Page 111 of The Thornwyck Rose

But Henry gritted, “Obey me.”

Seren returned her gaze to David, who stared at her with fear etched into his brow while guards held his arms. She had done the best she could, and all she could do was trust the Lord’s hand to cover her children. Two tears slid down her cheeks. She mouthed the last comfort she could give.

“Close. Your. Eyes.”

The sword lifted high.

XXXVIII

THE RETURN HOME

THE WELSH MARCHES, DECEMBER 1099

Erik gallopedalong Mortlande’s barren fields through the night and into the next day. He had to catch Henry’s retreat and reach Seren before the blade. He pushed Viggo hard, and the horse, nearing the end of its warrior life, trusted Erik as if the beast knew it was its last run.

The sun set as December’s winds rushed past as Viggo raced without all the armor’s added weight. Erik raised in the saddle despite his burning thighs and leaned into the beast to keep the air enveloping them like they were one, and for warmth against the cold.

“Faster!”

He dug his heels in, and Viggo ran as if running for his life.

Erik’s fingers were stiff on the reins. The wind tore at his eyes, making everything blur. The two hand axes sheathed on his belt thumped cold against his back. His tunic clung to his damp skin, sweat frozen by the wind, threatening to tear apart at the seams.

He couldn’t feel his ears or his nose by the halfway point. The stallion’s breath fogged, as did his own. But he forced the horse into another burst of speed.

Castel Thornwyck rose through the winter mist like ablackened crown, and Erik bellowed with every shred of breath left in him, “Open the gate!”

The drawbridge lurched downward.

Viggo understood the urgency in his rider’s voice. Viggo surged forward, trembling with heat, foam streaking his chest. Erik felt the stallion falter beneath him, but the horse—loyal to the bone—did not slow.

He tore across the bailey at arrow point. Guards shouted warnings. He ignored all and ignored the fact that the host had already settled in the bailey.

The wind had ripped his tunic to shreds. The neckline hung open, the bodice split; the cloth cracked with frost against his skin. Odin’s spear and the Valknut stood bared across his body like war paint, black against winter-paled skin.

“It’s Commander de Montfort!” someone cried. “He lives!”

It meant Henry had told them he was dead.

Erik dug his heels in. Viggo lunged. Guards scattered.

He ducked beneath the inner gate, vaulted the bridge to the keep, and didn’t wait for the stallion to stop. He slammed off the horse as Viggo skidded over the timber, panting hard.

Pain flared up Erik’s spine, his legs begged to buckle—but he forced himself forward on pure will and love.

Took three stairs at a time.

Shoulder slammed stone.

Breath tore out of him in bursts.

“Seren, stay with me,” he begged under his ragged breath.

As if answering, Seren’s voice echoed down the spiral stairs. “In the name of the Father . . . ”

His heart pounded and twisted. He wouldn’t allow himself to believe he wouldn’t make it in time. He gritted his teeth and tore up the stairs, boots slamming stone. The roar in his ears wasn’t just exertion—it was terror that he would be too late.

The great hall burst into view as he rounded the last curve. Geoffrey stood over her, sword lifted, the blade catching the dying light.