Page 19 of The Thornwyck Rose

Not the chapel. Not his chambers.

The council chamber. The place for war councils and noblemen and blood and men’s wine.

Commander de Montfort would be there. If he had only simply cared for her life, it was enough in the somber place to give her heavy heart a thread of light.

She dressed plainly, though still presentable as anoblewoman. Margot had begged her to wear pearls, pins on her bodice, and a belt woven with gold thread. But Seren refused. She was with child. That was beauty enough. She had kneeled beside a poor girl’s grave while Henry laughed over bones and bread. Let them say she looked lowly. She did not care.

When the door opened, heat rolled out with the smoke of spiced wine and burning cedar. The council chamber was full, and its air was thick with expectation.

Maps cluttered the center table, weighed down with pewter markers, each stamped with a symbol of territory, allegiance, or war. Candles guttered in iron sconces along the walls, and the voices of stewards and lords murmured over battle routes and border disputes. Mortlande’s nobles lined the perimeter in courtly disarray—some with cups in hand, others with scrolls and ledgers tucked under arms.

Seren entered with her chin slightly bowed, her veil draped neatly over her shoulders, and her hands resting on the swell that had only just begun to show beneath her russet-red bodice.

Margot and Isolde flanked her. The nobles and stewards around the room straightened at her presence. Some offered curt nods. Others studied her too openly, as if her body were a shrine or a livestock pen.

The commander stood near the hearth, arms folded, his blue surcoat dusted with ash from the road, but otherwise in pristine condition. His cloak draped over his shoulders. He hadn’t removed his gloves. His eyes shifted to her the moment she entered with a gleam of relief—perhaps glad she was still alive—but his stoic expression again gave nothing away.

Her gaze faltered on him, though.

She’d missed his presence every time he went on a campaign, though he was always at arm’s length and silent when he was at the keep. A voiceless guardian with warnings contained in small head nods or shakes to confirm or reject what she was about to do. He’d been with Lord Henry for seven years; he knew how to survive more than she did, butpart of her wondered, why would he help her? Why did the man whose reputation left blood and agony in his wake look at her with sorrow, respect, even? Why give her warnings? Why hold her hand? Speak to her in half-truths, or perhaps, they were all lies or tests? Whatever the answers were, he did care for her life; she knew that much.

Lord Henry sat on the high-backed chair near the window, the morning sun catching on the rings on his fingers.

“There she is,” he announced, rising. “Lady de Thornwyck. Whole, hale, and favored by the Lord.”

A few muted chuckles answered him.

He reached his hand toward her and made her walk across the room until she slipped her fingers into his palm. He presented her like a prized offering.

“My advisors have seen her strength, and now you shall too,” he continued. “Already with child, not yet six moons wed. And no blood since the wedding night.”

More laughter.

Henry didn’t release her hand. “And she prays with such devotion that Heaven takes pity onthieves. Let us hope she does as much for my men-at-arms.”

Seren kept her expression composed. She had learned early not to flinch when mocked. The bronze cross warmed her breastbone beneath the gown. It steadied her and reminded her that God heard what men scorned.

Henry turned toward his commander. “The campaign rides again at first light. De Montfort leads it, with my blessing. But I know there’s another whose prayers reach higher than even Father Osbert’s.”

More titters of amusement echoed.

Henry looked down at her and let her hand slip from his. “I’ve summoned you here to pray, milady. Ask God for victory. Ask Him to keep our commander and fellow men alive. If He listens to you, then let Him prove it now.”

There was always a test with Henry after the first child she’d saved from torture—a prayer to do something that she had no hand in its outcome. The day the Lord did not answer was the day Henry would likely kill her for falling out offavor with God—no more use for such a wife, especially as he grew his host. She knew, deep down, that her marriage only bought him time to build what he needed to take her homeland.

She kneeled as gracefully as she could, cupping her belly as she went down. Henry did not help her.

She pressed her hands in front of her heart.

The room fell silent immediately.

“O Lord,” she began softly, her voice clear despite the thundering silence, “be near to those who fight beneath our banners. Strengthen the righteous. Humble the proud. Let those who wield the sword in defense of justice return home whole. And if they fall, let their souls be carried swiftly to Your throne.”

She paused.

“And if You still answer—I pray that You show favor to the one who leads them.”

No one spoke.