The Damsel in Distress

Once upon a time when giants and dragons, unicorns and great winged horses roamed the earth, there was a fair maiden named Isabella Della Legati. Isabella Della Legati was a damsel in distress. She was locked in a high tower and guarded by a wicked witch. She had no friends. She never went anywhere. She didn’t like anyone. All Isabella Della Legati did was sit by her window and dream of a day when her Prince Charming would ride up on his white charger and rescue her from her tower and her boring life.

Isabella did not know precisely how long she had been captive in the castle. The witch told her she was eighteen summers old, but the witch, of course, would not tell Isabella anything about her real mother or where she really lived. Isabella was certain that she must be a princess of some wonderful land where the King and Queen had been in mourning for her for eighteen years. She imagined that she had been stolen from her cradle by the witch who was jealous because the queen had such a beautiful daughter and the witch didn’t. Or perhaps it had been a bargain with a fiend that her poor mother had been forced into to save the life of her beloved husband, the king, and to do so she had to give up her firstborn. Then again, it could have been punishment because her mother had desired lettuce from the witch’s garden and the witch demanded her daughter in payment for the stolen greens. Isabella brushed her long hair and tried to think if there was a kind of lettuce called Isabella. It sounded a bit more like a type of pasta. Isabella noodles.

Oh, even her name was terrible, and she blamed the witch for that as well. Whatever, one day her prince would come and he would trick the old witch and carry off the princess on his white charger. They would return to the kingdom of her real mother and father and be married and live happily ever after.

She sighed and petted the soft fleece cradle liner she’d had since she was a baby. The witch had tried to get it from her on occasion, but Isabella had made such a fuss for so long that the witch no longer tried to take it from her. Isabella imagined that she would carry the sheepskin with her when she was rescued and it would be all the proof of her identity that she needed when she showed it to her true parents, the king and queen.

She supposed she had better get dinner ready and clean the house before the old hag started nagging her again. You would think she was some common servant girl and not the daughter of royalty. She gave her hair one more brush stroke, wrapped it up on her head and tied it there with a ribbon, and then stomped down the cold stone stairs to the kitchen to boil water.

Actually, Isabella had very little that she was responsible in the house. She had to keep her room tidy and help with cooking and dishes. Once a week, she and the witch cleaned the tower thoroughly. Mostly, Isabella sat in her chamber and read or sighed out the window waiting for her prince. Sometimes she painted pictures—often very dark, somber pictures that showed the witch in various forms of duress when her prince came to rescue her. She also wrote poetry. Her poems were long rambling verses about the misery of life and how desperate she was to be free.

Isabella was not sure when she first saw the boy out her window. It seemed he stood in the exact same spot some yards distant from the witch’s tower where he was safe. He was partly hidden by a tree, and it was quite by accident that Isabella first saw him. He was tall and thin, a little tousled about his fine, red, shoulder-length hair. He was dressed in a black sweater and black leather trousers that fit him a little too tightly. When he glanced up at Isabella, it was with a bit of disdain, as if he had only just noticed her staring at him. Yet, he was there, and Isabella could feel his close-set violet blue eyes on her when she wasn’t looking at him. That was when she began sitting more erectly in the window, brushing her long hair repeatedly. There was something mysterious and slightly dangerous about the boy and Isabella wondered exactly what he was doing there.

On chill nights, the boy would toss a black cloak over his shoulders, mount a dark horse, and ride away from her chamber. Isabella imagined that he had just heard of a dangerous beast threatening the neighborhood, or that war had just broken out and he had ridden to His Majesty’s aid. Though she never saw him ride, she saw him in the mornings, leaning against his tree as if it were his home.

It did not take long for Isabella to convince herself that this was her savior and that he didn’t rescue her right off because he wanted to be sure of what obstacles he faced before challenging the old witch.

One day when Isabella could not stand it any longer, she allowed a scarf to fall from her fingers and flutter to the ground.

She gasped slightly, but loudly enough that the boy looked up at her as the scarf floated to the ground. She stared at it in her most forlorn and desperate way, grasping at her heart as though her most precious possession had just been lost.

The ploy worked. The boy glanced swiftly around to see if he was observed, then took several impossibly long strides and scooped up the scarf from the ground. When he reached her window, Isabella had to reconcile the fact that she was, after all, only a few feet above the ground and could probably have leaned out the window to get her scarf herself. Her tower was really not all that high considering that the entire witch’s house had no steps in it and was built at the ground’s level. When the boy held out her scarf, however, she had to catch her breath as her hand touched his black leather glove and their eyes met.

“You dropped this, milady,” he said. His voice was like honey and she gazed into his violet blue eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The man bowed his head to her and turned to retreat. Isabella realized she had just promoted him from boy to man when their hands almost touched. She regained her voice and hastened to add. “Who are you?” He turned back to her.

“I am Jean-Isadoré Viveneau, at your service Mademoiselle.” Isabella gasped when she realized he had nearly as many syllables in his name as she did.

“You are my hero,” she said dreamily.

“And may I know the name of the damsel I have served?” he asked. This was it for Isabella.

“I am Isabella della Lagoti,” she said haughtily, and then changed her tone to conspiratorial. “I am a princess held here against my will, waiting for a champion to rescue me.”

“Ah, rescuing,” said Jean-Isadoré, knowingly. “Now that is something I know a little about.”

“Really?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Yes. Just last night I rescued a fat purse from noble on the road that held it against its will,” he laughed. Isabella thought this was incredibly heroic. So that was what he did when he rode away at night. He went in search of things to rescue. Isabella was certain now that this must be her prince charming, even if he was dressed in black rather than shining armor and rode a black horse instead of a white charger.

“If you rescue me and take me away with you, I am sure the King and Queen will reward you handsomely. As my husband, you would become heir to the throne!” Isabella enthused. Jean-Isadoré cocked an eyebrow at this. Perhaps this was a good idea. The girl was comely and seemed pleasant enough if a little strange to talk to. But if there were truly a throne to be had, her strangeness would be easy to put up with.

“Rescuing takes some planning,” he said cautiously. “Do you have proof of your relationship to the King and Queen?”

“Oh yes,” Isabella said dramatically as she pulled the sheepskin to her. “This was my cradle cloth when the witch stole me from my parents. When they see it they will know exactly who I am and welcome me with open arms.”

Well, thought Jean-Isadoré, perhaps it was worth a chance. But there were still a few other valuables that he wanted to rescue before he left this part of the country, so he quickly devised a plan.

“Now rescuing requires a bit of planning,” he said. “I don’t think I can do it tonight, but in three days when the moon is dark, I will ride to your window and take you with me to see the King and Queen. Just before that time, you should gather up any coins the witch has in the house, and anything else of value that you can easily carry—just so we have goods to trade for food on our way to the castle. And don’t forget your cradle liner.”

“Oh, I will, I will,” cried Isabella. “I will gather up her silver needle, the candlesticks, and the coins and meet you here at the dark of the moon!”

“Do not take these things too soon,” said Jean-Isadoré, “or the witch will suspect that you are planning to escape. Wait until she has gone to sleep on that night and meet me here at midnight.” And with that Jean-Isadoré turned sharply and strode back to the shelter of the grove where his horse waited for the night’s adventure.

The next two days were almost unbearable for Isabella. Jean-Isadoré did not return to the grove after his night ride and Isabella feared that he had abandoned her after promising to rescue her. The beautiful man of her dreams (less shining armor and a white charger) was out there someplace rescuing someone or something. What if he did not find her worthy of his attention? How could she possibly go on living?

But, on the night of the new moon, she waited in her bed until the witch had gone to sleep, then quickly ran through the house gathering up coins and silver wherever she could find them. She brought these to her room and wrapped them with her clothes tightly in her sheepskin, tied it with ribbon, and then sat by the window to wait.

Waiting takes a long time. She was certain it was after midnight. She was certain that he had forgotten her. Tears slipped silently from her eyes and she squeezed them shut. As they closed, she drifted off to sleep, dreaming of her knight in shining armor.
She jolted awake to a soft touch on her hand. She looked to see the black horse nuzzling it. Looking up she saw the burning eyes of her true love behind the slits of a mask. Without a word he held his hands out to her and she jumped from the window seat and into his arms. He snatched the rolled up sheepskin from the windowsill and at once they were off at a gallop. She saw the witches tower that no longer looked so tall nor so threatening, as she rode away into the dark night.

Before dawn fully broke, they arrived at an abandoned farmhouse and went into the barn. Jean-Isadoré closed all the doors and shuttered the windows as Isabella fell exhausted onto a pile of hay. When the horse was taken care of, Jean-Isadoré came to Isabella and the two fell together as one.

Isabella awoke as the last rays of the sun were filtering through shutters that had been thrown open by Jean-Isadoré. The rescuer was dressed and his horse stood saddled and ready to ride. Isabella stretched out her arms to welcome him, but he showed no interest.
“Come,” he said. “We must ride in the darkness of night until we are well clear of this province. I have rescued a pony for you to ride.” Isabella was disappointed that she would not spend the night riding in front of him on his black stallion. She just wanted to be in his arms again. But, she obeyed speedily prepared to ride.

“Why do we have to ride at night?” she asked plaintively.

“You don’t want the witch to catch you, do you?” asked Jean-Isadoré quietly.

“Oh no!” gasped Isabella. She packed her little bedroll and Jean-Isadoré helped her mount the pony. They rode all night again and in the morning Jean-Isadoré found a campsite and built a small fire. He went off into the woods a little way and came back shortly with a squirrel.

“Here,” he said tossing it at Isabella’s feet. “Make dinner. I’ll go scout the area to make sure we are secure.”

“But, how am I to make dinner out of a squirrel?” Isabella cried. Jean-Isadoré heaved a great, put-upon sigh. He pulled out his knife and quickly skinned and gutted the squirrel.

“Now,” he said. “Put it on a stick and hold it over the fire. I’ll be back shortly. He led his horse with him from the circle. Isabella did as she had been instructed. At the witch’s house she had sometimes made soup in a kettle on the stove, but when the witch had suggested she try to cook other things, she haughtily turned her back. Now she found that cooking a squirrel on a stick was nothing at all like cooking soup. The fire was hot, but when she got a longer stick, it drooped and the squirrel got ashes on it. She had to be close enough to hold the spit over the fire without getting it in the ashes. Just after she managed to find a place behind a rock where only her fingers were being singed by the fire, the wind shifted and smoke blew in her face. She thought she would die before the squirrel was cooked enough to eat, or before Jean-Isadoré came back. Eventually he came back, made an inspection of the squirrel and pronounced it edible, and then pulled a bottle of wine from his cloak.

“I rescued a bottle from an inn not far from here,” he said, taking a long swallow and offering it to Isabella. She took a dainty sip and he snatched it back.

“If there is an inn nearby,” said Isabella, “why are we camped out here instead of staying there?”

“Ah yes,” said Jean-Isadoré. “I am known to that innkeeper, and we do not much like each other, so I avoid anything more than the quick rescue of a bottle of his finest. We will be much nearer the civilized lands of the King tomorrow and the day after we may ride by daylight and sleep in an inn at night.” He licked his fingers after picking the squirrel carcass clean and pulled Isabella to him. “Come here, my beauty, and warm my cold night.”

“It’s daylight,” Isabella said, pouting.

“So it is,” Jean-Isadoré said and yawned. “We’d better get to sleep.”

The next night was much a repeat of the previous, but shorter before Jean-Isadoré found a hay mow they could sleep in. At last they fell together and all Isabella’s fears were put to rest once she was in the arms of her lover.

They travelled by day the next day and stayed in an inn at night. Jean-Isadoré spent some of Isabella’s coins for the room and meal and then took her to bed again. By this time, however, Isabella had lost all joy in the routine coupling after which Jean-Isadoré fell rapidly asleep. In a few days time, the couple reached the castle of the King.

Jean-Isadoré called a guard to him and asked directions for an audience with the King. The guard called a chamberlain and Jean-Isadoré proudly declared, “I bring the Princess Isabella to be reunited with the King and Queen, for long they have been parted.” The chamberlain was puzzled by this but took the message to the royal court and, intrigued by the curious declaration, the King and Queen granted audience to Jean-Isadoré and Isabella.

When they arrived in the royal court, it was not quite what either had expected. King Alphonse and Queen Antonia were not much older than Isabella. When Isabella made her case and laid the sheepskin at their feet, the King and Queen were even more puzzled. No, there was no missing princess of any age. No, King Alphonse was the sole heir to the throne and had never had a sister. Isabella was heart-broken.

“We must have the wrong king and queen,” she said at last.

Jean-Isadoré heaved a sigh of resignation and turned to leave. Just at that time a courtier spoke up.

“Wait a minute!” he declared. “This is the highwayman that robbed me not a fortnight ago! Arrest this man!” Everyone was taken aback and the highway man, Jean-Isadoré Viveneau, blanched.

“That can’t be,” Isabella said. “He is a prince and rescued me from an evil witch!”

“A prince of thieves, perhaps,” said the courtier. Guards came forward to arrest Jean-Isadoré. The highwayman gave a small shrug of his shoulders and a weak smile at Isabella, and then dove out a window. Isabella and the guards rushed to the window to look in time to see Jean-Isadoré pull himself out of the moat, whistle for his horse, and ride away. Isabella collapsed by the window weeping.
The King and Queen were merciful, but not willing to let Isabella off for what they determined was her charade. She was put to work in the kitchens, where she learned very well how to prepare a great many dishes and after seven years, she had earned freedom for herself and her young son. She took him and booked passage back to her small village where a very old woman met her at the door that had once been such a barrier to Isabella’s freedom.

She pled with the old woman for forgiveness and begged to be taken back in.

When people asked the old woman why she would ever take back the girl and her illegitimate brat, the old woman’s answer was always the same.

“She is my daughter and he is my grandson. What else would I do?”

Isabella lovingly cared for the old woman until the day her mother died, and never referred to her as a witch again. Nor did she wait to be rescued. The highwayman was never heard from again in that kingdom, though tales are told of him abroad. And the sheepskin that she carried is the very one I was laid on as a child and which I wear as a vest to this day.

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