The Iron Tempest (36 page)

Can you imagine what happened next?

[“Renaud came to your aid,” suggested Bradamant.

“How did you guess that?”

“It would have been just like him.”

“Well, you’re perfectly right. He did”]

I heard him call out: “Let me help you! Even if I must die with you! You’re being terribly wronged!”

“Good knight,” I shouted back to him, “if
you’re
with me, I need nothing else!”

Well, then began a fearsome battle, I can tell you! I’ve seldom seen a bloodier day before or since. I waded through the mob in a fury, whirling, hacking and cutting men left and right! And Renaud was no laggard in dismembering arms, legs and heads, which piled up around us like cordword. There wasn’t one of our enemies who saw us who didn’t pray for Allah to meet him before we did.

“So, you see, Renaud and I were once both enemies and allies at the same time,” Marfisa concluded.

“That was a nice story,” said Bradamant, “but what was the point? Rashid and Renaud are still going to have to fight one another to the death.”

“I don’t know. Are there no alternatives?”

“Such as? I’ve spent every moment since our reunion dreaming of being able to finally make our betrothal public—of being able to be taken into his arms never to leave them again. But what if God has ordained that all of Frankland is to be punished because He’s perceived us as less worthy of preservation than the Saracens? And if in destroying Frankland he also destroys my brother, how could I ever go back to Rashid? Such callousness, such disloyalty, such dishonor would bring down upon my head the rightful loathing of every one of my countrymen. What am I to do, Marfisa? What am I to do?”

“I don’t know.”

* * * * *

It would have been small comfort to Bradamant to know that Rashid felt little better than she did about the upcoming duel with Renaud. His initial reaction to Agramant’s imperial invitation was one of enormous flattery. For a few hours he would be, by proxy, both Agramant himself and all of his armies. An entire empire condensed in one man. It was a daunting responsibility. Yet his elation was short-lived as the terrible cost eventually dawned upon him, as it already had for Bradamant. The profound melancholia that filled him was not engendered by any fear of his opponent—he was not in any way afraid of Renaud, nor any of his brothers and cousins, in any combination, including Roland. No, what terrified him was the realization that Renaud was the brother of his bloodthirsty betrothéd.

He had been receiving almost daily letters from Bradamant, all pretty much of a kind: long missives filled with longing, sadness and endless, plaintive badgering for their imminent reunion. Her complaints about his absence, he knew, would be nothing compared to what she would do if he took to the field and slew her brother. Just as Atalante could transform one object into another with a waggle of a single finger, Rashid would in that one stroke of his lance transform Bradamant’s love to implacable detestation. He also knew that he would be signing his own death warrant, for he had no doubt that the warrioress would hunt him to his death. He feared no knight in the world but her.

Still, there was nothing for it but to prepare as best he could. There was no question of backing down, reneging on his promise, though he had done what little he could to convince Agramant that there were other paladins more worthy of the honor than he—a half-hearted argument at best, it must be admitted. He dared not mention his love for Bradamant. With an empire at stake, honor and duty had little room for such niceties as Rashid’s romance with an enemy knight.

So he did the only thing he could do and began to prepare for the approaching battle—just as Renaud was also doing. Since the duel had been initiated at the request of Agramant, the choice of venue and weapons was the prerogative of the representative of the Holy Roman Empire. Renaud had chosen to fight on foot, armored only in chain mail, with battle axe and dagger. This was a shrewd decision on his part, for without the irresistable Balisard Rashid was at the outset at a slight but perceptible disadvantage. The fight would take place in a broad field just outside the city walls of Arles—in fact, the very field where Bradamant and Marfisa had tried to murder one another and had instead nearly murdered a pair of armies. It had been deserted since the announcement of the duel; a sentence of death was on the head of anyone foolish enough to trespass.

Before Rashid could believe that a week had already elapsed, he saw the pavilions being erected at either end of the lists. Every day he had hoped that some unimaginable alternative would arise that would save him from this fatal quandary, every footstep outside his tent he thought must be some messenger from the king sent to tell him that some other, more worthy knight had been chosen to take his place. Every sound he hoped might be someone delivering a letter from Bradamant, forgiving him for what he must do. But where he had once heard from her almost every day there had been nothing but silence since the duel had been announced. The omininousness of this was almost palpable.

But now the day and hour of the duel had arrived and there was nothing for it but to do his best and pray that Allah would see fit to intervene. As he was helped into his mail, which was new and so brilliantly polished that he looked like a second sun illuminating the interior of his tent, he thought that perhaps the best thing to do would be to carry through with the fight as best he could, up to a point, then, as realistically as possible, allow the Christian knight to slay him. Done properly, no one could find any fault. It would in every way look like a fair fight and a fair victory. Bradamant would be devastated, he knew, and might perhaps be a long time in forgiving her brother, but what was that to his having to bear the knowledge of her hatred for the rest of his life, however short that might prove to be, should he become the murderer of her flesh and blood? The alternative—quietly disappearing and changing his name—seemed monumentally impractical, especially at this stage. If only he had thought of it sooner.

He accepted his arms: fabulously jeweled weapons all eagerly donated by various noblemen and princes (equally eager to begin displaying these nonpareil conversation pieces) and his helmet, which had once been worn by Hector in the Trojan wars.

As he emerged from his tent, his long dark face deeply lined with both resolve and resignation, he saw that Agramant’s army had already taken its place in orderly files behind the imperial pavilion. At its head was Agramant himself, resplendent in the gold and silver and colored silks of his barbarian arms. Rashid took his horse from Marsilius. The king did not for a moment consider it beneath his station to act as squire to the champion. The animal was a magnificent bay charger, the finest horse in all Afric, with black mane and white forehead and fetlocks. He climbed onto its back and rode morosely to join his sovereign. There he took his place by Agramant’s side as an equal. The king glanced at the knight with some anxiety, but misinterpreted the black expression as representing determined ferocity.

On the far side of the field Rashid could see the towering figure of Charlemagne, surrounded by his peers as the sun is by its planets. At the emperor’s side was Renaud with the Duke of Bavaria and the King of Brittany bearing his weapons for him.

For a long moment the two armies faced one another silently, the vast field between them as huge and empty as the void between two planets doomed to collide.

An imam came before Agramant and Rashid and held up a copy of the Koran. The king placed his hand on the book and swore that if Rashid were defeated the Saracens would sail for Afric that same day, that he would pay tribute to Charlemagne and that an immediate and perpetual truce would ensue that would endure forever.

“I swear,” Agramant continued with grim earnestness, “with Mahomet as my witness, that I bind myself and my descendants to give to Charlemagne and whomever should succeed him twenty measures of gold every year should Rashid fail to kill his Christian opponent. If I fail in this, may I and my children be struck down by Thy dreadful wrath, but no one else, so that everyone will know what it is to break one’s promise to Thee.”

On the opposite side of the lists, Rashid could see Charlemagne at his portable altar and he knew that the emperor was swearing a similar oath to the Christian god.

Then the imam placed the book before Rashid, who swore—as Renaud was now similarly doing—that if his sovereign or an agent of his sovereign were to interrupt the battle that he would from that moment be a vassal to Charlemagne. This was, he thought, the only remaining loophole in the net that bound him—but the chance that either king would so fatally interfere with the duel, or allow anyone else to interfere, was less than infinitesimal. His doom was sealed.

These formalities concluded, Rashid rode away from Agramant and his rank and file to the border of the battlefield. He strained his eyes for Bradamant, but nowhere did he get even so much as a glimpse of white armor. He was disappointed but not surprised.

There was a fanfare of trumpets and for a moment Rashid thought the sound was a product of his own disordered brain. He could see Renaud spurring his great warhorse onto the field and his own mount, more aware of what was expected than the bewildered knight on its back, took its first steps forward.

There was no hurry. Both knights circled one another, each taking stock of his opponent with lazy caution. Then, as if on a signal, they charged, battle axes raised, the massive hooves of their horses pounding the earth like blacksmiths’ hammers. The knights met in the center of the field like two comets, showering the field with the sparks that flew from their clashing weapons, dazzling the spectators whose response was the same soft, choral
ahhh
normally reserved for fireworks displays.

Now the battle began in earnest, in its full, unabated ferocity, a hurricane, a whirlwind of steel.

From the first stroke, Rashid fought on the defensive, feinting at Renaud’s head or body, parrying rather than striking. He could see the surprise in his opponent’s eyes, the bewilderment and even resentment at such unvalorous timidity. But in those same dark eyes he could also see Bradamant and every stroke of his battle axe seemed to be falling upon her. If Renaud’s armor had been white Rashid would have been completely incapacitated. He was more fortunate than he knew, therefore, that Charlemagne had not chosen Reinhold, Bradamant’s twin. Rashid kept Renaud at bay with the butt of his axe or by swinging at him with the axe-head reversed, more uncertain than ever as to what his fate ought to be. If he returned a stroke at all, for appearance’s sake, he made certain it was at a spot that would do Renaud the least harm. There would be no pleasure for him, no honor in killing the other knight, yet neither had he any special desire to die himself. But if he survived the duel he knew he’d only be postponing that death for he was more certain than ever that Bradamant would avenge both her brother’s murder and her betrayal by killing him—and he would not raise a hand to prevent her because he’d rather be dead than live with her hatred and scorn . . . or the constant fear of imminent destruction.

Renaud obviously had no such qualms and lay into his opponent with ferocious pitilessness. It was all Rashid could do to keep that hail of steel from his head and limbs which otherwise would have been scattered over the lists like bloody confetti.

King Agramant watched the battle with no less dismay. He could not understand why his greatest champion was so reluctant to fight—it was obvious that the battle had been entirely one-sided from the very outset. He knew Rashid was no coward, that had been proven a thousand times, and he had never once doubted his paladin’s loyalty. Yet, there he was, with his sovereign’s very kingdom at stake, fighting like the most timorous novice.

He wrung his hands fretfully. Was Rashid’s traitorousness obvious, or was it magnified in his perception by the high stakes involved? He glanced at the grim, unreassuring faces of his retinue and was not comforted. It was true then. They too considered Rashid to be the most cowardly of traitors, betraying his liege, his nation and his god.

What could he do? If he called off the fight, it would have the same effect as if Rashid had been defeated. Which action, then, would seem the least dishonorable? It was beyond him.

He had worked himself into an agony of indecision when a voice at his side said suavely: “My lord, you made a mistake in sending so callow a youth against that powerful Frankish knight, especially when the kingdom and honor of Afric are at risk.”

Disgusted and angry that his emotions and thoughts could be so easily read, Agramant turned to see who offered such an impetuous and gratuitous—not to say dangerous—criticism. He found himself looking up at an evil-faced knight, clad entirely in black armor that was glistening with freshly-applied oil. The figure was powerfully proportioned and towered over the king as it sat on a monstrous ebony war-horse, as big as a war memorial, looking down at the monarch with a dark, scowling, contemptuous expression.

“
Rodomont!
” Agramant gasped.

“If you allow this duel to continue,” the black knight sneered, “the result will be disastrous. Forbid it! Stop it now! Break the truce! Invalidate your oath! What’s a promise to a Christian dog? Less than nothing! Don’t hesitate—I’ll take the responsibility. Let any censure fall on my shoulders.”

The big knight turned to face the vast army that massed behind him and raised his voice as he raised his sword in a mailed fist. Already his first words to Agramant were being repeated among the men.

“Every one of you! Show the Christians how your swords cut! With me at your head to inspire you, each one of you’ll be equal to a hundred! We’ll wipe the Christian plague from Frankland like a sponge wiping clean a disfigured slate!”

At first there was only a disquieted, uneasy murmur among the men, then an increasing roar, like the approach of a great wave about to break over a beach.

Agramant, his indecision swept away by this tide of martial emotion, by the confidence inspired in him by a knight he had once valued over a thousand others, even above Rashid, spurred his horse. It leaped across that inviolate boundary and onto the field. Behind him, ten thousand lances lowered and forty thousand hooves began to pound the earth.