Page 60 of The Thornwyck Rose

If she never touched him again, he would have no complaint.

But he would protect her and help her, anyway, because Ragnar loved her. Becauseheloved her. Because the world was cruel, and she was not, and if he couldn’t be worthy of her trust, then at the very least, he would make sure no man broke it again.

XXIII

THE WOODEN FIGURES

THE WELSH MARCHES, SEPTEMBER 1090

Steel rangover the field like church bells in a storm.

Mud slicked the hilltop, fresh with the morning’s frost, turned to slush by blood and boots. Erik’s blade was already crimson, his breath fogging the air as he pressed forward. Three men had come at him together, thinking they might overwhelm him by weight or angle—the poor fools.

He parried low, hooked one man’s sword away with the hilt of his own, and drove his shoulder into the second’s chest. The third had a longer reach, but Erik stepped into it, blade slicing upward. The man dropped, and the others faltered.

By force of will, Erik’s leadership took the hilltop.

“Shield wall!” he barked, and the line of men who’d trained under him tightened their formation, shields locking with practiced rhythm. They moved as one—not caring if the man beside him was Norman, Saxon, or other. His men once again showed respect for him and his prowess on the battlefield.

He broke formation to press forward, driving back the line of the rebellious lord of Shrewsbury.

Erik fought as he trained—each blow deliberate and impactful, each one a release of anger and hate against Henryfor what he’d done to him and the ones he loved. But he had learned to have no waste in his motions, so as to endure and survive. Every step, every swing told a story older than this war: that Erik Bjornsson had once led war bands across the sea, and no southern lord-ling would take that legacy from him.

By the time the sun broke over the trees, the enemy line had scattered.

Erik stood in the churned mud, blood drying on his arms and cheek. A cut along his temple burned, but he ignored it. He rolled his shoulders once and let out a long breath.

It was done, at least for the day. Tomorrow, they’d begin again. They were gaining ground. The scattered Hereford barons attacked from the south, and Wellenford and Mortlande attacked from the north. Soon, Shrewsbury would have to surrender, but Henry had told him not to return to Mortlande until six months had expired.

Punishment, as it always was with Henry.

That night,the camp was quiet. The wounded rested. The fires burned low, their smoke curling into the star-swept sky. Somewhere in the trees beyond, a bird cried out, mournful and alone.

Inside Erik’s tent, the scent of ash mingled with the oiled leather of his armor and the iron tang of blood that never quite left his skin.

With his shirt unlaced and hair damp from washing off the day’s grit, he sat cross-legged near the low cot. The Normans’ lack of cleanliness was something he never understood. He always washed, always made sure his basin was filled, and if Lord Henry ever granted him a squire, he’d make his squire wash too.

A half-carved block of wood rested in his palm, warm from his skin. Each stroke of his knife coaxed a kingcup fromits grain—petal by petal, a flower of memory and meaning emerged.

The tent glowed dimly from the coals in the brazier, casting amber light across his scarred hands.

He didn’t look at the dried kingcups beside him, but their once-vivid petals, now pale and fragile, were wrapped in a small box covered with cloth and care. He’d gathered them last spring before the orchard bloomed, before Henry sent him away because Ragnar’s fists had found their mark in David’s defense.

Half the penance was over. Three months down. Three more to go.

He gently touched the dried flowers, then tucked the new carving beside them with reverence. His other hand drifted to the rough-hewn bear beside the bundle—a carving less graceful. It needed smoothing.

“For Ragnar,” he murmured. “So he remembers my name.”

Bjornsson.

Son of the bear.

A symbol of strength and courage.

He let the name echo in his mind. It was a name meant for boldness and honor. Meant for men who carved new paths into old mountains.

And he hadn’t lived up to it. He’d become a sword in another man’s hand: he killed and obeyed well. Such obedience was the currency of survival in a world built on conquest, but obedience wasn’t the same as courage.