The Story
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Once upon a time ...
She had the fair eyes of her father, who never knew he had a daughter, and the hair of her mothers lineage who would never aknowledge her. The only thing she had of her own, a birthmark on the mound of her loins, she would like to think she shared with her mother. A mother, who she had no recollection of other than her vague floral scent, and the soft lilt of her voice. Not that anybody would have believed her anyway, if she had shared that early childhood memory. She had not—never. To her it felt like the dream of a child, wishful thinking instead of facing the truth that her mother was but a whore that died of syphillis. Every child would gladly trade that memory for another and pretend theire mother smelled of perfume and therefore must have been noblesse .
The small girl with the grubby face, those vigilant blue eyes and copper curls, decided on her seventh birthday that she deserved a real name aside from being refered to as "Pimpernel" due to her red mop of hair. To preserve her childhood-memory and because she liked the sound when others whispered it, she called herself Petronille, befitting the daughter of a well educated and noble lady.
Stories are being told different, depending on who tells them, and what they can and want to remember.
They all claimed, Lucinda was her mother. She was a ginger like her, with fire in her veins and loins. Lucindas baby came far too early and everybody wanted to believe Pernel was hers, most of all Lucinda, that very same night when I brought her, a fortnight after her own baby died. It was a fortunate coincidence. Giving the baby a name, especially that of the stillborn would have meant to curse her, and thus they refused to name her, but a name she got. Petronille, she called herself. Secretly I called her 'my little princess' or 'Magdalen' like the whore mentioned in the bible, though she never knew. I will never forget how she looked at me that night when I held her in my arms, the little baby, and was told by her real mother and my mistress, to bring her to the whore-house called the "Bawdy Knave", nor will I forget her look many and more years later, when I bedded her for the first time. Her gentle suckling lips, her shyness when I made her rub her face against my swollen manhood and the whimper when I took her. I took her more than just once that day. She was unable to walk afterwards. Sore but radiant. I had waited for too long. She must never know.
— Jenkins: Coachman to her birth mother, originally named Jacob, but refered to by the name of his grand-grand-father.
For 40 shillings you got a bottle of wine, the embracement
of a painted strumpet and the French welcome (Syphilis).
I should have known that everything that comes from Lucindas loins is tainted. A vile creature, Venetian blonde poison and looking like a knave, that scrawny little thing. I don't understand why they did not take one of the actual boys. It all started with her bitch-mothers death. Some say it was the liver, I say it were the "Great Pox" that took her down. Philippa, the bawd made the girl take Lucindas place because her mother owed her money. The stupid frump was shaking when I brought her to the monster, Cotgrave so he could deflower her. I thought that would teach her. He had been my costumer, and I assumed she would be repelled by him. She was not, and after a while he had not been the only customer she has stolen from me. A noble that usually came to me, suddenly demanded her. With most of my customers lost to her, she forced me to go to the theatre to look for different ones. Philippa found out, and threw me out of the brothel. I am certain it was Lucindas daughter who snitched me out.
— Agnes The-One-Legged: Fellow whore known to do things with just one leg that others couldn't do with both.
Agnes asked me to take off my mask one day. The sight of my face made the woman who had once been so sweet to me scream, and cast me from her room. It took me a long time to return to The Bawdy Knave, and when I did, she refused to see me. She suggested Petronille, and later, I found out that this was because she did not like the girl. But I did. The time we spent was masked, and very much enjoyed. I visited often. And when she too asked to remove my mask, I refused. For the longest time, I refused, but she insisted. When I finally did, my heart stopped as she looked at me, and it did not beat again until she smiled and wrapped her arms around me. Pernel. I loved her in that moment, and forever after. I do not peer into the future often. It takes the excitement out of life, and often shows horrible things. But I did with her ... The poor girl, she has no idea what the future has in store for her. I cannot interfere directly, but I will do all I can to prepare her — to protect her. It will have to be enough. It must! Let it be enough.
— Cotgrave: Masked healer-doctor and confidant to the prince, as well as a trusted and close friend to Pernel. -
I adored my mother Lucinda, she looked like a passionate doll. Her complexion was one of probably the most expensive lacquered porcelain. Flawless it seemed and she once told me the secret to her beauty was applying lime on her face daily to remove any blemish. Her hair was a coppery fire of oiled bouncing curls that must have hypnotized men when they bedded her, with her every move. I have watched her once with another of the girls; Agnes. I would have never thought that she could even make a woman scream in bliss, and make her whimper with just a single wiggle of her finger. I have never heard a woman cum so hard and loud. I heard her sob, and then she whispered something and my mother laughed. I do not know what happened exactly, but Agnes seemed disturbed the next time I met her. Did she know I had watched, or was it because of my mothers reaction to her confession.
— Petronille: Former prostitute working in the Bawdy Knave, believed to be the daughter of the whore Lucinda.
I never even believed for a moment that Pernel was Lucindas daughter. I never said anything though. There are some things better forgotten, things that would turn someones life upside down. I had pondered to tell the lass of my suspicions after Lucinda died, but I needed a new girl and I think it would have crushed her to know that the woman she loved for all those years was not her mother. That and I couldn't prove that what I thought was the truth. Call me selfish, but it was the best decision to have Pernel replace Lucinda. That, and the decision to throw Agnes out after having gotten several complaints from my girls that she had tried on more than one occassion to get intimate with them. I think Agnes was a desperate woman, and while she might have been a good whore in her early years, her disgust of men and the unanswered love for women poisoned her mind, and made her resentful.
— Philippa: Owner of the Bawdy Knave, with her plump figure matching the softness of how she handled the girls.
Philippa wasn't my real mother, but she took me under her wing like a clucking hen, even though I had tried to break into the kitchen of the Bawdy Knave. I might have managed to steal a few loafs of bread if I hadn't tripped over a chamber pot that stood in the corridor outside of one of the rooms. I must have looked horrible, not to think of the stench. A young boy about eight or ten years old, with blonde curls like her and a nose that spoke of being a good liar. Thats what she said, not me. She questioned me, and in the end decided to have me work for her. I found that I quit liked her. However, this is about Petronille. All is about her, in the end. Isn't it? I grew up with her, and I could have sworn at that time, that I would marry her sometime. I always splurged that I would have her cook for me, eventually. She often came to me after a punter left, and I never asked what had happened, but instead let her sob until her tears eventually ceased, and I had been done with cleaning her. I think I enjoyed to be her knight almost as much as I enjoyed to see her stained and abused. It aroused me, knowing that somebody else had her before me. Please, do not judge me, I know how contradictory that sounds. I loved her but also I loved what had been done to her. Jealousy? Maybe. I think she knew, because one day, the day before I left in the middle of the night, she called me to her chambers and wordlessly sat upon my face, letting me lick the leftovers of her last john from her slick nethers. I came hard and it felt as if I would loose consciousness.
— Pierre: Fostered son of Philippa and former orphan. Named Meadow by Pernel, because of the color of his eyes.
