~ The Official Guide to Rescuing and Maintaining Damsels in Distress ~
by K. Alexander

DISCLAIMER
Though the characters in this tale may physically remind you of people that you know, they are in no way affiliated with, or based upon, the characters of Xena and Gabrielle as used in Xena: Warrior Princess. It may shock you; nay, disgust you to know that I have watched barely three episodes of your favourite TV series (perhaps four years ago?) and so would not be able to draw upon those characters even if I wanted to. Not my fault, mind you, but that of the broadcasting authorities in my country. However, I am aware of certain physical similarities and therefore invite you to employ your own wild imagination to make the leap.

SEX/VIOLENCE/SNOTTINESS/GROTTINESS/HAUGHTINESS/DOTTINESS WARNING
’Tis a noble chapter, this one. ‘Tis a pointy-hatted zaftige Valkyrie sort of chapter, without the proper hose. The only thing that could upset you in this part of the story is if your house is decorated with smiling golden statuettes of little animals. And in that case I can do very little for you.

COMMENTS
You are most welcome to share them with me, as long as you adore me madly. No, but really. Constructive criticism will be welcomed with open arms. As will bongo drums, six donuts in different flavours, a few shares in something exciting, and a book deal. Find me at: kalexy@webmail.co.za

AND FINALLY
Almost there. Just be patient. 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

And suddenly… absolutely nothing happened. Poison ivy did not suddenly sprout up around their feet and pull them under, no famished Gryphons appeared between the trees with a skewer and a salt cellar, and the sky did not burst open to reveal pointy-hatted zaftige Valkyries singing something fashionable whilst brandishing their pretty swords brutally. In fact, a little bird began to sing quite happily, but, realising his intrusion upon the happening of nothingness, stopped with a gargled croak. (Or an eagle got him, but the writer prefers the more profound first option).

Witnessing the absolute lack of commotion around them Crispin raised an eyebrow at Helena. “Have you lost your touch?”

“It’s not as if trouble follows me everywhere,” Helena replied archly, before she continued in a solemn tone, “occasionally it does let me go to the privy alone.”

Bursting into laughter Crispin dipped into the water and wet her hair before she came up, eyes sparkling. “Why, congratulations. Someone’s perception of reality has improved!”

Pouting playfully the princess pushed herself away from the rock. “That is it. I have endured enough abuse. Prepare to defend yourself.”

Swimming through the waterfall with her short strong strokes Crispin turned around and was surprised to find the princess right behind her. Shrieking like a banshee the blonde hurled herself at the dark woman and managed to get two hands on her shoulders, pushing her into the water. Though the knight was taller and stronger she realised from Helena’s movement that the princess was extremely proficient in the water. For a while they brawled playfully, splashing water around and each tugging at the other’s legs. The game came to a sudden stop when Helena’s hand brushed lightly over Crispin’s breast. With a startlingly red face (the knight was sure she could hear the water sizzle around it) the princess swam away hurriedly. Waiting until her movement slowed Crispin drifted lazily in the water.

“Helena?”

“Yes.” It was the tone of a morosely embarrassed child. Laughing to herself – but taking definite care to keep it to herself so as not to embarrass the other woman – the knight cleared her throat.

“See it as collecting on debt.”

That confused the blonde so much that she actually turned around, her brow furrowed. “What?”

Crispin kicked around in a languid circle, her eyes on the blue sky above her. “Once upon a time, long long ago…” mentally she kicked herself for the silly introduction – who ever said that? “I told you that you were welcome to examine me, in moderation, of course, in exchange for co-operation.”

“But I haven’t been very co-operative.”

“Well, that’s very reasonable of you to admit, and I must confess that you’re quite right. But you have, on very rare occasions, actually paid attention (and I use the term very loosely) to my opinion. Which was nice.”

“Like when?” Helena actually folded her arms.

“Like when you… hold on, I’m thinking… like when you … it’ll come to me… like when you accepted that Eric went back to the Sirens.”

“I haven’t accepted that. When he comes to visit me he’ll get a reprimand of note.”

“Oh.” The knight bit her lip. “I guess I’ll have to warn him then. Well, there’s the time when… this shouldn’t be so hard… Oh wait!” Triumphantly she righted herself in the water and pointed an imperious finger. “When you drank too much ale and I told you to drink water. And - eventually - you did.”

Crinkling her nose the blonde thought about it. “I don’t remember that.”

“Just because you don’t remember doesn’t make it not happen.” Folding her arms Crispin beamed. “A HA!”

“It’s not much.”

“The ‘examination’ wasn’t much either. You need some practice.”

Helena gave this some thought as well. “Fine. As long as we never speak about it again.”

“Your Highness.” The knight arched a sardonic eyebrow.

For a time they drifted around on their backs, the clouds above them changing sluggishly in the clear blue sky. After a while Crispin got out of the water and slipped back into her clothes, turning her back gallantly when Helena snuck furtively into the bushes (and quite literally into them, by the sound of the cursing) to dry herself. They sat side by side on a patch of soft green grass, Crispin with her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them, and Helena flat on her stomach with her hands propping up her head. Studying Crispin from the corner of her eyes the blonde frowned.

“Crispin? Do you have any siblings?”

“No.” The knight shook her dark head. “Which is a good thing, because if I had a brother he might have been named Fiona.”

Snorting back a giggle Helena looked at Crispin. “Are you actually saying that Crispin’s a boy’s name?”

“Nothing of the sort.” The knight looked duly indignant. “All I’m expressing is doubt in my parents’ judgement.”

“Tell me about them.”

“There is nothing much to tell, Helena.” Pulling out a blade of grass Crispin chewed it thoughtfully. “My mother is a milliner, which is what she wanted me to become.”

“A milliner.” Helena turned the idea around and then discarded it as ridiculous. “Never.”

“Well,” the knight twisted the grass blade between her teeth, “I am still in the family business, in a way. I make hats from furry creatures almost every day.”

The blonde nodded gravely. “She must be proud.”

“My father is. I alarm his friends and that makes him very cheerful. He hasn’t got any hobbies.” Spitting out the blade Crispin picked another one. “What about you, princess? Any co-princesses or princes?”

“No.” Rolling over Helena stuck her hands under her head and studied the clouds. “I was their big hope.”

“What for?”

“To marry well, of course. There is no other great duty for royalty. Women, that is.”

“Hhm.” Shooting a glance at the princess Crispin raised an eyebrow. “And for you it will be … ?”

“Sir Gunther Totherington.” The scornfully regal pitch left the knight in no doubt as to Helena’s opinion of Sir Gunther. “Or, if he is already betrothed, to his cousin Piggle Hortentortle.”

“Piggle Hort… do you really know people with names like those?”

“Yes.” It was dry. “Assuming Gunther has found a suitable girl already I will probably soon be Her Highness Helena Hortentortle.”

The knight was sorely tempted to giggle, but it did not seem to be the time or place. Instead she decided to be sternly serious. Or have a seizure trying. “You will refuse, I presume?”

When their eyes met the characteristic sparkle in the green set was gone. “Why, Crispin? I have no reason not to. There is nothing else for me.”

“But…” for once Crispin strained to find the words, “… but you’re an intelligent beautiful woman, Helena. With a mind and a will of her own.”

Helena smiled. “It’s very kind of you, but as a princess I only need one of those characteristics. The others make me a liability, would you believe it?”

Studying the princess Crispin bit the inside of her lip in thought. “Would you like me to take you back to the tower?” she enquired softly. Glancing at her in surprise Helena smiled gently and shook her head.

“Thank you, Crispin, but no. After seeing the world, I do not want to be trapped in a tower anymore.”

“You will be trapped in a marriage instead.” It was said as kindly as possible.

Nodding her head once the princess turned over and stood up. “It’s what princesses do. Let’s get going. We’re almost there.”

They had been very quiet for a very long period, but this time the difference was that the air between them was glum rather than frosty. Even when the turrets of Helena’s father’s castle came into view, nicely highlighted by the setting sun, not much beyond basic pleasantries was exchanged. The princess rode in front of the knight – for once she had not been obstinate, but had simply offered her hand when Crispin offered. Over the blonde head in front of her the dark knight studied the castle sceptically as it approached. Nobility in these areas had increased of late (in title if not in manner), what with princes and princesses running off and marrying any old soul who could wield a sword and chop off a few heads. The result was a whole lot of satellite royalty who had barely more than the land they lived on. Not so in this case. It was obvious that somebody in the castle (Crispin was betting on the queen) had a propensity both for embellishment and dramatic statements. Apart from the solid outer wall that was visibly meant for practical purposes, the castle was a mass of gaudy detail, reminding Crispin somehow of a large overly decorated cake. Friezes covered in gold leaf sprang up from nearly every wall, depicting everything imperial, from the royal naval battle between Pups the Whiner and Pnifty, Duke of Trout, to the coronation of Queen Philimininea and her subsequent disastrous descent into complete sanity. The turrets were topped with gold-covered shapes that turned out, at closer scrutiny, to be giant pigeons. Smiling? Yes. Crispin smothered a smile, precisely as Helena said something over her shoulder that was carried away in the wind. Leaning forward Crispin spoke into the princess’s ear.

“Excuse me?”

“I said…” turning her head so that she could be heard, “do try not to find it amusing. My mother loves it.”

“Who did it?”

“My mother.”

When they drew near to the large dark gate a trumpet swiftly sounded from the watchtower above them, and not a moment later the doors began to creak open ominously. They revealed a circular pathway that led to the imposing entrance. In the middle of the courtyard stood a golden fountain spurting water irregularly. The centrepiece was in the shape of a horse with a rather panicked expression (that looked a lot like a donkey). Riding slowly to the entrance Crispin studied the two figures that appeared at the top of the staircase. Helena’s father was a short thin man, clothed in a dark red robe with a cut that did nothing to disguise his odd little protruding potbelly. His hair was a dark blonde and stood up around his head like a wild halo. Helena’s mother looked almost exactly like her daughter, except that she had the narrow pinched appearance of somebody who had been… well, pinched too many times. She was also obviously shortsighted, because while the king was studying the approaching pair with a measure of confusion, her eyes were glued to Crispin’s head with an expression of glee. Grasping the hem of her extensively decorated yellow dress with hands as dainty as Helena’s (though much curlier around the outer fingers) she darted down the stairs and watched with twinkling eyes as her daughter slid from the horse.

“Darling Helena, welcome home! And do introduce us to your dashing compa…” she meant to glance up coyly, but at this distance even she could not mistake Crispin for a man, “ni… you… aren’t… to your … charming friend?” Somehow the sentence righted itself midair and pretended that it was everybody else who wasn’t making sense (and it worked, too, but that’s royalty for you). Sliding off Toby Crispin smiled grimly and waited until the rather stiff obligatory hug between mother and daughter had expired, then offered a hand to the short blond queen.

“Crispin at your service, milady.”

Halfway to presenting her hand for the expected lip service, the perplexed queen spun around on her heels towards Helena, leaving the knight’s extended hand reclining in the air like a reluctant otter. “But is Crispin not a man’s … “

“No,” the princess interrupted tersely, waving closer a surreptitiously lurking servant, “it’s not. Ivor can take the bags and settle in Crispin’s steed. Shall we enter?”

Turning around Crispin slid her saddlebag and scabbard off Toby’s back and draped them over one broad shoulder. Helena was greeting her father in a suitably respectable manner, and while the royals were occupied the knight rested her forehead against the horse’s soft flank for a moment. All traces of the young blonde as she had experienced her at the waterfall - finally unwound, at ease in her own skin, silver droplets lining her lashes as she laughed from the pit of her stomach - had disappeared to be replaced with the young princess she had first encountered in the tower - haughty, brisk, infuriatingly acidic around the edges. This, apparently, was the effect that her parents had on her. Shooting a short but efficient prayer to Tesni, patron saint of fate (and wife of Pups the Whiner, which gave her automatic entry into the martyr stakes), Crispin plastered an agreeable smile on her face and turned to meet the king.

Hopefully she won’t have to wait too long for Piggie Hortingsnortingmorkleton. Even he has to be better than … this.

Endeavouring to peer at her down his nose (which was damned near impossible, if not a little droll, in view of the fact that he was approximately the height of her collarbones) King Gregor extended a royally floppy hand. Crispin was no stranger to court etiquette, considering her occupation, but on this occasion she felt oddly disinclined to behave well. Grasping his smaller hand in his she shook it enthusiastically.

“Such a pleasure, your Highness.”

With as much dignity as he could muster (a lot, for such a short man) he extracted his hand from hers and attempted to ignore the aftershock travelling down his shoulders. “Yes, yes. Welcome to Bernam, Kathryn… “

“Crispin.”

“Erm, quite. Come along.”

She trailed behind the group as they entered the castle, eyeing the elaborate elephant-shaped sconces on the wall with a slight smirk. They were smiling too. At least the wall decorations are happy. The group veered left and with the movement Helena shot a quick reprimanding glance over her shoulder, wiping the grin off Crispin’s face completely. The room they entered was quite clearly a dining room. You could identify it by the massive table in the centre, so large that to move around the corners you had to become relatively intimate with whoever was sitting nearest. Apparently this was to be the setting of tonight’s reunion, because three servants materialised from behind the heavy tapestries hanging on the wall and pulled out the closest chairs, seating the royals. Left standing Crispin glanced around for a good place to leave her belongings, almost committing a very bad act when a pie-faced man with a woeful expression slid them off her shoulder smoothly.

“I will put them away for the … lady.” She could swear he looked her up and down as he said it, though his eyes never actually moved from her left shoulder. “And Ivor will seat the lady.”

There was indeed a servant standing behind a chair on one of the long sides of the table, though she was absolutely sure that he had not been the one to take Toby to the stables. Smiling in a compliant manner that was already rapidly making her sick she nodded her acquiescence and attempted to squeeze past the corner of the table without shoving her backside into the queen’s face. It was made a tad more difficult by the fact that the queen obviously prescribed to the school of thinking that stated any potentially embarrassing situation could be dealt with by remaining completely immobile. When finally the knight lowered herself into the ostentatious chair that towered over her and all but dwarfed the others, she glanced over at Helena, disappointed to see not even a glimmer of amusement. A solemn man in neat clothing served them each a goblet of wine before he vanished into the tapestries much like the rest of them.

Lifting his glass King Gregor leaned over the table to address Helena. “My daughter, I welcome you back into our home with a heart full of gladness,” and a bucket full of twaddle, Crispin added mentally, “though I am rather confused as to the circumstances?”

Lifting her glass in answer to his Helena took a long sip before she considered her parents. Deciding that the outcome was inevitable in any case, she drew a resigned breath and began her story. “As you know, mother, father, I was in the tower at the eastern border of Richard De Rigby’s kingdom… “

“Yes,” her mother interrupted tetchily, “because for some reason you would not consent to marrying that nice Colonel Grigori Knarth.”

“Mother,” in this beginning the knight could spy the start of a familiar argument, “he was 60 years old.”

“Mature, is a better manner to think of that.” And now Crispin could spy the origins of Helena’s obstinacy.

“He only has one leg!”

“The cane makes him seem dignified.”

“He was bald then.”

“Very uncomplicated hygiene-wise.”

“His daughter from the previous marriage was my age!”

“A lovely companion for you.” The queen sat back and folded her hands over her stomach, gloating silently.

Placing her goblet on the table in a way that made Crispin’s teeth ache, Helena raised her eyebrows at her mother. “Rumour was that he killed his first wife, mother.” With a cock of her blonde head she invited a positive perspective on that.

The queen lifted her goblet to her mouth daintily and glanced at her daughter over its rim in an almost coy manner. “Well, you should be rather more thankful. That cleared the way for you.”

Just then the knight had to apologise profusely for accidentally snorting wine onto the lovely table through her nose. Waiting patiently until all murderous glances had been glanced and all offensive bodily weapons had been discreetly wiped, the king took over the conversation in an unperturbed manner. “Please, Ivory,” he directed at his wife, who shut her mouth with an audible clang and a fierce scowl, “let the girl finish. Helena?”

“Thank you, father.” She nodded faintly in his direction. “To condense the tale, a knight did indeed challenge the terrible three-headed beast and the horribly clingy fronds of climbing vines … “

“Horribly clingy, those,” the king agreed. Crispin thought to concur but after a moment of thought decided that she’d probably soon be the reluctant focus of all attention in any case, and so took a sip of wine instead.

“Yes. And climbed up the tower and kissed the princess (rather unenthusiastically, though), all as it should be.”

The king drummed a set of short fingers on the table. “And?”

“And there sits your – or my, I suppose - knight.” Lifting her goblet at the dark woman Helena saluted her. “Cheers.” At that very point Crispin could almost hear the old spark flickering in the green eyes. It was not hard to understand why, either. Queen Ivory had her elegant hand halfway up to her mouth and her lips already pouting to receive the rim of the goblet, and it was frozen in that pose that she now glanced from Helena to Crispin, and then back again with a frown. King Gregor’s fingers were still drumming as he studied Crispin with a polite scowl.

“Who? Kirsten? But she’s a woman. Impossible.”

“It’s Crispin, sir.”

“Quite. Helena?”

Helena inclined her head coolly at her father. “These are modern times, father. And that is exactly what happened. ‘Twas Crispin who rescued me from the tower.”

“But why?” the king enquired quizzically.

Once more on the point of answering for herself Crispin was pre-empted by Helena. “Because that is what knights generally do, is it not? Rescue damsels for rewards?”

“Hmm.” King Gregor thought about it for a moment and then apparently decided not to delay the serving of dinner. “All right. Delightful to have you back, Helena, and much thanks of course to Christa for returning you…”

“Crispin.”

“… Quite… and I will most certainly reward you in an appropriate manner, young lady knight.” Nodding graciously at the dark woman he clapped his hands, conjuring up a gaggle of servants with serving plates.

Dinner was delightful, and conversation was not. There seemed to exist a rather enthusiastic measure of disdain between mother and daughter, and whilst they engaged in verbal sparring of a fairly animated sort, the king perpetrated incredibly tedious monologues towards Crispin, not allowing her space for much more than to correct her name occasionally. Sporadically he would interrupt his pedantic reminiscence of some odd event such as the first Round Cheese Festival in a place called Pembnamshire (where, according to his recollection, he once won a prize for the best costume – dressed like a cheese, if Crispin was hearing correctly) to pay abrupt fierce attention to the sniping between Ivory and Helena, punctuating random snippets of exchange with “Quite…” before he would turn back and, catching Crispin paying fierce attention to her roast beef instead, commit yet more dialogue at her. In such a fashion the evening passed as slowly as Colonel Grigori Knarth strolling across the lawns of Fort Knarth.

Only once did the queen direct her stare at Crispin instead of her own daughter. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she demanded in a tone as pleasant as a bleeding piranha. A heavy silence skulked into the room and made itself comfortable in the candelabra as everyone present at the table turned to study the knight. Even the servants unexpectedly materialised and proceeded to wait patiently. Clearing her throat Crispin smiled. “The food is lovely, thank you.” According to the reactions it received it was not the correct response. Casting around for something suitably dreary, Crispin grasped at the nearest branch. “Those climbing vines are awfully clingy…”

“Quite. Have I explained to you the principle behind Chanky Fileominus’s theory of chucking grain, Caitlin?”

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN...