In Due Rescue

It would be a terrible cliché to say Princess Filomena couldn’t believe her eyes. But, to be honest, if she had imagined a knight rescuing her today, it would have been someone like Sir Galahad or Sir Lancelot—strong, noble, and shiny—riding up on a blinding white charger that had more frills and pennants than a tournament.

Not this guy. His armor was piecemeal, splattered with mud, and his helmet looked like the visor had rusted in a halfway-up, halfway-down position. A twig would have called him skinny. Even the man’s horse wasn’t quite white, but more of an assorted and uncomplementary beige.

“Either I’m no longer the favorite—and I must be, because I’m the only heir—or the standards have gone down since I was first kidnapped.” She crossed her arms and tapped her foot on the hard surface of the well-traveled dirt road.

The man attempted to raise the visor of his helmet with one gauntleted hand. There was quite an assault on her eardrums as metal scraped metal, but no obvious progress. Finally, he gave up, took the entire thing off, and hooked it precariously on the pommel of his swaybacked mount. “I have come to rescue you, oh fair Princess Filomena Rosita Bonita Bobanee Bonanafanna Fofannee—”

“Just call me Fil,” the princess interrupted, waving away the twenty or so names that were attached to her in formal surroundings. “Look, there’s no time for all that. What’s your plan?”

“Plan?” The knight scratched his head. “Well, go to the witch’s castle where the princess—erm, you—are being held captive—”

Fil jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “It’s that way.”

“Erm—and creep in at night—”

Fil looked around at the bright, sunny morning. “You’d have a bit of a wait.”

“And, erm, then untie you from your bonds—”

Fil held up her unmarked wrists. “The witch never tied me up. Classic mistake to underestimate a princess’s ability to walk out a door. But do go on.”

“And then throw you over my shoulder—”

Fil couldn’t help it. She snorted with laughter at that. “And after you fell down, then what?”

The man was getting a bit red in the face. “Well, then, take you home to your father, of course. And ask for your hand in marriage.”

“Look, Sir… well, I never got your name. Who are you?”

“Sir Ahibishekilama the Fourth.”

The princess shook her head. “I can’t pronounce that! I’ll call you Sir Ah. Okay, Sir Ah, you’re welcome to carry on with your plan. In the meantime, I think I’ll just walk back home.”

“Oh, no!” For the first time, Sir Ah seemed to recall who he was talking to. He slid off his horse in a rattle of metal plates. It turned out, once he was on the ground, he didn’t look so gangly anymore. It was just his long limbs and thinness that made him look like a skeleton perched atop a nag headed for the stew pot. “I must insist. Please, mount my noble steed and let me guide you back to your castle.”

At this, Fil snorted again. “I don’t know if I would care to mount anything of yours. And certainly not your ‘noble steed.’ Nah, you take him. I’ve got legs. I’ll walk.”

After ten minutes spent arguing about the propriety of letting the princess preamble versus Fil’s equally adamant derision of his hack, Fil finally just rolled her eyes and strode off. Behind her, she could hear Sir Ah rattling his way back aboard his horse and kicking it in an attempt to catch up to her long stride.

After several moments of silence (or, as close as one could come with an unhappy horse trotting along, bearing a man wearing an ill-fitting assortment of armor), Fil sighed. “I suppose if you aren’t too annoying, I might let you take credit for the rescue. It was, after all, very nice of you to come all this way.”

Sir Ah, whose head had been hanging so low from dejection that it looked like it would fall off, perked right up. “Oh, would you? That would be grand!”

“But none of this marriage business,” Fil scowled. “I already have a plan, and it doesn’t involve an obligatory marriage to the first—or fiftieth—idiot who comes along thinking I’m an easy way to the throne.” As Sir Ah’s expression started to fall again, she added, “No offense.”

“So what is your plan?”

“Right now, our kingdom is run along a feudal system, which is a very inexact form of financing, especially in times of peace. I think we need to create a dialogue across class lines of noble obligation which is less noblesse oblige and more pounds and pence. It’s a language everyone speaks.”

“I . . . see.” Sir Ah scratched his head, his helmet still balanced on the saddle in front of him. “But what does that mean in practical terms?”

“Revolutionizing our taxation system. Incentives, deductions, a plan with more foresight than ‘soak them for everything they’ve got.’ It’s all quite complicated.” Fil waved a hand airily. “I have the documents drawn up. All it needs is the king’s signature. If enough of the nobles get behind this, we can create a brand-new society here.”

“Tax laws.” Sir Ah’s eyes seemed a bit glazed. “A revolution of taxes?”

“Better than the other kind of revolution, with everyone stabbing pointy things at each other.” Fil winked at Sir Ah in an attempt at conspiracy, but he didn’t seem to notice her awkward flirtation. Oh, well. “Are we in agreement, then?”

Sir Ah focused back on the princess. “In agreement about what?”

“You take credit for the rescue. In return, you back my tax reform bill. It’s all quite simple, really.” Fil sighed. It was hard to get through the man’s thick skull. The last ten knights who had “rescued” her had been a lot quicker on the uptake. Still, she couldn’t ignore any landholder. She needed a majority to sway her father, whose eyes tended to glaze over like Sir Ah’s whenever she brought up the reforms she sought to implement.

“Oh.” Sir Ah cleared his throat. “Yes, yes. Of course. I’d be honored.” He attempted to make a half-bow from his saddle, but his helmet, precariously perched, was jostled at the gesture. It dropped to the ground with a thud and rolled over to the princess.

Sighing again, she picked up the battered helmet and handed it back. “Every vote counts,” she muttered to herself. Then, louder, “Okay, let’s hoof it, shall we? I’m on a tight schedule.”

Her friend, the “witch,” would be expecting her back tomorrow morning. Just in time for “rescue” by another clueless knight on their shortening list—nobles who hadn’t found out the real reason behind the princess’s regular absences from court.

The king would roll his eyes, clandestinely summon the next name on her list, and the process would start all over again. Her father’s motivation to go along with her “crazy” scheme was to marry her off, she knew. But little did he know that she only had a few votes to go to put her plan into action.

Although, the next time around, Fil hoped for someone more like Sir Galahad. A strong and practiced warrior who would gallantly battle dragons to rescue her.

Or, if she was being terribly prosaic . . . at least a knight who could carry on a decent conversation for the walk back home.