![]() So, struggling for hours, nearly giving up, reaching the limit of her strength, she escaped the drowning death. Her courage, untameable will and strong physique saved her life, but without that drifting support to clutch at, it all would have been in vain. Her crew could do nothing for her, but it seemed as if the gods were with her, and she managed to clutch a piece of wooden shaft, broken from her ship. Finally, an enormous wave had swept her from board, throwing her amongst the dark, dancing waters. She valiantly tried to keep the vessel going, but in order to avoid the centre of the storm they were pushed always more towards Maracaibo. The night before, Jolanda's ship, returning to Tortuga from a successful raid, had been caught in a violent, unpredictable storm. On several occasions she had escaped his clutches, and now… And all due to her unbelievable bad luck. She had seen the cruelty of the man she was ordered to marry, and had become his worst nightmare. Nor that she would not be just a standby, a moral support, but rather join actively in all the raids of Lafayette, soon building her own crew, in large part made of female former slaves she had lead to freedom, helping them escape from the plantations of the inlands or from the brothels of Maracaibo. They took her for ransom (not before she had barehandedly knocked the air out of five pirates), but would never imagine on Tortuga she was to become the companion and lover of Jean Lafayette, the most respected among the pirates. On the way to Maracaibo her ship was attacked by the crew of Buttafuoco, an Italian pirate. It seemed an eternity, and yet it was only sixteen months earlier that she arrived in the new world. Because above being a noblewoman and a promised bride, she was Jolanda de Almaviva, queen of the pirates. Yes, she was a Spanish noblewoman, and the promised spouse of the man in whose dungeons now she was held captive. ![]() Little could she know, at the time, he did so not by virtue of braveness and intellect, but by treachery and backstabbing. Because what she knew about Pedro Rodriguez de Villar was that he was not of noble blood, and that he had worked himself up to the role of governor starting at the very bottom of society. But back then she thought this man could have made her fall in love. She was averse to loving on command she knew she could never give herself to a man only for political or economical convenience. She always had more sympathy for the peasants and the village people, than for the formal way of living of her noble family. Actually, what was known about the Governor of Maracaibo in Spain had made a very good impression on her. Obviously, she didn't imagine this, back when her father - abiding to the uses of the time - had destined her to a prearranged marriage with a man she'd never seen before, in a part of the world she had heard about only in tales. The criminal, sadistic tyrant who, taking advantage of the low control of far away Spain, had turned Maracaibo in his personal possession and play toy. But she also was the promised bride of Pedro Rodriguez de Villar, governor of Maracaibo. Yes, she was one of the most known and desired girls of her country. Jolanda de Almaviva, sole daughter of Alonso, Count of Almaviva, a grand noble of Spain. So, for the first time in twenty-four hours she relaxed, and let her mind sway over what had happened. ![]() She was a born rebel, and stubborn as a girl can be, but she had to accept, unwillingly, there was, at least for the moment, no way to make an escape attempt. But that definitely was the last of her concerns. And probably other little, nasty companions in her imprisonment. And there were, she realized hearing squeaking noises, some mice. There where the irons that still kept her wrists shackled behind her back. Oh yes, there was some straw on the floor. Not between her and freedom, but between her and a feeble hope of escaping. Just three walls, a floor, a ceiling and the frame of heavy, thick iron bars that was between her and the corridor. No bucket with water, no hygienic furniture. In the dim light of a few flares, out in the long corridor, which filtered into the dungeon, she was barely able to examine the place where, she supposed, she was to await death, or worse. She heard the iron bars of her cell slamming shut, and the pace of the guards leaving. She fell, and landed on some straw scarcely covering the nude floor. They threw her against the far wall, which, with a quick turn, she managed to hit with her shoulder, sparing her face.
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