Authors: Ron Miller
She circled the fallen men once, removing her helmet in an insouciant salute. At the sight of her taffy-colored hair and fine features, their jaws fell slack with astonishment.
“Now that a woman has bested you,”she called to them, “what do you think you are going to do when you meet Roland or Renaud, whose reputations exceed even that of Lady Bradamant? Do you think if one of those two were to possess the golden shield that you’d make a better showing than you did with me? I doubt it and so, I think, do you.”
As she spoke, the three kings, in a frenzy of anger, curses and humiliation, began to strip off their armor in disgust and were on the point of turning their weapons on each other when Bradamant decided to pay them no further attention. Without a backward glance, she rode on past the tangled bodies, out the gate and disappeared down the road.
That evening, Bradamant found lodging at a more hospitable castle but, friendly and accommodating though her hosts were, as good as the food was, as fine and comfortable as was the bed, she spoke, ate and slept little. She had the same dreams.
The next day, before dawn, Bradamant was again on the road to Arles. Heading south, she soon entered a hilly region and as the path wound up steep slopes and down shadowy gorges she ground her teeth at the inevitable delays. Rounding a bend, Bradamant was surprised to see a maiden sitting on a rustic bench beside the tumbling stream the road had been following. As the woman stood at the sound of her approach Bradamant stopped. She was attractive, well-dressed and evidently of good breeding; Bradamant could not understand what such a woman was doing unescorted in the midst of these dark, lonely mountains. She felt honor-bound to at least enquire.
“If you’re as chivalrous as you look,” the woman replied, “then for God’s sake take revenge on the man who has stolen both my lord and my happiness. And if you can’t or won’t, then I hope you’ll at least refer me to someone who’ll take up my defense.”
“Perhaps,” said Bradamant, “if you’ll tell me exactly what the problem is, I can decide whether or not I can do something for you. What is your name, to start with?”
“My name is Fiordiligi and it is Brandimart, that most pious Christian knight, the love of my life, who is being held captive by the evil Rodomont.”
“Brandimart? I think I know him. He’s a Saracen my cousin Roland converted and brought to the side of Charlemagne. Is that him?”
“Yes, and if you know that then you must also know that there’s none with a greater heart. If you can help me, you’ll be bringing your valor to the aid of the most faithful of all lovers.”
“All right,” Bradamant replied. “I’ll help you for one reason alone: that you believe Brandimart to be a faithful lover. But I have to tell you that I believe in my heart that all men have foresworn this virtue, if they ever possessed it to start with.”
“Brandimart’s example will prove to you that you’re mistaken.”
“We’ll see. Climb up behind me and let’s get on with it.”
As the trail climbed toward the pass where Fiordiligi said Rodomont’s castle was, Bradamant told Fiordiligi what she knew of their enemy.
“I know of Rodomont, of course,” said Bradamant. “He was once the greatest of all of Agramant’s paladins, though the blackest-hearted of a black-hearted race. The man is as mad as a rabid dog. He single-handedly sacked Paris. It was a bloody massacre—people were cut to pieces, half the city burnt to the ground, churches left in ruins—all by Rodomont’s own hand. It was only the greatest of luck that kept him from defeating Charlemagne right then and there. It was shortly after that I first met him in battle.”
That very same battle,
Bradamant thought,
in which I met Rashid
. It was during the defense of Monaco. There had never been such a horrible melée as when Rodomont of Salza single-handedly faced the army of Duke Namo. Bradamant had ridden through the very center of the battle, her lance lowered at Rodomont as surely and unwaveringly as a compass needle seeking the pole, but even though she nearly knocked him from his saddle, even her lance failed to penetrate the thick, black serpent skin he wore for armor. In return, he swung a mighty blow at her with his sword. It missed, fortunately, for it would surely have split her in two—instead it hit and instantly killed her horse. The animal collapsed, pinning the warrioress beneath its dead weight.
This defeat had been an entirely new experience for Bradamant and she liked it not one bit. Humiliated and angry, she rallied ten thousand troops of her own—every one of them glad to follow her plain white flag—and set off in pursuit of the Saracen villain. She found him just as he was bludgeoning her cousin Roland into unconsciousness—and anyone who knows Roland knows what a feat that was. It was in a broad field, between two hills, well away from where the main armies were fighting. This was fine with Bradamant, as there would be no one to stay her revenge. With a terrifying cry, she launched herself into the man, her sword swinging like a scythe. Roland, quickly recovered, would have joined her but for the chivalric scruple that prevented him from attacking even a Moor while he was already fighting someone else. For three long hours Bradamant courageously fought Rodomont. During this time she noticed that the principal fray had overflowed into her little valley and she was now surrounded by fighting soldiers of both sides. Roland, at least, now had something to do and was busily hacking away at heads and limbs and torsos, which flew around him in a grisly débris. Gradually and reluctantly she found herself pulled away from her principal enemy, as he was from her. What happened after that has already been told, more or less: Bradamant spied a Saracen knight, helmetless, who was about to be delivered a fatal and cowardly blow from behind. Without a moment’s reflection she had torn off her own helmet and thrown it to him. In that same instant, she received a blow to her own head that knocked her from her saddle. As she spun into the bloody mud her last sight was that of Rodomont holding a sword stained with her own blood.
“He was defeated again at that battle and disappeared soon after,” she finished. “What’s he doing in a place like this? A quiet retirement in the country hardly sounds like his style.”
“I can tell you a little about that,” the girl explained. “After he failed to destroy Paris and after his defeat at Monaco, he fell into a kind of depression. He left Agramant’s side and wandered here and there until he eventually met and imprisoned Isabel, a princess of Galicia. She’d been mourning the death of her lover, Zerbin, whom Mandricardo had just slain. The poor man had died in her arms and she swore to him in his last moment on earth that she’d be forever faithful to his memory. Despondant over the the death of her lover and sickened by Rodomont’s foul advancess, she committed suicide—and revenge—by tricking him into killing her.”
“Yes, I remember having heard something of this now that you’ve mentioned it.”
“I believe that, in his own evil, perverse way, Rodomont was in love with her. I think it was that which drove him half mad after her death. In any event, ever since then he’s hidden himself away in this black castle. It guards the only pass through these mountains, which can be approached only by crossing a high, narrow bridge which Rodomont built in honor of poor Isabel. He challenges every knight who tries to take the pass, demanding that they either surrender all their arms and armor to him or face destruction at his hands.”
“Why did he spare your knight, then?”
“Because Rodomont desired me and knew that I’d be willing to do anything to see Brandimart’s life saved.”
“I see the villain is little changed after all,” concluded Bradamant.
They did not come into sight of the castle—really hardly more than a tor—until late the following morning. Bradamant was struck by the peculiar appearance of the large, loaf-shaped structure that towered near the castle and asked her companion what it might be.
“It’s a kind of tomb,” Fiordiligi replied, “built of all the armor that Rodomont has collected.”
Bradamant was impressed. It must have been ninety yards tall, dwarfing the simple cylindrical tower or keep that comprised the entirety of Rodomont’s modest castle. Its entire surface, from top to bottom, was encrusted with the arms of the knights who had prefered conceding to Rodomont than face certain death. The sight of that ignominious monument brought back to Bradamant the full recollection of Isabel’s sad story.
Bradamant heard a shout from the tower and saw that their approach had been observed by a watchman. She did not hesitate, but kept riding toward the bridge that separated her from the castle, a high, narrow arch spanning a precipitous gorge that vibrated like the sounding box of a guitar under the force of the river that raged through it. The bridge was scarcely fifty feet from end to end and not even two yards wide—and there was no parapet, nothing to keep a clumsy horseman from plummeting into the abyss. Bradamant wondered if it might not be a natural arch, rather than a man-made span. Clouds of cold spray surged from the river below. The slightest mistep on the wet, slippery, slightly convex surface would be disastrous. Before she reached the bridge, however, the gate of the castle was thrown open and a knight appeared, clad in dull black armor from head to foot and mounted on an enormous black horse. He galloped to the farther end of the bridge, brandished his sword and shouted above the thundering river: “Halt, whoever you are! I don’t know what’s brought you here, whether you’ve lost your way or your wits, but I order you to dismount and strip off your arms!”
“And if I don’t care to?” replied Bradamant.
“Then I’ll kill you!”
“I think not, Rodomont! I know why you’re here and what that tomb is for. It’s a symbol of your lust, cruelty and conceit! It’s the tomb of poor, innocent Isabel, whom you had your black heart so set on defiling that you cold-bloodedly murdered the helpless old monk who tried to shield her. Rather than be raped by you, that chaste maiden tricked you into beheading her! She turned you into her murderer instead of her lover. It’s her body that lies in that unconsecrated vault.”
“I’ve made no secret of my motives,” shouted the black knight, “not that they’re any business of yours.”
“Then why do you force the innocent to make penance for your own cowardly sins? If anything will placate Isabel’s soul, it’s your own blood. You murdered her—as you yourself admit—the whole world knows that. I can pay her far better obeisance than by donating my arms to her tomb. I can avenge her by killing you and it’ll please her all the more that I be the one to do it.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m a woman just as she was. I came here originally to release this maiden’s lover, whom you’ve illegally imprisoned, but my greater duty, I see, is to set Isabel’s soul to rest. If you defeat me, you may do with me whatever you wish and my arms will join the others’. But if I defeat you, which I shall, your horse and arms will be mine, as will be all the arms that desecrate Isabel’s tomb, and you’ll release your prisoner.”
Rodomont laughed. “I know who are now. You’re a bigger braggart than I am, Bradamant!”
“I never brag.”
“Oh, I’m sure you don’t! Your earnestness is a credit to you, but it’ll take more than windy self-confidence to cross that bridge. You do know that we’re to meet in the middle?”
Bradamant had not known that. She glanced at the narrow span, that now seemed no wider than a ribbon, its mossy stones wet with spray, half obscured by the chilly mist. It looked as slippery as ice. She would have to fight the pagan knight at the highest point of the arch where even the least misjudgement would be fatal.
“So?” she said. “Is that a problem for you?”
Rodomont laughed again—a grating bray that Bradamant was growing tired of hearing. “I’ve strangled lions in the great Afric desert,” he said, “ripped elephants open with my teeth and cut at least a million of my enemies into mincemeat, so I think I have some hope of despatching one cheeky girl playing at being a knight.”
“Do you intend to do this by boring me to death?”
“All right, my brave maiden. I’ll grant you everything you wish should you defeat me—not that I’d have any choice, seeing that I’d be dead. But, if you should fall at my hands, I will claim more than just your armor. You will concede to me your golden hair, lovely face, coral lips and especially those long, lithe limbs. You’ll love me where you now hate me. You’d need feel no dishonor at this—my strength is so profound that there could be no genuine disgrace in losing to me.”
Bradamant’s wordless reply to this bragadoccio—to say nothing of the obscene suggestion—was to place her helmet over her head, take Rabican fifty yards further away, lower her golden lance, turn and charge. Rodomont lowered his own lance and spurred his great horse. The hooves of the two animals clattered on the bridge; stones flew as the fragile span vibrated like a spring under that tremendous pounding; it seemed to rebound like a diving board. The point of Bradamant’s lance caught the pagan just under his collarbone and lifted him entirely out of his saddle. He was lofted high into the air, like a pole vaulter, sailing in an arc over Bradamant’s head to crash onto the slippery pavement behind her with a sound like a locomotive derailing. Bradamant brought her horse to a gentle halt at the far side of the span, turned and carefully rode back to where Rodomont lay at the far end of a skid mark nearly fifty paces long. She had some difficulty getting around the body. Rabican had scant inches to spare, but that remarkably sure-footed beast could have walked on the edge of a sword. Safely past the fallen knight, she turned and asked, “Now which of us must submit to the other?”
Rodomont, though conscious, did not, or could not, reply. He was still too stunned, though whether by the fall or by the fact that he had been defeated by a woman is perhaps a moot point. Still silent, he pushed himself to his feet and Bradamant, seeing the man stagger, was afraid he’d tumble off the bridge. Where moments before she would not have hestitated skewering him with her lance, she perversely did not want to see Rodomont die accidentally. However, instead of tumbling into the gorge he turned and walked unsteadily back to the far end of the span where he began to glumly and silently divest himself of his armor, throwing it to the ground with ill-concealed disgust.