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

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.