Page 12 of The Thornwyck Rose

It was the supper hour, and Lord Henry had summoned Mortlande nobles, stewards, barons, and lesser lords to dine and witness. The hall smelled of spiced meat and pine smoke.

Seren sat beside her husband at the high table, her goblet untouched.

Guards dragged the girl through the great hall. A rope was tied around her wrists, already bruising. The guards didn’t try to hide them. Her dark hair tangled, falling long, and her shift clung to her in the damp.

She looked like the girls from her home, like the girls who used to chase birds from the grain bins, and the ones Seren used to feed.

Seren’s stomach twisted again. Was it the Lord’s calling?

What if the girl were her daughter?

Would she still watch?

Would she still sit still?

No.

Lord Henry rose.

“Tonight,” he said, “we uphold the law—have the girl cleansed for her sin and then brought at dawn to be hanged.”

The girl screamed, and Seren stood.

All eyes snapped to Seren.

Commander de Montfort’s eyes grew wide, and his body stiffened. He had warned her. Be loyal, be pious, obey, and trust no one.

If Lord Henry demanded it, she would do it. But Lord Henry was not God.

The pendant cross burned hot against her skin, or perhaps her skin burned hot beneath its bronze.

Henry’s goblet was too far out of reach, and he’d smack her away before he’d allow her to touch him. And if he fell, now without an heir, chaos would ensue in the Marches.

Henry swung his gaze to his new wife. “You dare to speak against my law?” The question came low, as if asking for a reason to do away with her. She figured if he could make her the villain, then it would be a righteous reason enough to invade the Welsh chiefdoms.

She dipped her chin in reverence, knowing her plan.

“No, my lord,” she said, words meek as they were when she first spoke in the great hall, but blessed were the meek, thus said the Lord.

The thought gave her strength.

She had not wanted to use her unborn child for strategy, at least not yet. But at that moment, mercy demanded a price, and her child was the only coin she had left.

“I have word to give you,” she said in a voice of silk. “I am with your child.”

His eyes lit.

She continued, “And in honor of this new life that we will bring forth, I only ask to pray over the girl as she istransported to the prison in the bailey, so that her spirit may truly be cleansed and her feet may walk through Heaven’s gate.”

The words rang false in her own mind, but in Henry’s, they might have rang true. His gaze, when he met Seren’s, gleamed with amusement.

“My wife has asked to pray over the condemned,” he chuckled with a satisfied grin. “And so she shall. A loyal and pious woman with an obedient heart—who am I to refuse?”

The crowd in the great hall politely applauded.

Seren turned slowly, heart thudding beneath her ribs. Across the room, she caught sight of Commander de Montfort standing by the hearth, arms folded. His expression gave nothing away, but he watched her with sea-blue eyes like an angel might watch as the world burned.

The girl was brought forward, forced to her knees before the high table. She trembled as Seren approached. The guards stepped back—but not far.