PROLOGUE: The Acquisition

2019

Dear Dr. Irene…I moved closer to the iPad screen to read the email that just came through. Must be a stranger. My friends never send emails with my title; they usually come up with some smart address like ‘to the pirate queen,’ or ‘the sea outlaw.’ I’ve been doing a lot of that lately, moving closer to computer screens, iPad screens, computer monitors, newspapers, and letters, anything that needs reading. The doctors have been after me for about a year to have cataract surgery, but at sixty I’m not big on operations, especially eye operations. However, as I looked at the blurred letters, I thought I probably should rethink my position.

I leaned forward and pushed my glasses higher onto the bridge of my nose, closer to my eyes. Scanning the email, I realized it was another pitch to sell me an “authentic diary of a pirate woman who sailed the seas in the golden pirate past.” Since there was little information in the email except the statement that they were willing to negotiate price for the information on a female pirate I had never heard of and that they had inherited the diary from their old Aunt Agatha, I decided to pass and deleted the message. While the email did not stir my interest in Aunt Agatha’s diary, it did remind me of my collection. It is something that has brought me enormous pleasure and pride over the years—the many, many, years since I discovered the writings.

It was the summer of my senior year at Yale. Fellow student and buddy John Peabody was sailing to the Bahamas with his family’s friend and asked if I wanted to join him. “Only if I can take my typewriter,” I replied.

The typewriter was important, for I was going to write the great American novel, and what better place to start than in the balmy breezes of the Caribbean?

I cut my shoulder-length hair to chin-length and let the riot of natural curls take over. It was not unattractive and would be easy to manage on the ship. I treated myself to a big designer pair of sunglasses to protect my blue eyes. The eyes are in sharp contrast to my Italian (with maybe some African) skin tones.

On the first day of June, I walked up the gangplank of a 60-foot yacht, struggling to balance a duffle bag on my shoulder while keeping a firm grip on my typewriter case. At the top of the gangplank stood three men, all attired in sparkling white. The one with the most gold was easily identified as the Captain, who introduced himself, welcomed me, and ordered one of the other men (obviously an underling) to take me to my stateroom. It seemed to me it was all said in one breath. Here, I thought, was a man of few words and utmost efficiency. The trip was to prove me right.

The crewman showed me to my cabin. It was a small rectangle with a bunk bed, a chair, and some shelves. My five-foot-five frame and slim figure would fit nicely into these accommodations. I did worry about space to write, but a tour of the ship revealed the Salon, a luxurious space dedicated to relaxing, writing, and cocktails.

Two weeks after we departed, we sailed into a little-known island called Eleuthera. It is a long crooked finger of land, broken in the middle but joined by a bridge—a very small bridge, as the break is less than a mile.

So far it had been an uneventful but thoroughly enjoyable vacation. The sun was hot, the water warm, and the food not bad. Best of all, I had nothing to do but enjoy it all and write when the mood struck me, which was seldom.

As we approached the island, we sailed up to the bridge, which is called “The Window” by natives. We were on the Caribbean side, looking under the bridge through “The Window” at the seas of the Atlantic, which seemed to be running a bit rough. After a good look by crew and guests, we continued our sea journey, pulled into a small, calm harbor, and anchored.

We broke out the small pontoon boat and in minutes were zipping along, making our own waves on the fairly calm sea as we headed for Governor’s Harbor, the island’s main village. A couple of thin dogs sauntered out on the beach to greet us, barely swishing their tails back and forth as a greeting as we pulled the pontoon boat onto the sand. Along the jetty, three fishermen languished. Two held poles but seemed to be more interested in watching us than their fishing gear. The third had stuck his pole in the sand and was enjoying sitting on the rocks, getting sunbaked. They lifted their hands in greeting; nothing too exuberant, just a bare wave and a huge smile.

My host had some business on the island. He later told us he met with pineapple growers and tasted some of the sweetest pineapple he had ever eaten. Unfortunately, he said, it did not travel well.

John went off to test the local watering holes, and since I felt that ten a.m. was a little early for strong drink, I headed out to explore the village. There wasn’t much to see. Along the wide dirt road were a handful of buildings, including a large concrete square with a sign advertising groceries, a one-pump gas station, a café, a souvenir shop with a front draped in tee shirts, and a small antique shop.

It was the antique shop that caught my immediate interest, for in its dusty window was a big block-letter sign that read BOOKS. I stepped into the shadowy interior and stood just inside while my eyes adjusted to the dark. The building was narrow and deep. Barely steps inside, I was surrounded by displays of dishes, glassware, teacups, and an assortment of bits and pieces in various shapes and materials that completely covered shelves and tables, and even the odd chair. They reminded me of the things my grandmother liked to display all over her house, and I thought I might find something for her among these island treasurers.

A small, thin man approached out of the darkness. His black round face was alight with two rows of shining white teeth, which he displayed in a big grin.

“Welcome! Are you looking for something from our island to remember us?” He said this in a soft singsong voice typical of the islands. His gentle voice and his big smile were contagious, and I found myself replying in an equally friendly voice. I told him I was drawn into his shop by the sign that said Books.

He led me in a zigzag route to the back of the shop, skirting tables loaded with bric-a-brac, chairs stacked one on the other, and a few bulky, heavily carved dressers that were popular at the turn of the century.

In the far back corner of the shop were several shelves of books. Fortunately, the shelves were next to a back window, which let in enough light to see the titles. The top two rows were crammed with paperback books. They all showed the effects of being well read, from ripped front covers to warped bindings, to smudges of Lord only knows what. The owner left me to wander back to his position outside the front of the shop, where he placed a folding chair so he could greet friends, neighbors, and visitors as they passed by.

I spotted a copy of The Fountainhead, which was in fairly readable condition. I pulled it off the shelf. A group of hardbacks were lined up on the shelf below the paperbacks, looking something like a parade of soldiers at attention with their black and brown covers and titles stamped in gold. Here again the condition of the books ranged from poor to one or two in good shape. I gave them a quick scan, but my eyes came to a sudden stop when they read Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I eased the book off the shelf gently just in case it was in fragile condition. I was surprised and pleased when I discovered the pages and binding to be unsoiled and firm.

“You are interested in pirates?” I hadn’t heard the shop owner return, and his voice startled me, causing one of the books to slip from my hand. Fortunately, it was the paperback; Treasure Island was clutched in the vice-like grip of my right hand.

“I guess everyone is a dreamer and is captured by the sense of adventure,” I mumbled as I scooped up The Fountainhead.

“A sense of adventure,” he repeated with a chuckle. “Then I have something for you.”

On the floor beneath the shelves was a small square chest measuring not more than fifteen inches by fifteen inches. Rusty nails held the chest together, and bits of color could be seen here and there. A wide faded red stripe ran along the edge of the slightly curved lid. A sketch of a skull with part of a bone drawn under it was on one end, and on the other was what looked like the faint outline of a cutlass done in what was once probably a dark green but was now faded to a pale hint of its true color. The dark wooden chest was much battered, slightly warped, and missing the key plate. But the hinges and latch were in place, rusted but workable.

The proprietor cleared off a space on the nearest table. Lifting the chest, he placed it on the tabletop and carefully lifted its lid. Inside were a pile of papers and several journal-like books of various sizes. A musty smell whiffed up from the contents. I could tell, without touching them, that they were in poor shape. Covers were missing on some notebooks, and there was a stack of unbound pages. I peered at the scraps of paper and couldn’t imagine what interest I could have in them.

“Before you look at these, let me tell you a story about them.” The shopkeeper spoke reverently. “They belonged to the Johnson family. Captain Charles Johnson came here to live on the island in the 1700s. A long time ago, no? He was an old man and took a young island wife who bore him a son. Island talk said the Captain was a pirate who had retired from the sea and sought peace and freedom. Well, peace you can certainly find on Eleuthera, and its name does mean Freedom.” Here he paused, and I thought that might be the end of his story, but then he went on.

“Now the Captain, he had stories ’bout the sea, and the Captain, he liked to tell the chilen here ’bout his seafaring friends, and he ’specially liked to tell them about the lady pirates he knew about. Seems his hobby was collecting the stories of these hellions. Guess he came here with some of these stories, and over the years living here on the island, he managed to find some others. After he died, his son took up the hobby, and then his son followed in the family steps, and he too collected the words about female pirates.

When I was just a small child, the great-great-grandson of the Captain would give me a nickel to mail his letters and pick up his post. Well, now, the Johnsons never had a lot of chilen, not like a real Eleutheran family, and about three years ago, the last Johnson died. I guess Mr. Johnson appreciated me mailing letters for him, and he willed me these papers.

“I tried reading them, but they didn’t make too much sense to me, and I never been interested in the doings of pirates, ’specially women pirates. Don’t seem natural.

“Now you seem like a learned one. I ’spect you might like these. So now you can look at them.”

I tried to keep a solemn look on my face. It was hard; I had just heard one of the greatest con stories of all time. However, to satisfy this intriguing man, I nodded my head and looking down, slowly extracted one of the small books from the pile. The word Journal was embossed on its fine, slightly cracked, hand-tooled leather cover. I opened the book very carefully, as the cover and spine were hanging by threads. The writing was faded, and it was written with a flowing hand. The pages fell open to the middle.

September 18

Jack and I had another row. He is so jealous. However, I don’t care. I find in Mary Read the friendship and compatibility that I, Anne Bonny, have ever sought in my life but never discovered. I long to tell Jack the truth but have pledged to keep Mary’s secret.

I told Jack that all we do is talk, but he refuses to believe it. He announced he will kill him if I keep seeking him out.

Anne Bonny, the famous 1720s pirate! Surely this was a joke, but what a fabulous fake. The paper was old, and the writing typical of the few manuscripts I had seen of the 1700s and 1800s. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to forge this. I pulled another small booklet out. It was in very fragile condition. The pages were falling out, and the writing was in Latin. The cover bore the crest of Granuaile O’Malley. Grace O’Malley, who was known for her troubles with the English. Grace O’Malley, the scourge of the Irish Sea, who was reputed to be a very successful Irish pirate.

I didn’t give it much thought; I just knew I had to have these scraps of paper. “Would you be willing to part with your inheritance?”

The shopkeeper looked down at the floor. Time ticked on. Was it a minute? Ten minutes? It seemed like hours to me, but was probably no more than several seconds. I tried not to show my excitement, although my innards were boiling up with anticipation.

He looked up. “As you say, it is my inheritance,” and giving a self-depreciating smile, he looked around his shop. “I have very little inheritance. But what am I to do with these precious papers? I am not a learned man, just a humble shopkeeper. They should be yours. Will you give me 150 American dollars for them?”

That was the sum total of my monthly allowance. However, I could always wire home for more money to be picked up at our next stop. And the excitement of owning and reading these fabulous fakes was priceless.

“I cannot give you $150. Will you consider $100?”

Again, my shopkeeper studied the floor, as if the true answers were to be found on the dust on the wooden boards. “I will sell them to you for $100, but only if you promise to keep them and pass them on to your sons and daughters with the story of Captain Johnson.”

It was the greatest bargain of my life. Little did I know at the time that these papers were to become my life-long obsession.

I still have the small chest and its precious contents, and it will go to my heirs, but meanwhile I have searched out the best translators in Old English, Greek, Latin, and Chinese—yes, Chinese, for one of the most successful pirates was Ching Shih, who worked in the trade until the mid-eighteen hundreds. Ching Shih was an illiterate Canton whore who commanded thousands of pirates and hundreds of ships.

Forensic historian experts have certified that the papers and inks used in these writings are authentic to the time of the reports. Linguistic experts translated the papers into English for me where needed. I also spent money and time with historians of Maritime, European, and Oriental history. Each of the experts independently reported that there were a considerable amount of documented and recorded facts in the papers and journals, but as to their authenticity, none could positively verify that these journals and papers were real. I can only conclude that these papers are either one of the greatest sea treasurers ever found, or the biggest maritime hoax ever perpetuated.

It seems the Johnson family was also concerned about authenticity. Their log notes that several of the pirate women’s stories that included government documents were checked out for quotes and details. Apparently, they found no discrepancies between the chest’s contents and the official documents. If they did find any inaccurate information, it was never noted on the log.

The amount of available information on these women is as varied as the women themselves. On Anne Bonny and Grace O’Malley, government documents exist that go back to their times. These documents, letters, and messages reveal that much of what has been written about them is true. There is less evidence for the other pirates, and in the case of Sadie Farrell, there is only the one source. Regardless of this paucity of creditable information, her story is so entertaining that it is one of my favorites.

There were several journals and a large stack of papers in the chest. Not all the papers were in good condition. A devastating hurricane had hit Eleuthera in the early 1900s, and some of the loose sheets had sustained minor water damage. These droplets caused some words to be smudged, but overall the papers were very readable. In a few instances, there were one or two words that could not be read. This damage was so slight that the total contents did not suffer.

Several of the journals also had pages with small watermarks, but the watermarks on the journal pages did not make any words indistinguishable. Other than this minor damage, the whole of the journals was in excellent shape, better protected than the loose papers because their hard covers were originally made from beautiful expensive leather, which acted as a shield.

The covers were not totally damage-free. Most were stained and warped, with small cracks where the leather had dried out and been bent. However, inside the journals, the contents were in almost perfect condition.

Captain Johnson acquired the Anne Bonny journal in June of 1721. It was purchased from George Painter, a prison guard in Jamaica. Captain Johnson paid one gold coin for the journal. How George Painter came by it is in itself a mystery. Did he find it in Anne’s cell after she was executed? Or did she leave it behind when she was released, or when she escaped? As there is no evidence of what happened to Anne Bonny, there is also no evidence on how or when George Painter acquired her prison writings.

The O’Malley journal was purchased in 1800, about a hundred years after the death of Grace O’Malley. It was acquired from a Morrow O’Malley for ninety pounds. Ninety pounds was a princely sum in those days. From what little information there is, it seems the O’Malley clan had fallen on hard times. The sale of Grace O’Malley’s journal was welcome revenue.

Ching Shih’s reports found their way into the hands of a former minor official of the British Foreign Office who was more than glad to rid himself of the heathen writings in 1998 for a sum of seven hundred English pounds.

One of the oldest reports came from Sayyida al Hurra, who practiced the pirate trade in the early 1500s. These reports were sold to the Johnson family in 1750 by Mohammad al Mandari (who it is believed was a descendent of Sayyida al Hurra) at a time when women’s deeds were being purged from the history books. The Johnsons paid the grand sum of fifty pounds six shillings for these writings.

The bound letters of Jeanne de Clisson were purchased in 1640 from the curator of a small museum on Mount St. Michael, France for seventy livres. The letters were covered by leather embossed with a faded flaking gold cross.

The Johnson family kept a log of the acquisitions. The log was started by their infamous ancestor Captain Johnson and is a major reference and partner to the women pirates’ histories. Each succeeding generation faithfully logged when and how a work was acquired, and a money amount pertaining to each acquisition was also listed.

Starting in 1640, there was one purchase in every century, which was an amazing, multigenerational acquisition process covering many years. The fact that women pirates were few and far between make these papers a rare find.

Lately I have heard rumors that there is an eyewitness report written by a sailor who served in the 1700s with Pretty Peg Van Dank and her husband Henrik. They plundered the sea as Dutch pirates. It supposedly describes the death of Pretty Peg by an English officer during a pirate attack. Seeing her killed, her husband became crazed. In a fit of insanity brought on by her death, he scuttled his ship, causing what crew was left to take their chances with the sea and the English, while he, laughing, went down with his ship. I do not know if this report exists, or if it is authentic. I do know I will try to obtain it if I can find it. Although it would be a coup for my collection, the fun and excitement are really in the hunt.

This collection, which covers ten of these extraordinary women, is indeed not only unique but also a true treasure trove. The significance of these papers goes beyond mere curiosity. They are of historical and cultural consequence, impacting on our perception and knowledge of piracy, maritime history, historical events, geography, and cultural behaviors.

The format of these journals and papers is as particular and different as the women themselves. For example, Anne Bonny kept a diary, Grace O’Malley penned her autobiography, and an ancient scribe recorded Ching Shih’s pirate life. This wide spectrum of methods includes family letters, newspaper reports, a spy file, autobiographies, and even a criminal trial. These writing cover a period of over 700 years and tell the story of some of the world’s most incredible women.

Some of the papers are actually works of art in themselves. The Jeanne de Clisson letters to her former teacher are written on a fine vellum, which at the time was made from treated calfskin. By the 1500s papermaking had advanced but was expensive. It was an expense Grace O’Malley could afford, especially as she acquired her supply from a pirated British ship. The journal of Sayyida al Hurra is a beautiful work of art. The pages of the journal are sewn with silk. The cover is made with pasteboard covered in soft leather, with an extended flap that wraps around the book when it is not in use.

Both Grace O’Malley and Sayyida al Hurra had their covers embossed with artistic designs in gold, silver, and red inks. Some of the designs have flaked off these covers, and much of it has faded. However, despite the ravages of time, they still are attractive and remarkable works of art.

These females were more than women of the waters. They were players on the grand stage of life and their times. And, in doing and being, they were a significant part of wars, politics, and cultural norms. They also managed to exhibit the good and bad characteristics found in the human race.

Unfortunately, their contributions, both good and bad, were mostly ignored or glossed over by history, for they lived at a time when women’s roles were limited, simple, and strict. Deviations were not appreciated but condemned or hidden, punished, and certainly criticized.

If times were different, these she-pirates might have been given more attention. History would have retained more facts and less conjecture. But then, if times were different, they might have been treated more like their male counterparts. Although scorned for their pirate life and unfeminine roles, they were never given the serious thought that male pirates received. Mostly they remained an anomaly, a curiosity, not to be taken too seriously until they wreaked such destruction on trade that they had to be dealt with. Even then, while the stories of male pirates were coated in romance, adventure, and daring, the stories of women pirates were treated with high distain or barely noted.

The first thing I did when I got back to New Haven from my summer cruise was use the “old boys’ network,” and through that I connected with an antiquities preserver at the Smithsonian. For the enormous price of $1,000 and an agreement that he could keep a copy of everything for the institute, the papers and journals were put into protective sleeves, and I received a complete set of copies. The thousand dollars was enormous to me at the time, but I hocked my typewriter (never was any good for the great American novel), and hit my uncles, cousins, and parents up for loans. Being a family of eccentrics, they all came through with little curiosity. I paid my preserver and in two months’ time received back my antique papers, well protected, and fine copies of everything. Over the years, I paid back my family and never once was asked what I did with the money.

Throughout history, the pirate’s occupation has been a romanticized one for men, filled with adventure, daring, and riches. This is something I have always recognized, and it is the common acceptance of our culture that while we find the occupation illegal and deplorable, we are captivated by the life. Reading of the pirate life affords us the opportunity to be rash, daring, and flaunt society’s rules and laws without paying the penalties.

In reality, a pirate’s life was a filthy life: salt water for washing, poor food, a good chance of injury, and dangerous living conditions that were plagued by violent weather. The miseries and independence of the life promoted drug and alcohol abuse and deviant social behavior.

If all these things made it a difficult life for men, it can only be imagined how much harder it was for women at a time when they were considered so very fragile that they needed constant protection and care. Why would anyone, male or female, want to give up their land-bound life, turn to the seas, and go beyond the time-honored profession of the legitimate sailor to become a thief of the seas? It is almost unthinkable that one of what we call “the fair sex” would willingly, even happily, subject herself to all these trials and tribulations. Yet there were women who chose this life.

I have come to know some of these women very well. I have read and reread their stories to the point of memorization. Every time I return to them, I discover something new. They offer a microscopic look at human nature. Here are true love and true hate. Envy, greed, revenge, and fantasy, bravery and cowardliness, silliness and intellectual thoughts are all there in these writings.

As I learned about these fascinating and remarkable women, I realized there was no one answer for their choice of occupation, nor was there a particular type of female that chose the pirate life.

They were not all from poor families. They were not all beautiful (contrary to their modern depiction). Their personalities were remarkably different and so were their characteristics; some were well-educated, a few were illiterate. Their marital status ran the gamut from single to divorced, widowed to married. Just as they differed in demographics, so did their reasons for their choice of piracy. They crossed the spectrum from romantic fantasy, to business, to revenge, to opportunity and included the most human of all traits: greed.

In my search for the writings of women pirates, I made an amazing discovery: that the much-written-about Anne Bonny and Mary Read were not the first females to take to the sweet trade, as pirates called their occupation.

In 231 BC, so mythology reports, Queen Teuta of Illyria became regent for her young stepson when his father, her husband King Agron, drank himself to death celebrating his army’s latest victory. At the height of her reign, Teuta controlled land from the Danube River to the Adriatic Sea and eastward to the Sharr Mountains. She also controlled the coastal areas around this land. These and a few other paltry facts, plus a warning she left, are all that that we know of this legendary pirate queen. Her warning was succinct and mysterious. It is recorded she proclaimed: “Pay tribute at the start or all will be lost.” They may be just a few words, but accepting that this was truly a warning from Teuta, historians and other academics have tried—and failed —through the centuries to find its meaning.

Piracy was prolific during the Bronze Age. It was even considered by many a semi-honorable trade. Indeed, the Illyrians considered piracy a legal profession. The Aegean Sea, a popular trade route, was a happy hunting ground with its multitude of islands, islets, coves, and coastal areas, all offering a myriad of perfect hiding places for those that followed the sweet trade.

During the Bronze Age, trading ships stuck close to the shoreline for safety. Trading vessels were slow-moving and offered perfect prey for the swifter, smaller pirate boats. Teuta gave her blessing and support to the pirates of her kingdom and became their leader.

When her pirate navy attacked several Roman vessels, two ambassadors were sent from Rome to the Illyrian kingdom to negotiate with the Queen. Teuta made it clear she wanted nothing to do with the Romans and sent them packing. Her animosity was significant, and one of the ambassadors was killed on his way home.

That turned the attention and wrath of Rome upon Illyria. It was a war the Illyrians could not win. By 228 BC, the Romans controlled the coastal area of Illyria. Teuta capitulated but was allowed to continue her reign, with considerable restrains. She was restricted to a narrow land region around Scodra and was forbidden to sail an armed ship beyond a certain area. Additionally, she was required to pay an annual tribute to the Roman Empire.

Her kingdom was reduced to a mere shadow of its former grandeur, and her might a mere token of her former power, yet she remained queen until 181 BC, when she was succeeded by Gentius. Historically, she remains one of the first pirate queens, a woman who controlled the sea with illicit trade, yet she never set sail.

Teuta was not the only woman who controlled a fleet of pirate ships but never went to sea. Ching Shih in the 1800s and Sayyida al Hurra in the 1700s also the owners of pirate fleets, directed their “business” from land-based headquarters. These women were as ruthless and as feared as their sea-going male and female counterparts.

Some of these she-pirates controlled thousands of men and hundreds of ships. They did it with cunning, ruthlessness, and intelligence. Many of them were as successful on land as they were on water. Jeanne de Clisson started her revenge against the French with land attacks on her enemies’ castles. Ching Shih’s men wiped out whole rural villages, killing most of the peasants and ransoming the rest. Anne Bonny and Mary Read participated in coastal village attacks, and then there was Grace O’Malley.

Grace O’Malley was a force to be feared on the Irish coast, and she daringly plundered merchant ships from the Irish Sea to the Atlantic Ocean, even, some say, as far away as the Mediterranean. On land, she was also a successful leader of her armies and through cunning diplomacy managed to best Elizabeth I, the Queen of England.

Rachel Wall was unique in that she confessed her murderous pirate deeds in a civil court but was found guilty and hanged for stealing a bonnet, a highwayman’s offense. She also bears the dubious honor of being the last female criminal hanged in Boston Commons.

For me, one of the most fascinating women pirates belongs to the twentieth century. Lai Choi San terrorized the shipping trade in the waters of the South China Sea. She turned her ruthlessness and cunning against the Japanese in the Second World War era by working with the United States Office of Naval Intelligence.

These papers have taught me that female pirates are not an anomaly in maritime history. Granted, there were fewer of them than male pirates, but women pirates can be found in every century. So why is it that when the subject comes up, people almost always refer only to Anne Bonny and Mary Read? Is it because there is so much documented evidence of their pirate days, or is it that they lived at the end of the golden age of pirates, an age that captured the fancy of a romanticizing public? Or is it that they are just incredibly fascinating women?

I settled down in my favorite leather chair. I’ve been settling in this chair for over thirty years, and during that time the worn leather has molded to my frame, forming a nice hollow that surrounds me, giving me comfort and a feeling of protection. Protection from what, I do not know, as I am in danger only of stepping on the dog’s tail and getting a nip. However, the reading of my prize collection that paints pictures of dangers, deceit, mistrust, and murders always takes me back to the times and places when these things were a way of life. I guess that is why I like being cossetted by my soft leather chair. With a sigh of contentment, I reached into my prized chest.

The first woman pirate in my chronological file is Jeanne de Belleville de Clisson. Jeanne’s letters start when she was very young in a very old role, that of wife. She was born into a family of wealth and standing in the dark days of the fourteenth century, when the softer emotions of mankind were smothered by greed and an uncontrolled thirst for power. I reached for her packet of letters and settled deeper into my leather cave of a chair.