The Virgin Proxy(2)

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.

“Sister Annunica says you will become a nun now.”



“So they think.”



Sybilia’s timid steps paced before the window. She cleared her throat. “I can offer you another choice.”



“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?”

She had to agree. The idiot made sense for once.



“But there is one other thing.”



Aha! She knew it! There was always a catch.



Sybilia stared at her intently, thorough gaze sweeping along her sprawling length. “You are …untouched…are you not?”