The Plumed Knightress: A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights

By Ellen M. Wilheim

On a spring day in the late 8th century, the Frank army of King Charles confronts the invading Moor army near the Pyrenees. On the outskirts of the battle, two knights are engaged in a swordfight. Two different faiths, two different cultures, two different sexes and a faerie's interference all combine to make this a modern adaptation of the story of Rogero and Bradamounte of the Charlemagne legends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen M. Wilheim
• Release date: Sep 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311260802

Ellen M. Wilheim

ELLEN M. WILHEIM: AN AUTOBIOGRAPHYEllen M. Wilheim lives in Los Angeles with her husband, three dogs and one cat. Originally from Massachusetts, Ellen has a M.A. in History from Bridgewater State College and a B.A. from Russell Sage College in Troy, N.Y. Her love of history guided her to study the life and times of Charlemagne. The Plumed Knightress is her second book that originates with stories of the Legends of Charlemagne as told in Bulfinch’s Mythology. Ellen's favorite activity is to be with friends and family. She also likes to paint, read and laugh!Other Books by this Author under the pen name E.M. Wilheim.E.M. Wilheim, IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER: A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights, Xlibris Corporation. Available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Xlibris. Ebook: ASIN: B006YNNBM6Coming Soon:Ellen M. Wilheim, FRANKIE THE FORK, a children’s story about a renegade fork who won’t stay on the left side of the plate where he belongs because he wants to be with the spoons who taste desserts. Amusing story that teaches how to set the table, the use for various utensils, and the importance of giving.You may wish to see her website: http://www.geocities.ws/legendsofcharlemagne/bbindex.html.

Book preview

The Plumed Knightress

A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights

By Ellen M. Wilheim

Copyright Ellen M. Wilheim

Smashwords Edition

Other Books by Ellen M. Wilheim

In the Eye of the Beholder: A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights

Acknowledgments

Thank you to Alice Gordezsky for designing the cover and to Renée Kohl Friermor for formatting the manuscript and encouraging me to share this 10+ year-old manuscript. Many thanks are extended to Morteza Rezvani for his insightful comments and different perspective.

I would also like to thank Smashwords for so generously helping authors share their work with the world of readers.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Foreword

Years ago in a high school World History class a substitute teacher lectured about Charlemagne or Charles The Great, a medieval ruler in the area that we called Germany and France. The teacher mentioned the famous legends written about the king and his paladins. She was surprised that none of us knew about the legends. I sat in the class and wondered why anyone would care about ancient myths of knights.

Decades later, in a stuffy second-hand bookstore I was looking for stories about King Arthur. The shelves were overflowing and dusty. A white cat slept in the sunlight lying across an oversize sofa. My eyes rested upon James Baldwin’s The Song of Roland. I remembered the beautiful stained glass windows in the Chatres Cathedral in France.

I grabbed the book and asked the sales person if he had any more books on Charlemagne. He led me to a special cabinet where I found Knights of Charlemagne by Ula Waterhouse Echols, a 1928 edition. I took both books home and delved into a world where swords had names, one knight would conquer dozens of warriors and where faeries and enchanters led the famous knights astray.

I thank the unknown substitute teacher for putting a memory in my mind that just wouldn’t be forgotten. I invite you to read my edition of one of these stories: Rogero and Bradamounte.

Ellen M. Wilheim

P.S. Also available is: In the Eye of the Beholder: A Romance Legend of Charlemagne and His Knights, Xlibris Corporation, 2005.

Chapter One

The horn blew in the distance calling the Franks to retreat while the enemy pursued them on the mired battlefield.

The drained Moor lowered his bloody sword, dismissing with a swaying bow the young opponent who had met each parry with corresponding strength. The dark Moor’s countenance was more pensive than derisive as he watched his enemy lower his sword as well.

Near the outskirts of the battle, his eyes strayed across the field and he wondered how his and his enemy’s footsteps had roamed this far from the initial location of their sword fight. The rolling field stretched for miles and was bordered on the east by uninhabited woods and to the south by lofty mountains. Before this cold day, the field had been a haven for grasses growing wild amongst budding flowers; now it was a landscape of purgatory, with streams of blood, knobs of fallen bodies and cries of dying men and horses.

The Moor watched the Frank knight hesitate and recognized in his adversary’s green eyes, peering from behind his helmet’s nose guard, the moment when he decided it was safe to withdraw. Followed by a brown mastiff as tall as his waist, the Frank knight reversed his steps carefully checking his back until he was amongst his own.

Oblivious to the cries to follow the enemy, the Moor watched the retreating knight’s helmet with a white plume arbitrarily situated on its pointed crown as it merged with the Franks. Such a strange ornament on the helmet, he thought, shaking his head. When he caught sight of the knight mounted on his horse, a pair of startling green eyes caught his and the young knight inclined his head in acknowledgment before riding away. Strange eyes for a young man too, the Moor pondered imagining that the youth was teased for his pretty looks. Yet giving credit where it was due, he admitted that the young knight was a demanding opponent. Rogero knew he would get away safely; perhaps he would meet him on the field another day.

The weight of his weapon straining his arm reminded him of the horrors of the day. How many men had he wounded and killed? How many near misses had he? Surely, a guardian angel had been protecting his life this day. He closed his eyes to banish the day’s sights, but that only intensified the pictures in his mind. By Allah, the Compassionate One, he could not stay on this killing field another moment.

He had to sort this day out and understand why he, a champion for the Moors’ cause and for Islam, was so repelled. Pivoting on his feet, he whistled for his horse, Achilles, and the Arabian white stallion soon came to him.

Rogero, you witless fool. You’re supposed to cut down the infidels as they flee, not beckon them to their safety.

From the height of his horse, Rogero steeled himself at the man’s derisive tone, looking down solemnly at Rodomont, King Agramount’s older champion. Biting back the words that would reveal his grief, he said, the day was already won, before spurring his stallion and riding off aimlessly.

* * * * *

The knight wearing a helmet with a white plume glanced back at the battlefield just as a lone warrior veered away from the Moor troops and headed toward the woods. Countering the current of rushing Frank warriors, the plumed knight reined the destrier to a stop and watched the Moor ride his beautiful white war horse.

The priests had always said that Muslims embraced warfare because it guaranteed them a place in their Heaven, so the Moor’s contradictory action was unfathomable. If what the priests said were true, then why did the Moor drop his sword mid-thrust when Charlemagne’s horn blew, especially when he was a champion of King Agramount’s?

Bradamounte, come on, yelled William as he rode by, carrying the banner of the House of Aymon.

I am, I am, Bradamounte answered halfheartedly, keeping sight of the strange Moor. A dog barked, demanding attention. Rollo, are you eager to leave the field too?

The mastiff barked again and Bradamounte looked down in time to see Rollo’s brown body leap toward the fleeing Franks. Imagining the protective companion saying ‘let’s go!’, Bradamounte’s mouth twitched. The chestnut destrier tossed his head and Bradamounte chuckled at the horse’s agreement, but then Rollo and Tempeste were old friends.

The animals’ encouragement was not enough to distract the knight from observing the Moor’s departure from the field. An intelligent knight, Bradamounte thought, would listen to them and scurry back to camp but then a resourceful knight would act on his instinct and follow the Moor. This knight trusted intuitive senses and kicked Tempeste, guiding the animal to pursue the Moor’s trail while the mastiff Rollo kept abreast.

This infidel had a sense of fairness that equaled King Charles’ noblest champions, making the man different from the others. Learning more about Agramount’s champion could provide valuable knowledge for great King Charles, and that might help restore pride to the House of Aymon—a possibility that made the champion worth pursuing.

The knight had another reason to pursue the Moor—one of personal interest. The Frank was certain that the Moor would have yielded the swordfight had not the horn sounded. Perhaps the Frank was optimistic, but the knight, resenting the sound of the horn when the Moors were so dangerously near the Aymon home of Montauban, was desperate to win.

* * * * *

Leaving the screams of the battle behind him, he strayed into the woods in search of solitary respite. Guided by his reins, Achilles avoided the thorny underbrush and walked between the haughty trees and scraping branches that obstructed the path. Rogero looked up at the leafy canopy and saw the sun's rays pierce through shedding streaks of light on the earthen floor. Fragrant with the smell of the decaying earth, the air forced him to breathe deeper and he released a heavy-hearted sigh. The only other sounds were that of Achilles' hooves crunching the dried leaves and twigs, the distant clicking from a woodpecker and the buzzing from flying insects. He had entered another world, one where the mysterious charms of nature defied man’s interference and yet, offered man a haven for solitude and contemplation.

His longing to flee from the slaughter had blindly drawn him here in the hope of finding peace but now that he was here, he deemed the ominous silence unnerving instead of soothing. That he had strayed into the woods without a squire or fellow knight for protection was a sign of his foolishness. A dangling vine brushed against his leg and he flinched. When Achilles’ ears pointed upright and twitched, Rogero patted him on the flank to comfort him. The woodland was making the animal nervous, too.

Everyone knew that the woods were dangerous and an invitation to trouble. Not only did black-hearted thieves and savage animals live here, but also faeries and elves were known to find shelter among the mushrooms and within hollow tree limbs. He knew they existed; Alanntes had told him stories about them. He could feel their eyes watching him as he dismounted his horse, dropped the reins, and wandered in pursuit of a stream. Did he not hear the melody of bubbling water beckoning to him just beyond the trees? There could be water nymphs wading in a brook, eager to perform their mischievous spells on him.

The Moor shook his head in disbelief, knowing he was being absurd. He wove around the trees and climbed over a boulder until he beheld the charming scene of merry wavelets carrying stray leaves to a dam. The sudden movement of a nut-colored dragonfly startled him and again he laughed at his nonsense. Must he remind himself that here he would find the solitude that he desired to unwind and forget?

He removed his helmet and swiped the sweaty grime off his broad forehead with the back of his gauntlet. Next, he unbuckled his plated armor for his breast and legs and then removed his gloves and linen tunic. He took off his boots and hose, stepped into the slimy streambed, and reached for a fallen tree trunk for support when he nearly slipped on a moss-covered stone. He expected the water to be icy, for winter had just ended but he hadn’t counted on how refreshing it was to wash away the day’s adversity.

The revulsion to raw blood lust had driven him here, and it was not just his own blood lust that had revolted him. The feral looks of all the men on the field had shaken him to the core, as did the sour stench of blood and urine. The tormented cries and the twisted faces of dying strangers, about to meet the Lord in Paradise or Heaven, as the Christians called it, echoed in his mind. Perhaps the Christian Franks would not be so fortunate; perhaps their other life would match the living hell of the battlefield. Warfare was a miserable way to die, and for a moment, Rogero wondered why he had let himself be talked into joining King Agramount’s army.

Rogero knelt and soaked his hair and beard in the cool water. When he pushed his fingers through his short curls, a groan of pleasure broke through his guarded emotions and he jerked in surprise. Languidly, he twisted his thick neck to and fro, easing the tension until his head hung limply. Splashing the water onto his legs and chest, he finished his bath while he relished the chill of the water against his skin and imagined it easing his burdened soul. Once on dense land, he flung beads of water from him in an attempt to dry off. As he donned his saffron tunic, he knew what he needed most was to repent and cleanse his soul. He would find comfort in his prayers to Allah.

Checking the course of the sun that peeked at him from behind a sluggish cloud, he knew it was time for afternoon worship. He did not have his prayer carpet with him, but Allah would understand. Surely, God made these woods in imitation of Paradise and his presence here would sanctify his prayers. He faced the East and began to softly intone the litany in Arabic. La ilaha illa Allah. There is no god but God, he began, and Muhammad is the Prophet of the God.

The liturgy ended, however, when something heavy hit him on the back of his head and he collapsed into darkness.

* * * * *

Being the youngest and only girl of seven, one of the first lessons Bradamounte had learned was the value of being unobtrusive. Silence and invisibility as its accomplice were the doctrines by which she survived. She was an expert, having spent long hours observing cats capturing field mice by blending into the environment until they were forgotten and then treading without making a sound.

She had practiced walking silently in the fields, in the woods and then in her home. Keeping in the shadows, she would disappear by stealth, and then she would hide and watch, too young at the time to define what she was really doing—studying and analyzing the personalities of those around her. Before she was seven, she managed to avoid her brothers’ unpredictable moods and rowdy play, especially from the oldest and most volatile, Rheinhold, by trusting her instinct to tell her when it was time to keep her own counsel.

Only the most tender of her brothers, Richart, and her mother, Aya, sister to King Charles, had caught her watching and neither had drawn the rein on her, even when she imitated her brothers’ practice with swords and shields. Their silence validated her ambition to follow in the footsteps of her great grandmother Bertha and those women before her who had accompanied their husbands onto the battlefield and waged war beside their men.

Female warriors were once so revered by the Franks that custom required grooms to provide swords and shields as wedding gifts to their brides. Lady Aya invoked such a tradition when she spoke to her husband and convinced him to include Bradamounte among his soldiers in training. On the day that she proved she could hold her own in combat, Duke Aymon brought her before her uncle, King Charles, and her proffered services were honorably accepted.

Confident in her expedient approach on the powerfully muscled Moor, whose back was toward her, the only threat to endanger the silence was not the sound of her footsteps on the forest floor but rather her struggle not to chortle in delight at her luck. There was, too, the memory of his naked broad shoulders and cordoned arms that now bulged beneath his tunic and weakened her body, causing her to halt in her step. Recalling his sculpted legs and marble buttocks, she suppressed a sigh.

His concentration was deep and she wondered what he was thinking about. Her green eyes drifted to the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck and over his delicate ears—one of which bore a gold earring. He was mumbling quietly, bowing his head when she rapped the blunt end of her dagger against his head. He crumbled onto the ground like a lady’s loose strand of ribbon. He probably didn’t hear her chuckle at her success.

Leaning over his body, Bradamounte noticed a brown dragonfly hovering over his head. She stood, whistled for Rollo to come to her, and was contemplating the nasty bruise the Moor would have when the dragonfly settled on the shoulder of her hauberk, made of padded cloth and iron scales. Bradamounte’s eyes narrowed as she tried to see the insect from behind her helmet’s prominent nose guard. What she saw startled her. The creature she thought was a dragonfly was really a faerie with long, brown hair and pulsating wings that glittered like dew-covered spider webs. A tiny face stared back at her with a look of scorn, but when she flung off her plumed helmet and looked again the creature was nowhere to be seen.

The beat of her heart reverberated through her hollow chest, sounding a cacophony in her ears. Wondering if she had gone mad, she asked softly, are you hiding from me, now? Even as she spoke, daring the faerie to reappear, she crossed her fingers to ward off any evil.

Rollo nudged her with his wet nose and she almost lost her footing. Ah, Rollo, did you see that? Her voice cracked. The brown mastiff barked and wagged his thick tail. You did? Our eyes have to be playing a trick on us. That had to be a dragonfly. Otherwise, Rollo, we’re both crazy in the head, she muttered as she studied the area around her through narrowed eyes. Releasing an uneasy sigh, she replaced her helmet, hiding a braided crown of blushing gold hair. Now, let’s get to work.

The Moor groaned and Bradamounte swiftly grasped the leather strapping she had tucked in her belt and began to bind his hands behind his back. When she rolled him over, the expression of sweet innocence on his unconscious face, enhanced by dark, curled eyelashes and straight brows, caused her pulse to quicken. Her eyes flicked to a red thin scar that severed his left eyebrow and, thinking of the sharp pain caused by the slender cut, she commiserated with her captive. A soft, curled beard speckled with golden highlights framed sensual lips and Bradamounte caught herself before she touched them.

For the first time ever, Bradamounte stared upon a man whose beauty ignited hot embers in her stomach. She would have to keep her guard up.

That should do for now. Rollo, stay here and watch him while I fetch the horses, she said in a stifled tone that made her low-pitched voice sound breathy.

* * * * *

Rogero opened his eyes to find himself flat on his back with the world moving around him. His first thought was that a water nymph had made him slip and fall, but that thought evaporated when he felt sharp pains twinge in the back of his head. Besides, he knew that those types of nymphs were bound to the water.

He heard heavy panting and felt moisture drop onto his chest. The shining sun above him caused him to squint and look away where he focused upon an ugly, brown dog baring its canine teeth at him. He spun his head, looking around him, but only saw the dog slobbering on his tunic. When he tried to sit up, he felt the binding around his wrist tighten and the huge dog growled. His sword was nowhere in sight. He had been captured. Where was his guardian angel now, he wondered.

Where is your master? Rogero asked failing to conceal his anger, and he was surprised when the dog’s ears lifted. The dog seemed familiar but he could not place it. He started to inch his way toward a nearby tree trunk, cooing to the dog with friendly sounds as he went. The animal’s sharp teeth disappeared inside the slobbery, panting mouth.

Rollo! Guard! A harsh voice spoke and the dog immediately stiffened its ears, looked ferocious and growled again.

His shoulders slumping, Rogero lifted his gaze to see who was approaching. At the sight of the plumed helmet, his fury turned his face crimson and he yelled in the Frank language, you! How dare you! Grimacing with his new knowledge, he now realized why the dog appeared familiar. He had seen it trail the knight off the field.

Bradamounte actually halted for a moment, but then caught herself and kept on coming. She said nothing as she neared him and began to tie his horse’s reins around the tree. As for Tempeste, there was no need to restrain her horse; her animal would not wander. Planning her next move, she blocked out the harangue of angry words that foamed from her captive’s mouth.

I am astounded; I am confounded. I honorably released you from my sword and death when your king called a retreat and for such a noble deed, this is how you repay me?

He was assuming he would have won their fight. She noted that with amusement. After folding the clothes he’d left lying on the ground as neatly as she could with her gloves impeding her, she put them in his saddlebag. As for his armor, she bundled and buckled those onto Tempeste.

There are certain rules of decency amongst enemies on the battlefield, he raged on.

Bradamounte wondered if she should muffle his mouth with one of the silk belts in his saddlebag. She had searched his saddle scrupulously. As she moved his weapons from his horse to hers, she wished he would stop complaining. At least she hadn’t knocked him out when he was stark naked.

Still, he prattled on, sometimes kicking the dirt with his bare feet. I was told the Frank knights were fair-minded and believed in chivalry.

Some were, she thought, while others were not. She reached into a side pocket on her saddle and retrieved an apple and a chunk of barley bread. She tore a bite out of the bread, spitting out a hard pebble of un-cracked barley.

What kind of justice do you find in capturing me this way? By Allah, I pray that you will go straight to your Hell for such a dishonorable trick.

Justifying that she wouldn’t, for surely her Lord God would approve of her capturing an infidel champion, Bradamounte offered him the apple.

Rogero shook his head, wondering how on earth he was expected to eat it without the use of his hands. Couldn’t you see that I was praying? he asked with all the acerbity he could summon after his long tirade.

In answer, the plumed helmet of the green-eyed knight swayed back and forth. The apple fell to the ground. Rollo eagerly bounded to it and waited, seated with wagging tail, until Bradamounte gestured that he could eat it.

Then man, release me and Allah will forgive you. I will forgive you! he said with hopeful entreaty.

The Frank knight stood silently and seemed to debate his request. Then, the plumed helmet shook from side to side.

You are the worst of all mankind, Rogero blustered. When I am ransomed and meet you on the field again, call for a priest and make your last peace with your God for you will not walk away alive. Do you hear me? You will be counted among the dead.

When the knight didn’t react, Rogero’s agitation controlled his judgment and he tried to yank his wrists free of the binding. Unfortunately, that only caused the leather thong to abrade his skin. The red-faced Moor snarled a fuming trail of Arabic curse words until he exhausted either his vocabulary or his effort.

Watching him struggle, Bradamounte wondered why he just wouldn’t accept his fate. She was sorry that she hit him on the head while he was praying, but she honestly didn’t know what he was doing. As for a ransom, she wondered what Charlemagne would do with Agramount’s champion. She was not certain that ransom would be on top of King Charles’ list.

She waited patiently until he quieted and then taking her short sword with her, she approached her captive and pointed the weapon to his chin. Get up!

Rogero struggled to his feet and then stood. A stab of pain in his head caused the world to spin and he closed his eyes. He must have tottered, for he felt his enemy steady him. Jerking away from that touch, he glared into the Frank’s watchful green eyes and wondered what he saw there earlier in the day that had convinced him that the knight had redeeming qualities. This close, he noticed that the knight was too young to grow hair on his chin. A youth and a pretty one at that had overcome him! Probably his captor needed to prove his manliness. His fists clenched behind his back; raw power emanated from his broad height. A taut muscle in his jaw twitched. His anger pounded in his head; he was disgusted.

Bradamounte sensed danger and touched the short sword against his ribs. This close, she breathed the scent of his clean skin in the cold air. Her chest crushed the breath as it traveled inside her body, down to her stomach, where a spark of heat ignited. Bradamounte shook off this seductive state that was causing her focus to drift from her task. Then she nudged him with the sword, using the weapon to direct him to his horse. Achilles reared his head and restlessly kicked the ground.

A beautiful horse, Bradamounte thought, and the mastiff’s presence was making the horse skittish. She backed away, pointing the sword at the Moor, and the dog followed her. Rollo, stay. Bradamounte then considered her next step.

After her father, Duke Aymon, died, she turned her watchful eye on Rheinhold, her eldest brother, who unwittingly became Bradamounte’s mentor. No one had heard from or seen him since he had chased after an exotic princess from Cathay whom he had met at Charlemagne’s court months ago—too many months ago to Bradamounte’s thinking. At least Rheinhold wasn’t alone in that, she consoled herself, for other champions of the King had followed the woman too.

She was sorry she hadn’t been at court to see the princess. She was curious to see what kind of bewitching spell this woman had put over her brother, for that was the only believable explanation. In fact, it occurred to Bradamounte that the disappearance of the King’s champions had conveniently aided the Moor invasion. She wondered if King Charles had realized that. Nevertheless, Rheinhold’s strange behavior jeopardized the House of Aymon’s reputation. Hence, her main reason for capturing the Moor was that it would reflect favorably upon her father’s house.

But she was allowing her mind to stray from her task. From her observances of Rheinhold, she had learned to conceal her weaknesses by acting unconcerned even when she wasn’t. Deepening her voice, she casually said, mount your horse unless you want to walk.

Surprised to hear so many words spoken by his captor, Rogero’s dark eyes flashed. You expect me to mount without the use of my hands? he asked with rancor. He leaned his head into Achilles to ward off a moment of dizziness.

She shrugged, having no idea how he would mount.

Again, the short sword poked into his ribcage. Rogero sighed, knowing that he had better cooperate or this pretty boy might try to prove his manliness by killing him here and now. He could overcome his captor when the right moment came, but not now, with a sword nudged into his chest. He put one foot in the stirrup, but it was the wrong foot and if he had been lucky enough to mount, he would be facing the horse’s rear.

Seeing this, Bradamounte returned her sword to her belt, stepped forward and grabbed his tied fists. With Rollo growling at Rogero’s feet, she cautiously raised his hands until they were at the height of her captive’s head. Then she hastened to the Arabian’s other side, pulling on the binding until his fists crossed over the saddle. Do it, she said, grabbing her dagger from her belt with her free hand, and aiming it as his face.

His right foot in the stirrup, Rogero muttered complaints in Arabic and then pitched his weight onto Achilles, avoiding contact with the dagger. Refusing to move further, he lay across the saddle like a sack of grain. Bradamounte repositioned his hands and then threw Rogero’s left leg over the saddle. Achilles jostled the leaning weight on his neck and Rogero murmured sweetly to calm him before his captor grabbed his shoulder and helped him sit. Bradamounte watched him kick his left foot, trying to grip the stirrup, a clever contraption. The Moors were an ingenious people, she decided as she helped him position his foot.

When he actually thanked her, she felt a moment of guilt but then she remembered that she intended to gag him. He was towering over her now, sitting straight, with an irate expression looking ahead, as if he had forgotten she was there. She would probably have done the same. At least he was quiet, she thought with a sigh.

His courtly manner was so ingrained that his polite ‘thank you’ slipped out of his mouth without his brain even knowing it. How ridiculous he must look now, thanking his captor for helping him. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was encourage this pretty boy, especially while his hands were tied behind his back.

Bradamounte searched through the trees for a glimpse of the sun and found it lowering in a clouded sky. It was getting chilly.