Princess of the Blood. Roxana Malaventura

sails that ship!” I knew I would have to find some way to let the dear old tar know how much I value his knowledge of all in the world whereof I find myself ignorant, but not yet.

      “Milady, ‘tis, I don’t doubt, the lions of Guelders and Jülich, struck with the crosses and barbels of Lorraine. Nay, Milady, that cannot be so. ‘Tis surely a false flag!”

      “Why say you so, Mr. Bonaparte?”

      “Because, Milady, the man whose right it is to bear those arms, if such a man there is, has cousins whose arses sit on every throne in Europe, and on whose brows sit the coronets of twenty dukedoms.” This was without doubt the strangest coherent utterance I ever heard my Quartermaster make. The very perfectness of it provoked me and I wished he might return to his usual, semi-literate mode of speaking although I knew quite well it was entirely feigned.

      “It is not his cousins’ brows and arses that concern me, Bonaparte, it’s his name. For the sake of keeping my cutlass out of your guts, just tell me who the devil he is.” I snatched my glass from his hands in vexation, and lifted it to my own eye.

      “Milady, his name I know not – he can have none. The arms on that pennon are of a line that is extinct. That is the blazon of the Dukes of Guise.”

      “And who the Devil might they be?” I demanded.

      “If you please, Ma’am, I cannot tell ‘ee. The title is an old ‘un, bestowed a full three hundred years agorn, and more, but as muddled by intermarryin’ as a bowl o’ porridge is by the stirrin’ it.”

      Gratified though I was by the return of Bonaparte’s customary gibberish, the want of an answer was driving my annoyance into a black fury.

      “Get me Polly,” I said, “on the double. And two men who can read – I trust you have some.” As an afterthought, I called after him as he scuttled away, “French, if it is not too much trouble.”

      Polly, of course, was the first to appear. Having attempted, as ever, to anticipate my wish, he arrived on the foredeck immaculately attired in sky-blue satin breeches, snow-white hose and a swallowtail coat the colour of coral, with a slender glass of sherry on a tiny silver tray. Ignoring his grief-stricken expression as I tossed tray, sherry and glass over the side, I handed him my spy-glass, which he took with no less reverence than he would a holy relic, if they have them in Polynesia.

      “Take a good look at that pennon, Polly,” I ordered, “and memorise every detail.” This I knew he could do, to the last stitch, well enough to embroider it on a cushion, were I to bid him do so. “Do you have it?”

      Polly lifted a shapely knee, placing one velvet espadrille on the gunwale, ostensibly to steady himself, in reality to mimic a pose he had seen in a picture-book, and raised the spy-glass.

      “Aye, Milady, I have it,” he replied after a few moments. “And Milady, I am quite certain I have seen it before – it is in one of Milady’s books, of that I am sure.”

      “Get to my cabin, find your paint-box and make a copy as quick as you can, “ I commanded.

      “Aye, aye, Milady!” he said, and vanished. Hasdrubal Bonaparte had by this time returned, accompanied by two crewmen, neither much more than a boy and both bearing evidence that the Quartermaster had hastily washed them from the neck up before bringing them to my presence, in which they now stood looking up at me with quite satisfactory expressions of dread.

      “Names?”

      “Godfrey, Lady,” said one. He was rather good-looking, in a whelpish way.

      “And Hawke,” the other, who, by comparison, was quite ill-favoured – buck-toothed, blotchy and blinking.

      “Mr. Bonaparte tells me you can read. Is he correct?

      “Aye, Ma’am,” as one voice.

      “Est-ce que vous êtes moins bêtes que votres pieds? ” I had to test their French, you understand, by insulting them. The one called Hawke was dumbfounded; Godfrey blushed, and replied:

      “Toujours à votre service , Milady.”

      “You’ll do,” I replied; Godfrey even made a brave attempt to meet my eye, but failed. “Now get to my cabin at once. If you lay a finger on anything you shouldn’t, I’ll cut it off and put your eyes out with it. My cabin boy will show you a picture, and you, Hawke, will seek it in the books upon my chart table. You, Godfrey, as you seem to be quicker at the French tongue, will find me the genealogy of the Dukes of Guise. Have you any questions?”

      They did not.

      “Off you go, then, and quick about it. Bos’un!”

      “Oy, Morm?” replied MacDonald, exhausting at one breath his ready stock of English phrases.

      “Have the helm bring us about, weigh anchor and let us drift inshore a cable’s length or so. I would not have yon frigate get too close a look at us before we know what she is and who sails her. Send a few aloft to let out sail and take it in again, and have them do it a mite lubberly, if you follow me.” I wanted to keep Hecate , if not invisible, in the shadow of the coastline as long as possible, and if she were observed, to look harmless.

      My huge Boatswain glared and twitched, sending the crew to their tasks with, instead of commands, a few chirps of his whistle and an alacrity that an admiral might envy.

      “Mr. O’Sullivan, Mr. Bonaparte…”

      “Aye?”

      “Quarterdeck. We shall discuss plans for action.”

      “Action, Milady?”

      “Yes,” I replied as we made our way aft, “it would appear that we have chanced upon a Frenchman on the high seas, have we not?” I awaited no answer. “If not a Frenchman, an impostor. If he is the former, our letter of marque gives me leave to engage and plunder him; if the latter, the laws of the Sea allow me to engage and destroy him.” I was mightily impressed by the logic of this, and my blood was up.

      “Bo’sun!” I called, “order clear for action!”

      Dear Reader, lest your excitement arise too rapidly at the prospect of impending combat, may I intervene for a moment. I must remind you that there was scarcely a breath of wind and the mysterious frigate was a good three leagues distant. The sun was then barely two hands’ breadth above the horizon and I had no reason to foresee a shot being fired before luncheon.

      I should also take the opportunity to inform you that I have been able, by veiled promises to my Publisher's broker – promises that he is obliged to keep secret from his devoted and guileless wife – to persuade him to augment this text with an occasional illustration. Here is the first

      – the coat of arms that provoked such a flurry of activity upon my foredeck.

      The Reader must never know what I was obliged to promise in exchange for this concession. Whether the above image is available to the Reader in full colour or not (or indeed, whether at all) you may treat as an indication both of my willingness to suffer for my art and of my Broker’s success in exploiting it. Hemingway may sit in a smart hotel, banging out chapter after whiskey-sodden chapter without a care, but a girl must trade in whatever currency Mother Nature gives her. I am not bitter, just better-looking.

      While we are, as it were, digressed, may I explain my last order? “Clear for action” is a command that really dates from the great days of Sail, from Nelson’s day, when lines of massive ships would close for the bloodiest combat imaginable. Such ships were conceived and built as floating islands full of guns, with one palatial apartment for a commander, scant privacy for his gentleman officers and not a thought for the hundreds of loyal men serving under ‘em. Often as not at sea for months on end, it was inevitable that certain comforts were introduced. Furniture, livestock, partitions, libraries, musical instruments – in a few cases, whole orchestras – so often cabin’d, cribb’d