Chapter 21: 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. The witch 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. The witch insisted she was Isabella’s mother. Hah! Isabella was too smart to fall for that line.

Isabella was certain 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 looked through one of her many books of Once Upon a Time stories to see 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. Then she stomped down both cold steps to the kitchen to boil water.

Actually, Isabella had very little that she was responsible for 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 the Once Upon a Time stories, or sighed as she stared 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 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 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 only two 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-Isadore 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 Legati,” 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-Isadore knowingly. “Now that is something I know a little about.”

“Really?” she asked breathlessly.

“Yes. Just last night I rescued a fat purse from a noble on the road, who 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. She could adjust her expectations, she supposed.

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

“I don’t think I can do it tonight,” he said. “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 wrap in your cradle cloth—just so we have goods to trade for food on our way to the castle.”

“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!”