Page 78 of The Thornwyck Rose

Her rasp caught in a cough.

At the end of the illness, there were only two outcomes: death or recovery.

She had wanted to wish for death, an escape from this trial, but she’d forced herself away from such thoughts. She had children who needed her and a man who loved her—many women did not have as much.

Seren lived despite the odds of such a long illness, furthering her divinely favored reputation in the lands.

Cari grew stronger in the new year, and they all lived to see another winter pass.

Sometimes Seren wondered how many more daughters she could birth before Henry decided she had outlived her use. The only arm of protection she had left was the whispered reverence and the high regard of Norman nobles and lesser lords who called her pious, even holy, though she was no nun.

Henry couldn’t just do away with her with a reputation like that. He’d have to prove she was a traitor or unfaithful.

Maybe she was already both at heart, but Henry would never know it.

XXIX

THE MOCK FRAY

THORNWYCK KEEP, APRIL 1094

It began,as these things often did, behind a closed door and beneath the weight of orders.

Erik had been summoned to the council chamber before the sun had fully risen, as the kitchen warmed up, before the keep had drawn its first breath of the day.

A pale-faced steward who hadn’t met Erik’s eyes had murmured, “Lord Henry wishes his commander in the council chamber . . . alone.”

He knew it wasn’t a military matter—no call to arms had been sounded. No envoy awaited or was sent, leaving only one likely possibility.

Seren.

He’d seen her only once in the past few months. She’d been ill, but afterward, she’d come to the garden with her children. He wanted to pick flowers with her again. Wanted to place a fresh yellow sunburst in her hand or in her hair, but he stayed away for a reason. He simply dipped his chin. She’d smiled and kept his gaze locked for a moment more than she should have. It was enough for him. Maybe it had been too much for Henry, but who would have told him?

Maybe it had nothing to do with Seren.

He blew a hard breath.

A war drum thudded beneath his ribs as he climbed the stairs. He told himself it would be a new order regarding border patrols or the Warwick escort that was gearing up in the bailey. Something mundane. Something harmless.

But Lord Henry never summoned without intent. And Erik had learned that the man’s most dangerous games were never played on battlefields—but in shadows, with smiles, and bloodless blades—before displaying his victory for all the world to see.

Erik stepped into the chamber. The heavy door shut behind him.

Morning sunlight filtered weakly through the narrow windows, pooling on the long table where Henry sat alone, fingers steepled, eyes sharp and glinting with something that felt colder than malice.

There were no scrolls or maps on the table.

That was when Erik understood: this summons wasn’t about lands or borders. It was a trap, carefully set and polished.

And it likely involved Seren.

“Commander de Montfort,” Henry began. “At the harvest feast, I saw my wife glancing at every lord and knight there. I cannot prove she is unfaithful, but you will get me proof.”

Erik raised his indifferent facade and stood ready to receive instruction.

“I’ve never asked this of you before, but I have to believe you care nothing for her because you lost your wife caring for my first wife, and I hold your son’s life in my hand.”

“Be good to my son, and I will be good to you,” Erik repeated the bargain, knowing there would be no proof. Seren was faithful, more than he’d wanted her to be. “I care nothing for her.”