Page 30 of The Thornwyck Rose

He had saved her, yes. But he had never imagined what she might give in return. A bloom of meaning. A memory restored. She’d given his boy his mother when he couldn’t tell him himself.

He embraced his son, tousled his hair with one hand, and firmly wrapped his arm around his back with the other. That’s when he decided Ragnar had to know.

“Little wolf,” he said and met Ragnar’s gaze. “Remember when you asked me if you were a prisoner?”

Ragnar’s smile fell, and he nodded.

Erik swallowed the thick paste that had formed in the back of his throat. He hoped that if there were a God of Heaven, the deity would still allow his boy to enter once Erik stripped childhood from him.

“The reason why I never told you of your mother is thatLord Henry killed her because I disobeyed him. I am his prisoner, and I must obey him, or he will hurt you, kill you, too. It will not be a painless death. And I fear out of Lady Seren’s kindness, if Lord Henry knows of her visits with you, he could force her hand as he does mine.”

He ran a hand over his son’s cheek. “You see, Son, you are not a prisoner, but you are a hostage with a ransom that will never be paid in full.”

Ragnar’s face drooped, and his weight shifted. He said nothing.

Erik kissed his forehead. “Do you understand?”

Ragnar nodded.

He nestled down on the straw cot and curled his legs and crossed his arms.

Erik rubbed his arm and lay beside him, wrapping his son close to his chest. Ragnar’s head was beneath his chin. He could feel the boy’s breath warm against his collarbone, steady and trusting in a way Erik no longer remembered how to be. Ragnar’s arms slowly crawled around Erik’s middle. He wished he knew what to say. That it gets better; that there’s a light at the end. But there was nothing but Helheim in this life and the next.

After a long silence, Ragnar finally whispered, “Then I’ll be brave like you.”

The words struck hollow in Erik’s chest. He wanted to tell him not to be—that brave boys didn’t live long in Lord Henry’s world, that courage was just another name for loss. But he couldn’t take it from him.

He pressed a hand to the back of Ragnar’s head, fingers curling in his hair. “No, little wolf,” he murmured and gently lifted Ragnar’s face to his. “Be clever. Be quiet. Let me be the brave one for now.”

Ragnar didn’t answer, just nestled closer, small, certain, and unbroken.

Erik closed his eyes and held him tighter, hoping that one day, bravery wouldn’t have to end in blood or pain.

XIII

THE MOTHER’S LOVE

CASTEL THORNWYCK, OCTOBER 1086

The chapel wasquiet save for the occasional crackle from the hearth, long since reduced to embers. Afternoon August light slanted through the narrow stained-glass window in the apse, casting bruised blue and gold across the floor. Seren kneeled on the front pew’s cushion, one hand rocking the cradle at her side, the other trailing beads along a worn, knotted prayer rope.

Eighteen. Seren knew there would be no celebration for her eighteen years of life, likely not even a word. She didn’t mind, though. She had a precious baby boy, and she’d taken the Commander’s child as hers.

The days were not as long as they had been.

David stirred in the cradle, but did not wake. His fists flexed in sleep, cheeks full and pink from the warmth. At six months, he had grown into a bright, curious child, always reaching. Always hungry. Seren missed nursing him, but when he cried at night, she was thankful for the wet nurse, Alice, who kneeled with Margot and Isolde on the chapel’s bench behind Seren.

On the other side of the aisle, Ragnar sat cross-legged on the floor with a Psalter open on his lap. He wasn’t reading—just copying the letters with his finger, murmuringnames he’d memorized. He was a smart child. Commander de Montfort had been correct—he had his mother’s wit.

He didn’t fidget like most boys his age. It was a practiced caution; the kind he’d learned from living too long under another man’s power in a space too small. And yet, in the chapel, he let his shoulders soften. Here, he played in his boyhood.

Baldwin leaned against the stone doorframe, arms crossed, one ankle looped casually over the other. He seemed bored—appeared to be looking beyond the women and boys.

But Seren knew better. She had seen the way his gaze flicked every time Ragnar laughed or David whimpered. He cared, but was afraid to show it, just like everyone else in Thornwyck Keep. He obviously cared enough to risk his life, letting her see Ragnar in the attic, to allow the boy to smile.

Father Osbert shuffled toward the altar, placing a missal on the stone table with deliberate reverence. His lips moved in a murmured prayer, but Seren didn’t miss the way his eyes tracked her reflection in the polished candlestick base.

She tested him first, needing to see who truly held his heart—God or the Marcher Lord.