Warprize (Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5)(MFMMMMMM) Read online

  The seven bastard sons of Guillaume d'Anzeray are on a mission to find wives -- women to breed the next generation of a dark dynasty that many wish to see extinct.

  It won't be easy to find brides from among the Norman nobility, for the d'Anzeray are upstarts, their family's fortunes raised through bloodshed and violence. As one holy man and chronicler of their times has written, "From the devil they came and to the devil they will return". But these brothers don't care much for holy men or for what is written about them. Now, with the future of their bloodline at stake these mercenary warriors need wives and they have no scruples when it comes to claiming the women they desire.

  Warprize

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5

  by

  Georgia Fox

  M/F/M/M/M/M/M/M/M, M/F/M, M/F/F, ANAL,

  BRANDING, ORGIES, PUBLIC EXHIBITION,

  AND DOUBLE PENETRATION.

  Twisted Erotica Publishing, Inc.

  www.twistederoticapublishing.com

  A TWISTED EROTICA PUBLISHING BOOK

  Warprize

  Seven Brides for Seven Bastards, 5

  Copyright © 2014 by Georgia Fox

  Edited by Marie Medina

  First E-book Publication: March 2014, SMASHWORDS EDITION

  Cover design by K Designs

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2014, Twisted Erotica Publishing.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  "They came from the bowels of hell to slaughter, ravage and pillage wherever they went. It was said they were descended from the daughter of Satan and I know of no man alive in their time who would doubt it."

  The words of Herallt, medieval chronicler, on the deeds of Guillaume d'Anzeray and his seven bastard sons.

  Prologue

  East Anglia, England, December 1066

  Hereward Bloodwynne was dying. He'd been dying, slowly and angrily, since October when he and his countrymen fell at Hastings, losing to the Norman army. But anyone close to the obstinate old man knew he wouldn't die without a further fight with his God. From the battlefield he'd made his way back home and barred his high wooden gates with every intention of living and fighting for a great many more years. It wasn't the first time he thought he could outdo God, the Devil, and the Normans.

  But six weeks after that battle, as bitter winds and heavy, driving snow blew through his manor, even Hereward the Stubborn was forced to face the inevitability of his own demise. His wounds had not healed and infection was no longer held off by medicines. The warmth of life oozed out of him as he lay on his bed. There was nothing more he could do except think of how to save his manor and make his name live on without him. He knew it would take months, even years yet before the conquerors had full control of the country. Saxon rebels would keep fighting— on their knees if they must. It was in their spirit.

  With this in mind, he called for his three most loyal counselors and his only child.

  Thus came fourteen year-old Cedney, tall and lean, with a crust of snow resting on narrow shoulders and a fringe of roughly trimmed, flaxen hair jutting out from a fur-lined winter's hood.

  "I leave it all in your hands, Cedney," the old man croaked. "You know what you must do. You know what I expect of you, my only son and heir."

  The three counselors gathered around the dying man's bed exchanged glances, but as usual not one of them bothered to correct him. There was no point, for the gender of his offspring was one of the many things about which Hereward Bloodwynne had quarreled with his God, one of the things he would not allow to be any way other than how he wanted it.

  From the day she was born, Cedney, in his eyes, was a boy. Therefore Cedney dare not be a girl. Certainly no one in the Saxon Ealdorman's inner council would say a word to suggest she was not the required male child. For if they did admit it, what then? In this time of war and uncertainty a manor could not survive under a woman's rule. Had the conquering king known this dying Ealdorman's child was a girl she would become a spoil of war. King William would send one of his Norman knights to marry her, securing the valuable fertile manor of Bloodwynne for himself. Even from within the manor there would be trouble, for some of the more ambitious soldiers who had fought for Hereward would see their chance for advancement and then there would be unrest within its walls, deceit, plotting and betrayal. The people would be divided and the property soon lost, its wealth dispersed.

  To keep her father's manor intact, therefore, Cedney Bloodwynne must be a boy and lead her father's fyrdsmen to continue the fight, united against the enemy. She had no other choice.

  Her hidden sex was no longer just her stubborn, eccentric father's whim, combined with his refusal to face reality when it did not suit his needs. That Cedney be acknowledged as a male was now necessary for the well-being of the manor. It was a matter of life and death.

  Cedney nodded then kissed Hereward's cold, scarred knuckles.

  Behind her she knew her father's counselors looked on with trepidation, some wondering how a slim girl could take her father's place. They may have known her all her life and they had always been loyal to Hereward, but she knew her role would not be an easy one. She would never fully trust them, never stop looking over her shoulder, never put down her weapon.

  And she could never close her eyes.

  Chapter One

  Seven years later

  Dominigo wiped the blood from his hands using the mantle of the man he'd just killed. He barely looked at the body beneath and noted only that the corpse had a ginger beard and his eyes were almost black, wide open, staring in anger still, even with no soul left within. Well, the idiot wouldn't raise his weapon ever again, drunk or sober. Someone should have warned the fool not to cross words with a d'Anzeray. Especially never to follow one outside a tavern and continue a dispute begun within.

  The sight of yet another dead carcass didn't even change the rhythm of Dominigo's pulse. After so many years of slaughter across this land, blood and the odor of death was commonplace. And this man who was reckless enough to leap out on him in an alley surely hadn't valued his life much. Dominigo had warned him off with plain words even a fool should understand, and then he'd even walked away, practicing some newfound restraint. But the rotund, prideful fellow would not have done with the quarrel and thought, for some addled reason, he could win a physical fight against a man at least a foot taller, a decade younger and with fists the size and heft of iron mallets.

  Dominigo took a second look now—not at the man—but at his long mantle. It had broad shoulders of wolf fur. It looked warm, rich. Lined too, in thick fleece as well as a patched pattern of fur scraps along the trim.

  Nothing if not practical and frugal, Dom cast his own ragged cloak aside and took the garment from his victim. At least the bleak winter wind would be more than just strained this year. Pity he'd marked it with the dead man's blood, he thought. No matter. It would wash off with the next rains. They wouldn't be long in coming. This was England, after all.

  As he swept the new cloak around his wide shoulders, Dominigo noted the clasp too—a finely wrought, bronze medallion with a center of red stone. It occurred to him that he must have killed someone important and wealthy, which suggested he was Norman, or one of the Saxon nobles who had pledged his allegiance to William the Conqueror and thrown in his lot with the Normans.

  A
quick assessment of the dead man's boots, however, proved that Dominigo's were superior. The only other items worth taking were the man's horse, a leather belt, a heavy ring with a seal, and a small purse made of soft calf-hide, in which he found a rolled up scroll and a chain of pearls. Further signs of his victim's status.

  Pity all these fancy trimmings hadn't helped the bearded bugger hold his ale or wield a sword with more dexterity, he thought wryly.

  But as a son of the infamous mercenary warrior Guillaume d'Anzeray, Dom had grown up on the battlefield, knew little of any other life beyond war, and therefore spared no more sympathy than that for his ill-equipped victim.

  He unrolled the small scroll and carefully perused the contents. Although not the most accomplished reader in his family, he'd made an effort lately to learn—in secret, of course, so his brothers could not tease him after so many years during which he'd loudly disdained the scrivener's art. He could understand enough now, thanks to their third wife Isobel, to get by. She'd been very sweet to him when she found him trying to read a poem once. He was fond of Isobel. But then he was fond of all four wives he and his brothers shared.

  Glancing again at the scroll, he smiled slightly.

  It seemed as if this drunken idiot he'd killed was on his way to escort a fine Norman maiden to her wedding. Very interesting. Perhaps Dom would now get his own woman to contribute to the d'Anzeray harem. Or, if he didn't take a liking to her looks, he could still hold her for ransom until her family paid to get her back. She was apparently of good pedigree and if Dom captured her on the road her relatives would either pay a purse to get her back, or pay him to keep her— depending upon the state of her virginity once she was in his custody.

  Must get a look at her first though and ensure she was suitable breeding stock. His father had advised finding a woman with hips for birthing and good titties for suckling, but there were other qualities Dominigo meant to look for too. Not that he would tell his brothers about that for fear of being laughed out of the family.

  He tied the belt and purse around his hips and slid the ring on his finger. Then he tossed his old, thin cloak over the corpse, mounted his own horse and led the newly acquired beast by its bridle. Time to see what else he could claim as his war prize, for according to that letter there was plenty for the taking and she wasn't far away.

  * * * *

  A bone-cold chill swept through the manor that afternoon and there was nowhere to escape its vicious tendrils except the cookhouse. Here Cedney Bloodwynne made use of himself, not just to benefit from the warmth but to hide from his father's ghost. On days like these, when the wind howled and doors rattled, the old man was more present than ever, whispering in his ear. No matter how many times he told his father to leave him alone, the spirit came back again—usually to tell him he did something wrong, or wanting Cedney to slice someone's throat open.

  But Cedney had no more time for war. He was sick of it and just wanted to get on with his life. As he told his father's ghost, much had happened to him and to the world in the seven years since old Hereward Bloodwynne's death, since his only child became an orphan at fourteen. And since, in one desperate moment of necessity, Cedney also became forever known as a male.

  As she promised her father, she'd led his remaining soldiers and kept the manor whole for as long as she could, until their neighbors gave up the fight and Normans outnumbered her Saxon allies. Then, on bended knee, dressed in breeches and chainmail, the slender youth pledged fealty to the new king and survived by a lie. Somehow she'd got away with it. Time had moved on, and with the turn of every season Cedney became deeper entrenched in her false identity. So far did she embody it now that she often forgot her true gender. Most of her father's counselors had died in the intervening years and if Ordwyn, the lone survivor, still remembered that Cedney was female, he never mentioned it.

  King William, impressed by tales of the young lord's bravery, and by "his" noble demeanor at their one meeting, allowed Cedney Bloodwynne to keep the manor. At least, for now. Always there was a chance the king's mood would change, but he was, at that time, more interested in settling the land and making his mark through building—not just grand structures of stone, but allegiances. Apparently he saw in Cedney the future and even, perhaps, a little of himself when he was a youth.

  Perhaps her success in this pretense was not such a surprise. After all, while he was still alive, Hereward Bloodwynne had tried his best to make her into a boy, teaching her how to handle a sword, a knife and a club. Treating her as if she was "one of the lads", never apologizing for his loud burps at dinner or sparing her ears from his crude jokes. He'd wanted her toughened up. As a daughter she was merely an inconvenience and Cedney was made well aware of that fact, so for much of her youth she'd struggled to please her father by filling the place of a son, denying her femininity.

  Unfortunately, she was now one and twenty—no more such a slender youth - and it took her longer each day to hide her feminine curves. But even worse than this, King William had decided it was time Cedney married a Norman wife. And he could no longer be put off with excuses.

  The chosen bride was on her way to the manor now, escorted by one of her uncles.Somehow, Cedney must carry this off. She had played the role of boy, son, lord and warrior. Now she must also play husband.

  But there was deceit and then there was blasphemy. Cedney had a feeling some would say she'd committed both by living as a man all these years, and she was also quite sure the Normans—with their love of law and order—would have a rule against what she'd done.

  On that afternoon, as wailing wind dashed around corners and rattled bare tree limbs, she knew her father rode with it, trying to hound her out and lecture her again, tell her what she should be feeling and thinking and doing. So she hid here in the cookhouse, amid all the noise and bustle, where a welcome feast was being prepared for her bride. Her bride. The woman who came to wed her and—sweet lord—bed with her.

  "Oh, father," she muttered under her breath, chopping angrily at a slab of newly slaughtered beef, "let me grow a cock and quickly." Blood speckles shot up over her tunic. "Or I fear the poor wench might die of disappointment on our wedding night." What she needed was a cock like the large specimen belonging to Torvig, one of her younger counselors, a grandson of Ordwyn, and a fellow who boasted a vast deal about his prowess with the women.Aye, if only she could borrow Torvig's thrusting spear for one night to deflower her maiden bride and hopefully impregnate the wench too.

  For whatever her own sins, surely raising the hopes of a young maiden and leaving them unfulfilled would be the worst thing she did yet. After all, Cedney knew a great deal about thwarted lust and frustration—knew what it was to have a woman's body and never have the pleasure of using it.

  She wouldn't wish her lot on anyone.

  Chapter Two

  "You're not my uncle," the prim girl exclaimed as she stepped out of the small boat and stood among the reeds, holding her finely woven kirtle off the damp ground. "Where is he?" she demanded in French. "Where is my uncle Rufus?" Her expression was more peevish than anxious or fearful. She gave no assistance to the elderly, crook-backed woman who tried following her out of the rocking rowboat.

  Dominigo stood before her in the dead man's cloak and lied in her own language, with what he thought was brazen aplomb. "He couldn't come and sent me instead, my Lady Rosamund. He is...laid low...with a stomach ailment that keeps him chained to the privy." While she glowered at him, he stepped around her to help the old woman. When he put out his hands, the bent crone looked shocked, wary. But he smiled, picked her up under her arms and lifted her effortlessly through the weeds to stand on dryer ground. Her mouth opened wide in surprise. It was as if no one had ever noticed her presence before, let alone helped her.

  A sour-faced boatman sat with his oars in the air. Having made no move to assist either of his passengers, he gave a sniff of relief and quickly pushed away from the bank side. "Good luck to you," he muttered, shooting Dom a quick, wry
glance as he lowered his oars and began to row quickly away. "You'll need it."

  It wasn't long before Dom understood the boatman's comment.

  "I have had the most terrible journey," the young girl now shouted at Dom as if everything wrong was his fault, waving her arms about and spitting French words. "Lame horses, broken wheels, inhospitable peasants, a boorish blacksmith, a boat that leaked. And now my own uncle cannot be bothered to greet me. Does no one in this godforsaken country know how to treat a lady with respect? I have not eaten since this morning, and last night I was forced to share my bed with this wretched old crone just for some warmth."

  Dom looked her up and down. So this was Lady Rosamund Du Clair, of noble blood pedigree, virgin pussy and good dowry. She had a pretty face, he supposed, although it was hard to tell when she was busy complaining, her lips turned down and her brow furrowed with a continuous frown. She was sturdy, plump and made plenty of noise. None of these things, in his experience of females, suggested she had lacked sustenance, health or comfort for long. "You do not appear to have suffered overmuch," he muttered.

  "Not suffered? Not suffered?" Her cheeks puffed out and became scarlet with indignation.

  "You're clean, wench, well dressed, apparently healthy and walking on two feet. There are many who can't lay claim to all those advantages."

  "How dare you speak to me thus? Who are you anyway? I don't like you. Why should I believe my uncle sent you to escort me?"