Page 7 of The Thornwyck Rose

He smiled and returned to his wine.

“I like this one already,” he said with a chuckle, paving the way for the guests also to chuckle.

Henry sipped and swallowed and then gestured with a head nod to sit, so she sat.

A musician strummed a lyre in the corner like nothing hadhappened, and dancers twirled in patterns like spinning leaves in a storm. Seren tried to smile, but a sense of dread made her soul twist whenever she found Henry’s eyes. There was something not right about them. He looked at her as he looked at his boar meat, but one he had to wait to bite into, and as Margot had said, he didn’t like to wait.

Commander de Montfort stood behind the far table, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. His plate was empty, and his chair pushed in. Other high knights still drank.

Seren met his gaze once across the room. There was a flicker of a question or pity, she couldn’t tell. He turned away before she could answer it.

The feast dragged deep into the night. Dancers grew bolder, wine flowed red as blood, and the air thickened with the heat of too many bodies in one room. Eventually, Father Osbert stood and gave a final blessing, subtle in tone but mournful in its phrasing. Seren did not hear him until he spoke the words: “It is time Lady de Thornwyck be delivered to her duties.”

The night had come.

Chairs scraped, and a hush pressed against the newly built stone walls.

Henry offered her his hand, and after a moment too long, she took it.

They ascended the stairs to the top floor, escorted by the crowd. Servants scrambled to open the door to the lord’s chambers, but not before Henry turned to the escorts.

“She may be march-born, but she’ll learn to swim in deeper waters,” he said, a smile slanting over his goblet. “Nakedness cleanses the soul—or so the holy men say.”

Laughter erupted. Father Osbert simply shook his head with a frown on his lips at the crude comment.

Seren did not flinch. Not even as he leaned closer and added, just for her:

“Let’s hope you pray as well as you bleed.”

She said nothing in response. She had quickly learned not to.

Henry snapped at her handmaids.

“Strip her. Leave her. Return with the robes when I send for you.”

Seren jolted.

“Here?” she asked in a whisper.

His cold, dark eyes gave her the answer. He addressed the crowd. “If you do not wish to gaze upon the lady’s nakedness, you may look away, but I need to be assured she has nothing with which to harm me.”

He waited for her to object. Tears misted her eyes.

“My lord,” she began, but caught sight of the commander’s slight headshake, and she covered her glance by scanning the silent crowd. She lowered her eyes.

“As you wish.” Barely a whisper.

Margot and Isolde shifted their weight, looking around at the crowd before bowing. They disrobed her with gentle hands.

Seren forced herself not to cry, keeping her head bowed. Margot attempted to stand in front of her as her dress dropped to the floor.

The robes were finally on. At least she was covered. Isolde held her garments neatly folded, with the cross pendant reverently placed on top of them.

She didn’t look up at Henry. Didn’t want to see the satisfied smirk.

“You are formerly Lady Seren ferch Madoc of the Welsh Marches?” he asked, seemingly having expected her to resist.

She nodded. “I was, but now I am Lady de Thornwyck.” The words barely made it through a clogged throat.