Page 83 of The Thornwyck Rose

“I do not,” Seren said, forcing her hands to her thighs. She was a Lady of the Welsh Marches, and if she died as such, she would die with honor.

“Lies again. You have been hiding a scandal beneath the veil of God.” His tone slithered now, a snake in flowers. “I ordered Commander de Montfort to test you, and you have failed. You let him touch your face. You let him kiss your skin. Don’t deny it. My spies saw it all.”

All eyes turned to her.

She scoffed, but her insides twisted. “What are you speaking of? I know it not.”

There was no one on the stairwell. That was the only time she’d let him touch her, kiss her neck, a brush. But she had run away from him, afraid of how she’d conceal anything that passed between them.

Had Erik lied to her? He had warned her not to trust him. But she had. She did with her life—many times. He’d proven himself. He loved her. She’d seen it in his eyes.

Who would have seen the few times they were alone? The garden? The stairwell? The council chamber? The alcove? The only time it would have been even perceived as unfaithfulness was in the stairwell, and she’d passed the test in the alcove, though it ached.

Who could have lied, then? Tomas? Margot?

Had she failed a test and not known it?

Her mind raced as eyes turned back to Henry, who laughed and snapped.

Two guards each brought Erik and Ragnar from the middle floor’s corridor into the great hall. Time pummeled her mind. It had to have been the alcove. He’d whispered a warning then. But he hadn’t touched her. Someone lied. Someone other than Henry wished her dead.

“You think you are so clever, wife, but I have proof,” Henry said.

“Proof of what, my lord? I have done nothing wrong,” she said, but he slapped her hard. The force moved her neck into the blade. It nicked her. Its sting was likely a taste of what was to come.

Lord Richard de Grafton shifted in his seat and crossed his arms. The new Marcher Lord of Shrewsbury, Hugh de Montgomery, shared a glance beneath a furrowed brow with the Marcher Lord of Chester, Hugh d’Avranches.

Seren understood the lords’ actions meant that, as of then, she still held the room’s favor over her husband’s accusations.

Henry shot Richard and the others a death glare as he continued speaking, “Now, my wife, I am not without mercy.” He squeezed her jaw and snapped his fingers.

A guard escorted David from the nursery.

“Come, Son.”

“Father, what are you doing to Mother?”

He pulled David to his side and murmured in his ear, “I am going to teach you a very important lesson today.”

David’s arms shook as his eyes glazed over the blades hovering in front and behind Seren’s neck. His focus landed on the spot where the blade had nicked her.

“Now, stand aside, Son, and watch.”

David obeyed and stood near the high table, his eyes never leaving his mother.

Seren’s breath shook. She hadn’t prepared David for this spectacle; she had only hinted at it. He had been too young, but youth wouldn’t save his innocence on that day.

“Speak the words,” Henry said and shook Seren’s jaw,before lowering to whisper in her ear. “Then I will spare the life of the Commander’s son.”

Her gaze flicked to the edge of the dais—where the guards had brought Erik and Ragnar.

David’s head swiveled, eyes darting between his mother and Ragnar.

“Speak what words?” Seren asked.

She wanted to swear before God that she had never let another man touch her or kiss her, nor had she ever kissed a man, not her husband, but it would be a lie. Erik had kissed her neck, and she, his cheek.

Henry chuckled, but the sound was mirthless. “She plays the role well, doesn’t she?” he asked, soft but cruel.