by Ron Miller
That night, she sat alone in her apartment’s oriel, leaning on the sill of one of the tall slit windows, watching gloomily as a stockade was being hastily erected around the lists. She watched the flaming torches and lanterns and listened to the saws and hammer blows, thinking of how in so few hours they would be replaced by the ringing of sword against shield. She would have to murder that nice young man in the morning and, for all she knew, a dozen or maybe even a score of other men, some young, some not, some nice, most probably not. This did not particularly bother or depress her—after all, no one asked them to come here; if she had to beat them senseless, or lop off this or that limb or even a head, who could they blame other than themselves? It would after all, she considered, perhaps a little cold-bloodedly, be a more pleasant way to pass the time than lurking glumly around the palace as she had been doing for so long.
* * * * *
Rashid was spending that same night no less anxiously. Leon had insisted that he not show his face anywhere once they had come within sight of Marseilles and had made him a virtual prisoner in his tent after their arrival. Rashid was to fight Bradamant the next morning clad from head to foot in full armor. However, he could not help stealing a long gaze at the palace that towered above the city’s walls. Which of those blazing windows was hers? he wondered. He sighed and withdrew, closing the opening securely. He felt like a prisoner sure enough—a prisoner condemned to the gallows. Although Leon had argued heatedly, he could not sway his proxy from his choice of weapons: he eschewed both horse (for fear that his opponent might recognize Frontino) and lance; he would face Bradamant armed only with his sword. That sword would not be Balisard, either, against which he knew even the finest steel would part like paper. Taking one of Leon’s weapons and wanting to take no chances, he secretly blunted its edge with a stone.
On foot and armed thus, Rashid stepped out onto the dewy field at dawn. Dressed in the prince’s armor—and making certain to wear a helmet that covered most of his face—he carried a shield bearing Leon’s golden two-headed eagle on a red ground—which device also decorated his surcoat. A gold eagle adorned the crest of his helmet. A little earlier, Leon had ostentatiously entered his tent, making certain that a great number of people saw him do so. There he’d remain hidden in an armoire until Rashid had won Bradamant’s hand for him.
Rather than spending her night dulling the edge of her sword, Bradamant had honed the weapon to such a frightening sharpness that it cut cleanly through an iron bolt. She hoped it would cut as cleanly and surely through the Greek’s iron armor, penetrating to the quick beneath, again and yet again, until she had pierced his heart with as many wounds as her own had suffered.
She stood at the far end of the list, alone, her breath steaming in the cool early morning air like a racehorse’s, which she also resembled in the way she impatiently fidgeted and stamped the ground. She felt as though she was burning from the inside out, as though red-hot wires were laced through her body instead of veins and nerves. How long’ve I been standing here? she wondered. It seems like an hour. Everyone was so anxious to get this over with—well, I’m here and I’m ready. Let’s get it over with.
The location for the contest was a vast. level extent of velvet sward that lay between the city walls and the ancient forest. The arena was surrounded by a palisade with two entrances: one on the north, the other on the south, each wide enough to allow six mounted knights to pass abreast. These were guarded by two heralds and six pursuivants. Everywhere else were small, wandering detachments of soldiers, delegated to maintaining order among the vast crowd—not an easy task considering that half the country—husbands, wives and children—had been attracted to the famous event. The soldiers’ hands were full, enforcing discipline; they vented their frustration by not restraining the blows that fell upon the heads of those they caught disturbing the peace.
Not far from the northern gate were a dozen gorgeous pavilions, belonging to the twelve principal suitors, each with his distinctive colors displayed on the pennons that fluttered in the wind like aerial serpents. Surrounding these were the tents belonging to the less aristocratic, but no less ardent, princes, barons, knights and whatnot, all huddled together either through friendship or mutual want. Altogether this was a real community, which had its own stables, armorers, farriers, surgeons and artisans—all of whose presence was indispensable. Less dispensable but no less ubiquitous were the hordes of merchants hawking their trinkets and perfumes, honey and olive oil to the ladies, to say nothing of the jugglers, troubadours and minstrels whose wits were as sharp as their purses were empty. Everywhere, as thick as bees in a hive, were the knights themselves and their squires, lackeys and pages.
At the opposite end of the lists, nearest the forest, was raised the magnificent pavilion that belonged to Charlemagne: a vast tent of gold and purple fabric, covered with gold eagles. In front was the imperial box, in which Charlemagne sat with Hildegard and his children.
Down either side of the field were the bleachers that had been erected for the spectators of rank, who promised to be as numerous as the common rabble. They had been arriving in crowds by the hour.
There was a long silence when Bradamant stepped onto the field, a hush that fell over the crowd, the animals and the birds—even the air itself, which became as still as glass, with every living creature imbedded motionlessly, like insects in amber.
Occasionally, after a particularly violent thunderbolt sets the atmosphere vibrating like a drumhead a powerful wind will arise, like the breath of a dragon aroused by the crashing sound, a wind that will thrash the sea into a wild foam and darken the sky with clouds of dust. Birds and beasts flee alike before the tempest and the shepherd hastily chases his flock beneath a sheltering grotto. The air seems to congeal into hail and rain that beats the earth like a flail. Just so when the signalling trumpet sounded, Bradamant gripped her sword and charged her enemy.
Rashid, who had done nothing more than to approach a few yards onto the field, yielded to the girl’s first blow no more than might an ancient oak to a tempest or a stone tower to the crashing surf. There was such a blinding shower of sparks that many of the spectators believed the prince has been hit by lightning.
It seemed to Rashid, too, that he was being struck by lightning, attracting the flashing bolts like an iron rod. He was astonished and frightened at the ferocity and power of his lover’s attack, that fell on him from every side, as though he was a city under the bloodthirsty siege of some barbaric army.
Even more than the blows of Bradamant’s sword he felt the hate, fury and savagery that empowered them and he almost staggered under that psychic pummeling.
Bradamant had turned her body over to a berserk demon that now drove her, like a murderous psychopath at the reins of a coach. She watched with that same sort of detached anxiety with which an engineer might watch a tyro take the controls of his locomotive. She approved of the skill with which she struck here with the edge of her sword, there with the point, seeking at every moment a weakness, a seam, a joint through which she might pass her blade. If she could do that, she could not only watch the man’s lifeblood pour from his body, but she could watch her hot wrath drain away as well. So now on his right, now on his left, she kept trying, wheeling first in one direction and then another, with a lightness and agility that belied the weight of her armor. She struck backhanded and stabbed with the point until the blows fell upon her enemy with the rapidity and violence of a hailstorm, with the deafening rattle of hail on a slate roof—yet her enemy remained on his feet. Within her adamantine shell, Bradamant gnawed at her bloodied lips with frustration.
If that same savage army that was besieging the city symbolic of Rashid discovered that it was only vainly assailing its impregnable walls, battering its immovable gates, thwarted by its moat, exposing its soldiers to certain death—yet still could not find so much as a crack or crevice by which it might gain entry, this army found itself in much the same agonizing position in which Bradamant found hersel
f. For all her mighty labor she could find not a single weakness in her opponent’s armor.
Sparks flamed from Rashid’s helmet, shield and hauberk, and the grass surrounding the warriors smoldered and scorched until the warriors seemed to resemble demonic creatures, merging with and emerging from the acrid smoke.
Yet, for all her skill and strength, Bradamant had not yet so much as wounded her opponent. What was even more frustrating, humiliating and infuriating was that the man she supposed to be Leon refused to fight back—he was content with merely defending himself from her most fatal blows. Never once had he attempted to injure her.
She could almost bring herself to admire the agility with which he evaded his murder. If he did use his sword, it was against her blade; if he did strike her it was invariably someplace that would do her the least injury. These courtesies only served to fan the flame of her already incandescent fury. How dare he condescend to her so! How dare he patronize her!
She glanced at the sky. The sun is so high! Can the day be half over already? This is impossible! She felt herself in mortal peril of falling victim to her own machinations, trapped by the proclamation she cajoled from the emperor.
Sweat poured in stinging rivulets down her face and loose strands of hair were plastered across her forehead and cheeks like wet leaves. She shook the moisture away from her eyes as she felt the first weakness growing in her arms. But as her strength ebbed her rage grew in proportion. Though each blow sent seismic waves of pain through her shoulders, she redoubled their number, still trying to shatter that adamantine armor or to find some fatal, overlooked chink. She was like a handyman who had lagged at his task and now saw the end of the day approaching without any hope of being paid and who now vainly hurried, trying to do his day’s work in a single hour, tiring himself until his strength at last fails and the job remains undone.
Sobbing, hot tears streaming to mix with hotter perspiration, Bradamant faced the horrifying realization of the terrible flaw in the emperor’s contest: that while she had to kill or disable her opponent, all he had to do was remain standing. All of the offense was on her part—Leon’s rôle was purely defensive. He was under neither obligation nor requirement to do her any harm—indeed, to do so would have been entirely counterproductive, so far as a suitor was concerned. There would be little point to winning the hand of a corpse.
Exhausted both in body and spirit, Bradamant dismissed the sound that rang in her ears until she recognized it as the trumpet signaling the end of the contest. She glanced to the sky with horror: the sun was settling into the trees of the western woods like a gobbet of blood. People were running toward her and there was a great roar, as though a maelstrom had burst in her head. She heard Charlemagne’s voice booming above all the other noise, his words decreeing the end of the battle and that Lady Bradamant had accepted Leon for her husband to the exclusion of all others.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
In which many Confusions are Resolved and everyone,
particularly Bradamant, appears to be satisfied at last
With nothing remaining to prevent her marriage to Leon, Bradamant was prepared to defy not only her parents but the imperial edict. She would break her word, abandon her honor, make an enemy of Charlemagne, suffer the disdain of the court, her friends and relatives and, if nothing else remained to her, she would fall on her own sword. Death seemed preferable to life without Rashid.
“Where can he’ve gone, Marfisa?” she agonized. “Can he’ve gotten so far away that he was the only person in the world not to have heard of the proclamation?”
“It must be true,” her friend agreed. “I’m certain that if he had even gotten so much as a hint of it, nothing would’ve stopped him from being the first to respond.”
“So what else am I left to think than the worst?”
“It’s hard to think about that.”
“How else can it be that Rashid was alone in all the world in not having heard? And if he had heard and didn’t come at once, how is it possible that he’s not dead or a prisoner?”
“You know what I think? I think that Leon has somehow managed to either entrap Rashid or delay him in some way. Why else would he’ve been in such a hurry to begin the duel?”
“I’ve thought that myself and if it’s true, or if I even believe that it’s true, I’ll kill Leon with my own hands. I will cut him into a human shishkabob. But what am I to do now? I’ve fallen into a trap of my own making, Marfisa, and I don’t know how to get out of it. I was so certain that no one in the world was capable of beating me except Rashid. I believed this because I valued him beyond anyone else. Now God has punished me for my audacity and conceit by having this—this effete princeling, who’s accomplished nothing noble in his entire life, take me from Rashid.
“Well, I’ll tell you this, Marfisa: perhaps I’ve lost my hand to Prince Leon because I was incapable of beating him or killing him. This isn’t just and I’m not going to stand by Charlemagne’s decision. I know I’ll be condemned if I go back on my sworn word, but I’m not the first woman who’s been inconstant and I’ll not be the last. Let it be sufficient that I kept faith with my lover and in this I know I have surpassed all the lovers of ancient times or those who live now or those who’re yet to come. I don’t care if in all other things I’m accused of being unfaithful, so long as I gain by this one. I can be called as fickle and uncertain as people wish so long as I don’t have to marry that fool Leon.”
Leaving her distraught friend with what few words of comfort she could invent, Marfisa went directly to Charlemagne and demanded an audience.
“Surprise me,” said the emperor, “and tell me that this isn’t going to be about Bradamant’s marriage.”
“Then prepare yourself for a disappointment, your majesty,” she replied, continuing in a rush to explain her belief that some great wrong had been done her brother.
“I’ll not endure,” she growled, “seeing his rightful wife taken from him with no one to protest. I intend to prove against whoever disputes it that Bradamant is the true wife of Rashid.”
“And what makes you so certain that this is so?”
“I heard Bradamant herself, in my presence,” she glibly lied, “speak the vows of marriage to my brother. Indeed, every legally mandated word was settled between them—if not the actual ceremony—so she’s not free to promise herself to another or to leave Rashid for someone else.”
“What? You’re claiming that Lady Bradamant is in fact already married to Rashid?”
“Yes.”
“I am astonished!”
The emperor immediately sent for Bradamant and her family. When she saw Marfisa and her mother and father and the grim-faced emperor waiting for her, she didn’t know what to think. Nevertheless, she refused to allow any of them to suspect the depth of her despair, any more than she would allow them to see how much a physical wound pained her. She stood as straight as a sword. She expected the worst, but was wholly unprepared for what Charlemagne repeated. Haemon and Beatrice glared at her with combined horror and disdain as she hung her head. Those present thought she did so in shame, but in truth it was to hide her confusion and embarrassment. She could bring herself to neither deny nor agree with the lie that Marfisa had declared, though she knew full well that her silence would be interpreted as confirmation that the Moor had told the truth.
Renaud and Roland, realizing what Marfisa had done, that she had never heard any such words spoken between the lovers, were pleased. This was all the doubt the emperor would need to postpone Bradamant’s marriage to Leon—and perhaps even annul their betrothal altogether. Their sister and cousin would have Rashid in spite of Haemon’s obstinancy and without them having to take her from her father by force, as they had been scheming to do.
The duke, however, was not so readily willing to accept Marfisa’s word.
“This is some sort of trick, your majesty! But whatever they may have gotten you to believe, it’s wrong. Even if everything they’ve invented is true, I�
�m not yet beaten.”
“Go on,” said Charlemagne.
“Even if we admit—which I do not do for one minute—that Bradamant’s been so foolish and disloyal as to speak the vows of marriage to this pagan Rashid, and he to her, when and where did this supposedly take place? I’d like very much for Lady Marfisa to explain this, or perhaps Renaud or Roland can do so if she can’t.”
“And what has the time and place have to do with this alleged marriage?” asked the emperor.
“Just this, your majesty: there was no marriage if it took place before Rashid was baptized!”
Renaud, Roland, Marfisa and Bradamant exchanged a flurry of glances.
“If it was done before,” the duke continued, “then it was illegal because Bradamant is a Christian and Rashid was a pagan. For this reason alone, it was a shame that Prince Leon was put to the indignity of having had to fight for something that was in truth rightly his.” He turned angrily to his son and nephew.
“And if you two knew of this alleged marriage you should’ve said something earlier and certainly before the emperor had made, at Bradamant’s insistence, the proclamation that put Leon through this useless, unnecessary and humiliating combat.”
The emperor leaned back into his throne, his leonine face bathed in shadow. The people who surrounded him—Marfisa, Haemon, Beatrice, Renaud, Roland and Bradamant—were as still and silent as the caryatids that supported the canopy shading the throne. Bradamant felt as though if she were to so much as whisper a single word the entire tableau would collapse like a house of cards. Elsewhere, however, the court was filled with a low buzz, the hum of a hundred speculations that even in that moment’s hiatus had spread beyond the walls of the chamber and throughout the palace.