Page 47 of The Thornwyck Rose

She took the stairs opposite Henry’s door. She quickly descended to the middle floor, crossed the empty great hall, passed the chapel and council chamber, and entered the nursery, next to the garderobe.

It wasn’t surprising that both her chambers and the children’s were next to the toilet. Henry thought them disposable, so why wouldn’t they be next to the garderobe?

The nursery’s shutters were drawn tight against the wind. A single candle flickered near the cradle. Seren stood by it in silence, one hand on the cradle’s carved edge, the other pressed low on her abdomen, steadying herself. The nursemaids slept soundly next to the noble children, likely a better arrangement than the crowded ground floor or attic with the other servants.

Aveline slept, swaddled in white wool, her tiny fists curled near her cheeks. The rise and fall of her chest, so delicate, so unaware, made Seren hold her breath. David snored faintly from the cot beside the hearth, one hand flung above his head like a dreaming knight. She wanted Ragnar there beside him, but given Henry’s musings about her and Erik, she feared asking. So her adopted son slept in the attic with a prison guard next to his door. Reynard stood guard that night, and he had never done or said anything that wouldindicate any affection toward Ragnar. And that meant she couldn’t trust him like she could Baldwin.

She curled a finger over Aveline’s tiny hand and whispered the name Henry had refused.

“Aveline,” she whispered and kissed her daughter’s fingers. “You are not a mistake. You are loved. I will protect you in every way, just as your brothers.”

The infant stirred. Not fully waking, just turning toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

She kneeled with effort at David’s cot, her muscles stiff from the cold and the birth. Her shift clung damp beneath her robes. Her body was not healing as fast as it had with David. Or perhaps it had never been given the chance to. She brushed David’s sable hair off his forehead and kissed him. The boy stirred and smiled before settling again.

The pain surged. Seren gritted her teeth and pressed her palm against the wall for balance as she stood. She straightened her shoulders, let the pain pass, and left the nursery without waking the nursemaids, though one peeked at her through a bleary eye slit.

Halfway up the stairs, the torches blurred. Her vision dimmed at the edges. Her foot caught on the uneven edge of the stairs, and she stumbled, catching herself hard against the stone.

A whimper escaped her.

She slumped against the wall, sliding slowly until her hip met the cold floor. Her head dropped back against the stone.

Soft footsteps came from above.

“Milady?” a voice whispered.

Margot.

The older woman rushed to her side. She wrapped a woolen shawl around Seren’s shoulders and crouched beside her, touching her arm with careful reverence.

“Milady, why didn’t you call for me after leaving the lord’s chambers?”

“I wanted to see my children,” Seren whispered.

Margot frowned. “Let’s get you into the warm bed, and you’llfeel better.”

Seren let Margot help her up the stairs.

Erik came from the garderobe and dipped his chin to her as he passed. They locked eyes but said nothing beyond the required formalities.

“Milady,” Erik said, though the depth in his eyes seemed to want to say more.

“Commander,” she said, wishing again for his tender embrace to steady her.

His hard boot steps echoed through the corridor as he headed to his room, and Seren reached hers. She dared not turn around with Henry’s guards still there. Godric opened her door, and she and Margot entered her room. The door shut behind her.

Erik’s blue eyes lingered in her memory. Had he held every wife in comfort? Had he called all four of Henry’s prior wives, Valkyrie? Did he honor her only? Did he want more as he had said with his eyes? How much had he said at the gravesite were Henry’s words? Were they all Henry’s words meant to test her?

She had told him not to wish for a life not his. She tried to follow the same advice. Did it matter what he felt for her?

No.

It didn’t.

Because he was not her husband, though her husband was awful. Her husband didn’t love her and would have never helped her stand, nor embrace her in comfort, nor call her such a revered name, such as Valkyrie.

The ache in her chest climbed upward, blooming behind her lashes, but she calmed herself so Margot wouldn’t see her distress.