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

by Georgia Fox

  Although they usually got away with their behavior for some reason, on this occasion the King was angry enough to send soldiers after one of them.

  This crime must have hit a sore spot.

  She was unsettled, but not so much by the fact that he had killed a man and taken his place. Killing was a frequent occurrence in this world and she would be a hypocrite to pretend herself outraged by the death of a man about whom she knew and cared nothing. No, Cedney's concern was for Dominigo, the man to whom she had given her virginity. The man who knew her secret.

  Unable to resist him, she had betrayed the promise to her father. Disappointed in herself, she refused to think anymore about him or what they had done together. She would never see him again. If he knew what was best for himself he would be far away by now and beyond the reach of William's soldiers.

  But when she closed her eyes she saw him pointing that finger at her again. I choose you.

  She clenched her jaw. No, she, Cedney Bloodwynne, was not to be chosen. She was not a female living at the bidding of men. Her destine was already assigned, long before he came along and looked at her with white-hot appreciation in those forged steel eyes.

  He had not taken the box of treasures she'd offered in exchange for his secrecy. Odd that a mercenary soldier would leave those riches behind.

  "I am fortunate to have escaped his clutches," exclaimed the Lady Rosamund. "For I have heard how those d'Anzeray bastards treat women. It is a wonder I was not ravaged."

  Again her elderly maid looked askance.

  The soldiers gone again, there was nothing to do but continue with the wedding plans.

  Lady Rosamund flirted and chattered away, apparently not too upset by the news of her uncle's death. "My lord, I hear you had a good hunt today," she said in her native French.

  "We did." It was a good thing Cedney knew some of the language and had studied hard. Clearly Lady Rosamund had no intention of learning her "husband's" tongue likewise to make this adopted land her proper home. But that would only make it harder for her to be happy there, thought Cedney.

  "You have blood from the hunt still upon your tunic," the woman observed with a sultry gleam in her eye as if she was aroused by the sight. "On our wedding night tomorrow, my lord, the blood that is let shall be mine." She ran her fingernails down Cedney's sleeve.

  Alarmed, Cedney suddenly thought of her bed, the mattress spotted with the stain of her maidenhead. She would have to cover it before the wedding night. Or perhaps she could hide it until the next morning and Rosamund would think the blood her own.

  She signaled for wine, thinking she would need it, not only to get through this, but also to never think of Dominigo again. "I shall give my wife lessons in the Saxon tongue," she said sternly.

  Rosamund smiled blankly at her, not understanding, of course.

  The elderly maid leaned close to Cedney and whispered, "Take caution, young sir. The lady is not so naive in some matters as she would lead you to believe."

  "What is your meaning, woman?"

  "She knows what to expect. And she'll be disappointed without it." The old lady looked nervous and then lowered her gaze to the ground, before shuffling away.

  Fear touched Cedney with cold, invisible hands. The nurse's warning was obvious and suggested that she too had guessed the secret of the young lord of Bloodwynne. If so, was it becoming more evident to strangers, or had she said something to give herself away? Since the old woman already moved away across the hall it was too late to reprimand her for speaking before she was invited to do so, but something must have emboldened her to say this without her lady hearing.

  Cedney's anxiety turned to anger. This was d'Anzeray's fault. Had he never come there she would not have been tempted, would never have let her mask slip. He had shown her up as a woman simply by standing beside her no doubt. The bastard.

  * * * *

  The next morning dawned bright but cold. The air was brittle, the sky a piercing blue without cloud, yet the light gave out no heat to comfort her bones or to melt the snow that had fallen yesterday.

  Cedney bathed and dressed in her chamber. She ached from her activities with Dominigo the day before, for although her muscles were well exercised in most sport, the games he had taught her were different and demanded positions to which she was unaccustomed. She finished her garments with a hooded mantle and her father's chain of copper.

  Her counselors came, as they did each morning, to let her know the news and business of the day. The monk charged with overseeing the marriage had arrived from Ely and was currently feeding his face in the cookhouse.

  "Lady Rosamund is in fractious spirits and eager to get the ceremony over with," said Ordwyn, once her father's most trusted counselor and now her oldest. He coughed hard and gazed at her through watery eyes. This winter had been hard on the old man's health.

  "Yes," Cedney sighed. "She does seem keen. Is that not strange?"

  They all looked at her, their faces uncertain. She studied each one carefully and noted that Torvig seemed irritated, restless. He was resentful, she knew, because he thought he could do a better job than Cedney. She had heard him complain to his grandfather that he felt held back, that if only his father had been lord of the manor...

  "What think you of Lady Rosamund?" she asked him now.

  He was plainly startled by the question. "She is a bride of good pedigree, my lord."

  "And if you were me you would be glad to take her."

  Torvig squinted uneasily. "Of course. But I am not lord of the manor."

  She sighed. "Then I suppose the deed falls to my lot. I cannot say I find the prospect thrilling. The lady is...forward. And noisy."

  "The Lady Rosamund is two and twenty, beyond the first flush of youth. Beyond the first bloom," observed Ordwyn gloomily. "No doubt she is anxious to have a husband and bear children. Once she is settled here she will change. All women conform and calm their ways once they are made mothers."

  Cedney was amused by this. Not merely because the old man really must have forgotten her gender after all these years, but because he did not know as much about women as he thought.

  She glanced down at her hands where they rested on her knees. Her gaze skimmed the rough nails and the ring she wore— her father's amber ring and his cuffs etched with the Bloodwynne crest. The cuffs were still large on her own wrists. She had never quite filled them out. Like her breeches. "I am only a year younger than Rosamund," she muttered. And her mind dwelt upon the thought. Rosamund was considered at the end of her most valuable years already and that was why she needed a husband— even a Saxon would do for her now. Rosamund wanted babies too, of course.

  She expected Cedney to give them to her.

  None of her counselors spoke again. They stood around her as they always did and waited for her to look at them. Except for Torvig. Torvig was young, handsome, clever. Sometimes she felt his resentment boiling away beneath his well-chiseled surface. One day he would look to flex his strength against her. His pride would force it, whether he had enough support for his rebellion or not. He may be waiting now for Ordwyn to die, for the old man was her strongest ally, her greatest protector, and he was much respected by the other counselors. No one would go against her while she still had Ordwyn on her side. He was her one constant, the man who had guided her much as a parent would—without the rights of chastisement.

  What would Torvig do if he knew she was a woman? Oh, there was no question, no doubt.

  Cedney had always thought that if she could do all that a man could do— if she proved herself capable, no one would have cause to complain, to think her inadequate. Was it enough for them that she tried so hard?

  Was it enough for her to live this lie until her death?

  Today was her wedding day and as a woman she should shed some tears. As a man she could not.

  "We had better not keep the lady waiting then," she said stiffly, rising up and straightening her shoulders. "Has there been no word of the villain who pretend
ed to be her uncle?"

  "No, my lord. He seems to have disappeared without a trace. The soldiers, no doubt, will find him."

  "And he stole nothing before he left us?"

  Ordwyn gave her an odd look. "Nothing of material value, my lord."

  She stared back. "Curious for a man of his reputation, do you not think?"

  "Perhaps."

  "It is possible he was not a d'Anzeray after all then. They could be chasing after the wrong man."

  Ordwyn gave a faint smile. "Perhaps."

  "Since he did no harm here."

  "Perhaps."

  "He hunted with us, broke bread with us. I saw only civility and good humor. One would not expect that from a d'Anzeray."

  "Perhaps."

  She frowned. "Ordwyn, for a counselor you have too many answers that are indecisive."

  He bowed his head. "Per— I prefer, in some cases, to let you make your own conclusions. I do find, my lord, that you are capable of judgment in those matters, after all these years, without my answers to lead you. Just as your father was. Even better."

  "Better than my father?" she exclaimed, not thinking it possible.

  "He faced different problems in his day. Your challenges are...unique... but I am sure you will always do what is best for the manor in your own way. Just as he did what he believed to be for the best, when it was his decision to make." He looked at her with grave solemnity, his eyes heavy. "Each generation must make their own choices for the good of the people. And you will make yours— not your father's choices— your own." He turned away slowly.

  She thought about Ordwyn's words that day and realized that she had tried seven years to live up to her father's memory, even to be her father. Cedney might try to deny her limitations as a female, but this marriage was about to expose them so they could no longer be ignored. If her father were there, even he would not be able to ignore them either.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dom waited until the festivities were underway and the guards at the manor gates had enjoyed a few ales. It was dusk, the light fading early at this time of year, and with the wedding ceremony complete no one expected trouble. They thought him long gone, of course, and would not expect him to return. He'd spent the night in the marshes, after swapping his stolen mantle for another with a pedlar on the road. It was not the first time he'd been chased and these soldiers were a sorry set of hunters. Could be why they were sent to find him, he mused. King William would have to make a show of seeking justice for the death of Barberousse, but he also owed much to the d'Anzeray who did his dirty work on occasion. Work he could find no one else to take on. So he needed the d'Anzeray on his side and he was careful about their relationship. Dom had often pondered exactly how much the king owed their father and how it had begun. His brothers merely excepted it, as they did most things their father told them. Sometimes, however, he imagined Salvador, the eldest son, knew more than he told and kept secrets that lay heavy upon his shoulders.

  But, as his brothers would say, this was no time to think of politics.

  Dominigo was there to get himself a bride. Whether she liked it or not. Whether she believed she was a woman or not.

  * * * *

  The noise of the feast rang in her ears and made her head ache. Even the minstrels could not ease the pain. It was like a band of wool pulled tight around her head and squeezing without mercy. She looked at Lady Rosamund and felt panic as she faced the night ahead. She had been warned that Rosamund knew what to expect and the woman was clearly forward, experienced to some degree. Even now she placed her hand on Cedney's thigh beneath the trestle table and ran her fingers along it, but Cedney delayed as long as she could, eating more than she wanted, drinking more than she needed.

  When the widow Alaya brought another jug of wine to the head table, Cedney was disappointed to find there was only enough for Rosamund's cup, but it was poured before she could take any and then Alaya hurried away again. Annoyed, Cedney looked for another jug.

  "My lord, should we not soon retire to bed?" her bride demanded, after sipping her wine. "Oh," she looked down into her cup and picked at her teeth, "there is something in it."

  "'Tis only spice," Cedney replied sharply, too irritable to pay much heed to the other woman's complaints. After all, there were so many of them.

  Alaya returned to the table and smiled coyly as she whispered to Lady Rosamund. At once the new bride finished her wine and then dug her fingers into the cup, scooped out the dregs and ate those too.

  "What did she say to you?" Cedney demanded, watching the curvaceous widow swing her hips again as she walked away. Thinking of the evening when she watched Dominigo fuck that woman, she felt even angrier suddenly. It was like a sharp thorn stuck in her finger, a piercing, spiteful sting. Was he now fucking some other woman? He had been so casual in the way he caught Alaya's eye and then mounted her outside, on her knees in the dirt.

  And then another thought heaped upon her fury. Had he thought of Cedney the same way when he mated with her? Was she no more to him than that? Perhaps, as Ordwyn would say, she mused grimly.

  "It is a recipe in the wine to enhance our evening, my lord," Rosamund slurred, satiny lashes fluttering against her cheeks. "The serving girl told me it is tradition for the bride."

  She had no idea what Alaya had put in the wine, but it seemed to make Rosamund sleepy and floppy. Very soon it became necessary to escort her to their chamber. Cedney's fears should have closed in then, but oddly enough she became calmer. The anger she'd felt at her situation and at Dominigo for being...well, for being a man...had helped even out her mood, steady her with a refreshing wave of new confidence.

  For seven years she had managed with this masquerade and she would find a way to get around this Lady Rosamund obstacle that had been pushed upon her. She had fought like a man, let blood like a man, hunted like a man. She could do anything. Cedney refused to believe that her lack of a cock would bring an end to her life's work. She'd simply hire one.

  * * * *

  The fire and candles were already lit in her chamber as usual. Bowers of greenery had been strewn around the bed in celebration of the wedding, but Cedney now pulled those down, having no patience for fripperies. She turned to help Lady Rosamund to the bed, but the young woman was already falling and landed flat on her face across the mattress a few seconds later with a heavy sigh.

  Cedney closed her chamber door and shrugged out of her mantle. The minstrels still played in the great hall and they sounded louder than ever, the music and song echoing down the passage.

  What a long day it had been. Every bone felt weary and there was a sadness lurking in her heart, a loneliness that she'd tried all day to smother. Now that she looked down at the snoring woman on her bed, and an image of Dominigo lying there instead flashed through her weary mind, that sense of isolation and unhappiness burbled out and up, refusing to be held down.

  She warmed her hands by the fire and then approached the bed again. Rosamund appeared to be sleeping soundly the moment her nose hit the mattress. The spiced wine had certainly gone to her head.

  Suddenly Cedney had another thought as she remembered how greedily her bride had eaten the remnants from the bottom of her cup. She felt the young girl's wrist and measured the steady pulse. Then she looked at her face, moving the long brown hair aside. Mouth open, Rosamund snored into the bed, lashes fluttering as she dreamed deeply. Cedney sniffed a gust of her breath.

  Mushrooms. Someone had given the girl mashed up mushrooms from the marsh in her wine. Now she would sleep with vivid, pleasurable dreams all night long.

  "I hear it's very beneficial if not taken to excess."

  She spun around and found Dominigo d'Anzeray in her chamber. He had come back, the reckless villain. "What the devil are you doing here?"

  He smirked. "I wanted to see how you managed your bride. I told you I was curious."

  "You gave her mushrooms from the marsh?"

  "With a little help from sweet Alaya."


  Reminded again of his tryst with the curvy widow, Cedney pursed her lips.

  "I also told you," he advanced a step, arms at his sides, "that you're coming with me."

  Before she could speak, there was a sound at the door and Torvig, her ambitious young counselor called out, "My lord, you required my presence?" He sounded puzzled again.

  She looked at d'Anzeray and he whispered, "I sent for him on your behalf. Thought you might need his help to deflower your bride."

  "I don't—"

  He swept her up over his shoulder. "Oh, yes you do, my lady."

  Her knife was left in the folds of her mantle. She had nothing but her fists, feet and teeth. But he was impervious, it seemed, to all of them.

  * * * *

  He took her out of the manor via the same escape tunnel she had shown him before. Outside the gates, sheltered by a cluster of beech trees, his horse awaited.

  "I am not going with you," she shouted, kicking at him as he tossed her up over the shoulders of the warhorse. The animal reared up and then settled as he took the reins and spoke soft words in Spanish to calm it. "I must go back," she yelled. "It is my manor, my home! I live there."

  "And you have lived a lie there," he replied, swinging up into the saddle. "Now you are mine."

  She cursed and spat, but soon found her fight impossible. Unless she wanted to fall and be trampled by the massive hooves of his horse she had to lay still and satisfy her rage by screaming insults.

  "Now I would know you are a woman, even if I had not already claimed your sweet pussy," he muttered. "Only a woman would waste her breath in this manner, exhaust herself with these violent actions that can achieve nothing."