Page 6 of The Thornwyck Rose

He smiled only once, and only for the crowd. To her, he offered his hand like a gauntlet. The lord’s grip on her hand was possessive. His smile was brief, polite, the same kind a man wore before crushing a bothersome fly beneath his boot.

Commander de Montfort stood at the edge of the chapel with silent, downcast eyes. His crisp noble’s surcoat had Lord Henry’s crest stitched in deep crimson. His head bore no helmet, but his shoulders held the disciplined posture of a man who could kill with his bare hands if needed. Beneath the fine wool, Seren suspected, chain mail still clung to his chest. His presence was both reassurance and reminder: loyalty was survival, and compassion was a death sentence.

Father Osbert performed the rites. His voice echoed through the narrow space with each blessing and vow. He pronounced them husband and wife in the sight of God. They were to die to each other at the altar and become one new union; however, Seren knew she would be the only one dying. She only hoped it wasn’t anytime soon.

The moment Henry placed the ring on her finger, her fate was sealed.

Lord Henry pressed a kiss to her cheek. Not her mouth. That would come later. She stood rigid, not wanting what the night would reveal.

When the guests retired to the great hall, Henry said nothing to her, so she said nothing as well. Servants escorted them in silence down the narrow corridor, and when they entered, the herald introduced them publicly:

“Lord Henry de Thornwyck, MarcherLord of Mortlande, Warden of the Western Marches, and Lady de Thornwyck, by grace united in holy matrimony, Marcher Lady of Mortlande, sworn by veil to the Western March.”

A polite applause filled the great hall as Henry led her by the hand to the high table on the dais.

Lord Henry sat in the seat of honor, and she by his side.

Torchlight and the roar of voices soon followed. Roasted boar, sugared almonds, golden tarts, and spiced mead lined the tables. The food was endless, more than she imagined, but she touched none of it until Henry did. Nobles from Mortlande and nearby Wellenford and Chester, and a few tense envoys from the Marches, sat stiffly at opposite ends. Laughter rang false on many lips.

Seren sat at Henry’s right, hands folded, face composed. She smiled when she needed to and dipped her chin when required. She had trained for this moment, rehearsed every gesture and every expression. Her people would say she carried herself like a queen, though they never spoke the title.

“Lady Seren,” Lord Henry said beside her, his tone too smooth, “it is tradition for the bride to toast her husband.”

She rose, her fingers steady on the cup, though her stomach curled.

"To my lord,” she said, her voice even, but she remembered the Commander’s warning and adjusted her voice, slowly, to avoid notice. “May the Lord above grant him wisdom,” she said, her voice soft like a doe, “and may peace flourish beneath his command.”

A murmur of approval passed through the hall.

Lord Henry smiled. He lifted his goblet in return, eyes gleaming.

When the guests had eaten their fill and the third round of musicians took the floor, Lord Henry stood, his goblet raised in a toast that brought the feasting hall to stillness.

“A toast to peace,” he said, though his eyes never left Seren. “To trust.”

She rose slowly at his cue, heart thudding beneath her bodice.

“Your handmaids will prepare you tonight,” he said, the room hanging on every word. “You will come to my chambers wearing only your robes. Nothing beneath.”

Whispers rippled along the long tables. Seren felt the weight of the gazes, some in pity at the public and humiliating command. The stain of embarrassment and rage flushed her cheeks. How dare he give such a public command of such a private matter? Her mother had told her what to expect, something few mothers did. But the haunting truth roiled in her stomach: her mother had no true understanding of what was awaiting Seren.

“One can never be too careful,” the lord continued, sipping his wine, “with a Welsh woman from the marches.”

Unsure and uneasy laughter flickered among the guests. Some noblewomen stiffened. One turned her head entirely. But none spoke.

The silence that followed was an attack meant to draw blood.

“Lady Seren, did you not hear me? Your maids will disrobe you, leave you in my chambers, and return with your robes in hand. You will sleep separately from me until your loyalty is earned.”

The silence anticipated her answer.

Seren did not look for Commander de Montfort, though she felt him then. Felt his warning as surely as if he had spoken it aloud.

Be pious. Be loyal. Obey. Trust no one.

Henry was testing her, just as the Commander had said, and she did not want there to be a sixth wife.

Against her nature, Seren bowed her head. “As my lord commands,” she uttered, her words meek.