The Virgin Proxy

Evernight Publishing

www.evernightpublishing.com

Copyright© 2011 Georgia Fox

ISBN:
978-1-926950-78-5

Cover Artist: LF Designs

Editor: Marie Buttineau

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Anastasia

THE VIRGIN PROXY

The Conquerors, 2

Georgia Fox

Copyright © 2011

Chapter One

Wessex, England 1080

“He was mistaken.” The young woman knelt with her hands held out and once again denied it was her bare posterior hanging from the bell-tower that previous evening. She solemnly maintained that Brother Saul’s shock, when he looked up to check if there was a full moon and found that, yes indeed, there was one —of a less celestial nature, had naught to do with her at all.

“We shall get our proof, girl.” Sister Agnes wrapped her across the knuckles with a knotted stick.

The miscreant kept her stoic face. “How? Bend us over in a parade, so he can look at all our asses?”

Incensed, Sister Agnes swiped that stick once again across the suspect’s hands where two scarlet lines already formed. It wouldn’t occur to the nuns that the woman before them enjoyed the fiery sting of pain, but she’d learned, over the years, that this was one way to be sure she still lived and breathed when all else around her suggested the contrary. In this place where the sensation of pleasure was strictly forbidden, it was better to feel pain than nothing at all.

The door behind her creaked open and immediately the inquisitor bowed a respectful head. “Mother Superior.”

A tall, rail-thin figure glided across the floor. “Stand, Deorwynn.”

The accused stood, fists at her side, her gaze unwavering. Although she made an attempt to subdue her lips, they were untamable. A slight upward quirk on one side, punctuated by a deep dimple in her cheek, made her appear amused even when she was not.

Surly and irritable, the Mother Superior exclaimed, “Since you are now orphaned and no marriage provisions were apparently left for you, I’m afraid we must take you in as one of our own. You will…”

“No!” Her entire being was ready to fight.

The old woman paused, eyes gleaming with spite, before she continued, “You
will
become a Bride of Christ.”

“I’d rather die,” Deorwynn replied flatly.

“So you will. Eventually. We must all meet our maker in time. And I daresay the Devil is especially eager to get his hands on you.”

The Mother Superior turned away, signaling to the nuns behind her. They left their charge alone, closing the door with a hearty thud in their wake.

A great wrenching fear burned in her throat as she heard the bolt drawn across, but she swallowed it quickly back down. Let them take away every material thing she had. There was one thing they couldn’t take with their cruel, gnarled claws—her spirit.

Deorwynn of Wexford would not be down beaten. Many people had tried to crush her and failed. When she first came to the convent, as a child of six, her family were wealthy and important, her father an Eaorl, one of the powerful overlords of Saxon England. But only a year after she arrived at the convent the filthy Normans came to conquer. They stole away her family’s land, her home, and they slaughtered three of her brothers on the battlefield. Her father and one remaining brother became prisoners of the new Norman king. From that point onward Deorwynn’s status changed. The nuns gleefully used a firmer hand in her “guidance”, but to no avail. The “rot”, as they called it, had set in.

During her fifteen years at the convent, Deorwynn had received more lashes for her disobedience than anyone else in the history of the place, according to Mother Superior. And Deorwynn basked in her fame. May as well be known for something, she thought. Deep inside, she clung to the hope of being rescued one day. Having watched other girls leave, one by one, fetched by their families or their betrothed, she waited patiently to be remembered. But she waited in vain. Now her dispossessed father had died of a fever in the Norman king’s custody, still refusing to pledge fealty to the conqueror. Her one surviving brother remained a prisoner, but the nuns had clearly given up waiting for him.

Blowing on her throbbing fingers, she pondered the milk-white sky through the window and assessed the possibility of squeezing her body between those iron bars. Perhaps, five or six years ago, it might have been possible – when she was a slim, shapeless creature. Sadly she now had breasts and hips. She was once warned that she would regret them when they filled out; sure enough, she now cursed them bitterly for their inconvenience.

It seemed the old fortune-teller who came to the gate recently had been right.

“Your life is about to change, young woman,” she’d said, as she studied her rune stones. “You come to the end of one path and turn down another.”

Deorwynn was a firm believer in fortunes and omens. For some time now she’d suffered a recurring nightmare about big black ravens, clustered in the stark, twisted limbs of a dead tree, their evil eyes staring down at her. That was surely a dark omen if ever she saw one. The old woman’s warning had further assured Deorwynn that something bad loomed.

But the fortune teller had also said, “What is lost will be found again.”

She wondered what that could be. Her shoes probably, she concluded, realizing she’d left them behind in the bell-tower. She was well and truly skewered then. The recovery of her shoes would be all the proof needed to condemn her for that crime.

Suddenly the door shuddered open and another young woman entered, bringing with her a cloud of scented air.

Deorwynn sighed. Of all the girls to come and crow over her it must be this one—the most trying little fool ever to share her breathing space. Sybilia Senclere was sired of the evil Norman blood, although she’d lived in England for some years. Positively angelic in appearance she had long, fair hair and a shape well-curved, but delicate and dainty. When one looked at her, it was almost as if the sky itself broke open and sent a shaft of heavenly light down upon her. Deorwynn would not have been surprised if a chorus of devotional song followed Sybilia’s graceful footsteps across the stone floor.

“What do you want, tiny-brain?”

The other woman closed the door and turned, smoothing her hands over her fine woolen gown. “I owe you my mother-of-pearl broach since you won the dare.”

She’d almost forgotten the reason for her midnight exploit in the bell-tower. “Yes. Where is it then?” She held out her hand. “My prize if you please.”

But Sybilia walked to the barred window and gazed out. “I have a proposition for you, Deorwynn of Wexford.”

“I am not in the mood for another wager.” She fell back across the pallet and stared up at shattered cobweb hanging from a roof beam. It dangled in the draft, broken and deserted, but still clinging on desperately. “Go away. Why aren’t you packing your things?”

Sybilia was about to be married, leaving in the morning to join her betrothed at his fief. Rumor told he was an arrogant Norman Lord with a merciless temper and violent disdain for anyone he considered inferior to himself—especially women. They called him the Mad Bear of Brittany. Deorwynn could think of no one she’d rather see this girl marry.

“I heard about your father,” Sybilia ventured.

“Yes.” It was hard for Deorwynn to feel too much sadness for a person she hadn’t seen since she was six and, even before that, was seldom in the same house with her. The few memories of her home and family were of her brothers teaching her to ride at the tender age of three and letting a gyrfalcon sit on her hand. She remembered its hooked claws digging into the too-big gauntlet they put on her hand, and the little hood it wore as it glared down at her with piercing black eyes.

“Choice?” Deorwynn propped herself up on her elbows. She didn’t trust Sybilia as far as she could kick her, although that was probably a fair distance.

“I am afraid to travel alone. I would like you to come with me as my companion. My handmaid.”

She scowled. “What for?”

“To have you there with me—a familiar face will help me settle to my new life. You are so strong Deorwynn. So brave. Nothing frightens you.”

Her first instinct was to laugh it off, but something in Sybilia’s eyes, akin to genuine terror, gave her pause. That casual flattery, thrown out with ease, helped get her attention too, of course.

“Would you rather stay here?” the other woman persisted. “After a while, if you come with me, you’ll be free to go where you please. You may even find a husband.”

Of that she was extremely skeptical. The world was noticeably lacking in men who wanted a penniless, landless orphan with a tendency to speak her mind and no fear of punishment. “Mother Superior will not…”

“She would not dare refuse me anything after the donation my father is making to her convent. Besides, do you think they would rather have you stay under their feet, if presented with another option?”