Page 34 of The Thornwyck Rose

Erik’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard. Disgust sat on the edge of his tongue at what Henry had done to her.

“Milady,” Margot whispered, trying to move her along. Her whisper echoed down the long corridor.

Godric glanced between Erik and Seren.

Erik couldn’t trust Godric to keep silent, not after Henry’s outburst. He dipped his chin in Seren’s honor. Tried to say goodnight, but anger had his voice in a vice. He entered his room without looking back, though hissoul begged him to gain one more glance at the strong, defiant woman who’d carved a piece of his heart out for her.

He pulled off his surcoat and chainmail. Sat on the bed. Took off one boot at a time. Ran his hands through his hair, wished for his war braids, and exhaled through tight teeth.

What had he become?

A man who stood aside while the people he loved were murdered, beaten, and struck down.

It seemed so, but he was a Norseman.

Though Henry had tried to strip it from him and clad him in a Norman facade, he’d take his revenge for his settlement, for his wife, for his son, for Seren.

He had obeyed too long. Dressed in their colors. Spoke in their tongue. Bound his hands while they beat his soul.

No more.

He’d kill Henry.

When David was old enough to inherit his father’s title and his power, he’d make his lordship suffer.

But the boy needed to be old enough and proven in leadership to avoid full war at every border and prevent a loss.

He knew how women and children fared under conquerors, and he wanted none of it for Ragnar, Seren, or David. And the young Lord David needed to prove himself to keep his mother at Thornwyck and not have King William reappoint her in another political marriage arrangement.

His hand curled into a fist, and he drew his knuckles along his jawline.

“One day,” he whispered.

But until then, they needed to survive.

The wind hissed through the arrow slit window—a sound like the keep itself warning him:

Henry had seen too much, heard too much. And next time, it would not be wine dulling his blade.

XV

THE POWER THEATER

THORNWYCK KEEP, JUNE 1087

The summons came latein the summer morning. Lord Henry wanted a prayer offered for the safe return of Bishop Thurstan of Ely, who had narrowly survived a skirmish near the border on his way to Thornwyck with the Marcher Lord of Wellenford, Richard de Grafton, to coordinate defenses.

Seren stood at the back of the hall, flanked by Isolde and Margot, her belly rounded with a second child beneath her wool robes. She hadn’t seen Commander de Montfort in weeks, but he was in the hall that morning, speaking with the guards near the stairs. He’d told her not to trust him, and she wondered if he was the one to tell Henry of her time with Ragnar and their time in the garden—their conversation about the kingcups.

He’d left out everything else, though.

Isolde was the only other one there, and she was half-asleep.

Seren’s eyes slid to the fair-haired maiden next to her. Perhaps, she had only been pretending to sleep. Ragnar had told her his father had not come to see him very often, even when Seren knew he was in the keep. That did not seem like him; perhaps, he was on alert as well, or being punished by Henry.

Maybe it was Isolde who told.

Maybe it was a watchman from the keep’s roof, or Master de Bramber or Captain de Léry who had let the commander go with her.