Roxana Malaventura
Princess of the Blood
Broker’s Note
It is Madam Malaventura’s custom to arrive without an appointment and deliver a completed manuscript, hand-written on odd paper and wrapped up in grubby oilskin. This, her latest, she forced into my hands on the doorstep of my own home before darting away as thought the Inquisition were at her heels, as, I suppose, it possibly was.
She, in her unique way, made certain demands regarding its publication and for my own safety I felt obliged to comply, though I must warn the reader that I really consider certain passages to be quite unsuitable.
Madam Malaventura will not tolerate an editor and my recommendation of an excellent one was rejected with threats of extreme violence. Any factual, typographical or grammatical errors in these pages are therefore the property of the Author alone.
It is rare to attach a safety-notice to a work of fiction, but:
Any critical reviewer (or any ordinary person on a social media platform) publishing or circulating remarks disparaging the authenticity, accuracy or literary merit of this narrative does so at their own grave risk. Neither I, nor any agent or servant of this Brokerage House can accept responsibility for the injuries or deaths that will assuredly result.
Matthew Peckham
21/5 Evans Street
Brunswick 3056
Victoria, Australia
I The Governor’s Study
What manner of man was he, Milord? Let me tell you.
Corpulent he was, and given neither to washing nor grooming. Lice were in his hair, gravy in his beard, rum on his breath, mildew in his fingernails, blasphemy on his tongue and lechery in his heart. His weskit was mis-buttoned, his breeches ill-fitting and his linen decaying. His breath was foul; his manners worse; his wig was putrid, powdered with flour and infested with vermin.
In such state, Milord, the wretch thought to board me. I, alone, having neither father nor brother, nor any gentleman to defend me, found myself in the most vexing dilemma. Submission to him I could not contemplate, so must need choose betwixt leaping over the gunwale to trust to whatever mercy the greasy waters of the port might offer, or, pitting a woman’s strength against a monstrous assailant, endeavour somehow to defend myself.
Frozen by terror and indecision, alone on the deck I stood as the filthy villain lurched towards me, muttering obscenities modesty forbids me to recount. One grubby hand clasped a bottle of rum, while the other, fumbling inside his greasy breeches, produced from therein the organ, bloated and monstrous, which is ever a virtuous woman’s deepest dread.
Closer and closer he came, so close that the very stink of him filled my terrified nostrils – I longed to fly from him, Milord, but my petrified limbs would not obey my mind’s command. Scarcely could I breathe, Milord, and as his shadow fell across me, my knees began to fail. Stooping to set his bottle on the deck, he unsheathed his cutlass. At that very instant, the swell (which must have been rising, though it had escaped my notice), caused Orion to pitch quite suddenly. At this unexpected motion, the villain staggered backward a pace and my nerves recovered their sense. With renewed energy I turned and ran for my life, and more.
As I fled, the hem of my skirts entangled itself in the ‘midships pinrail-post, pitching me headlong on the deck. Vainly I struggled against the enclosing masses of fabric, to no avail. Planting upon my back a naked and noisome foot, so long unshod it felt as hard and weathered as the hoof of Satan himself, the brute pinned me to the deck and with the point of his cutlass began to saw at the ribbons lacing my bodice.
“Pity! Pity!” I sobbed.
“Aye, pretty’s the word, and no mistake,” was his slurred reply, adding deficiency of hearing to the faults earlier enumerated.
With the mad strength that only desperation lends, and with the easing of the laces wrought by his notched and rusting blade, a final effort, a terrible rending of taffeta and a frenzied lunge released me from my encumbering gown. With hot tears of shame stinging my cheeks, one last dash brought me to the door of the Great Cabin – I flung myself within and bolted the door, leaving the vile cur to scratch and rage impotently against it.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom I searched about the cabin, illuminated only by a few slanting shafts of pale moonlight, and caught sight of my reflection in the looking glass that Commodore Barnet kept there for the purpose (I could only presume) of admiring himself in his uniform. With what dismay, Milord, did I view the mirror’s image. Naked but for my torselette and drawers, with one shoe gone I knew not whither, and my hair, my hair so carefully dressed by dear Polly only hours before, looking like a madwoman’s. Desperately I cast about the cabin for some garment wherewith to clothe myself, but none could I find.
Only, in a corner, were the Commodore’s black top-boots. He is, as Milord knows, a man of no great stature, and it struck me that his foot and mine might be almost of a size. Kicking off my remaining slipper (a precious little thing, green and scarlet brocade, kitten-heeled with a dainty gilt rosette at the toe), I pulled on the Commodore’s boots. I cannot readily describe the relief afforded by the sensation of glossy leather about my limbs, but I beg Milord to understand that, shod thus, I seemed almost clothed, was sensible of an Amazon’s prowess, and felt the terror inspired by the assailant still beating at the portal, much diminished.
But beating at the portal he still was, and I saw that the weathered timber would not long withstand the blows of his cutlass. Even as this thought formed in my head, the panels of the door began to yield to his ignoble blade. At that very instant my eye fell on a pistol, lying amidst the clutter on the chart-table. Snatching it up, I drew back the hammer and saw to my infinite relief that the pan was primed. I was, as Milord knows, raised in the Colonies, so am familiar with the use of firearms, though I had of course never in anger wielded one. Once again, I discovered myself vexed by dilemma: my upbringing told me that I must, to safeguard the virtue that is the irreplaceable gift of heaven, turn the weapon against my own breast, while instinct and outrage made me long to see the life’s blood spurt from him who would rob me of that very gift.
Retreating as far from the door as possible, I pressed the ice-cold muzzle against my bosom and began to pray, even as the cabin door was breached. The pirate’s arm appeared; his fingers fumbled for the latch, and sprang it open. The prayer died upon my lips as I turned the pistol from my own heart and levelled it at his.
“Not one step more, hell-spawn!” I cried, in a voice I could barely recognise as my own. His slobbering lips distorted by a twisted grin of mockery, the villain replied: “D’ye think it right for a lady to be playin’ with fire-arms? Hand it to me, lest ye hurt yerself.” With that he began to advance towards me. “Not one more step, I said! I will blow your black and shrivelled heart out of your chest and straight to Hell, you vicious, lecherous, misbegotten scum!”
At that, he paused for a moment; “Ye’d never shoot, yer blood’s too thin and ladyloike for such.”
The roar, the blinding flash and belching smoke startled and dazed me as I discharged the weapon, for I expected to see him fall dead the instant the trigger was pulled. Instead, bellowing like a whipped bullock, the blackguard reeled backward through the door and commenced to writhe upon the deck. Inexperience, over-agitation, and unfamiliarity with the weapon had conspired to direct my aim, not through his heart as I had quite profanely hoped, but at the organs of generation, to which part of his anatomy his hands were now clasped.
Snatching up the cutlass from the deck where it fell, I stood over his prostrate form and cried, in