The Iron Tempest (28 page)

“
Bradamant!
” he cried. “I should have known!”

“Do I know you, my lord?”

“No, no—but your reputation precedes you! I’m delighted you are here!”

Leading her to a chair, he told his other guests how often he had witnessed her unsurpassed valor in the lists. “I’ve been an admirer of Lady Bradamant for years!” he cried. “Here,” he continued, seeing expressions of polite incomprehension on their faces, “let me show you.” Dashing to a crowded bookshelf, he brought down fat albums filled with handbills describing Bradamant’s various accomplishments. She had never seen anything like these before and blushed to see what superhuman feats had been attributed to her—too often illustrated with crude woodcuts that made her look like either a demon or a Madonna, depending upon the skill and prejudice of the artist. Embarrassed by this effusion—and we already know how little Bradamant enjoyed being the center of attention—she tried to change the subject to that of Roland or one of the other great heroes, but since Tristan persisted, she instead concentrated on her meal, which she was delighted to discover was abundant, varied and well-prepared. Wine was distributed in a seemingly endless stream by Tristan’s vigilant attendants and by the time the final courses were being laid, Bradamant had mellowed considerably, even to the point of being drawn into friendly conversation by her curious dinner companions. Encouraged by the wine and the friendly enthusiasm and good nature of her new friends, she even went so far as to thrill them by reciting some of her own adventures and by answering their thousand questions about Charlemagne’s court. Even tempered by her natural modesty and reticence, the tales were blood-curdling.

“It’s not going to make my champions very happy,” said Ullania, “to know that not only were they unhorsed by the very first lance they met in Frankland, but that the lance was wielded by a woman!”

“They’ll just have to get over it,” Bradamant replied.

“They’re very hot-headed, proud young men. I only hope that there’ll be no unpleasantness in the morning.”

“I hope so, too.”

“For their sake?”

“For mine. I’m in a hurry.”

Since the subject had been raised, Bradamant asked her host if his curious tradition was a recent invention.

“No, not at all,” he replied. “It dates from the time of Fieramont, the Frankish king. His son, Clodion, was in love with a beautiful damsel, the loveliest, daintiest, sweetest girl in the land. Unfortunately, he was as jealous as he was enamored. Just as hundred-eyed Argus never took his gaze from Io during that time Jupiter had her transformed into a cow, so did Clodion never let his sweetheart wander out of his sight. It was here, in this castle, that he kept her, where no man save ten trusted knights could ever see her. Unfortunately, Lord Tristan (not I, you understand, but my unlucky ancestor) came upon this place. He was escorting a damsel that he had just rescued from a fierce giant. Darkness was falling and he begged Clodion for lodging since, as you’ve no doubt discovered yourself, there is nothing else available for miles. But Prince Clodion, insanely jealous, refused, saying that no one could enter this castle so long as his lady was there.

“After begging until he was hoarse and still to no avail, the infuriated Tristan decided that if he couldn’t obtain lodging by appealing to Clodion’s hospitality, he would get what he wanted by other means. He called the prince a discourteous boor and challenged him and all ten of his knights to prove otherwise. The gist of this challenge was that if he were successful in unseating all eleven of them, then he and his lady could have the castle for the night while Clodion and all ten of his ineffectual bodyguards remained outdoors. The prince, knowing that not only had his fiancé heard this but his knights, too, could hardly refuse. You can imagine how it turned out, I suppose: Tristan handily disposed of them all, leaving them in the mud while he locked himself and his damsel safely inside the castle.

“As soon as he met Clodion’s lady—who, he thought, was nearly as beautiful and desirable as his own adored Iseult—he began to see how he might exact a just revenge on her inhospitable lover—whose passionate curses were even at that very moment scorching the walls of the castle as he pleaded and begged Tristan to release his belovèd to him. Finally, my ancestor looked out of one of the high windows and said: ‘I think that I’d be making a great mistake in allowing a damsel of such delicious beauty (and here Clodion nearly went insane with anger and jealousy) to leave the protection of her home. If you really want some company while you sleep beneath the bushes, I have with me a fair young maid who, while not quite so outstanding in her beauty as your own lady, might be perfectly willing to take her place for this evening. In the meantime, I think it only right and fitting that the loveliest maiden remain with the most valorous knight.’

“Well, it’s almost needless to say that Clodion did not find this at all acceptable. He raged and fumed, but Tristan was adamant. If the prince found the company of his ten knights sufficient, it was all the same to him. So he closed the window and went to bed.

“Clodion paced back and forth all night like a sentry, heedless of the cold and wind, which did not make him half so miserable as did the knowledge that his ladylove was locked up in the castle with that smirking knight.

“In the morning, however, Tristan threw open the doors and ended the prince’s torment by handing over his love in exactly—and he took great pains to point this out—
exactly
the same condition in which he found her. ‘Although you certainly deserve worse punishment for your uncivil behavior,’ said Tristan, ‘I’ll consider myself satisfied that you slept in the mud all night, without the company of a damsel, yours or otherwise.’ ‘It’s not my fault,’ complained the prince. ‘I’m in love and I can’t help how I feel.’ My ancestor would not accept this excuse, saying: ‘Love should ennoble a base heart, not debase a noble one.’ But seeing that his words were having no effect on the jealous prince, he shrugged his shoulders, took his own damsel and departed.

“Clodion hated the sight of his castle after that and gave it away to a friend, but not before making him swear to make anyone wishing lodging to fight for the privilege, etc. etc. I know the rules are now familiar to you. Eventually, fate being the ironic thing it is, the castle—and its tradition—passed into the hands of my grandfather, a descendant of the original Tristan, then my father and now, as you can see, myself. I’ve never seen any reason to alter what is now a venerable custom. Besides, it’s the only entertainment I ever get.

“But now, my ladies, you will see that I have a difficulty.”

“What might that be?” asked Bradamant.

“You know that by tradition I am prevented from giving hospitality to two ladies at the same time. One may stay, the other must be turned out, the decision to be based on whichever is the most beautiful. Now here before me are two lovely women who did not arrive at the same time. I am honor bound, you must see, to make a decision to evict one of you.” (It ought to be obvious that Tristan’s rules only applied to gentle people, such as knights and ladies—maids, pages and other servants were only too glad to be exempt.)

“Impossible!” said Ullania, growing even paler.

“This is ridiculous!” cried Bradamant.

“It is not,” Tristan countered. “It is tradition.”

“I won’t allow this woman to be turned out into the cold,” said Bradamant, “and I dare say you’ll have no luck in turning
me
out.”

“That remains to be seen,” said Tristan. He called in his servants to help him judge between the two. Bradamant squirmed and reddened under the scrutiny, while the Icelandic woman turned ever paler, if that were possible, until she was even whiter than the icicle she already resembled.

“The decision has been made and it is final,” he announced, after consulting his staff. “Bradamant is the fairer of the two. She defeats you, my lady,” he said to Ullania, “no less than she defeated your knights. Please don’t be angry that I must insist upon the strict observance of this custom, but I must ask you to find other lodging for the night.”

At the pronouncement of this harsh sentence, the woman’s face fell and Bradamant felt the sadness of it lacerate her heart.

“It doesn’t seem to me, my lord,” she said, “that you’ve taken into account every permutation of this situation.”

“Pardon?” said Tristan.

“What I mean to say is, it’s irrelevant whether I’m more beautiful than she is or not. Did I not gain admittance tonight because of my superior valor as a knight? If that’s so, how can you judge me as a knight and then later as a woman? Indeed, unless I strip myself in front of you, right now, who’s to say whether I’m male or female? Well, then, what is unknown ought to remain unknown—especially if this kind lady is to suffer for it. Just look at the illogicality of your position! What if I’d been judged the one less comely, what would you have done? Taken from me what I had honestly won by my skill at arms? Besides, had I wanted to remain, do you truly think that you’d have been successful in ousting me? I remind you that there are three men outside who might disagree with the viability of that notion. The contest is obviously an unequal one because if this lady is judged less beautiful than I, then she stands to lose a great deal. If she is judged more beautiful, there is no way that she or you would be able to prevail against my obstinacy. Any unequal contest is unfair and being unfair it is invalid.

“Therefore, I beg of you not to deny Ullania her rightful lodging. And if anyone dares to maintain that my judgement isn’t sound, I’m willing at any time to defend my argument!”

This concluding remark, more than any other, convinced Tristan, who agreed that her logic was quite sound and that the Icelandic ambassadress was more than welcome to remain the night. Seeing her cause so brilliantly and passionately defended, and no longer fearing the prospect of spending a night in the cold and rain, Ullania’s face lost its chalky pallor and regained its original ivory hue. She laughed and this broke all the accumulated tension like a stone shattering the scum of ice covering a newly-frozen pond. The wine, which had been ignored, now flowed again, the fireplace blazed anew, and the entire company—save one—grew bright and merry once again. The exception was, of course, Bradamant. The argument had depressed her and she had begun brooding again with all the old suspicions and fears rekindled. Complaining of a headache, she asked to be excused. Tristan called for a servant, who, with a candle, led the warrioress to her bedroom.

There was already a fire blazing on the hearth and the room was warm and comfortable and the bed fragrant, soft and inviting—but she did not sleep well. She tossed and turned until, just before dawn, she finally fell into a fitful slumber. She dreamed of Rashid.

Why do you so easily believe what is untrue?
asked the tall figure at the foot of her bed.
You make yourself sick with worry over nothing. Don’t you know in your heart that rivers will flow uphill before I think of anyone other than you? I could no more stop loving you than I could stop loving my own heart, for they are the same.

“Oh, Rashid!” she cried. “If that’s true, why have you failed to come to me? You promised that you would be baptized for me.”

If I’m late it’s because I’ve suffered a terrible wound, Bradamant, you know that—but I assure you it is not a wound of the heart.

Bradamant woke at those words, finding her pillow soaked with tears and her hands shaking. It was only a dream, she realized, and what is a dream but only her own wishful thoughts? It meant nothing.
It was pleasant enough while it lasted,
she thought,
but now I’m awake and the same terrible realities still face me. If I thought that sleep would always take me into such pleasant fantasies I’d lie down now and never awaken. I envy the bear and the hedgehog who can retreat into the bliss of their dreams for six months at a time. Some people have compared that sleep to a kind of death and wakefulness to life. I disagree. I can only see death in wakefulness and life in sleep.

The rising sun filled her room with an emphatically cheery rosy light and it seemed as if the bad weather had passed. Bradamant rose, donned her armor and went to thank her host for his peculiarly unique hospitality. As early as it was, Ullania had already come down and was even then outside with her company. When Bradamant joined her, she saw that the three knights were already mounted, glowering at her blackly.

“They are as unhappy as I predicted they’d be,” said Ullania. “I’ve tried to explain to them how gallantly you defended me last night, but to no avail. Somehow the idea that you enabled me to sleep in a warm bed after a wonderful meal while they had to sleep in the mud and rain, unfed, does not seem to comfort them. It seems to me vaguely ungrateful.”

“They’ll live.”

“You and I both know that, but, well—I’m embarrassed to have to relay this, please believe me—it seems that they’ve issued you a challenge.”

“Oh, please! I don’t have any time for this.”

“They’re quite serious. Had it been only the unhorsing and the miserable night, they would certainly have marked it up to experience and let it go at that, but they know I’m bound to report the incident to the queen and that’s an humiliation they cannot abide. I’ve at least spared them the knowledge that you’re a maiden.”

“Well, I sympathize with them, of course. I realize they had little choice in what they did last night, it was only their duty, but I had no choice, either.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve done all that I can—but they
are
adamant about not letting you leave this castle.”

Bradamant saw from the three grim faces that Ullania was correct and that there was nothing for it but to joust with the trio all over again. She shrugged her shoulders with annoyance and called for Rabican. The steward quickly brought him to her, along with her shield and lance. She mounted the animal, took her weapons and rode for the far end of the field, saying to the men as she passed them: “Let’s get this over with, I’m in a hurry.”

She turned, lowered her weapon, charged and, her lance flashing like a golden bolt of lightning, unseated all three knights even more quickly than she had the previous evening.