The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen

by Christopher Newman

  “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?”

  A chubby man beside the duke shook his head, making his walrus-like jowls shiver and quake comically.

  “Her identity is verified, Your Grace,” he rasped breathlessly. “She has freely admitted this to her captors.”

  “I say, what a prize she is. I heard not she was a Negro, and nary a word about her stunning appearance.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Your Grace. Most men shiver in their boots at the mere mention of her name.”

  “Well, I am no superstitious sailor to quake in fear from the mention of a mere woman’s name,” he hissed, catlike. “However, I would make sport of her to show the citizens of Purdy-on-the-Sea how craven a female pirate truly is.”

  “Your Grace, we have strict orders to turn the prisoners over to the high court, for the king himself wishes to be present at her trial. The correspondence clearly stated she was to suffer no ill treatment,” the fat advisor cautioned. “Milady Vixen is to be remanded to the capital alive and well, along with her murderous crew.”

  “Am I not the duke of Purdy-on-the-Sea? Is this not the title bequeathed to me for loyal service to the crown?”

  “It is, Your Grace.”

  “Then I will extract a bit of vengeance for my pe
ople to enjoy, since this trollop’s activities—illegal and unwarranted at that—made them suffer. Send word throughout the city that Milady Vixen will adorn a gibbet’s cage. No, strike that! I perceive thirty lashes or so in the city proper will better soothe my people’s despair.”

  “B-but Your Grace!”

  “Silence, Gaglard, or you shall find yourself next in line for said entertainments.”

  The fop stared at Vixen, who returned the gaze without blinking. The smirk twisting her lips gave the duke reason to engage her in conversation.

  “You wish to speak, wench?” he tittered at her.

  “I wouldn’t waste nary a word on the likes of you.” She laughed.

  “You dare!”

  “Run back to your kennel like the puppy you are. Perhaps the bitch that bore you will permit you to suckle upon her teats for comfort. I deem you unworthy of comment, you flippant, powdered boy-lover.”

  The pampered youth shot from his chair like he had been kicked in the seat of his silken pantaloons. He quivered with rage at her words.

  “Boy-lover! How dare you impugn my honor!” he squeaked. “I will have your head for this!”

  “Guard ye passions well, for it is by royal decree I am shipped off to his chicken-livered majesty—alive and well, I believe the phrase was,” she stated with merriment.

  “Fine. I rescind my instructions to have you publicly flogged—but other amusements will befall you ere you travel the dusty, hell-bound road to justice.”

  “I fear nothing in the house of my father, you knave.”

  “Your father’s house! This has been my family’s home for over ten years!”

  “Before you fouled it with your foppish presence, it was mine. Only by the devious dealings of the courts do you hold the place which is rightfully mine. Strut, cluck and crow all ye like, you feathered peacock, but your deedless family was given the station you hold by way of lying lawyers and corrupt judges.”

  “Such insolence I have never witnessed before! I will have you humbled at my feet ere you leave this keep! Shamed and humiliated, you will cower in fear of me.”

  “Try ye damndest, for ye will never break my will!”

  “To the dungeons with the both of you!”

  At this stage of the game, I do believe Vixen should have remained silent, but her blood was up and the red veil of rage was draped over her eyes. Then again, the way things turned out, perhaps her slanderous insults just needed saying.

  Humiliated, Harried and Hornswoggled

  The thin gruel stuck to the side of the jailer’s face, hanging down his cheek in a humorous manner. The wooden spoon and bowl still clattered and rolled upon the flagstones. Vixen was proud of her aim.

  “Why, you filthy slut!” the huge man thundered.

  “Ye would know the term, since the wench who spat you out of her womb would wear the name with pride.” She laughed.

  “I should come in there and teach you some manners.”

  “You enter this cell, you will be exiting it aft first.”

  His jaw worked up and down, but in the end he strode off angrily, muttering obscenities under his breath.

  “Must we make our lot in life worse?” Tom said lightly. “What ill humor has you in its grip, my Cap’n?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Before either could speak another word, the tramping sound of many marching feet cut off any further queries. Vixen chuckled when she saw the seven well-armed soldiers sent to fetch her. She had been waiting patiently, toying with the jailer’s emotions just for fun.

  Aye, now the true bane of my temper doth send for me! She grinned.

  “Wench!” the burliest of the warriors growled. “Duke Popinjay would like you to be his entertainment this night. Strip off your clothes.”

  “Am I to dress like a cabin boy so he can rise to the occasion?”

  The sea-wolves caged around her roared with laughter, for the tale of her insults had been told over and over. They rolled around the filthy hay like deranged monkeys. Hooting and hollering, they altered their voices to sound like girlish men pleading for sweets.

  “Shut up, the lot of you!” the sergeant shouted. “Or by thunder, I will have you all flogged!”

  Sliding out of her clothes, Vixen didn’t blush from the whistles and catcalls of her shipmates. Tom, however, seemed to mind a great deal. Stark naked with her brown skin glowing, she crossed her arms while the soldiers unlocked her cage. They leveled sharp bayonets at her waist, and teasingly she stroked one just for a laugh.

  “Ooh, what big lances you have,” she cooed. “I pray my dinner companion wields something of similar length—yet I doubt it. Perhaps you boys could finish what your liege will obviously fail to provide me. What say you?”

  The Jack Tars around her shrieked with mirth while the guards turned bright red and shuffled their feet in embarrassment.

  “I thought not. There be not a man-jack amongst you, is there?” Vixen provoked them.

  “Come along quietly, you brazen wench,” the sergeant muttered.

  “Give ‘em hell, Cap’n!” the pirates yelled.

  “Don’t do anything rash,” Tom said after their cries died down.

  “You know me, don’t you, Tom?” she smirked.

  “Aye! That’s why I said it.”

  With a swaying of her hips and jiggle of her bosom, Vixen emerged from her imprisonment to find herself quickly surrounded by red-faced, yet aroused men. They ascended the stairs amid the lusty laughs and dirty jokes of her staunch crew.

  Entering the duke’s private quarters, she frowned at the changes to the décor, furnishings and rugs. Her father was a man of simple pleasures and tastes. However, the dandy now holding his title was a creature deplorably indulgent in soft comforts and decadent treasures. Silk throw pillows, a canopied bed and a dresser better suited for a lady’s chamber stood proudly arranged within.

  “Here’s the prisoner, Your Grace,” the gruff man in charge of her escort said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant Willis; that will be all,” Duke Popinjay tittered.

  “Surely you would prefer her hands and feet bound?”

  “I have my pistol, and I fear nothing from this female.”

  “But Your Grace—this is Milady Vixen, not some common wench!”

  “I gave you orders, man. Don’t seek to rise above yourself and chide your betters.”

  “As you wish, Duke Popinjay.”

  The door closed, and Vixen folded her arms under her ample breasts. The tiny flintlock in His Grace’s hands was enough to keep her at bay, so she didn’t rush him.

  “I wonder,” he began with a sneer, “if you realize the position you are in. At my slightest whim I could summon those men back with a simple tug on yonder bell rope.”

  “I only fear boredom while you nervously try to mount me,” she flung back. “That is why you’ve sent for me? To salve the injury I inflicted with my words this morning?”

  “I will take you in every fashion I desire. Yes, you have the right of it. However, you will find my tastes are a bit more exotic than your average pirate’s.”

  Reaching a nearby cabinet, he pulled it open and smiled at the contents, unseen by Vixen.

  “I am betting you do not know how you came to be captured. No? Well, let me enlighten you. I have struck up a deal to end the Gastonians’ use of privateers such as yourself. I recently met with a Marquis de Poste who gave us all the ports and ocean paths you might use.”

  “You lie!” she spat.

  “Oh, it is quite true. With the blessings of my king, I have been engaging in direct negotiations with this man. I am upset, however, since my liege demanded I not punish you myself and wishes to keep that pleasure to himself. But never mind, never mind; I shall enjoy your screams if only for a single nigh
t.”

  With a flourish, the duke withdrew a long cat o’ nine tails and, cracking it with an expert’s twist of his wrist, he smiled evilly at her.

  “Oh-ho! You are a beater of women, are you?!” she snickered. “Does it prop up your withered manhood to see a female helpless at your feet? Do you think you can make me beg, cry or plead for mercy? Foolish boy-lover, I will not bend so easily.”

  With a snap of his shoulder, Duke Popinjay sent the whip in her direction. Its tail flicked across her stomach, lancing her skin with burning stripes. Vixen sucked in a gasp. The hot trails upon her skin burned like a demon’s kiss.

  “Now where is your insolent tongue?” He chuckled. “Have I stilled it with just a single lash?”

  “You only wish it were so—you buggering bastard!” she hissed.

  “I will tear the hide off you!”

  The whip arched her way once more, but Vixen thrust out her arm parallel to the carpet. The leather wound its ends around her supple limb, and she yanked back hard, tugging the duke off his feet. His pistol flew through the air. Noting its trajectory, she watched it land twenty paces from its owner’s hand before bouncing to a rest on the canopied top of the bed.

  On nimble feet she danced forward and swung a foot to knock the sadist out cold. He dodged and hopped to his feet, his fists cocked in front of him. He stood, knuckles facing upward and his thumbs back toward his face, like some comical boxer.

  “I am the master of fisticuffs!” he declared loudly. “I will enjoy thrashing you. Too bad you won’t be much of a fight; I would wish for a better opponent.”

  She kicked him in the balls, depriving his sails of any further wind.

  “Foul!” he squealed through his clenched teeth.

  “Sorry, I don’t adhere to the Marquis of Queensbury’s rules,” she said.

  On teetering legs the royal headed toward the bell rope, but Vixen was hot on his heels. She snatched up his arm and, with a toss, flung him onto the bed. Leaping across the distance, she meant to take him by the throat and throttle him to death. He raised a knee instead. The bent limb’s point struck her amidships, blasting the breath from her lungs. Hugging her middle, she gasped for air while the duke staggered up and stumbled toward the summoning device.