Page 133 of The Thornwyck Rose

Seren lifted her chin. The candlelight flickered against her skin through the translucent black veil. “Marcher Lords somehow always get what they want, Lord Erik, and every Marcher Lord wants a Welsh noblewoman, especially one whose prayers are so timely answered by God. I wouldexpect to attend a vigil for a Marcher Lord’s wife come December.”

A pit opened in Erik’s stomach. Henry had done the same; four wives had outlived their usefulness. But Erik wouldn’t have it. Not after wanting for so long.

Fellmere was on the border of Mortlande and Wellenford with a forested valley to the north where Erik first pushed back the raids under Henry’s banner. Blood soaked the plains of Fellmere, named for being a savage lake, but after Seren’s marriage to Henry, it was all but forgotten. Perhaps, he could make a case to keep her there to stave off any Welsh riots from the northern chiefdoms, a boon for both Mortlande and Wellenford.

Seren glanced up at him. “So you see, Lord Erik, it is easier to endure when you do not give in to wanting.”

Erik leaned over and whispered even more softly than before, “Do you want me, Seren?”

Seren’s eyes glistened from behind the veil. “I mustn’t desire anything or anyone until three days before Twelfthtide, but after that . . . I want to be by your side as your wife.”

Her head drooped as she pulled her finger away from his. “I also want no scandal, Erik. David is young, and until tonight, you were not of the Church, and you were also my rumored lover. My prayer did not diffuse the rumor as much as I’d hoped beyond Thornwyck’s walls.”

“Of course, milady,” Erik said. “I have a year to prove myself to the Marcher Lords and Mortlande nobles.” He glanced around and found no one looking at them except Margot and Isolde, so he leaned lower and whispered in her ear, “And I promise I will not be empty-handed when your time of mourning is complete.”

XLV

THE KING’S DECREE

THORNWYCK KEEP, APRIL 1100

Rain had turnedthe outer grounds to churned mire, so Seren and Erik replaced their daily walk and paced the great hall as if it were the garden. Their murmured voices were lost in the staff chatter, and no one paid them attention or reported any accidental brushes of their hands. Seren had their love, and Erik had their respect. None of the keep servants would betray them, not after the prayer that ended Lord Henry’s life and absolved her of any misdeeds.

Margot and Isolde always stayed a few paces behind.

They spoke of Fellmere and its renamed Montfort Keep, of its new stone walls, of courtyards and chambers not yet built to send to Ragnar, already there overseeing the improvements.

Erik sought her opinion on hearth placement, on tapestries, on the chapel’s stained glass—but when the servants’ footsteps faded, and no curious ears lingered nearby, their conversation shifted like water flowing to deeper wells of devotion and long-held loves.

But the rush of footsteps up the stairs ended their conversation that day.

A royal messenger burst into the great hall, soaked. Theknights accompanying him held the royal banners—the golden-stitched crown gleaming against the wet red wool.

“I must speak with Lord David at once,” he announced, his voice sharp enough to cut the hush in the hall.

Seren’s stomach dropped, but she stepped forward with her hands folded at her waist.

“Lord David is on the hunt, due to return soon, I’m sure, due to the rain. I am Lady Dowager de Thornwyck. May I assist you in Lord David’s absence?”

The messenger’s eyes raked her from mourning veil to slippers. Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he gave a half-bow. “I will wait.”

Seren ordered a place by the fire. “Rest here and warm yourself until his return.”

The messenger offered no nod or other thanks, simply waiting for the chair to be placed by the hearth and sitting once it arrived.

He dried slowly in the silence as the servants cast uneasy glances. Rarely did the king bother with the Marcher Lord’s business. Invitations to White Tower were openly provided to whoever was in the lord’s seat. The fact that the messenger waited for the lord’s return spelled something personal and important.

Erik leaned against the wall, watching Seren at her place at the high table, offering the standard items for guests: wine, bread, and a cloak.

All denied.

Seren released a shaky breath. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

The hunting horns echoed before the young lord entered. David’s cheeks were flushed from the wind, his smile broad from a morning well-spent. The hounds raced ahead of him, shaking mud from their coats and collapsing near the hearth. One pressed its nose to Erik’s hand, and Erik caught its muzzle with familiar warmth, fingers buried in wet fur.

But David’s smile faltered when he saw the royal banners. His eyes immediately found his mother’s.

The messenger stood as David approached.