Page 53 of The Thornwyck Rose

“You are quiet,Commander. More so than usual,” Henry said at supper.

Erik never said a word; Henry was going to rub whatever salt he could into Erik’s wounds.

In response, Erik simply shook his head.

“Care to make a request? I may allow it.” Henry patted his mouth with a cloth and leaned back in his chair.

Erik scanned the room.

Seren closed her eyes as a gesture to remain silent, but Erik either did not notice or did not heed her warning.

“My lord,” Erik began, “if I could tend my son in the attic and explain to him?—”

“If your boy is going to act like a man, then let him be a man,” Henry said. “Your request is denied.”

Erik dipped his chin and said nothing else.

After the supper dishes were cleared and Henry retreated to the council chamber with Erik, Geoffrey, and a few chosen knights, Seren rose with Margot and Isolde at her heels.

“Isolde, please go prepare my room and wait for me there,” Seren said.

Isolde bowed and did as she was told.

Seren glanced at Margot, who left for the cellar without a command uttered. Seren dismissed the rest of the servants, ensuring they filled the council chamber with the best wine for the lord’s evening discussions.

When she saw Margot return at the stair landing, heading up, she left the hall.

The top floor was empty, so Margot and Seren climbed the stairs to the attic.

The attic was cold, with stone walls, dark shadows, low ceilings, rafter beams, and the scent of pungent dust in the air.The only light came from the candlelight guttering near Ragnar’s cot. He was on his stomach, shirtless, with the thin wool blanket pushed aside. His back was swollen and welted, crisscrossed with bruises and gashes that told the whole story without a word.

At least, the knight doing the lashing had been somewhat kind. There were welts with broken skin, but none deep enough to need stitches.

Seren sat beside Ragnar’s cot, while Margot laid the items beside her.

She dipped a cloth into the bowl of vinegar water Margot had brought and pressed it softly to his wounds.

Ragnar flinched.

“I know,” she whispered. “It stings. But it will keep the rot from setting in.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

His voice had deepened this past year—still boyish, but with gravel in its edges. “You’ll be whipped too.”

“You are not to worry about me,” she said flatly.

She worked in silence for a few minutes, washing and salving, careful not to press too hard.

“Why did you stop me? Why was I the one whipped when the tutor struck Lord David?” Ragnar muttered.

“Because the tutor is a very well-known tutor,” Seren said, shaking her head. “Though it did cost you a good whipping, you taught David that someone would stand for him and that cruelty can be challenged.”

“So why did you stop me?” Ragnar asked, the debate in his eyes flickering between the pain of betrayal and the pain of truth.

“Because I knew that you would get whipped for attacking Bertrand. And I knew if you hurt him too badly, it wouldn’t matter that you are the Commander’s son. You and your father would be killed.”

Ragnar lifted his head. “What?”