Page 146 of The Thornwyck Rose

He had failed one love. He would not fail another.

Seren’s lashes cast faint shadows on her cheek in her moonlit sleep. She had prayed every night. To a God he did not know. To a heaven he’d never trusted.

But she trusted her God and His heaven.

And so, for her sake, he would try.

He tilted his face to the stars, voice low and rough with everything he had not said for decades.

“God above in Heaven,” he whispered, as if he were speaking into a stranger’s home. “I don’t know your rites. I have no blood to give. No silver. No chant or holy word.”

He looked down again, thumbbrushing the edge of her jaw.

“But if you’re there . . . if you love her like she says you do . . . then help her.”

A long breath left him, his chest hollow in its wake.

That was all.

And he bowed his head—not as a Christian, not as a forced convert, not even as a man—but as a soul hoping this God was listening.

Tomorrow, she would belong to the crown again. But that night, she belonged to the lake and the stars and with him.

XLIX

THE UNCERTAIN OMISSION

THORNWYCK KEEP, SEPTEMBER 1100

The hillsof Fellmere had turned from green to gold by the time they returned to Thornwyck.

August waned. The scent of September’s harvest lingered on the wind, and the last of the apples ripened in the orchard. Montfort Keep stood taller when they left it—rebuilt in places, patched in others—but the soul of it was still war-worn, still watching and waiting for its master to call it home.

They rode in tired, dust-streaked and sun-darkened, Erik leading the way. Seren was close behind with her handmaidens and guards. David had gone ahead by a day to prepare the great hall. By the time Seren dismounted, she was already being ushered inside with messages from the coast and inland Marches.

But none of them were prepared for the one that came by royal courier.

King William Rufus was dead.

Killed in a hunting accident in the New Forest. An arrow to the chest, they said. Or was it a fall? From an animal attack? The tale changed with every telling, but the end remained the same: King William Rufus, second son of the Conqueror, was dead before he’d sired an heir or wed a bride.

The scroll bore the seal of the White Tower, but offered no further clarity.

Henry, the Conqueror’s fourth son, had ascended swiftly, crowned with the barons’ support and the treasury at his back. He’d moved with speed from lordship to lordship, claiming power before his older brother Robert could return from Normandy and take his rightful place as king. It appeared to be a shrewd, almost bloodless coup.

But of Seren’s hand, there was nothing. No other marriage plans were given.

And so they waited—offering no inquiry to the new royal, hoping his sights would land elsewhere.

They gathered that evening in the great hall—David, Seren, Erik, Ragnar, Geoffrey, and Father Osbert. The candlelight was low. The hearth glowed.

Erik leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, eyes scanning the scroll again as if another name might appear if he stared long enough, but his reading skills were dismal at best.

“King Henry’s unmarried,” David said, pacing. “But they say he has children already. By Nest ferch Rhys.” The former Welsh Princess of Deheubarth.

Seren stilled. Worry lived in her gaze. Nest had never been married to Henry and was likely taken to bed while under hostage by his family. Erik’s belly knotted watching as fear seeped into Seren’s curling fingers. If the new king could do that to a former princess, what worse would he do to a noblewoman?

He locked eyes with her. Her fear, confirmed. If the new king treated her like Lord Henry did, Erik would kill the King himself and claim loyalty to the true heir, Robert, Henry’s brother. Maybe as a reward, they would gift him Seren. Maybe. His mind wandered in its futile pursuits.