The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen (10 page)

“I think we can declare this wench clean enough for the captain,” the lieutenant chortled.

Now before you start hating these young lads, recall this; many of their fellows were done to death by Vixen’s actions. Although I don’t condone such behavior, it isn’t out of the ordinary for the soldiers to take some small measure of revenge.

Dripping wet and supported by rough hands, the pirate queen followed her captors to the captain’s cabin, her feet leaving a wet wake behind her. Two Marines snapped to attention and opened the door without a command to do so.

“The prisoner you requested, Captain Cockrum,” the lieutenant sang out.

“Very good—what, pray tell, did you do to her?” the well-mannered officer said quizzically.

“You did order us to clean her up.”

“Be specific, Lieutenant; I will know the truth of this!”

“We gave her a bath.”

“Indeed, I can see that. I was expecting a buccaneer of some infamous reputation, not a half-drowned bilge rat. Deposit her in yonder chair and leave us be.”

“Aye, Cap’n!”

Vixen sagged into the seat, and her head slumped between her knees. The plots she had woven to take this man hostage were quickly unraveling. She had little strength left.

“I apologize for my men’s behavior,” Captain Cockrum stated with a clucking noise directed at his charges. “I perceive I wasn’t nearly accurate enough in my orders to permit you to refresh yourself.”

“Aye, that you were not,” she wheezed out.

“I will have the lieutenant reprimanded most severely. This goes beyond civility and the actions expected by a sailor in His Majesty’s Navy.”

“I have suffered worse.”

“There are some towels and a dress lying beyond that partition. Take your time, for dinner isn’t for another hour.”

She followed his gesture to see a low, hinged wall of black wood and red velvet to the port side of the chamber. Heaving herself out of the chair, she stumbled toward it.

“I will need my hands free,” she stated.

“Of course, by all means.” The civilized officer smiled.

Marching over to the door, he opened it, spoke some words and then shut the door. Minutes later, while Vixen swayed on her feet, the two guards came in after knocking with a set of keys. Unlocking her manacles, they stayed until she staggered behind the freestanding screen to strip and dry herself off.

“I must confess, I never thought it would be my ship that would bring about the downfall of the
Sea Fox
and her gallant commander,” Cockrum stated from beyond the screen. “You do know the entire southern fleet has been scouring the waves to bring you to heel.”

“I’m flattered,” Vixen stated sarcastically.

“As you should be! When my man shouted the identity of your colors, I felt the most unexpected combination of fear and exaltation in engaging you and your crew in combat.”

She ignored this compliment and continued to towel off. With water-shrunken fingers she touched the soft cotton dress, an overly ornate chemise more than a gown. Lifting her eyes to the heavens, she knew this lacy bit of fluff was something she’d never be caught dead in.

“I was surprised by the letter of marque, however,” he continued. “Gaston hasn’t been terribly friendly toward our nation, but we never thought they’d stoop to such dastardly endeavors.”

“I’m sure this will mean war, then.”

“I fear it to be so as well. Once word reaches His Majesty’s court, my sovereign lord will demand retribution, and I’m certain the other monarch will refute this claim. Aye, it will be war.”

“What of my ship and my men?” she asked, tugging the dress over her head.

“We sent a prize crew over, and with the right amount of persuasion, your sea-wolves are helping them sail it to Purdy-on-the-Sea. Your vessel is just a few leagues behind us.”

Vixen’s mouth fell open at the destination.

“Who now administers to that port?” she asked in a falsely offhanded tone.

“If I’m not mistaken, it would be His Grace, Duke Archibald Popinjay—a young noble who had served His Majesty well at court,” he answered.

“Never heard of him.”

“I should say not.”

She emerged from behind the screen, her tangled locks still glistening with dampness and her deep brown flesh contrasting with the whiteness of the dress. She took great note of how he gazed upon her.

“You look quite lovely,” he gasped. “‘Tis a shame you took to pirating.”

“I wasn’t always a pirate.”

“Sit down, I beg you, and I would like to hear the tale of your life.”

“Why?”

“It would amuse me and pass the time in a pleasant manner. I know you hate me, but can we not be at least civil toward one another for a few hours? I begrudge you nothing, for you and your ship made an honorable adversary.”

Vixen sat down at the foot of the table while he took up a seat at the front. After he dismissed the guards with a wave of his hand, she thought the time would come soon to overpower her host, but he set a loaded pistol in front of him.

“I know if our positions were reversed, I would be planning some sort of escape. I have left orders with my men we are not to be disturbed—they wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you, I’m afraid. My second in command is quite a capable commander, so my life would be forfeit. I would rather die than be subject to ridicule and the dishonor of losing such an infamous captive.”

Thrice damned am I!
she thought.
He has smelled out my hastily arranged scheme before I could put it into play.

“You want the story of my life, do ye?” she grumbled.

“Aye!”

“So be it.”

For the first time since her capture and recruitment, Vixen told her yarn.

Since you already know the tragic details, I will forgo their repeating, but it is of interest to note Captain Cockrum was quite astounded to hear of her heritage.

“I knew His Grace, Duke Cornwell! He was ever an even-tempered and well-liked member of the gentry. You say he was your father? I had heard foul rumors of a bastard daughter and the dame that bore her, but I thought this to be nothing more than idle talk and rude gossip,” he stated in amazement. “What, pray tell, turned you to piracy? Do you hate all men of Effingham?”

“I have no love in my heart for the nation of my birth,” she admitted. “I could understand separating me from my birthright, but to exile my mother and myself went too far. I swore an oath on my father’s grave I would seek vengeance for the dishonor shown to me.”

“Astounding! I beg your indulgence to a disturbing piece of news that doesn’t quite fit in your tale. I’m convinced of your staunch belief in said yarn, but as I said, I knew your father well. He was—I am ashamed to admit knowledge of this—unable to sire children. Are you sure he was truly your father?”

“You dare to insinuate my father lied to me!” she roared, standing up violently.

“Nay, I pray you to calm yourself. Duke Cornwell was ever a gentleman, scholar and a fair-handed governor—but he was well into his old age when I first heard of his heir. This was only after a trip to Farthing to the north,” Cockrum apologized. “I would suspect ‘twas that which was used to sway the court to separate you from your birthright. Often nobles can know more than honest folk or even ships’ captains. It is a shame you took such a hateful vow, for you might have been able to press your claim to His Majesty.”

“It was your king who stripped me of my title!”

“Be at ease, Milady Vixen, for it was the courts who did this, not my liege. In matters of succession, no matter how lowly or lofty, the king doesn’t get too involved. I suspect you have been done wrong by a magistrate.”

“You lie!”

“It is God’s own truth!”

“Well, it is too late for any of this; my course is plotted and the wheel lashed to the heading I have chosen. Aye, I’m sailing to my doom.”

“I’m afraid that is so. It pains me now to know I’m conveying a daughter of my friend to a gallows.”

“You truly did know him, then?”

“By my troth I did!”

“Then let us talk of my sire until dinner arrives.”

Despite the turn in conversation, a seed of doubt had planted itself in Vixen’s mind. Considering her mother and father slept in separate rooms, her mother’s claims of the duke being her sire felt somehow wrong. Frantic arguments warred upon each other like battling ships upon the churning sea of her thoughts. She knew her face well enough to now see she bore no resemblance to her illustrious father. Chalking this up to her mother’s heritage, she hadn’t given it much thought. Now, suddenly, she was perplexed and somewhat angry. Sometimes truth can bring to light even the darkest corners of the mind.

Insults and Insolence

The dawn returned, its rosy fingers dancing through the porthole and awakening Vixen and her mate Tom. Outside, she could hear the yells and cries of the crew harkening to the shouted orders of the officer on deck.

The prow of the vessel is skimming calmer waters, she thought. This can only mean we’ve sailed into a harbor.

An hour later they came for the two of them.

“On yer feet, ye scalawags!” a Marine in red shouted. “We’ve put into port, and the reaper is here for ye. Best not make him wait too long.”

With clinking and clanking the Marine unlocked the cells and dragged the prisoners on deck to a familiar sight. The alabaster cliffs of Purdy-on-the-Sea jutted up from the foaming waves as the
Lady Jane
slid effortlessly toward the docks. The crew tossed hawsers to the dockworkers, and soon the frigate was still and the gangplank lowered.

“I fear this is the end of the line.” Captain Cockrum sighed. “I wish now I hadn’t heard your tale, for my heart is heavy with remorse. I pray you to have a kind word with your sire whence you meet him. Advise him I meant no ill will.”

“He would understand,” Vixen replied. “I think he will be more vexed with me than ye.”

“Aye. Here come the soldiers to take charge of ye. My part in this sad tale is now done.”

Vixen looked to stern to see her vessel pull up to the
Lady Jane’s
aft. Her rogues’ leaden faces and sluggish movements made her ire swell.

“They dared not to overwhelm the prize crew,” she whispered to Tom. “The craven bastards deserve their fate.”

“Aye,” Tom quipped. “As do we, but they were hardy sailors, the lot of them; don’t begrudge them their early deaths. They are out matched by the Marines onboard.”

“Aye! Ye be right; I’m sorry I uttered it.”

The deep stomping of booted feet took her gaze away from her ship. A double squad of Effingham musketeers marched up to Captain Cockrum and snapped to attention. An older soldier took two quick steps out of the line and produced a rolled piece of parchment.

“Captain Cockrum,” he rumbled. “I am Captain Bartholomew Manmeet, and I have come to take possession of your prisoners. We read the signals you flew ere you entered the harbor.”

“Aye, here they are,” the dandified ship’s commander remarked.

“Ho! Is this the infamous Milady Vixen I spy?”

“None other.”

“I congratulate you, Captain, for your stature in His Majesty’s Navy will no doubt rise when word of your deed reaches his ears.”

“A just punishment, I fear.”

“What mood strikes you to speak so cryptically? You have done our nation proud.”

“Never you mind; please remove the prisoners from my vessel. I have to see about granting shore leave to my crew.”

The musketeers moved forward, surrounding Vixen and Tom at just the gesture of the infantry officer. They soldiers prodded them down the length of the gangplank, where those working the harbor below gave them a most unpleasant greeting. A great many citizens, upon recognizing the infamous corsair, began heaving rotting vegetables and squishy fruit at them. Thus Vixen, once Violet, returned to her home bespattered with hurled garbage, yet holding her head proudly erect.

Standing in the audience chamber deep in the safety of the keep, she noted little had changed since she’d departed ten years ago. With the exception of the Cornwell coat-of-arms replaced by another family’s symbol, it was just as she remembered it. The biggest change was sitting in her father’s chair: His Grace Archibald Popinjay.

The feminine-looking man was skinny and short, wearing a powdered wig that made him look taller due to its manufactured height. Like the coif he wore, the duke’s features were likewise powdered. He sported two rouged cheeks reminding Vixen of the Gastonian marquis who gave her the letter of piracy. Whereas the Marquis de Poste was an able swordsman and a gentleman, his counterpart now seated in front of her showed no signs of honest labor.

In fact, I would deem him a perfumed boy-lover if my weather-eye isn’t deceiving me, she snickered to herself. If he has bedded a woman, I’ll eat the prow of my ship!

“So this is the infamous Milady Vixen, terror of the seven seas?” he lisped girlishly. “I hardly see what all the fuss is about, for she looks like every other common pirate. Are you sure you’ve correctly identified her?”