Page 18 of The Thornwyck Rose

He gritted his teeth. The next line had to be said.

If Father Osbert thought he hadn’t gone far enough or repeated all of the lord’s lines, Henry would harm Ragnar.

“I admire you, milady. I’ll not keep it hidden.” He paused and forced the rest: “Sometimes I wish you were my?—”

“Do not wish for a life not yours,” she cut in. “And I will not wish for a life not mine. I am Lord Henry’s wife, not yours. Nor will I ever be. Do not flatter me further.”

“Your word is my command, Lady de Thornwyck,” he said.

She’d passed.

The following silence between them echoed louder than applause.

Yet the sad spoken truth remained: Even if Henry died—by sword, by sickness, by the wrath of God—her son, if she bore one, would inherit the title. She could never remarry unless reassigned by King William, renegotiated to another Marcher Lord, or Henry’s kin claimed her. And Henry had no kin. Had no mother to love him either. Just a wretched father who had made him what he was: a paranoid, despotic lord.

Seren’s words had sealed her fate in the eyes of the test. They were what Father Osbert needed to hear. Payen could only hope the priest repeated them with precision—and without malice.

Payen and Seren said nothing.

But in that quiet, the mask slipped.

Her chin lifted. The dying light caught her eyes—and in them, another cruel truth: She wished for another life.

Maybe she saw the truth in his eyes, too, that his wordsweren’t all lies. That he did admire her. That he wanted better for her. Maybe he even wished to believe in love again.

But none of that mattered. Not here. Not in Thornwyck. Not anywhere in Mortlande.

The weight of what could never be sat between them like a stone dropped into water.

After a long moment, he extended a gloved hand in a silent invitation to return to Thornwyck Keep. She took it with grace and without another word. Her hand fit into his as if it had always belonged there.

The first time she’d taken it, she’d trembled. The second time, she’d trusted. Now—she chose.

Her fingers wrapped firmly into his palm; her thumb brushed the armored knuckles, soft, as if on purpose. As a gesture of gratitude, perhaps.

He returned the pressure.

Her lips twitched. A smile almost rose—reckless. But in that flicker, he understood: resisting her would only demand more of him—and perhaps, of her.

But the last truth hurt the most: since Astrid, Seren would be the hardest one yet to watch die.

He led her to her mare and helped her mount.

As the villagers offered prayers and tears, the noble company turned for home. And in the hush that followed, the single Thornwyck rose lay on the newly turned Mortlande earth as a symbol of Seren’s defiant spirit, untouched by the foot of man.

VIII

THE DIVINE TEST

THORNWYCK KEEP, FEBRUARY 1086

The warmthof the keep’s fireplace pressed in against her skin, but it couldn’t soothe the ache. Not after the grave soil, or the mother’s tears, or the child’s body stiff in her arms. Not after the whispered prayers, or the way Commander de Montfort’s hand had closed around hers.

That had been months ago. And still, the memory of the dirt clung beneath her nails. She’d saved one other boy thief from torture, and her husband had not taken kindly to her. But he hadn’t let her bury the boy, not after proving she was with child.

Winter had come, and with it, a frost as cold as Henry had been to her.

The bells had barely rung for six when a servant arrived. “The Marcher Lord wishes his lady’s presence in the council chamber.”