Authors: Ron Miller
“It breaks my heart,” he said, “when I think how many weeks I spent so close to you without knowing it—how many times I must’ve walked by your side, looked into your face . . .”
“I’ll regret every one of those lost days as long as I live.”
“We’ll have ten thousand more to make up the difference.”
“Not half enough.”
She enfolded his face in her hands and drew his lips to hers. The kiss seemed to pass through the length of her body like current through a wire, chasing after her heart like an anaconda pursuing a rabbit into its burrow. She felt his tongue enter her mouth, tasting her lips and teeth; her own fought against the intruder and they wrapped around one another like passionate snails. She was surprised and pleased to discover that he tasted like cinnamon. She released him and sank to the moss, like a recumbent swan in her gauzy white chemise, her long bare legs like tapers on green velvet. Rashid kneeled beside her. She could feel his gaze stroking her like a hot finger and she writhed under that immaterial, lambent touch. Her eyes burned and her mouth was dry; her muscles clenched as though a Voltaic current was passing through them. Rashid’s breath was fragrant with exotic spices and his beard and hair smelled of lavender and musk. She laid her hands on his upper arms, felt the play of the muscles as they moved, like cats stirring in their sleep. She let her hands slide down the length of his arms, her fingers moving through the dark hair like snakes gliding through luxuriant grass, until she reached his hands—so big that even her own large hands seemed like a child’s within them—she gathered them in her own and pressed them against her bosom and when she did she gasped, her breath caught in her throat, at both the touch of his hand as it enveloped a breast and the unprecedented temerity of her action. Rashid opened his mouth and then closed it again; she was afraid he was going to speak and was glad when he didn’t. Instead, he leaned over her and kissed the hollow at the base of her throat; his lips felt hot and dry. She could feel her pulse beat against them. She ran her fingers comb-like through his glossy black tangles, twisted them into the long thick hair at the back of his neck and pressed his face harder against her own. He nuzzled her breasts gently; she felt the moist heat of his breath through the diaphanous fabric; she felt his lips nibbling at her through the cloth, his sharp teeth, and her nipples, as erect as dolmens atop ancient Druidic mounds, puckered like the smiling faces of little old men. Now even the gossamer touch of the chemise seemed painful; her skin seemed supersensitive, as though she were suffering from a sunburn.
The chemise had been rucked up to her waist and Rashid, his huge hands engulfing her breasts like starfish embracing their daily oysters, kissed the soft plane of a stomach that rippled seismically beneath his lips; the point of his tongue plumbed her navel like a thirsty Bedouin discovering an oasis. Bradamant kneaded Rashid’s head and shoulders like an ecstatic cat as he pressed his face into the coppery triangle at the base of her stomach, against the soft mound that paradoxically it both hid and, like an arrowhead, drew attention to. She felt the bite of his sharp, fine teeth. She felt heat, an ache, a sudden relaxation and moistness as his tongue found the crevice that bisected the mound, like the jeweled cave of the pomegranate, the passionate grotto of the introspective octopus. She felt as though her body were singing and sparking like the philosopher’s silk-stroked amber. A hundred disturbing dreams, not forgotten but only dormant, suddenly rushed through her mind, blinding her with a voluptuous hallucination. But then she had a sudden vision of Marseilles, suffering from her neglect, its cathedrals and mansions cowering in an illusory safety behind Saracen-besieged walls, which, as she watched in horror, began to crumble before the onslaught like stale bread. Blood poured through the streets like a sanguinary Venice.
“
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—”