Page 16 of The Thornwyck Rose

Payen fought every desire to turn and behold such a woman. She had not only risked her life to somehow obtain a deity’s favor to save a child not her own from an agonizing, slow death, but even now, she told the dead child’s mother—an uneducated, poor, wretched woman—to curse her if she was wrong. A woman who would blame her for not saving the child. She wouldn’t understand that if Seren had simply fought Henry’s law, they both would have died, and the pain would have been tenfold.

But the mother simply looked down and unwrapped the child’s head.

Father Osbert moved to stop her, but Seren held up her hand. He actually obeyed, Payen noticed. The entire village watched in silence.

The mother unwrapped the child’s body. She swiped her hands over the girl’s flawless, ashen face. She sobbed, loud and hard, with shaking shoulders, before pulling the girl to her chest and looking up at their lady.

Payen held his breath, hand hovering over the hilt of his blade.

Tears streamed down the mother’s cheeks.

“Milady,” she whimpered. “May the Lord bless your prayers, always.”

Payen glanced at Seren. Tears welled in her eyes. She couldn’t cry; that would show she disagreed with Lord Henry’s law, which was the first strike against the first wife. He had to do something.

He snapped hard.

“Find a suitable place for the burial,” he ordered a set of guards. His harsh voice made Seren blink back her tears.

Good.

Father Osbert stepped forward. “The child cannot be buried in consecrated ground,” he said flatly. “She died condemned, without confession or absolution. Such is the law.”

But Seren was quick. “Thank you, Father Osbert.” She pointed to a tree at the edge of the field, just outside the churchyard, in the distance. “Then we shall bury the child under that tree.”

His lips thinned. “Yes, Lady de Thornwyck.”

“Then shall we begin digging?”

A few hours passed, and as the hole was being dug, Payen watched her console the crying children, all of whom asked her to pray for them if they were ever caught stealing food.

Seren handled it well. She leaned in, brushed their cheeks, and said, “Don’t steal food. It is the law, both Lord Henry’s and God’s. The Lord listened to my prayer this time, but I amnot Him. If you steal, do not expect the Lord to answer again in this way.”

Then she did something he’d never seen before. Seren handed out her own bread and dried fruit from her travel satchel. Dried apples. For what the girl was condemned to die for. She took nothing for herself, though she carried a child in her womb.

So selfless, so brave, and likely to die for it. The other wives had stayed in their rooms as much as they could, nursing their wounds and staying silent until it was time for their slaughter.

Her handmaids, Margot and Isolde, must have been moved by Seren’s actions and did the same. Payen felt the pull of kindness as well and handed his food to the girl’s father. He had expected no one else to give their food, but they all did: the guards, and eventually, Father Osbert.

“But what willweeat?” The Father’s whisper bit as crisp as the fall breeze.

“I’m sure one or two missing meals will harm none of us, Father Osbert,” Seren said.

Payen wished she would not make enemies with the holy man. He was mostly responsible for the second wife’s death. She had come to the church to bring accusations against Lord Henry, that his beatings were out of anger and not correction. She had the bruises and open wounds to prove it, but Father Osbert simply made Henry vow not to act in anger. The following year, she was dead, and Henry was free to marry again. Father Osbert had said nothing else.

Payen followed Seren toward the edge of the field, where the grave had been dug. The villagers gathered around, and they lowered the wrapped girl down. The girl’s father was the first to throw a handful of dirt over her. The village wept.

Payen watched Seren, making sure she did not cry. Father Osbert watched her too, likely for the same reason.

The sun touched the horizon as the ground swelled with fresh dirt. The villagers had scattered, their sobs lingering like smoke. Only the grave remained, and Seren.

He had buried men. Comrades. Enemies. His own heart, once. Feared burying it again.

But this felt different.

He looked at her then. Truly looked. Truly admired. Seren was a woman standing over the grave of a child she did not birth. Mourning behind misted eyes as if the girl had come from her own womb. Risking her life so that one nameless child would not have to endure torture before a public execution, all because Lord Henry did not provide enough food for his conquered lands.

He hated what was coming next.