Page 120 of The Thornwyck Rose

David rubbed one leg, while Margot kneeled to rub the other. Isolde ran her hands over his arm.

Seren ignored the sting in her eyes. “Lord, don’t take him,” she breathed. “Not tonight. Not like this.”

Isolde placed her hand beside Seren’s on Erik’s chest. “He’ll live,” she promised softly. “Because you asked the Lord. You are favored.”

Seren nodded, but fear pressed at her ribs.

He had raced across a frozen kingdom for her, and now he lay dying because of it. She couldn’t escape the thought:

This was the Lord’s judgment because she was never truly favored by the divine. She’d only twisted her prayers to save children from agony and now to kill a man. She’d forced the Lord’s hand with her poison, and now she feared He might close it around the one she fell in love with when she was married to another.

She bent over Erik’s face as she rubbed his upper chest in short, hard strokes atop the blanket. “Don’t leave me,” she mouthed, hoping no one would hear.

Servants brought in more furs, and the vinegar and flax finally arrived.

Geoffrey shifted from the door and strode into the firelight.

Seren expected a lecture: that her husband was dead and she and her lord son were bent over a pagan trying to save his life. But instead, Geoffrey dropped to the floor between Isolde and David and used the flat of his forearm to rub the furs atop Erik’s stomach and chest.

For the first time in years, her healer’s mind—so clear in crisis—was nothing but ringing fog. Erik’s breath was shallow, his skin mottled with cold. She pressed her hand to his chest again, searching for something to do, anything to do—but nothing came. She was a healer, and yet in the moment, she forgot everything she knew. She glanced at David, who looked at her, wide-eyed. He’d forgotten what she’d taught him.

Finally, Geoffrey’s voice snapped through the haze, sharp as a commander’s:

“Bring warm wine. Hot stones wrapped in cloth. More furs. Move.”

Servants jolted, scattering to obey. Even David straightened.

Seren blinked hard. She knew those orders. She knew what to do. But her body refused to act—shock locked her still. Her pulse roared in her ears. She could only watch Erik’s chest rise in slow, uneven pulls, and keep to the same stroke, warming his chest and face.

The heat in the chamber slowly built—first from the hearth, then from the stones set beneath the blankets, then from the steaming wine brought in clay cups. Geoffrey tested Erik’s pulse, then his breath.

Time crawled.

Finally—Erik’s body eased. The shivering reappeared, then slowed. The strain in his jaw softened.

Geoffrey let out a low grunt, before muttering, “He’s returning.”

David nodded toward the bloodstains spreading through the blankets. “We need to close the wounds.”

Seren tried to thread the needle, but her fingers shook too hard. David gently took the needle from her.

“I’ll start,” he said. “Once your hands stop shaking, Mother, you may help.”

She nodded, ashamed, unable to stop the tremor in her chest.

Erik stirred then—eyes fluttering, voice slurred.

“Shield maidens… tending me?” His head rolled weakly toward Seren. “Am I in Valhalla?” His voice rasped and was almost indiscernible.

Despite everything, a soft laugh puffed out of David.

“If I tell Ragnar you called me a shield maiden,” David said, “he’ll have words with you.”

Erik tried to turn his head. He blinked, confused, trying to focus on David’s face.

“Ragnar . . .”

But whatever he was going to say never came.