Page 107 of The Thornwyck Rose

Madoc studied him for a moment.

“You would give your life for her.”

“Yes.”

Something inside Madoc shifted. It seemed a new direction was given to his grief.

He turned toward his captains. “Wake the runners. Light the beacons. Call the clans to arms. The Welsh march on Thornwyck. If my daughter is murdered, we will not leave a soul within those walls breathing.”

The men shot to their feet.

Madoc faced Erik again. “Ride without armor. Only your axes. A horse flies when it carries no extra weight.” His eyes narrowed. “If you reach Thornwyck before Henry . . . pull her from those walls.”

“I will,” Erik said.

“And if you fail . . . ” Madoc breathed hard, steadying himself, but his face hardened.

Erik didn’t look away. “If she dies, others in that keep die with her. Innocent ones. You know this.”

Madoc held his stare, then stepped closer until their breath mingled in the cold air. “And, Commander—if you only seek to return to your master, I will make your pain tenfold.”

Erik’s voice stayed level. “He may have forced obedience. But my loyalty belongs to Lady Seren.”

He motioned to a scout. “Ride far enough to ensure he clears our borders alive.” He turned to a stable hand. “Give him whatever horse will carry him fastest.”

Erik bowed once. “My horse will do.”

Madoc’s last words followed him like a warning bell:

“If you mean to save her, ride. If you betray us—pray the Marches take you first.”

He would ride hard. The Norseman turned toward the dark outside, the frost biting at his nose, with her voice echoing in the space between his breaths: “Return to us, Erik.”

XXXVII

THE LORD’S RETURN

THORNWYCK KEEP, DECEMBER 1099

The gatesof Thornwyck groaned open under a bruised dawn. The drawbridge dropped.

Seren stood on the roof-walk with Godric, David, and Ragnar, her fur mantle tight around her shoulders as Henry’s broken host dragged itself through the bailey. The horses stumbled while injured men limped. Their banners hung in tatters.

Retreat.

But Henry’s face—ashen, hollowed with humiliation—was the worst omen. He looked like a man who needed someone to bleed for his failure.

Seren drew in a deep breath and knew the day had come; she was to die.

She scanned the knights beside Henry; she didn’t see Erik’s familiar build. A weight dropped in her stomach.

“Inside,” Seren murmured, guiding David, Ragnar, and Godric back from the wall. “Quickly.”

Inside the keep, panic rippled through the corridors. Servants hushed children. The great hall filled with frightened whispers.

Seren gripped Ragnar’s arm.

“Take your sisters,” she said, keeping her voice steady. “And Baldwin—take them to the vault by the storeroom. Bolt the door. Do not open it unless Godric, David, or I come ourselves. There is enough for you to live for a year.”