Page 40 of The Thornwyck Rose

If Erik had a clean shot at Henry, he’d take it, but his guards stood with spears that would thwart any attacker, and Henry always had his dagger on him. They’d likely kill him before he could, and that would leave both Ragnar and Seren with torture before death.

His arms tightened around Ragnar.

Baldwin glanced at father and son, clenched his jaw, and looked away.

“Ragnar, you are brave for loving what is right, but you will live,” Erik said, gripping his son’s shoulder. “You’ll live long enough to change this world. Brave men die young under this roof.”

He smoothed Ragnar’s curls. “So don’t be brave. Not yet.”

The boy’s tears came, and he wrapped his fingers in his father’s sleeve.

Erik had to will the world to steady. If he ripped Henry limb from limb, there would be no hiding for any of them.

He’d be executed on the spot. King William could send a new lord, perhaps worse than Henry—one who might not be as moved by a woman’s prayers. David, who was still learning to walk steadily, had no power to his name. The borders would collapse in the absence of both Henry and Erik, and he didn’t want to envision what the victors would do to the women and children.

Baldwin stood up, fists knotted, fury restrained. As if reading his mind, he muttered, “When Lord David is older,we’ll make it right, Ragnar. Until then, I’ll teach you to fight in secret as we’ve been doing.”

Erik nodded in gratitude to Baldwin. At least one of the guards over his son had a sound mind.

The stairs creaked somewhere below. Erik’s and Baldwin’s heads jerked toward the sound.

“You should go, Commander,” Baldwin whispered.

Erik bent over Ragnar and kissed the top of his head. “If ever you must be brave, let Heaven have you for it.”

Then he rose and went down the spiral stone stairs with soft feet.

The keep’stop floor was dim. The wall sconces’ candles flickered, guttering in shallow pools of wax.

Henry was gone—his two guards too. Only the faint sound of the drawbridge chains carried through the night.

And there—by the wall of Henry’s chambers—Seren was alone, crouched in ripped linen.

Her blue gown lay rumpled beside her, and her veil lay dashed on the floorboards. Her back bore the red welts of Henry’s temper, evident through the rips of her stained chemise.

The sight of blood on fabric pulled him backward—Astrid’s chemise, soaked and still. Astrid’s blonde-red curls pressed against the cloth, softening the gruesome scene. He had held her only as long as Henry allowed, just long enough to remember the pain of disobedience but not long enough to grieve.

Seren’s dark hair had come loose from its braid, spilling across her shoulder, hiding the bruises and the weight of the child in her womb. If he held Seren in her hurt, it would not be in memory of loss, but the sorrow of holding a future he could never have.

Erik looked down the corridor to his room, but no onestood. Looked the other way to hers; no one, not even Godric, was there. The absence of others emboldened him, made him take a chance he wouldn’t have taken otherwise. He was risking both Ragnar’s and his life, but he couldn’t just walk away and leave her there, not after what she’d done for him.

With silent steps so as not to draw attention from anyone who might be listening, he approached and took a knee beside her. The rattle of his chain mail upon kneeling gave him away.

Her eyes flicked up, startled, and then softened. Bruises bloomed across her skin. Open gashes still wept. She wiped her nose, and blood streaked her forearm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

He hesitated, the words rising in his throat before he could stop it.

“Valhalla has a place for you, Valkyrie,” Erik whispered, a reverent hush in his voice. She was not a warrior who fell in battle—but one greater, braver—a shield maiden of Odin in her own right. She had faced cruelty with grace and chose mercy over fear.

In his faith, no praise ran deeper.

Her brow furrowed, and she glanced at him with misted eyes.

For a moment, he wondered if she would chide him for his pagan ways—or remind him there was no Valhalla, only Heaven.

But instead, she whispered, “You honor me, Erik.”