Of ladies, cavaliers, of love and war of courtesies and of brave deeds I sing; In times of high adventure, when the Moor had crossed the sea from Africa to bring great harm to France. When Agramante swore in wrath, being now the youthful Moorish king, to avenge his father, who was lately slain, uon the Roman emporer, Charlemagne. In Agramante's service was a knight unmatched in prowess among mortal men. This daring cavalier, Ruggiero hight, was adopted by a pagan sorcerer when he found that newborn babe in woeful plight, his mother having died in birthing pain. The sorcerer, whose heart was not of stone, raised up the boy as if he were his own. The mage looks for his future in the stars, his Fate writ large, emblazoned he does see. This lad, in martial might will rival Mars, he will, for strength and skill unequalled be. But when he roams the world, engaged in wars, he will encounter Christianity, and falling in love with a fair Christian maid, to change his faith, Ruggiero would be swayed. Their marriage would be fruitful, although brief; The line which from this couple would descend would be so splendid that (in my belief) their fame and glory will not ever end. Despite all this, the sorcerer knows grief; untimely, all their happiness would end. For from behind, a traitor with a knife would *stab* Ruggiero, ending his short life. The sorcerer felt such love for his son, this prophecy a pretty puzzle posed: How could he keep him safe, alive, at home? With magic spells, he kept his gate fast closed and barred the doors and windows every one. But fate will win, no matter how opposed, and like an eagle learning how to soar, Ruggiero leaves his house and goes to war. Ruggiero joined king Agramante's army (So he might have a chance to win renown). Before the throne, and lowered on one knee, he pledged his sword to Agramante's crown. The African then moved across the sea with all his armies, landing near the town of Montalban. Ruggiero now rides forth to see if he'll in battle prove his worth. In France, Ruggiero meets a cavalier whose might and martial skill do him astound. He sees, upon a bridge over a river, this knight hurl Rodomonte to the ground. No little task was this, I must aver: few who could best king Rodomont are found. Ruggiero this strange knight doth now befriend, and his companion well he doth defend. For they're attacked, in ambush, but their foes are quickly beaten, scattered far and wide. The stranger now Ruggiero's strength well knows, and clearly his great valor has espied. Leaving the vanquished brigands to their woes, the two ride off together, side by side. After a time, the stranger asks Ruggier his name and country, who his people were. Ruggiero gave his answer to the knight, from Trojan Hector he was first descended, a lineage of kings and heroes bright who through the woods of history have wended. Raised by a sorcerer, he'd trained to fight with dragons from his youth, and had them rended. He'd come to France to win himself great glory, so that his name would sound in song and story. The stranger, who delighted at this tale, removes 'his' helm, and shows Ruggier _her_ face. Rivers of golden hair surround her pale and delicate countenance, so full of grace. Ruggiero marvels that beneath cold steel such soft lines could be found, in that hard place. In brief, although to tell you is my aim, I have no words the worth of that fair dame. This Bradamant, the warrior maiden, is. 'Tis she who downed so many with her lance. Daughter of famous Montalbano's house, A sister who Rinaldo proudly flaunts, who, for her courage, might, and expertise, by Charlemagne and all the Peers of France is held in no less honor than her brother, for they are known to equal each the other. Now these two cavaliers in love have fallen. They long to wed, both Bradamante and Ruggier, but before they far have gone, They are attacked once more by that foul band they had defeated once, but with more men, who tried again to kill them, as they'd planned. The lovers still can easily win the day, But -- they are separated in the fray. When Ruggier, lost, sees all his many sighs will not avail to find his Bradamant, returning to the pagan camp he hies, to rejoin with his liege-lord, Agramant. He now sees a conundrum 'fore his eyes: To leave his lord, Ruggiero surely can't. He is enraptured by his lady's beauty, but cannot leave, held back because of duty. By love and duty, poor Ruggier is torn: To serve his sovereign, or his would-be bride? He often doubts at night, but in the morn, he knows that with his monarch he must bide. He'd made an oath, he would not be forsworn, no man would ever say that he had lied. And so, although he feels his heart will break, he does his best for Agramante's sake. That war was bloody and was very long. First one side, then the other, had the best. Each king had champions, valiant and strong, who strove each day, their counterparts to test. Ruggerio's always found among the throng swinging his sword unceasing, without rest; Until it happens that, by God's decree he's torn away by storm, and lost at sea. King Agramant, without Ruggiero's aid, was driven back from France's countryside. His armies scattered, he was much dismayed to see this humble end to all his pride. In one last fight his valor he displayed but in the end, king Agramante died. Ruggiero, washed up on a foreign shore, is told the king he served survived no more. To meet his fair and faithful bride-to-be, the knight rides back to France without delay. Ruggier converts to Christianity, and shows his love for God in every way; though more he loves the Maid, as all can see. The paladins and knights are heard to say there was no finer couple anywhere. Charlemagne gives his blessings to the pair. A wedding, splendid and spectacular, is now arranged, and a right royal one. Charles sees to the arrangements with such care, it might have been a daughter of his own who was to wed; but such her merits are and those of all her house, as often shown, it would not seem excessive if he spent half of his kingdom's wealth for this event. The heralds now proclaim an open court where all may come and safely take their ease, And freedom of the lists, where every sort of quarrel may be settled, for nine days. Pavilions rise, and bowers, for the sport, embellished with green boughs and flowering sprays, with draperies of silk and cloth of gold - a scene of joy and gladsome to behold. Th'innumerable people of each sort from Greece, from England, Italy, and Spain, ambassadors that thither did resort, uncounted Princes, each with a large train, did cause the city walls to seem too short to hold them all, so they stayed, in the main, in comfort fine, in tents and in pavilions; So lodged some thousands, if I say not millions. They test the mettle of a cavalier, they break a thousand lances in one day, they fight on foot, astride a destrier, they fight in single combat, or melee. None else is so proficient as Ruggier: He always wins, in every kind of fray, in wrestling, running, dancing - any fight, he keeps on top with honor, day and night. For the ninth day (it was to be the last) a solemn banquet Charlemagne had planned. The hour had struck, they had begun the feast, Charles had the bridal pair on either hand, when suddenly they saw approach in haste a knight in arms; against that festive band, a towing bulk and hostile, he rode on. Black were his surcoat and caparison. The knight was Rodomonte of Algiers. When Bradamante felled him on the pass, to use no arms, to ride no destriers, he swore, but in a hermit's cell to pass his time in prayer and repentant tears until a year, a month, a day should pass, for it was customary in those days for knights to purge their errors in such ways. He heard the news of Charles's victory, he heard the news of Agramante's fate, but he observed his vow religiously and in his hermit-cell preferred to wait. A year, a month, a day had finally gone by and then at last, though it was late, with a new horse, new arms, new sword, new lance, he started for the royal court of France. Without an inclination of his head, without a single gesture of respect, without dismounting from his thoroughbred, with scorn he faced that noble and select assembly; They sat open-mouthed indeed, their meal suspended and their converse checked; amazed at his contemptuous display. They wondered what the warrior would say. Advancing now to where he could confront Charles and Ruggiero, angrily he roared: "I am the king of Sarza, Rodomont. I challenge you, Ruggiero; With my sword ere sunset I will settle our account, I'll prove you are a traitor to your lord; No honour you deserve among these knights; Apostate, you've forfeited your rights! "Your treachery is obvious and clear: In being Christened, you cannot deny it, yet, that to all the world it may appear I offer here in single fight to try it; Or if *thy* courage fail, if any here will take on them, your treason, to defy it, I will accept of any one, or more, yea, I would fight with six or half a score!" Ruggiero at this challenge stands upright. With Charles's leave, he utters his retort: Who called him traitor lied, as he was quite prepared to prove in presence of the court against his false accuser in fair fight, for he was innocent of any tort. He'd always served his monarch as he should. The truth of what he said he would make good. Being well able to defend his cause, he had no need of help from anyone. He hoped to show that his opponent was unable to combat with more than one. Rinaldo and Orlando do not pause: the marquess, Aquilante and Grifone, Marfisa and Dudone rushed to his side, and one and all the infidel defied. They were unwilling that, so newly wed, Ruggiero should thus interrupted be. "Do not disturb yourselves, my friends," he said, "Excuses such as these seem base to me." The arms of Trojan Hector, now long dead, are brought. All rush to help him instantly: Orlando fastens on his golden spurs, the hands that gird him are the Emporer's. Marfisa and his bride with loving care the greaves and breastplate have secured in place. Astolfo holds his famous destrier, Ogier his stirrup, while, outside, a space Rinaldo, Namo, and the marquess clear; All bystanders and onlookers they chase from the stockade, which ever ready is for battles and encounters such as this. The matrons and the maidens, blanched with fright, flutter like doves which from the fields of grain are driven to their nests by the winds' spite When lightning flashes and when hail and rain are threatened by a sky as black as night, and farmers see their labors all in vain. For Bradamante's husband are their fears, who than the pagan less robust appears. The commoners and the majority of cavaliers and barons thought the same, for they recall - ah, horrid memory! - what Paris at this pagan's hands became, when single-handed, unremittingly he laid the city low with sword and flame. The woeful signs of which did still appear and would remain yet many a month and year. More trembling than all others was the heart of Bradamante; Not that she believed the Saracen more courage could assert, or promise of success he had received from knowing he could claim the greater part of right and justice; none the less she grieved. She watches, sad in mind, her looks uncheerful, don't blame her though, for love is ever fearful. How glady to herself she would transfer the trial which as yet uncertain is, even if all the indications were that the ordeal would end in her decease! To die, and more than once, she would prefer (if death can offer more than one release); Sooner than see her consort risk his life, she'd take his place in the ensuing strife. All her entreaties are of no avail; Ruggiero will not yield to her request. She goes to watch the combat from the rail, tears in her eyes, a tremor in her breast; For now Ruggiero and the infidel, their visors down and each of each in quest, are riding hard; Their lances break like ice, the hafts, like birds fly upwards in a trice. The pagan's lance which struck Ruggiero's shield full center had the puniest effect. The steel of Trojan Hector does not yield, so well does Vulcan's tempering protect. Likewise the weapon which Ruggiero held struck Rodomonte's shield, but passed unchecked, though it was thick, a quarter of a foot of bone and wood, with plated steel to boot. Splinters and larger fragments flew so high, each might have been a feathered shuttlecock, soaring beyond the gaze of every eye. This for the pagan was a stroke of luck: His breastplate would have been split open by Ruggiero's lance, but on the shield it broke. The battle might have ended save for that, but now both chargers on their haunches sat. No time is lost, for both the cavaliers with spur and bridle urge their steeds to stand. Their lances now being broken, each prefers to test and prove each other with his brand. Their strokes, as they resume, are shrewd and fierce. Their destriers are nimble and well trained. Striking now here, now there, for chinks they seek, or thrust their sword-points where the steel seems weak. Fierce Rodomont had not the serpent's hide he used to wear, nor yet that shaving blade that he was wont to carry by his side, Which Nimrod, his great ancestor, first made. He lost those arms, and many more beside, when Bradamant defeated him; Dismayed, he placed them as mementos in a shrine, where many other arms and weapons shine. He had now other armor good and sure, though not as Nimrod's passing tough and hard, But neither this nor any could endure against the piercing edge of Balisard. No alloy fine, no metal was so pure, no charm so strong but that this blade them marred. Ruggiero so bestirred him with this blade more than one hole in t'others coat he made. When Rodomonte sees so many gashes and knows he is unable to elude the greater part of Balisarda's slashes, which pierce him to the body and draw blood, More furious than the winter sea, which crashes from full height to the shore in raging mood, he throws away his shield and with both hands a blow upon Ruggiero's helmet lands. With force as great he strikes, and as extreme as a bridge-building engine on the river Po between two ships upon the stately stream enforcing down with many a heavy blow some piece of timber or some sharpened beam: I say the pagan smote Ruggiero so, had not his magic helmet been of force, he doubtless had been sliced, he and his horse. Ruggiero staggers twice and forward bends, his arms and legs apart, for balance, flings. The Saracen again his sword upends, and down upon Ruggiero's helmet brings A second blow, a third; but there it ends. The sword cannot endure such hammerings. It flies in pieces and the pagan's hand is left, to his surprise, without a brand. The Saracen is not to be deterred: He leaps upon his foe, who nothing feels; His head is so concussed and mind so blurred, that everything revolves and spins and wheels; But from his slumber he is quickly stirred. The pagan wrenches him about the gills, uproots him from between his saddle-bows, and on the ground with frenzied vigor throws. No sooner is he down than to his feet he springs, and anger moves him less than shame. His eyes the eyes of Bradamante meet, He sees her cheeks with grief and rage aflame. When she had seen her gallant husband hit the ground, aghast with terror she became. But now, to make amends for his disgrace, He grasps his sword and turns, the foe to face. The pagan with his horse would over-run him and trample him, but he with little pain now steps aside and warily does shun him and with his left hand takes the horse's rein (so that the Turk thereby no hurt has done him); The while he puts in use his sword again, and with two thrusts he did the pagan harm, one in his thigh, another in his arm. The sword had splintered in the pagan's hand, but now he crashed upon Ruggiero's head the pommel and the hilt which still remained. At this, Ruggiero's senses might have fled, but right was on his side and fate had planned that he should be the victor; so instead, he grasps the pagan's arm with all his force and (will he, nil he) pulls him from his horse. The pagan's strength or skill had let him fall on equal footing with his enemy. I mean, he landed on his feet, that's all. Ruggiero had a sword, so it was he who was advantaged; Seeking to forestall the Saracen's approach, which would not be a welcome move, he keeps him at arms length, for bulk like that would overcome his strength. He further saw what blood the pagan spilt, so now he hopes by warily proceeding to force his foe to yield and leave the tilt, his strength decayed still more and more with bleeding. The Turk then takes the pommel and the hilt of his late sword and with force so exceeding did hurl the same; He smote the knight so sore he stunned him worse than e'er he was before. On cheek and shoulder Ruggier takes the blow. The impact makes him reel from left to right. He staggers, off his balance, to and fro, and scarcely can he hold himself upright. Now is the moment for the pagan to close in and take advantage of his plight. He tries to do so, but too hastily: His thigh-wound brings him down upon one knee. And not a moment does Ruggiero lose. He strikes him in the chest and in the face. He hammers him so hard and keeps so close, the ground appears the pagan's favorite place. But up he rises and his arms he throws around Ruggiero in a tight embrace. They strained and writhed and wrestled intertwined, their superhuman strength with skill combined. Now Rodomonte, full of rage and scorn, Seizes Ruggiero round the neck, he hugs and presses, squeezes, pulls and twists; in turn, Ruggiero pushes, Rodomonte tugs. High off his feet the Christian knight is borne upon the pagan's chest; with shakes and shrugs Rodomont tries to throw him from this stand, But still Ruggiero gains the upper hand. Ruggiero, changing holds this way and that, the pagan round the middle tries to seize. Pinning his left side down with all his weight, he holds him helpless in a rigid squeeze, and while he has the pagan in this state he thrusts his right leg over both his knees; Then with this purchase, hoists him up at last and head first from his back the burden casts. With head and shoulders Rodomonte struck the earth and such a thump his body made, Blood spurted from his wounds as from a rock a fountain springs, and stained the earth bright red. Ruggiero, who held Fortune by the lock, knelt on his belly, while one hand he laid upon his throat; Lest he attempt to rise he held a dagger poised above his eyes. Ruggiero holds his dagger at the sights of Rodomonte's helm; He makes it clear by threats that his surrender he invites, and says that in return his life he'll spare. The thought of death the pagan less affrights than of betraying the least sign of fear. To heave Ruggiero off, he twists and shakes with all his might, but not a word he speaks. A mastiff, under a ferocious hound whose fangs are fast embedded in its throat, in vain will writhe and struggle on the ground, its eyes ablaze, and flecked with sweat its coat; It knows that in its enemy is found a greater strength, a greater skill, but not more rage; So now the pagan must despair of throwing off his conqueror, Ruggier. And yet he twists and turns in such a way, he manages to pull his right arm free. He too had drawn his dagger in the fray and now attempts to use it furtively. Ruggiero sees the danger straight away: stabbed in the back he knows that he will be if here and now he does not end this strife by cutting short the evil pagan's life. Raising his arm as high as would suffice, @u he plunged his dagger in that awesome brow, @d retrieving it @u not once, @d but more @u than twice. @d To Hell's desolate shores that spirit now, freed from its body, colder far than ice, fled cursing from the world to disavow the right which all his life he had denied with arrogance and insolence and pride. Ruggiero, vindicated in this strife, went on to even greater deeds of fame. He gave to Bradamant, his lovely wife, a new Ruggier, to carry on his name, and when, untimely ended was his life, his wife and son, to avenge him, nobly came. But these are other stories, if you please. For now, I've said enough, and so I cease.