The Iron Tempest (48 page)

“Over there Hippolytus is illustrated in the company of great philosophers and poets—one is teaching him astronomy and another geography. That poet is composing doleful elegies, that one cheery idylls, that one heroic epics, that one charming odes. Over here he’s listening to musicians, some singing, some playing their instruments. Hippolytus can’t walk, let alone dance, without betraying the most wonderful grace.”

So far all that Cassandra had illustrated was the earliest part of Hippolytus’ childhood. All of the rest she devoted to his great deeds, deeds of justice, prudence, valor, strength, chivalry and modesty—and of a virtue that binds all the others: generosity. He literally radiates these qualities as a hot coal radiates warmth and light.

Bradamant found herself reluctantly involved in the biography of this paragon and began to be only half aware of the sorceress’ words as she puzzled out the story for herself. She saw the youth sitting with the unfortunate Lodovico Sforza, Duke of the Insubri. Either in peace or in war, behind the banner of the Viper Hippolytus’ loyalty is constant. He follows the duke in retreat, consoles his despondency, escorts him through danger.

She saw him concerned for the safety of his brother, Alfonso the Just, and of Ferrara itself, and she saw how he foils the plot against their brother by their own kinsmen, the brothers Ferrante and Giulio. She saw him in bright armor fighting in defense of the Faith, with a handful of rebellious knights opposing an entire army, his mere presence proving so demoralizing to the enemy that their attack collapses. Elsewhere she sees him defending the shore of his homeland against the largest fleet the Venetians had ever launched against Turkey or Greece. He routs it handily, destroys it and hands over the spoils to Alfonso. He keeps nothing for himself except the honor—which he cannot give to another.

“Hippolytus is my descendant, isn’t he?” Bradamant asked. “The one you told me about in Merlin’s cave.”

“Yes, he is. Your descendent, and Rashid’s, who’ll live more than seven hundred years in the future. Or not. That’ll be up to you.”

“Melissa?”

“Yes, dear?”

“What of myself? What of Rashid? Can you tell me anything about our own fates? All of this is well and good, but what will happen to us? Will we be happy? Will we live long lives? I wouldn’t deny this Hyppolytus the life he deserves, but what about my own? Is there nothing for me but this abstract satisfaction? You’ve avoided saying anything about this and I find that very disturbing.”

Melissa looked at Bradamant for a ponderous moment. “There’s nothing preventing me from telling you what your own future will bring, other than that kind of ethic that makes a doctor reluctant to tell his patient about a terminal illness. If someone’s to have only a few years of happiness, why discolor them with black anticipation?”

“Is it to be so bad?”

“I’ve told you, Bradamant, about your unparalled progeny, about the magnificent dynasty of which you’re to be the fountainhead, because I’ve wanted you to know with certainty that not only will your life not’ve been lived in vain, but that it’ll live on—in flesh and memory—so long as civilization exists. I think that’s enough for you to know.”

“Perhaps you do, but I don’t think it’s enough. Tell me, Melissa. Tell me what’s to become of Rashid and me. I beg you, please.”

So Mellisa, against her better judgement, told Bradamant what the future held for her and Rashid.

“I have one last question,” Bradamant asked once Melissa was finished.

“And that is?”

“Was everything I’ve gone through these past years done through my own will? Is my love and desire for Rashid my own, or are they something you imposed upon me for the sake of the future?”

“The future must be, Bradamant.”

“Then I’m sorry you told me these things, Melissa,” said Bradamant miserably. “I wish I had never asked.”

“All right, then,” said Melissa.

Bradamant blinked twice. “Listen to the music!” she cried delightedly, clapping her hands. “Let’s go see what’s happening!”

* * * * *

Outside the nuptial pavilion, the festivities had reached their height. Everywhere were games, sports, plays, music of all kinds—to say nothing of a seemingly endless quantity of food and especially drink. The reception of the shipwrecked knights was made insignificant by comparison. Knights fought endless tournaments and there were combats on foot and on horseback; some fought individually and some in teams, like small armies. Rashid had entered all the games with characteristic gusto, fighting day and night, leaving the playing fields strewn with shattered lances and fragments of armor. For relaxation between jousts, he danced, wrestled and ate—and in every endeavor was of course second to none.

Finally, on the last day, at the hour they were to be wed, Bradamant sat at Charlemagne’s right hand and Rashid at his left. Behind them were course upon course of nobles and knights. The thrones were raised on a carpeted dais, shaded by a silk awning, facing the broad, grassy lists. They were empty now, the tens of thousands of silent spectators lining either side, the chapel opposite and beyond that Melissa’s gift, like a great golden dome. Bradamant wished for some noise, something to break the glassy silence, for the crowd to cheer or for the troubadors to do what troubadors do. She felt oppressively uncomfortable in her formal costume; it restricted her movement and it was difficult to breathe and the heat made her feel prickly. She thought she had to pee and wondered how long she was going to have to wait. She wondered if she would ever again wear her armor or hold her lance.

A wide, red carpet had been laid over the grass, connecting the royal pavilion with the chapel, a red stripe that seemed to shimmer against the emerald green. Bradamant felt hypnotized by it, as a chicken is supposed to be when its beak is pressed to a line scratched in the dirt. It seemed like a tightrope stretched between two worlds and she wondered if she had the strength, will and desire to cross it. On this side was a Bradamant who was reknowned throughout two continents for her strength, skill, prowess and valor, a knight whom the Great Karl himself considered one of his personal paladins, who had come and gone as she pleased knowing that whatever she did was good because it was in the service of her liege and her God. But who was that other Bradamant who awaited her creation at the far end of that red line?

* * * * *

The stranger did not seem large until one realized the monstrous size of the horse on which he sat. The tallest person in the crowd scarcely came to the animal’s shoulder as it broke through the seething, pressing mob like a great black ship. As the intruder trotted with insouciant deliberation, Charlemagne rose, trembling and white-faced with anger and indignation. “Who dares! Who dares!” he growled beneath his breath.

“I believe I know,” said Bradamant. She had, in fact, recognized the knight immediately. What, she wondered, was Rodomont doing here? Then she recalled, with a start, that after she had beaten him he had sworn to forego his armor, weapons and horse for a year, a month, a week and a day. Was that all the time that had passed since then? What had he been doing all that while—sitting in a cave feeling sorry for himself? She had, of course, no idea that that was exactly what Rodomont had been doing, flagellating himself with a spiked chain every four hours for a year, a month, a week and a day.

The black knight came to a halt not a half dozen paces from the dais. He neither dismounted, bowed his head nor lowered his lance—which insults made the emperor apoplectic with anger. A buzz of surprise and speculation rose from the gallery behind.

“I am Rodomont!” the knight said, “king of Algiers and Sarza, and I challenge you, Rashid—Christian pig!—to combat! Before the sun has set I’ll’ve proved to everyone that you’ve been unfaithful to your liege and your god and that because you’re a foul, cowardly traitor you deserve neither honor nor life!”

“Rodomont?” Charlemagne is finally able to ask, turning his head slightly toward Rashid, but not taking his eyes from the intruder. “Not
the
Rodomont? Paris Rodomont? I thought he was dead. At least I hoped he was.”

“I know him all too well,” admitted Rashid. “Once he stood at Agramant’s right hand, but no longer. He is a rogue knight.”

“He’s no stranger to me,” said Bradamant, quickly telling the emperor how she had defeated the black knight at his bridge, sending him into a self-imposed exile.

“I have no quarrel with you, Rodomont,” Rashid shouted, “certainly not today of all days.”

“I didn’t think that merely professing to be a Christian would stop you from denying your cowardly guilt,” the black knight replied. “I’ve come here expressly to prove that you’re a treacherous liar, a traitor. I realize that, being the foul coward you are, you’d prefer to get out of defending your honor, such as it is, so I’ll allow you to name someone you’d rather fight in your place.”

“I’ll fight him,” said Bradamant, rising from her seat. “It’s me he he’s quarreling with, not you.”

“If one’s not enough,” suggested Rodomont, “then you can name four or five or even six. It doesn’t matter.”

“Sire,” Bradamant begged the emperor, “allow me to finish what I should have done a year ago!”.

“Yes,” said Rodomont, “let her fight for you, Rashid. I would think that any woman or child would be your equal.”

Rashid was already lunging from the dais, shouting that Rodomont was a black-hearted liar who ought to finish what he had to say quickly while he still had a tongue. And when he’d finished with Rodomont he’d do the same for anyone else who cared to accuse him of being a traitor.

“I can’t allow Rashid not to answer these insults,” the emperor said to the girl. “It would be an even greater insult if I held him back. It’d be a blow neither his honor nor pride deserve.”

“Then let me fight by his side!”

“That would be up to Rashid to decide, not me. The challenge was made to him, not you.”

“But it’s me that Rodomont’s trying to hurt!”

“There’s nothing I can do, Bradamant.”

“Have him arrested, then! He’s violating the peace!”

“Rashid would forgive neither of us. Even if he fought Rodomont later, it would seem to everyone here that he delayed the challenge out of cowardice. If it were any other day than this, I could and would do as you wish.”

“Rashid!” she shouted. “Let me come with you!”

“No!” he replied. “I can defend myself. I’ll show our rude friend here that he’ll have his hands full dealing with just one of us.”

The other paladins had crowded around Bradamant and the emperor—Roland, Renaud, Dudone, Marfisa and Oliver and his sons—Grifon the White and Aquilant the Black—all shouting for their chance at the interloper, who merely stood his ground and sneered at them all.

Renaud pointed out to Rashid that, since he was about to become a new husband he ought to perhaps be a little circumspect on this day of all days. After all, accidents had happened at weddings with less provocation. Rashid, stubbornly, would have none of these arguments. “Think for a moment,” he said. “Would you have me shame myself by making excuses?”

He called a page and ordered his armor brought to him. Bradamant by this time had reached his side. She grasped his arm. He was shocked by the strength of her grip; it was as though a carpenter had screwed a clamp onto the limb.

“Are you out of your mind?” she said. “You’ve no right to fight him!”

“I can’t run from insults like those!”

“They were meant for
me
, you fool. He hates me and murdering you before my eyes is the worst thing he can imagine doing to me.”

“I don’t see where that changes a thing. Besides,” he added a little stiffly, “you’re not showing much faith in me if you’re apparently so ready to assume that I’m about to be killed.”

“If you’re bringing Sir Rashid his armor,” she said, turning to the page, “you can bring me mine, too.”

“There’s not going to be any need for your armor, Bradamant,” Rashid said with some heat. “I can take care of Rodomont myself. And you can tell everyone else that, too.”

“Tell them yourself. Go and do whatever it is you think
you
have to do. Don’t worry yourself any longer about what
I
do.”

She strode a few paces away. Both waited, arms folded, backs turned, each impatiently tapping the ground with one foot, mirror images of injured pride, radiating silence, while their armor was brought to them. During all this Rodomont looked down upon the couple, every line of his poise an aggravating sneer. To Bradamant’s annoyance, Rashid’s armor arrived first and Roland helped him don it and fasten his spurs, while Charlemagne himself descended from the dias in order to personally hang Balisard at Rashid’s hip. Meanwhile, Astolph led Frontino to the edge of the list. Dudone held the stirrup while Rashid mounted the animal. Oliver cleared a path through the crowd that had formed. If the other knights could not fight by Rashid’s side or act in his stead, they would do what they could. Only Bradamant and Marfisa stood back from the others and archly refused to help.

The two women watched as Rashid spurred his great horse and rode toward their enemy. All around him were women and girls, their faces as pale as doves huddling against the raging storm. All of them were afraid for Rashid, for, to tell the truth, he did not appear at all the equal of the gigantic man who awaited him. The men—peasant, townsman, baron and knight—felt the same way, for none had forgotten the carnage Rodomont had once caused in Paris, when single-handedly he destroyed a greater part of that city. The scars he left still remained and would remain for many years to come.

Therefore Bradamant was not alone as her heart trembled, though it trembled more than any other’s. It was not because she believed—unlike many of the others—that the Saracen was stronger than her lover nor that there might be any justice in Rodomont’s claims. And certainly not because she thought that he exceeded Rashid in either strength or that most puissant valor that comes from the heart. She feared because she loved.

How gladly she would have taken on that fight herself! Even if it had been more than certain that she would not have survived, she would have died more than once, if that were possible, before she’d allow her husband to be placed in mortal jeopardy. But there was nothing she could say, no argument cogent enough, that would induce Rashid to change his mind, let alone leave the matter to her hands. So she stood, then, with doleful face and tear-filled eyes and trembling heart and clenching fists.