Page 46 of The Thornwyck Rose

“You gave me nothing useful this time. The girl will not wear a sword. She cannot ride to war. She cannot rule. She’ll be given in marriage to some lesser man and ruin my bloodline.”

Seren closed her eyes, but it did nothing to soften the words.

“You were meant to bear me sons,” he continued. “A Lady of the Marches bears sons. You and your womb were paid for in peace at the border. I buried four wives to get to you. I will bury another if I must.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“Do you understand me?” he insisted.

She said nothing. Her eyes remained lowered.

“My mother,” he began. “I loved her so when I was a boy and blind to her many transgressions against my father and ultimately against the Lord.”

He came closer.

“And yet I believe you would look past such transgressions for your claims of the Lord’s mercy.” He tilted her face upward with a single finger beneath her chin. His breath was wine and meat.

She refused to recoil.

“My father taught me well, pious wife,” Henry said, his breath blowing against her lips. “You fail to realize that when you give your people enough mercy, they will become ungrateful and ignore your authority, your power. Then chaos ensues. Lady Seren, you have much to learn.”

She kept her eyes lowered.

“You think I’m a monster, don’tyou, Lady Seren?”

She remained silent, knowing better than to answer a question he had already figured out.

Henry chuckled. “I assure you, I am not. My father burned villages to get what he wanted. I’ve been merciful compared to him—the mercy you publicly asked of me first with Lord Richard and Bishop Thurstan, and then again, today with Commander de Montfort. And what did mercy get me? A wife who hides beneath her piety and defends my commander to do what? Earn trust? Earn favor? Earn a place in his bed?”

Her jaw grew taut. He wanted her to speak so he could twist her words, so she remained silent. She had already spoken the truth; she didn’t need to repeat it.

His fingers trailed the embroidered neckline of her gown. She suppressed her flinch. After the softness, the grip usually came.

“You will be silent from now on in court,” he said.

“What would you like me to say when you ask me a question?” she asked.

The slap’s echo reverberated across the bones in her face. The sting lasted longer than the silence.

“You will sit beside me and smile when I demand it,” Henry said, the answer implicit: she was not to answer any question asked of her.

“And you will bear me another child. And when that one dies or disappoints, you will bear me another until you give me a second son. I need a second son should David meet an untimely end at Heaven’s gate.”

His thumb brushed her lower lip.

“I already miss your body,” he murmured. “But you bleed too much. Are you still bleeding?”

“Yes, my lord.”

He turned away with a sigh.

“You may go,” he said casually. “You look tired. Next time you’ll remember your place, Lady de Thornwyck, and keep your mouth shut. The Welsh allow women to speak, but how long have you been in Mortlande now? Nearly threeyears? You should have learned by now. I will not allow a third error.”

He flicked his hand to dismiss her. It was odd that he hadn’t beaten her like he had the last time she spoke in his hall. Rather, she left with a threat of death on her heels. Maybe he was planning something to test her again.

She left without a word. The guards didn’t look at her as she passed.

There was a second good to come of birthing a child: the first being the child, and the second was that Henry did not like blood in the bedroom. He was happy to see it on their wedding night to prove her virginal state, but every other night she’d bled, he’d turn her away. And after a child, she had weeks of bleeding and respite from his lust.