Page 61 of The Thornwyck Rose

He rested his elbows on his knees and ran his knife over the bear’s carved spine to smooth it.

What would Ragnar remember of him? His pride? His silence? The way his hands had always trembled after battle, no matter how clean the kill?

He swallowed hard.

Would Ragnar remember him at all?

His gaze shifted back to the flower.

Seren loved kingcups, just as Astrid had. Seren had tucked one behind her ear in early spring of the prior year andsmiled at him like the sun had kissed her there. Her face was so fresh in memory, but he pushed her smile aside to focus on his task.

He smoothed one of the bear’s claws, scraping the wood soft beneath the blade.

Seren didn’t love him—not the way he loved her. That she made clear. But she was his friend and his only ally. She was his Valkyrie, offering rest after each of life’s battles when he returned dead inside.

Nothing would tell him otherwise.

A gust of wind stirred the canvas walls. The fire crackled. Somewhere near the edge of the camp, a knight coughed and turned over in his sleep.

He looked down again, and his chest tightened. The bear was smoothed. So he grabbed the nearly complete flower. He shaped the final petal and placed the knife beside the box. He touched the center of the bloom with his thumb, as if to press a memory there.

Like the flower that bloomed in the frost, he would return, pretending his soul hadn’t splintered.

He picked up the next piece of wood to carve a second kingcup in memory of Astrid. A flower for each of his two loves and a bear for his son.

Sleep was required for the next day’s battle, but he kept carving long into the night, trying to block the pain of failing all of them.

XXIV

THE STAR STITCH

THORNWYCK KEEP, JANUARY 1091

Henry hadn’t lefthis chambers. He was three days into a fever with no signs of recovery, too weak to sneer and too sick to scheme. Seren had stepped in on his behalf to welcome home the six-month campaign—the longest yet.

The keep doors groaned open; the echo reverberated up the stairwell.

Seren straightened in her seat, hands folded carefully in her lap beside the high table’s empty seat of honor. The sun had dipped low, staining the floor with burnt gold.

Boot steps echoed off the stone steps.

Erik, Geoffrey, and Jovin entered the great hall, their surcoats still dusty from the ride. Erik’s beard was fuller, his jaw tighter. His expression was grim.

She stood as custom dictated, her posture regal but not cold. But her heart—traitor that it was—thudded hard against her ribs.

She hadn’t seen him since the night in the stairwell.

She had told herself that what he did meant nothing. That he had only kissed her neck and wanted more because he was tired, or full of wine, or missed his wife, or because she had comforted Ragnar in his stead.

Too many wives before her had mistaken survival for love. She told herself again now: that night, it meant nothing.

But her breath caught when his gaze met hers.

He winced as her gaze dropped to the dark stain beneath his cloak, high on his shoulder, and the soft bend of his elbow. He was injured.

Her hand twitched against her skirt, but she stilled it.

“Lord Henry is ill,” she said evenly, her voice filling the room. “You’ll report to me as Lady de Thornwyck.”