extended an open palm toward her.

  “What’s the matter, my lady?” she asked gently.

  The woman turned her eyes toward her and Bradamant noticed that in spite of the tears, inflamed, swollen eyes and red-rimmed nose, the woman was rather pretty, in a pudgy, peasanty kind of way.

  “Has someone hurt you?”

  “O, gentle knights!” the woman replied, with a hiccup. “These tears are for a young man who is—hic—condemned to die today. He was in love with my mistress, Princess—hic—Fiordispina, the daughter of Marsilius.”

  “The Cordovan emir?” asked Rashid, whose question was ignored by both women.

  “And he’s to die,” asked Bradamant, “simply because he’s in love with this princess?”

  “No , no. The emir is allied with King Agra—hic—mant, and the princess’ lover is loyal to Charlemagne. That made their relationship not only difficult but dangerous. Hic.”

  “I can well imagine,” Bradamant replied, with a furtive glance at her lover.

  “He was warned away from her,” replied the handmaiden, forgetting her sorrow in the excitement of reciting the story, as though she were synopsising the plot of some lurid romance, “but in order to continue seeing Fiordispina her lover conceived a daring scheme. He disguised himself as a woman, in skirts and veil, and slipped into the castle with the handmaids.”

  “And no one suspected?”

  “Oh, everyone knew except the emir and those closest to him. Everyone else was entirely on the lovers’ side. We did all we could to protect them.”

  “Go on. Obviously something went wrong.” This comment brought a fresh flood of tears and it was some moments before the woman could again speak. Bradamant cursed herself for interrupting.

  “He was sucessful for weeks,” she gulped, “almost every night managing to slip into the princess’ chambers and—and—to sleep with her. But he tempted fate once too often and the emir finally found out how he’d been deceived. Two days ago his men broke into Fiordispina’s rooms and seized her and her lover while they were still—uh—in—uh—bed. They’ve been held ever since in separate dungeon cells, unable to see or speak to one another. Can you imagine anything more tragic? And today he’s to be burned alive and the princess is to be sent away to a nunnery. I couldn’t bring myself to remain in the castle while this happened.”

  Bradamant was greatly disturbed by this account. “It seems to me,” she said to Rashid, “that our arms should favor that poor boy.”

  “I agree,” replied Rashid, filled with eagerness to join in anything that affected his lover so deeply, whether he actually concurred with her or not. In truth, he was not in any special hurry to reach Vallambrosa, half-convinced as he was that a few more days of his company would be as effective as a baptism so far as Bradamant’s resolve was concerned.

  “Take heart,” Bradamant said to the grieving woman, “and tell me how I can get to the castle. If they’ve not yet murdered your hero, they shall not, on my word.”

  “Yes, calm yourself,” Rashid added, hoping that Bradamant noticed and appreciated his enthusiasm and sensitivity.

  “But let’s not waste any more time. We must make haste or he’ll have burnt before we arrive.”

  The woman seemed about to burst into tears again, but the boldness, energy and confidence of the two knights reassured her and, sniffling, she rose to her feet.

  “You can ride with me,” Rashid said, stretching out a hand to help the woman swing into a place behind him.

  “Which way do we go?” Bradamant asked.

  “There are two roads. One of them goes straight to the castle and if we take it we can be there in a few hours, in more than enough time to save the boy. But the road we must take is long and tortuous and I doubt if we’d arrive before dark.”

  “So why don’t we take the shorter way?” asked Bradamant.

  “We can’t because it passes by the castle of Count Pinabel—”

  “Pinabel!” cried Bradamant.

  “Yes, the son of Anselm of Altaripa. You know of him?”

  “Oh, I know who he is all right. The worst scoundrel of a family of scoundrels. He’s a cowardly villain who once tried to murder me,” she explained to Rashid.

  “Then he’s as good as dead,” said Rashid. “In any case, what do we have to fear from him?”

  “He’s enacted a decree,” replied the woman, “on every knight and lady who happen by.”

  “And that would be?”

  “Insult and injury.”

  “He’s too stupid for the former and too much a coward for the latter,” said Bradamant. “However does he manage?”

  “By proxy. Pinabel has gathered together the four ablest jousters in all of Frankland. When they first came to him he entertained them so lavishly that he easily purchased their loyalty; they have sworn to uphold his iniquitous, evil law.”

  “Which is?”

  “That every knight coming upon the castle must fight these four champions. Of course the challengers always lose and their punishment is that they must forfeit their arms and their ladies their clothing before they are allowed to continue their way.”

  “That’s monstrous!” cried Bradamant. “To say nothing of absolutely indecent!”

  “How long has he been getting away with this?” asked Rashid.

  “Three days.”

  “Only three days!”

  “Yes. Do you know that the count has a wife?”

  “It’s hard to imagine,”
admitted Bradamant.

  “She’s a horrible shrew, as ugly and hairy as a boar—”

  “Good,” said Bradamant, politely letting the woman’s mixed similes go unremarked.

  “—and the count is entirely cowed by her. Anyway, a few weeks ago, while she and the count were out riding together, they met a knight whom she imagined slighted her in some way. I’ve no doubt it was some entirely innocent remark. It wouldn’t have been difficult: she takes offense at everything. She insisted that her husband tilt with the offender. The count, hampered as he is by too little strength and skill and too much arrogance, was of course easily thrown. For having been put upon so unfairly, the knight insisted that the count’s wife dismount and hand over her clothing and horse. The knight then rode off, leaving the count's wife naked and on foot.”

  “That certainly must have been a sight,” observed Bradamant.

  “I imagine she was a little unhappy,” said Rashid.

  “That’s an understatement,” agreed the woman. “Though she was probably not so unhappy as the knight who had to see her. He must have regretted the punishment he had inflicted. You have no idea how ugly she is.”

  “I hope she’s made life hell for Pinabel,” said Bradamant earnestly.

  “That’s an even greater understatement. She was furious. She ranted and raved, hungering and thirsting for vengeance. Day and night she schemed and plotted, claiming she’d never smile again until her husband had unhorsed and disarmed a thousand knights and denuded a thousand ladies.”

  “Pinabel must have sweated blood.”

  “He did indeed, for he fears his wife even more than he fears an honest fight. He had no idea what to do and was seriously thinking of skulking away in the night and catching the first ship for Afric when the four great champions arrived.”

  “Who are they?” asked Rashid. “If they’re that great, perhaps I’ve heard of them.”

  “Aquilant, Grifon, Samsonet and Selvaggio.”

  “I know who they are,” said Bradamant. “Aquilant and Grifon are brothers. Aquilant the Black and Grifon the White.”

  “Samsonet is the son of the King of Persia,” added Rashid, “but he defected to the Christian side and has been lately representing Karl in Jerusalem.”

  “I have a half-brother named Selvaggio,” said Bradamant, “who could be the fourth knight.”

  “I hope not,” said the woman, “for the count tricked these good men into serving him. They were tired and hungry and he welcomed them into his castle, feigning hospitality and kindness. He fed them excellent food and wine and as soon as they had gone to bed, sleepy and defenseless, he had them seized and bound. Of course the knights were furious when they awakened to find themselves sober but imprisoned in four of the castle’s foulest cells, but there was nothing they could do. Before the count would release them, he made them swear an oath to remain in the castle for a year and a day—”

  “Why a year and a day?” interrupted Bradamant.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Let her finish,” said Rashid. “We don’t have any time to waste.”

  “Yes, well,” said the woman, “anyway, they promised to remain in the castle for a year and a day, as I said, jousting with every knight who passed that way, confiscating their arms and, if ladies accompanied them, confiscating their garments. This odious promise the knights had to swear, much to their annoyance, since Pinabelo promised to execute them otherwise.”

  “They’re formidable jousters,” said Bradamant, “if their reputations are justified, and I can imagine that few have passed by them unscathed.”

  “None have.”

  “Bradamant,” said Rashid, not liking the enthusiastic gleam he detected in her eyes and having no idea of the vendetta, both personal and familial, the girl had against Pinabelo, “I think that our mission is a little too urgent to waste time combating Pinabel’s knights, even as much as I’d like to deal with that foul coward myself. Even if we won, which I have no doubt we would, an hour would be longer than we can spare. As it is, that poor young man may be burnt to death before we arrive.”

  “What lies in our power to do,” she replied loftily, “we will do. The rest is up to God. This combat will demonstrate to this maiden how capable we are of rescuing her unjustly condemned hero.”

  And before the amazed Rashid could respond, or the handmaid object that she was, in fact, already quite convinced of their ability, she wheeled his horse and rode off down the shorter road. Rashid tightened his lips with annoyance and followed. Ahead of him Bradamant chewed at her lower lip fretfully, desperately trying to justify this detour with her conscience.

  They had not gone three miles before arriving in the environs of Pinabel’s castle. A broad stream cascading over piles of rounded boulders thundered between the trio and the stonghold and only a rough timber drawbridge, now lowered, offered any way across. Bradamant noted with revulsion that both sides of the bridge were already decorated with armor and lady’s dresses and her already formidable contempt and loathing for Count Pinabel increased to a white heat. What little thought remained of her original mission was forgotten in the fury that rekindled in her breast, like a blast of air in a blacksmith’s forge.

  As the knights approached the bridge, a watchman in the keep began frantically ringing a gong. As soon as it sounded, an elderly man wobbled from the gatehouse at the far end of the bridge, shouting, “Wait! Wait where you are!”

  Seeing no reason not to, they waited until the ancient one reached the near side of the span, wheezing like a leaky bellows.

  “Why are we waiting?” asked Rashid.

  “There’s a toll to pay!”

  “Toll? Well, tell us how much and we’ll pay it. We’re in a hurry.”

  “It’s not that simple. There are rules I must explain to you.” He went on to expostulate what Bradamant and Rashid already knew perfectly well.

  “Only one knight, drawn by lot,” he concluded, “will first come out to challenge you. If the fight appears to be going against him, the other three are then free to come to his aid. Seeing what champions they are individually, you can only imagine what they must be like working together. You may as well deposit your arms here and strip that damsel of her clothing and save yourself a great deal of pain and trouble. Arms and clothing can be found anywhere—life is irreplaceable.”

  “That’s enough, old man!” cried Bradamant. “We know all about Count Pinabel and his ridiculous law. If I’m half as competent as I know I am, then I’ve no fear of losing either my armor or my clothing—for you can see from my sex that your master’s rule puts me in double jeopardy. So far all I’ve heard are vague threats. We’ve told you we’re in a hurry. Let’s get this charade over with so we can be on our way. We’ve dallied here too long already.”

  “So be it,” replied the old man, shaking his head. “Here’s your first man coming just now.”

  As he spoke, a knight came riding from the gate, full tilt for the drawbridge. Over his armor he wore a red surcoat decorated with white flowers.

  “That’s Samsonet,” Bradamant said, recognizing the arms. “Let me have him,” she continued, seeing Rashid helping the handmaiden down, “please, as a favor.”

  Rashid ignored her and spurred his horse forward. Bradamant had unfortunately allowed him to carry her lance. It was a formidable weapon—two palm’s width thick at the rest and fifteen feet long—and made of oak as hard as iron and gilded its entire length. Its sharp tip was covered with steel. Bradamant thought it looked as though it would pierce an anvil as easily as it would a man’s body, which in fact it would. As she watched Rashid heft it into place she decided that she could at least not fault the count in arming his champions adequately: Samsonet, she saw, had half a dozen similar lances ready at hand.

  As Rashid maneuvered himself into position on the near side of the drawbridge, Bradamant saw a number of other figures coming from the castle gate. One of them she recognized as Pinabel, and her hackles rose at the sight of him an
d whatever remnants of the promise she had made to succor the princess’ lover evaporated before the blaze of her fury. The others were obviously servants standing ready to collect the armor and clothing of the losers. At an open window above the gate appeared a hideous object that may have been a poorly-conceived Hallowe’en pumpkin, but was in fact Pinabel’s wife, who was shrieking orders to the people below in a kind of strangled bray. As fascinatingly awful as this sight was, Bradamant could hardly tear her hateful gaze away from the count long enough to watch the joust, which was just beginning.

  Rashid and Samsonet spurred their great horses simultaneously and it was as though a storm had burst; the earth shook like the rocks beneath a cataract.

  The knights met at the center of the bridge, which almost leaped from its abutments at the impact. Rashid’s shield, which he kept covered since he did not want to use it to unfair advantage, resisted Samsonet’s lance like adamant; the weapon burst like a rotten log into a thousand splinters . Rashid’s lance, however, pierced the other’s shield as though it had been made of paper, striking the knight behind it with the force of an express locomotive. Samsonet flew from his saddle like a ragdoll, pinwheeling into the parapet of the bridge, the heavy timbers of which shattered as though they had been hit by a bomb.

  The watchman in the tower struck a mournful bell at the unhorsing of the first of Pinabel’s champions. According to their contract the remaining three knights ought to have immediately taken on Rashid together; instead, they milled about in confusion and dismay, obviously unwilling to commit the unchivalrous act of ganging up three to one against a fellow knight, yet impelled to do so by their pact with the evil count.

  Relieved at seeing Rashid safely through the danger of the first encounter, Bradamant let her attention wander. As her lover returned to his starting place and the other knights milled about, relunctantly arming themselves, she saw that Pinabel, crossing the bridge alone, was approaching her. She felt herself quivering like a starved dog and was surprised, and a little horrified, to find a low growl rumbling deep in her throat.