Page 45 of The Thornwyck Rose

XVIII

THE SECOND FRIEND

THORNWYCK KEEP, NOVEMBER 1087

The corridorto Henry’s chambers was dim, torchlight flaring in iron sconces. Seren walked with Margot and Isolde by her side as the moon rose outside the keep.

Her steps were slow from exhaustion. Her hips still ached from childbirth. Her breasts were sore. Her bones did not yet feel like they belonged to her again. But the summons had come from the steward’s boy just after the banquet fire dimmed:

“Lord Henry wishes for his wife.”

She did not mistake the phrasing.

The guards at his chamber door stepped aside without a word. She entered alone, her night chemise beneath her robes, as Henry always ordered. Her pendant was placed atop her clothes in her room. The sin of murder always crept along her mind’s edge every time Margot removed the pendant from her neck when Henry called.

In the lord’s chambers, the hearth was low. A single taper burned near the bed. Shadows clung to the corners of the room like dust no one bothered to sweep.

Henry stood beside the carved column of the bedframe, still in his tunic and trousers, having kept his boots on. He wore them when he wanted to make a point.He probably liked hearing the powerful sound they made as he sauntered across the floor with a righteous lecture on his lips.

“You were loud today,” he said, eyes burning through her.

“I spoke when spoken to, my lord,” she replied softly, palms flat at her sides.

His chuckle was quiet, humorless. “Is that what you call it?”

He moved slowly, methodically—pacing to the long, narrow windows, hands clasped behind his back like a priest at confession. The soft echo of his boots against wood was likely music to his ears.

“You defended him.” His words were as hard as the stone wall in the back of the room.

The words filled the space, heavier than they should have been.

Seren did not answer the accusation. There were no safe words at that point.

Henry turned. The hearth fire threw sharp lines across his cheekbones.

“You’re clever,” he said, voice mild. “More than I expected. But that’s your mistake.”

He approached her, and dread sped to her chest.

“You think you’re just a woman,” he said, his tone that of a man explaining the laws of God. “But you’re not. You’re a house now. You carry my bloodline. And still, you open your mouth in court and speak for another man?”

He raised a hand to silence whatever would come out of her mouth, but she already knew to stay her tongue.

“Do you think I do not see it?” he asked. “The glances. The conversations in the garden. The Norse boy.”

“There is nothing between us. I am your wife, not his,” Seren said, standing taller. “Commander de Montfort has never?—”

“But you have.” His voice darkened. “You have.”

She shook her head, the ache blooming in her temples now. “I have not.”

Her ears flushed red from the insinuation of unfaithfulness. “I have done nothing but serve the house of Thornwyck, mylord. I’ve given you peace, divine favor, a name not only of wrath but of righteousness, and an undefiled bed. I’ve given you a son and a daughter?—”

“A daughter,” he spat, turning from her. “The midwife should have drowned her.”

Her breath caught. The room tilted.

He looked back at her over his shoulder, like a man inspecting livestock.