3. The Marriage Duties
III
THE MARRIAGE DUTIES
The gates of Castel Thornwyck yawned open like the jaws of a great wooden beast. It sat high above the fields of Mortlande.
The villagers claimed the land had never warmed since the blood of Lord Henry’s mother soaked the floor of its keep.
Lord Henry de Thornwyck ruled it with the cruelty of winter—and the Church looked the other way, so long as Mortlande held the Norman border.
Seren sat still beneath the canvas of the wagon, watching through the gap in the flaps as they crossed into the bailey. Knights flanked the path in grim silence, their steel helms glinting dully beneath the gray August sky. Horses whinnied. Iron creaked. The air smelled of ash, sweat, and old rain.
Inside, the bailey was a living brute—bustling with cooks, stable boys, smiths, and guards.
Smoke curled from the forge. Dogs barked and nipped at one another near the butchery.
A great wooden rack of drying pelts leaned against the barracks, half-covered in burlap.
A row of training dummies stood near the tilt yard, splintered and dark with dried blood.
A man was shouting orders near the armory. Children scattered at his voice. A young child hauled firewood toward the bakehouse.
Everything smelled like war, men, and bread.
Her gaze rose to Thornwyck Keep at the top of the hill with its own separate gate—the towering stone heart of Castel Thornwyck.
It rose from the earth like it had forced itself up through it: squat, square, brutal, and crowned with battlements.
There were no banners, or flowers, or any other sign of welcome.
Only gray walls and darker, long, narrow windows, serving dual-purpose for an archer’s defense.
Built to dominate the landscape and instill fear in neighboring lands, Thornwyck Keep appeared nearly complete, with stone replacements for its original wood structure.
The wagon slowed.
Seren was to be married upon arrival, marched down the aisle in a stranger’s castle, with a stranger’s priest, to a man whose soul had long since rotted out.
Her wrists were slick with sweat inside her sleeves. Her heart beat too loudly in her ears.
A servant opened the flap.
Commander de Montfort sat tall in his saddle beside the wagon. His eyes flicked to her—brief, guarded—and then he was expressionless.
He’d given her four warnings.
Be loyal, be pious, obey, and trust no one.
Perhaps each of the previous four wives had failed a warning.
She hoped she would not be a fifth warning for the sixth wife.
He’d also said not to trust him either. It was confusing because he gave her the warnings.
So she wondered if she could trust him then in the Marches, but not now—not at Castel Thornwyck.
He dismounted, and a handler took the horse away. The commander said nothing and walked ahead of her. A small company of knights led her up the ramp, through a second gate, to the stone keep where two women waited, one was about Seren’s age and the other, older.
They bowed their heads to Seren. “Milady, I am Margot,” said the elder one, “and this is Isolde. We will be your handmaidens.”
Seren smiled, but they did not. Her smile fell.
“We must bathe you at once and bring you to the Keep’s Chapel,” Margot said and led her to the ground floor, where a stone basin was already filled with water. A servant boy slid heated stones into the basin. Isolde’s quick hands were already undressing her.
Seren stepped back and crossed her arms. “I can undress myself.”
Isolde did not stop. “No, you will be Lady de Thornwyck. We will undress you and dress you, every morning and every evening, for the rest of your life.”
Margot’s hushed whisper came too. “You are already late, and Lord Henry does not take well to tardiness.” She forced Seren into the basin.
They scrubbed her with harsh hands before pulling her to the priest’s passage, the small private staircase connecting all three floors and the cellar of Thornwyck Keep.
They took her to the top floor, down a narrow corridor to a bare small room with a bed and a hearth.
Margot combed her hair with a wooden comb, tapped in powder to remove the oils, brushing and brushing until her black locks shone with youthful shimmer, while Isolde busied herself with Seren’s dress.
Both handmaidens hurried her down to the middle floor’s chapel to present her as a bride, muttering something about making up for lost time.
The chapel was narrow, yet again, windowless on one side, and cold despite the torches lining its walls. Seren had not expected the wedding to be beautiful, and it wasn’t. It was as cold as the chapel. Hollow, too.
A ceremony of conquest more than union, she mused.
Candles flickered in iron sconces as if even the flames feared what this union meant. The scent of old incense clung to the damp air, overpowered only by the tang of smoke and dampness off the knights’ cloaks.
Seren stood at the altar in a gown of deep green velvet, the color of her homeland's hills after rain. Stitched with gold threads, the sleeves brushed the wooden floor. Her bronze cross pendant hung just above the gown’s modest neckline, her own only token of comfort amid the wolves.
Margot had braided her loose, long hair, arranged a linen veil, and placed a new flower crown over it. The crown’s petals were far too heavy for something so light.
Lord Henry waited beside her, dressed in black and crimson, his sword belted. His hands were pale against the embroidered cuff of his long tunic, his knuckles bruised from training—or perhaps punishment.
He smiled only once, and only for the crowd. To her, he offered his hand like a gauntlet. The lord’s grip on her hand was possessive. His smile was brief, polite, the same kind a man wore before crushing a bothersome fly beneath his boot.
Commander de Montfort stood at the edge of the chapel with silent, downcast eyes.
His crisp noble’s surcoat had Lord Henry’s crest stitched in deep crimson.
His head bore no helmet, but his shoulders held the disciplined posture of a man who could kill with his bare hands if needed.
Beneath the fine wool, Seren suspected, chain mail still clung to his chest. His presence was both reassurance and reminder: loyalty was survival, and compassion was a death sentence.
Father Osbert performed the rites. His voice echoed through the narrow space with each blessing and vow.
He pronounced them husband and wife in the sight of God.
They were to die to each other at the altar and become one new union; however, Seren knew she would be the only one dying. She only hoped it wasn’t anytime soon.
The moment Henry placed the ring on her finger, her fate was sealed.
Lord Henry pressed a kiss to her cheek. Not her mouth. That would come later. She stood rigid, not wanting what the night would reveal.
When the guests retired to the great hall, Henry said nothing to her, so she said nothing as well. Servants escorted them in silence down the narrow corridor, and when they entered, the herald introduced them publicly:
“Lord Henry de Thornwyck, Marcher Lord of Mortlande, Warden of the Western Marches, and Lady de Thornwyck, by grace united in holy matrimony, Marcher Lady of Mortlande, sworn by veil to the Western March.”
A polite applause filled the great hall as Henry led her by the hand to the high table on the dais.
Lord Henry sat in the seat of honor, and she by his side.
Torchlight and the roar of voices soon followed.
Roasted boar, sugared almonds, golden tarts, and spiced mead lined the tables.
The food was endless, more than she imagined, but she touched none of it until Henry did.
Nobles from Mortlande and nearby Wellenford and Chester, and a few tense envoys from the Marches, sat stiffly at opposite ends. Laughter rang false on many lips.
Seren sat at Henry’s right, hands folded, face composed. She smiled when she needed to and dipped her chin when required. She had trained for this moment, rehearsed every gesture and every expression. Her people would say she carried herself like a queen, though they never spoke the title.
“Lady Seren,” Lord Henry said beside her, his tone too smooth, “it is tradition for the bride to toast her husband.”
She rose, her fingers steady on the cup, though her stomach curled.
"To my lord,” she said, her voice even, but she remembered the Commander’s warning and adjusted her voice, slowly, to avoid notice. “May the Lord above grant him wisdom,” she said, her voice soft like a doe, “and may peace flourish beneath his command.”
A murmur of approval passed through the hall.
Lord Henry smiled. He lifted his goblet in return, eyes gleaming.
When the guests had eaten their fill and the third round of musicians took the floor, Lord Henry stood, his goblet raised in a toast that brought the feasting hall to stillness.
“A toast to peace,” he said, though his eyes never left Seren. “To trust.”
She rose slowly at his cue, heart thudding beneath her bodice.
“Your handmaids will prepare you tonight,” he said, the room hanging on every word. “You will come to my chambers wearing only your robes. Nothing beneath.”
Whispers rippled along the long tables. Seren felt the weight of the gazes, some in pity at the public and humiliating command.
The stain of embarrassment and rage flushed her cheeks.
How dare he give such a public command of such a private matter?
Her mother had told her what to expect, something few mothers did.
But the haunting truth roiled in her stomach: her mother had no true understanding of what was awaiting Seren.
“One can never be too careful,” the lord continued, sipping his wine, “with a Welsh woman from the marches.”
Unsure and uneasy laughter flickered among the guests. Some noblewomen stiffened. One turned her head entirely. But none spoke.
The silence that followed was an attack meant to draw blood.
“Lady Seren, did you not hear me? Your maids will disrobe you, leave you in my chambers, and return with your robes in hand. You will sleep separately from me until your loyalty is earned.”
The silence anticipated her answer.
Seren did not look for Commander de Montfort, though she felt him then. Felt his warning as surely as if he had spoken it aloud.
Be pious. Be loyal. Obey. Trust no one.
Henry was testing her, just as the Commander had said, and she did not want there to be a sixth wife.
Against her nature, Seren bowed her head. “As my lord commands,” she uttered, her words meek.
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 had happened, 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.
Her eyes stung; her unshed tears blurred her vision. Nothing good was to come of the night. She knew it would most likely hurt, and as the lord had said, she would bleed more than her mother had told her she would.
The lord’s chamber opened before her; Henry half-pushed her inside and shut the heavy wooden door behind them with a heavy slam, as if truly sealing her fate.
The silence that followed did not last as long as she had expected. She was in the den with a hungry lion. She took a breath to calm her fears and remove the mist from her eyes. If the Lord Jesus could face his executioners at the cross, she could face this lord and his cruelty.
Tears would come, but she would weep later when she was alone in her room.