Page 110 of The Thornwyck Rose

Seren’s heart convulsed. She locked eyes with him, pleading—begging her son not to speak again. The slow pain crawled across his face.

Henry’s face twisted. “I had a mother once, too,boy. I heard my mother’s screams until I didn’t. At least your mother’s death will be quick—though her head may roll at your feet.” He turned to face the great hall. “May you all learn a lesson. I am a Marcher Lord! The Marcher Lord of Mortlande, and you will obey me.”

He pointed at Seren.

“I will not show mercy to traitors.”

Seren’s heart thrashed against her ribs as David’s eyes brimmed with tears.

“Commander Geoffrey,” Henry barked. “Take her head.”

A stunned silence swallowed the hall.

Seren’s breath shook. The Lord had not answered her silent prayer to spare David the spectacle of her death.

The guard beside her removed her veil and pulled her braid forward. The cold light through the high windows fell across her bare neck.

She had known her own death would come. She had made peace with that long ago when she walked the path of swords at seventeen, but kneeling and waiting for death after having children and finding love was entirely different.

Erik, she thought of the way he’d held her before he left.

At least he would not bear the horror of killing her and carry that guilt for the rest of his life. It was a single mercy in a world stripped bare of them.

Geoffrey drew his sword.

“Do it,” Henry snarled.

Geoffrey remained still. “Is there evidence of your accusation, Lord Henry? She is a favored one of God. I will not spill her innocent blood.”

“You will do as I, Marcher Lord of Mortlande, command, Bramber. Retreat is my evidence, and I do not need to show it to you, knight.” The threat was implicit. Though he was a noble’s son, he might just do away with him, too.

Geoffrey lifted his sword—but hesitated. Its tip returned to the ground. “My lord . . . does the lady have any last words?”

Henry seethed, but allowed it.

Seren lifted her necklace from her neck. The silver cross dangled from her fingers. She laid it across her palm. The warm metal grounded her as she lifted her face toward Heaven.

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” she whispered before her voice returned. “Glory be to Your name forever. If You will a righteous hand, then let Your hand do what must be done. Be with my children. Give them peace.” Her breath shook. “Be with those no longer with us and the ones who are forced to spill blood.”

She touched her brow, her chest, her shoulders.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

Her breath rattled.

“Amen.”

“Amen,” Geoffrey murmured a few moments later. She had prayed for him, too, and he wavered. “I have a swift aim, milady,” he said.

“Then do not fail me,” Seren answered.

Geoffrey drew a long breath. “I beg your forgiveness, Lady de Thornwyck.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Commander.”

Geoffrey glanced at Henry—seeking the final confirmationhe dreaded—among the shifting and shuffling feet behind her.

“Her blood is on your hands, my lord, not mine. She is innocent in my eyes,” Geoffrey said above the clamor.