'Why, it's a girl!' The astonished cry was from a pockmarked pirate at the rail.
'No ... What say ye, Spragg?' came the quick reply. 'Stuck upon the hull like that, I thought it were a limpet!' The ship erupted in guffaws of laughter - with the speaker bellowing louder than the rest and slapping the spotty one heartily on the back.
Nobody cared about Anya's plight - about the fact that she might easily have drowned. Looking up, she was enveloped by a slowly creeping fear - far more chilling than the sea - as she divined the wicked intent that lurked behind all those sparkling, laughing eyes.
A gaunt, grey-whiskered pirate pointed a crooked finger: 'But look at her - dressed like a cabin squirt. Why?'
'Hmmm ... I wonder now. She's got to be a valuable one to be set in that disguise.' Anya bit her lip. Then the man suddenly thumped his fist upon the rail and cried: 'Quick, Spragg. Get Travix. And tell the captain.' He nodded towards the other ship, drifting slowly away: riddled with holes and with her topmast gone, she looked a sorry sight. 'We can forget that leaking bucket and her jelly-bellied crew, for it's a mackerel to a maggot that we've got our prize - down here!'
For a second or two, the pirates stared at each other, then stared at Anya. Spragg hadn't moved. Then suddenly one of them lifted his leg astride the rail. 'Forget Travix. This one's our prize. Come on, lads - let's give our guest a pirate's welcome. Pipe the girl aboard!'
[3]
A Severed Lip
Rough hands grasped her sleeves and collar, hauled her dripping body up the side of the ship and dragged her over the rail. She was lifted to shoulder height on a forest of strong, eager arms and passed from hand to hand - above the sea of pigtailed, grinning, flap-eared faces with breath that spoke of rancid fish and tainted meat - and deposited, kicking defiantly, in the well below the quarterdeck. They tried to take hold of her flailing arms and feet.
'Get back,' cried she. 'Unhand me!' Brave woman, brave words. She was on her back, hemmed in by a tight double circle of leering pirates. A pool of water welled from her saturated clothes.
'Undress the girl, more like!' came the quip, spurring a renewed attack and more wild kicking. Then someone intervened.
'Now calm down.' He spread his arms and held the others back. 'Don't rush her. Can't you see the girl's upset? Take it gently. She hasn't got to know us yet.'
'Oh then, let me introduce myself ...' The quipster began undoing his belt.
'Shut up, you witless gawk. Get him out of the way.' But the rescuer's voice turned oily. His hands began to dance and his grimy fingernails clawed the air as he tried to coax: 'Shh ... Now, my dearie, we're your friends. In those wet things, why, you'll catch your death of cold. Here, let Luggins help you.' The dancing fingers reached for Anya's jacket. She spat on them, then kicked him in the shin, sending him hopping to the howls of laughter.
'It seems she knows you well enough already ...'
Someone caught her wrist and twisted it and the next time that she kicked, they were ready. Two of them grabbed her feet, pulled her boots off, dragged her up and held her by the ankles. She took hold of the nearer assailant's leg and bit it at the knee. His breeches tasted musty. He screamed and dropped her. Anya twisted as she fell and her shoulder broke her fall. She tried to drag herself away, but there was no escaping. She was held face down by hands pressing heavily between her shoulders and pinning her to the deck. The pirate's full weight descended; he sat upon her, trapping her upper back between his knees. She could hardly breathe - her ribs were being crushed - but she kept kicking, though she hit no one and her toes kept stubbing against the floor. He wrenched her face to one side and forced her cheek against the planking. Then his face moved closer. Even with her eyes shut, she couldn't get away from this nightmare: her wet things now felt hot and clammy; she could smell the staleness on his breath; her chin was held in an iron grip and a cracked dry thumb was pushing deep into her cheek.
And still she would not give up; she would never give way to these creatures. She pressed her knees into the deck to try to lift the dead weight from her back, to try to throw him. But that only made her more vulnerable. Other hands slipped beneath, around her waist and grasped her tunic bottoms. The hands tugged, the wet waistband clung to her at first, then slipped and dug into her back above her bottom. At her belly, she felt the cloth drawn tight, the stitching beginning to strain, then giving, then loudly ripping. A roaring cheer went up. Her hips gyrated wildly to try to throw the maulers off. Her arms, trapped above the elbows by the pirate's knees, could not move. Her hands waved ineffectually as the ripping continued, accompanied by the cheering, and the breeches were stripped off her buttocks, down her legs and to her ankles. The wet skin of her thighs and buttocks turned to gooseflesh.
And now, against the catcalls and the whistles of the mob, she was defenceless. She could not stop the pirates spreading her legs, still fastened by the rags wrapped round her ankles, then bending her knees outwards, scraping them across the deck - hurting her. But worse than the pain were the tears. She had fought against them from the start and now she had lost. These men, cruel though they were, had not defeated her. They never could. She was defeated by her own tears, which connived with these hardened hearts to deliver them greater satisfaction. They trickled down her face to wet the rough cruel hand that held her yet more tightly through those tears. Her ankles were forced up, to make her bottom lift. Callused fingers rubbed her legs, the backs of her open thighs, the cheeks of her buttocks, then parted them.
'Look out, lads! Travix!' Suddenly, her assailants lost their nerve. The brave attack miraculously melted away at the very mention of that name. The hands released Anya's face, her legs were straightened, the weight was lifted from her back and the cowards edged away.
Anya lay on her front, her body trembling, her tears welling silently. The tunic top was still in place; the remains of the bottoms were tangled round her ankles. Her shoulders ached; she felt as if her ribs were cracked. Her knees throbbed as if her skin was rubbed away and bleeding.
'Turn her over.'
Anya abruptly stopped trembling and her eyes opened wide, for it was a woman's voice she had heard - very clear and strong, decisive, yet not harsh.
A seaboot prised her shoulder from the deck and rolled her limp body over. Immediately, in reflex, she closed her eyes again and crossed her hands to cover the joins of her thighs, for the jacket was very short. She could feel the cool pool of water against the small of her back and the skin hairs prickling as the moisture began to evaporate from the out-swell of her belly.
For a while, nothing happened. She listened as she tried to fit a picture to the name she had heard - Travix. Then she heard footfalls, slow deliberate footfalls, close by. Her hands tightened defensively below her belly, for now her mind had formed the picture. She thought she heard a sigh. Then the voice came again and this time it had a cynical edge: the picture had been right. 'Modesty and mettle so delicately balanced ...' The toe of a different boot - velvet - slipped along her thigh. 'Innocence so sweet to test ... But will you not open your eyes?'
Anya had to force herself to do it. The ragged crew had moved back. Above her stood three people who looked very different from the pirates - the woman, Travix, in a closely fitting suit of blue, and two men, standing one to each side of her but slightly behind, clad in moleskins and sleeveless leather shirts. The men's arms were folded. Each had the same stance and the slightly glazed, indifferent look of guards. They were young - about as old as Anya - but Travix must have been a few years older. She held her head a little to one side and lifted her chin, so she was forced - or she chose - to look obliquely down at Anya. Her lip appeared drawn up very slightly at the side away from Anya. As Anya waited for her to speak again, Travix's gaze lifted. Her eyes were a clear ice blue. They impaled a short fat crewman who still held one of Anya's boots. Uncertainly, he lowered his body by bending his knees until the boot touched the deck beside Anya's feet. Then he released it, straightened and backed away in tiny shuffling movements. Travix's gaze returned to Anya. The woman seemed to be assessing her from head to toe.
Anya in turn tried to fathom this person. She was tall - or perhaps it only appeared that way, for the crew stood before her with shoulders hunched and eyes downcast. Her hair was shoulder length, blonde, thick and straight, like filaments of pale gold wire, drawn back and tied with a black ribbon. In her left earlobe was a single gold ring. Seeing that earring reminded Anya of her Prince. Beneath Travix's collar was a scarf. Her hands, on her hips, were slim, but the nails were short, like a man's. She had pale eyebrows and her cheeks were weather-reddened. As the woman's head turned, Anya's breath caught. Travix's face was scarred; there was a curving pale red line down her right cheek and a fine furrow across her upper lip. The lip lifted in a faint half-smile, and the woman's eyes narrowed - as though she were mocking Anya's discomfiture at seeing this disfigurement. Her teeth were pure white, and very slightly crooked below the line of the cut.
Anya winced, for though the severed lip was long ago healed, she was imagining it happening - the sword slash cutting across the cheek, the blue steel slitting it, then slipping against the cut flesh of the lip, then grating shrilly against the teeth, before being drawn sharply away. For some reason - something about Travix's look perhaps - she imagined that cut being delivered not in the heat of battle but in coldblooded punishment. In her mind's eye, she could see the lip lifting afterwards to a mocking smile, the pure white teeth flooding red with blood, then the tongue licking out to taste and test the raw-nerved pulpy slit. It sent a peculiar shiver through Anya's belly.
Travix had not failed to notice; now she looked down to where Anya's hands still crossed below her belly. The lip curled once again to that same disdainful smile. Anya coloured. The blue eyes flashed at her. Suddenly annoyed, afraid - of the eyes, of the peculiar feeling that had touched her belly, and of the premonition of wicked sensuality that now inveigled her mind - Anya spat the words out:
'Who are you? What do you want of me?'
There were murmurs from the men. Anya bit her lip. She ought to have bitten her tongue. Travix slowly looked round at all the faces. She did not look at Anya as she spoke. It was as if she were intent upon preventing this insubordination from spreading to the crew.
'Ah - the Princess of Lidir, I presume.' There were uneasy chuckles from the men. Now Travix did look at Anya and Anya turned bright red. 'For you see, my dear, I judge you not by your manners - nor yet by your frippery -' her velvet booted toe touched the ragged trousers wrapped round Anya's ankles; the chuckles turned to laughter -' but by the disquiet your hasty defection appears to have provoked.' She turned; the men quickly moved aside as if her gaze had cut a swath through them. She took several paces towards the rail, then said slowly, almost to herself, her voice tinged momentarily with a faint note of uncertainty: 'Even now, your puny ship would try to follow.' Then she turned sharply on her heel and strode back to confront Anya. Her lip curled again in a twisted smile: 'But your pigeons made a tasty pie - as you will too, I am sure.' Anya's eyes widened in fear as she recalled the doves, sent to warn of her return.
Travix held her hand out to the man beside her. He placed in it a whip with eight or ten strands. She snapped it quickly, making Anya jerk in fright and automatically turn on to her side and draw her knees up sharply. Travix ignored her and raised her voice. 'A tasty pie indeed ... For what is it we say, lads?' Again she snapped the whip.
'First meat to the captain!' was the quick rejoinder from every man gathered round. Again the pointed toe of the boot rolled Anya over. She kept her knees bent, pressing tightly together. The way the woman looked at her made her shudder.
'Aye. And any man that wants to keep the skin upon his back will do well to remember it in future. Now be off with you. Boatswain - release the slaves; deliver them below decks for the port watch, then set a trim for warmer climes.'
As the crew dispersed, Anya felt more exposed than ever. Travix bent over her. She moved the tightly pressed-together knees down and away from Anya's belly. The rough dry strands of the whip hung down, brushing her bare and tender skin, tickling in the hollow of her navel. Anya's belly shivered. The strands were laid across it; they moulded to the gentle swell. The woman whispered: 'The cat - she is tempted, she would love to kiss you - but she is not for tender skin. For you, Princess, and for that place you love to hide from me, we may choose a more playful little kitten.' She slid the whip strands slowly, so they snaked as they lifted from Anya's skin, then she folded them and turned to her attendants. 'Lift her up.'
Strong arms slipped beneath Anya's shoulders and knees. She was raised between the two men in leather shirts. Her tunic bottoms were pulled from her slender ankles and cast aside, as if they would never again be needed. Travix kicked them away. Anya's bare thighs rested on the dense hair of the men's forearms. She could smell their body scent; they did not smell stale, like the others. 'Open her thighs.' Those words, so calmly delivered, sent a shiver again to Anya's belly.
'No ...' she whispered. But how could she prevent them doing it, how could she resist, with Travix standing so close by with the whip? She tried to look away, in shame, as Travix approached her, though with the men to either side, holding her firmly with her back upright and their arms locked round her thighs, there was nowhere she could look to for respite. She closed her eyes. But even then, there was no reprieve. 'Turn her head.' A strong hand gathered her hair and slowly twisted it until her scalp felt tight. When the tightness turned to pain, her head turned. As the twisted hank of hair was drawn down, her chin lifted. 'Open your eyes.' The face was very close - too close; the blue eyes, looking down, were piercing. The skin upon Anya's neck felt hot. 'Princess - you are blushing.'