Page 35 of The Thornwyck Rose

Whoever it was, someone watched closely. That was all she needed to know.

She couldn’t take many more chances. If she were to have any more conversations with her friend, they had to be strategic and well-played to ensure the lives of both her and Ragnar would continue. She did not fear for David’s life, but she feared what he would become if he were left to Henry alone.

The prayer service, held not in the chapel but in the hall, meant one thing to Seren: Henry was planning to exert his power before a public and highly noble audience. She would be ready, and if he retaliated against her, either now or in the future, he’d have to deal with the Bishop of Ely and Lord Richard, who were in attendance and no doubt would report it to King William at the White Tower. At least her death would not go unpaid.

But it meant not giving him reason to accuse her of any wrongdoing. She would need to plan her time with Ragnar to appear coincidental and avoid taking any chances with Commander de Montfort. She forced herself not to look at him, though she wanted to acknowledge her friend.

Margot and Isolde dressed her in a plain but noble blue dress at her request. Her reason was two-fold: to show she was with child and to gain standing among Henry’s men-at-arms.

Lord Henry swept into the room with a regal grace. His two guards flanked him until he sent them to the edge of the room with a snap.

He did not glance at Seren, though he had deliberately positioned her at the fringe of his court, showing her visible belly and bowed head. The murmur of conversation stilled as the nobles rose to acknowledge him.

“My lords,” Henry’s voice rang out, “we give thanks for the sparing of the Bishop of Ely and pray for swift healing inbody and spirit. God has not abandoned us, though the border grows more perilous by the day.”

A smattering of “amens” echoed, and Henry gave a single nod in acknowledgment. Then the warmth drained from his tone.

“Let it be known,” he said, pivoting on his heel to survey the gathered crowd, “thatloyaltyshall not be found idle.”

His eyes settled briefly on the Marcher Lord, Richard, then flicked to Bishop Thurstan. But it was the guard stationed nearest the doors—young, nervous, and clutching his spear with slick hands—that drew Henry’s next command.

“You. Bring forward the scroll I had sealed this morning.”

The guard froze, uncertain, and turned his gaze—not to Henry—but to Commander de Montfort.

The room tensed. Seren felt it ripple through the air like the sudden drop before a storm breaks.

Henry did not miss the hesitation.

He seized it.

“Are my orders in question now?” he barked.

The hall fell deathly silent.

The guard’s head shook, and he tried to leave to do as commanded.

“Halt there,” Henry’s voice sharpened. “Did you look to my dog for permission?”

The guard gulped and shook his head again.

“You did.”

Henry snapped at the guard, Reynard. “Go. Fetch the Commander’s whelp. Now.”

Seren’s heart dropped to her stomach. She glanced at Commander de Montfort. His arms uncrossed, and he shifted his weight. His gaze froze on Lord Henry. She scanned Bishop Thurstan and Lord Richard, who sat stiff-backed and silent, watching the authority theater play out.

Reynard’s boots hit the floor as he headed up to the attic.

The young guard stiffened and tried to correct his error. “Lord Henry, please have mercy. I only looked at the Commander because I did not knowwhere?—”

“Silence!” Henry’s order rippled across the hall. “Come forward. You and Commander de Montfort.”

They both walked before the seat of honor where Henry stood.

“Do you know what they call this man?” he asked the room, pointing at his commander. “My shadow. My blade. Because I made him that way. And I can unmake him just the same. Just as I can make and unmake any of you!”

The words cracked like the whip they were.