Page 4 of The Thornwyck Rose

“You will be expected to be loyal,” he said after a moment, deciding to give her a few warnings. “Above all else. Pious. Submissive. Seen, not heard. Grateful.”

He walked her back tothe wagon.

“That is not how it is with the Welsh,” she said softly.

“No,” he agreed. Norse women were not quiet or submissive either, and Lord Henry was all too happy to cut down Astrid when Payen disobeyed. “But in Thornwyck, it will mean the difference between life and death.”

She flinched, just slightly. The drape was open to let in the evening’s cool air. He helped her inside before he mounted his horse.

Viggo, the horse who let no one but his rider and handler touch him, swung his head into the wagon and let Seren stroke his face. Payen jerked the reins, making the stubborn horse obey and stay in line.

The leather reins bit into his palm. Fitting, he thought, for a man punished with obedience.

He debated what else to tell her, weighing the cost of honesty again. If she were one to survive, he’d give her enough to have a fighting chance. He’d give her one last warning before he felt the men would report the conversation to Henry.

“Mortlande honors loyalty, not love. Piety, not freedom.” He looked forward, not at her. “If you do anything, do it in the name of your God. And pray Father Osbert agrees.”

The wind stirred the leaves again—a raven called in the trees above them.

Then, with his focus still on the path ahead, he said it:

“Trust no one, milady.”

He swallowed the lump in his throat, for the truth it was.

“Not even me . . . or Father Osbert.”

He heard her shift beside him. A rustle of fabric. A pause.

“Then I will trust the Lord God,” she said.

He nodded, almost to himself.

“That is the safest choice of all,” he turned and whispered to her.

He clicked the reins, urging his horse forward—but something about her lingered in his mind.

He was certain it was her strong, yet sultry voice. But maybe it was her calm exterior that hid what he assumed was dread and sorrow. Perhaps, her refusal to break beneath theweight she carried, instead gathering information to make decisions that would help her survive. The other brides had wept, likely trying to obtain the lord’s sympathy, but Lord Henry bestowed no mercy, just as Henry’s father had not.

He told himself Seren would fall, just as the others had, that the lord would see to it.

But a small, unwelcome desire stirred beneath the armor of his resolve.

Maybe this girl would last.

And that frightened him most of all.

III

THE MARRIAGE DUTIES

THORNWYCK KEEP, AUGUST 1085

The gatesof Castel Thornwyck yawned open like the jaws of a great wooden beast. It sat high above the fields of Mortlande. The villagers claimed the land had never warmed since the blood of Lord Henry’s mother soaked the floor of its keep. Lord Henry de Thornwyck ruled it with the cruelty of winter—and the Church looked the other way, so long as Mortlande held the Norman border.

Seren sat still beneath the canvas of the wagon, watching through the gap in the flaps as they crossed into the bailey. Knights flanked the path in grim silence, their steel helms glinting dully beneath the gray August sky. Horses whinnied. Iron creaked. The air smelled of ash, sweat, and old rain.

Inside, the bailey was a living brute—bustling with cooks, stable boys, smiths, and guards. Smoke curled from the forge. Dogs barked and nipped at one another near the butchery. A great wooden rack of drying pelts leaned against the barracks, half-covered in burlap. A row of training dummies stood near the tilt yard, splintered and dark with dried blood.