Page 2 of The Thornwyck Rose

His name had been different once: Erik Bjornsson.

Now, he was Commander of the Guard, Payen de Montfort—the lord’s most trusted blade and shadow. A good, feared Norman name—one given to him by Lord Henry, carved into Thornwyck’s war records and burned into the minds of conquered men.

The name Payen was not lost on him—a variant of “pagan.” A feared name, but also a name to mock his Norseman’s faith.

But he had accepted it.

“Be good to my son, and I will be good to you.”

That had been the deal.

The lord had kept it thus far.

His boy Ragnar was safe, fed, tutored by Father Osbert—as were the noble boys—guarded, and visited often in his little room in the keep’s attic. But Henry never failed to remind him what would happen should his obedience waver.

His name. His homeland. His faith. His pride. All of it: gone.

The cost was everything.

And now he rode beside the carriage bearing the lord’s fifth bride—another woman for the tyrant to wed, humiliate, break, and discard.

Seren ferch Madoc.

She was nine years his junior, and he doubted she would live to see even two more birthdays.

He told himself not to look back at the girl in the covered wagon. Not at her hands, trembling in her lap. Not at her face—high-cheeked, proud-jawed, with hair black as river stone and eyes the dark gold of dying autumn leaves. She wore the kind of beauty forged in hardship and bore the wildness of the Welsh Marches in her very posture—straight-backed, unbent. Even draped in noble green, she looked like she belonged in a war camp, not a lord’s bed.

She was striking, yes. But it was not her face that disturbed him.

It was the way she looked at him. As if she were searching for something human, someone familiar to hold onto.

It wasn’t him.

Four brides before her had kept their heads bowed, silent in fear. Not one had met his gaze for long. Not one had dared to ask about the man she was about to marry.

Seren would. He could feel it. The way her gaze lingered through the shifting drapes of leather and wind, observing, and hiding her mind’s strategies and her heart’s motivations.

Still, he tried to care for her as little as he had cared for the others.

And yet, she had walked to the wagon as if to a pyre, her people laying swords at her feet like offerings to a grave. No tears. No trembling lip. Only fire. Only resolve.

There was something in that: something sacred, dangerous, admirable, honorable, even.

He rode ahead for a time, wanting distance, needing it.

The wind shifted. Leaves whispered along the wooded path where the men-at-arms paused to water the horses. He dismounted in silence, dusting his gloved palm against the saddle.

Behind him, the wagon’s flap rustled.

He glanced at her, though he didn’t need to turn to know she was leaving the wagon.

The late-evening sunlight cast her face in an angelic light if he believed in such creatures. Her white undergown peeked out from her deep emerald overdress.

Just like Astrid had once stepped into the lord’s hall—defiant in her silence, glowing like frost beneath torchlight, Seren stood framed by the wagon’s canvas, one hand clutching the wooden edge, the other resting at her side. Her flower crown had wilted. Her linen hem was dark with mud. The ornate bronze cross swayed over her chest as she stepped down from the wagon.

He closed his eyes, hating himself for looking—then turned his attention back to the horse. His mother had told him wilted bridal crowns meant one of two outcomes for the bride: bad luck or early widowhood. He hoped, for Seren’s sake, it was the latter. Bad luck could only mean death.

She approached him. Her movement was deliberate, seeking him out. That would eventually be her fatal mistake, as it was with the others.