Page 5 of The Thornwyck Rose

A man was shouting orders near the armory. Children scattered at his voice. A young child hauled firewood toward the bakehouse.

Everything smelledlike war, men, and bread.

Her gaze rose to Thornwyck Keep at the top of the hill with its own separate gate—the towering stone heart of Castel Thornwyck. It rose from the earth like it had forced itself up through it: squat, square, brutal, and crowned with battlements. There were no banners, or flowers, or any other sign of welcome.

Only gray walls and darker, long, narrow windows, serving dual-purpose for an archer’s defense.

Built to dominate the landscape and instill fear in neighboring lands, Thornwyck Keep appeared nearly complete, with stone replacements for its original wood structure.

The wagon slowed.

Seren was to be married upon arrival, marched down the aisle in a stranger’s castle, with a stranger’s priest, to a man whose soul had long since rotted out.

Her wrists were slick with sweat inside her sleeves. Her heart beat too loudly in her ears.

A servant opened the flap.

Commander de Montfort sat tall in his saddle beside the wagon. His eyes flicked to her—brief, guarded—and then he was expressionless.

He’d given her four warnings.

Be loyal, be pious, obey, and trust no one.

Perhaps each of the previous four wives had failed a warning. She hoped she would not be a fifth warning for the sixth wife. He’d also said not to trust him either. It was confusing because he gave her the warnings. So she wondered if she could trust him then in the Marches, but not now—not at Castel Thornwyck.

He dismounted, and a handler took the horse away. The commander said nothing and walked ahead of her. A small company of knights led her up the ramp, through a second gate, to the stone keep where two women waited, one was about Seren’s age and the other, older.

They bowed their heads to Seren. “Milady, I am Margot,” said the elder one, “and this is Isolde. We will be your handmaidens.”

Seren smiled, but they didnot. Her smile fell.

“We must bathe you at once and bring you to the Keep’s Chapel,” Margot said and led her to the ground floor, where a stone basin was already filled with water. A servant boy slid heated stones into the basin. Isolde’s quick hands were already undressing her.

Seren stepped back and crossed her arms. “I can undress myself.”

Isolde did not stop. “No, you will be Lady de Thornwyck. We will undress you and dress you, every morning and every evening, for the rest of your life.”

Margot’s hushed whisper came too. “You are already late, and Lord Henry does not take well to tardiness.” She forced Seren into the basin.

They scrubbed her with harsh hands before pulling her to the priest’s passage, the small private staircase connecting all three floors and the cellar of Thornwyck Keep.

They took her to the top floor, down a narrow corridor to a bare small room with a bed and a hearth.

Margot combed her hair with a wooden comb, tapped in powder to remove the oils, brushing and brushing until her black locks shone with youthful shimmer, while Isolde busied herself with Seren’s dress.

Both handmaidens hurried her down to the middle floor’s chapel to present her as a bride, muttering something about making up for lost time.

The chapel was narrow, yet again, windowless on one side, and cold despite the torches lining its walls. Seren had not expected the wedding to be beautiful, and it wasn’t. It was as cold as the chapel. Hollow, too.

A ceremony of conquest more than union, she mused.

Candles flickered in iron sconces as if even the flames feared what this union meant. The scent of old incense clung to the damp air, overpowered only by the tang of smoke and dampness off the knights’ cloaks.

Seren stood at the altar in a gown of deep green velvet, the color of her homeland's hills after rain. Stitched with gold threads, the sleeves brushed the wooden floor. Her bronzecross pendant hung just above the gown’s modest neckline, her own only token of comfort amid the wolves.

Margot had braided her loose, long hair, arranged a linen veil, and placed a new flower crown over it. The crown’s petals were far too heavy for something so light.

Lord Henry waited beside her, dressed in black and crimson, his sword belted. His hands were pale against the embroidered cuff of his long tunic, his knuckles bruised from training—or perhaps punishment.