Page 94 of The Thornwyck Rose

Henry leaned closer. “I reserve the right to have your head for such disobedience,” he said. “But I think I’ll cut out your tongue so you can’t pray ever again. I’ll leave your ears so you may hear the screams of your people as we slaughter them—and your eyes so you may watch them burn.”

The dagger cleared its sheath. Its edge gleamed in the lowlight.

Erik stepped forward so fast the guards flinched for their hilts, but none drew their weapons. Seeing Seren beaten was one thing; witnessing torture was another. His voice cut through the air.

“My lord.”

Henry froze mid-motion. His blade hovered just below Seren’s chin.

It was always the dagger when he was angry. Henry had spoken often of his mother’s gruesome end, that which his father had made him witness. No man came back from that unscathed. Maybe that was why he wanted Seren to be unfaithful—wanted her to be a traitor or a liar. To ensure he wouldn’t be his father’s fool.

“If the Welsh Marches are not won,” Erik said, unwavering control, “their warriors will blameyoufor the murder of Chief Madoc’s only daughter. We saw the swords laid at her feet when she boarded the transport to Thornwyck when she first became your bride. They pledged themselves and their sons toherlife, not yours. Kill her, and Mortlande bleeds for generations.”

Henry pointed the blade at Erik, but Geoffrey stepped forward.

“Your Commander speaks the truth. I was there and saw the swords at her feet. She is the reason the peace still holds with the Marches.”

Henry’s face contorted with rage. Shame flickered just beneath the surface.

Jovin added, “I was there as well. It is as the pagan described. If we attack the chiefdoms of the Welsh Marches, I would humbly suggest leaving her unharmed until victory is yours.”

Henry scanned the faces of his top three knights. He couldn’t afford to lose even one of them and keep the borders of Mortlande stable if he were to attack the Marches. He said nothing. But the way his jaw clenched, they all knew—he was weighing what he might lose against how much he still wanted her dead.

But in Henry’s silence, it was Father Osbert who took to him. The small private audience split to allow his passage.

“You took a vow before God,” Father Osbert said. “She has done nothing deserving of this harm. You cannot force one to pray, Lord Henry.”

Father Osbert and Henry held each other’s gaze longer than Erik expected.

“If you interfere again, priest, I’ll make sure your tenure at Thornwyck is cut short.” The loosely veiled threat of death or reassignment sliced through the air before Henry shoved Seren away.

She fell to one knee, catching herself against the wooden planks, and wiped the blood from her mouth with her sleeve.

“Commander,” Henry snarled. “You want her alive, then strike her until she either prays for my victory or tells me where her daughters are.”

Erik bowed his head, stomach churning. “As you command.”

Seren met his gaze as she stood alone.

He took ten steps and was in front of her. Though she was only thirty years old, fine lines encircled her eyes, brow, and around her lips. Henry had worn her down, and even though Henry had dulled her body, the light in her eyes, as she gazed up at him, had never dimmed.

Four years, he had not stood as close to her as he stood then. He wanted to wrap her in his arms, kill Henry, and walk away with her, but only one of those three wishes could happen, and they would all end in death for them both.

“Well, Commander?” Henry said.

The brute had taken a vow twice to the church not to punish a wife too harshly, and that was likely why he was ordering Erik to take on his burdens in a public setting with Father Osbert present.

“You do not wish to pray against your homeland or present your daughters as liabilities to the lord?” Erik asked, more so to make time to garner the strength it would take to beat her with an iron face.

“I do not,” she whispered.

“Then I am ordered to beat you until compliance, milady,” he said, slipping his glove off so the armored knuckles would not break her skin. He hoped Henry wouldn’t notice and order his glovesto remain.

“I understand,” she said, forgiveness already welling in her eyes.

He took her in: her skin, paled by being a prisoner within the keep; the dying autumn color of her irises; the single threads of raven hair peeking from beneath her veil.

He couldn’t do it—beat her. The thought of his fist ramming into her face repeatedly tore his gut from his body—so he decided he’d only hit her once and hope she went down, ending Henry’s tirade.