9. The Yellow Kingcup
IX
THE YELLOW KINGCUP
The frost had retreated. The early spring evening whispered lies to the body, hinting at warmth but carrying the tail edge of winter in its breath.
Seren couldn’t sleep. Henry had ensured she stayed in the keep to protect his child, but the stone walls had grown too restrictive.
Her handmaids had dozed in their alcove, and the castle felt too still as the sun set. The child pressed against her ribs, restless as she was. A long string of pain snaked down her leg. Her body begged her to walk, so she wrapped herself in her thickest cloak and tried to sneak away.
But Margot jolted.
“Only to the garden,” she whispered to Margot. “No farther.”
Isolde shook her head. “Lord Henry—”
“Well, Lord Henry isn’t carrying a child,” she said. “I need to be outside. You can either come or stay.”
Margot and Isolde shared a glance. The dark circles under their eyes gave away their weariness from tending Seren’s swelling belly.
Isolde finally patted Margot’s shoulder. “I’ll go with her; we will likely be stopped by the guards anyway.” She hid her yawn and went with Seren.
The Saxon guard at her door, Godric, held up his hand. “I’m sorry, Lady de Thornwyck; Lord Henry wants you in bed, for the betterment of the child.”
“The child does not want to be in bed and forces me to walk. If you’d rather not allow me to leave, then say you were in the garderobe,” she whispered.
He thinned his lips and walked off toward the toilet.
“One guard down,” Isolde murmured.
Seren sighed and slipped down the stairs, glanced at the council chamber doors where Lord Henry was with Commander de Montfort, and continued to the ground level.
The guards at the tower stairs tried to stop her.
“Lady de Thornwyck, you cannot leave the keep,” one called, but the burst of cool, fresh air hit her in the face.
She stood with her arms out to her side and drew in a deep breath—a small freedom, though false. “I will be in the garden should Lord Henry need me.”
The half-words sputtering from the guards made her move fast before they changed their minds.
It wasn’t total defiance. She wasn’t leaving the castle, only going to the bailey garden within the palisade.
Seren didn’t think anyone should question a wife heavy with child seeking air after dinner, but they all feared Lord Henry.
She did too if she were honest. It settled like a snake ready to strike, but she’d pushed it to the edge of her mind.
The baby would be her child of the Welsh, not his, not one meant to be caged by stone walls.
She strode to the steep flying causeway, down the wooden planks, leaving the guards behind. She was almost to the bailey when Commander de Montfort, flanked by two knights, Master Geoffrey de Bramber and one she knew as Captain Jovin de Léry, appeared at the base, blocking her path.
They locked eyes.
He scanned her and then Isolde.
“Commander, I thought you were in the council chamber with Lord Henry,” Seren said, her heartbeat quickening.
“He summoned us. Heading there now,” he replied, with no empathy in his voice, yet a wave of concern crossed his eyes. “You should not be out here.”
She lifted her chin. “I needed air. The child does too. He’s restless. I was going to the garden.” The words were fast as she wondered if he’d let her go or bring her back to her prison.
He peered over his shoulder at Master de Bramber. His weight shifted. “I will escort you. You should not be alone, even with your handmaid. Your time out of the keep will be quick.”
She suppressed a smile. “Yes, Commander. Thank you for your escort.”
He held a gaze with the two men by his sides, longer than Seren thought necessary, until they both nodded. Then he followed her to the gardens.
The familiar scents of home replaced the stench of men and war. Her hand hovered over the fresh yellow blooms as she walked the path. She glanced back, and both Isolde and Commander de Montfort were walking at a distance.
“Commander,” she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.
She didn’t quite know why she wanted him near—only that he had seen her as more than a possession, more than a pawn.
He was one of the few who didn’t laugh when Henry mocked her.
And more importantly, he’d risked something for her. No one else had.
“I love these blooms,” she said in her natural voice. “They are called kingcups by my people.”
He approached, leaving Isolde behind, who hid another yawn.
“They are a beautiful yellow flower,” he said. “They are my wife’s favorite.”
Of course, he was married, though the thought had never occurred to her.
But then why had he tried to save her? Why offer his hand—so gently, so willingly? Was it only pity? Was it at Lord Henry’s command? Had she failed that test by taking his hand?
“Your wife?” she asked.
He didn’t look at her.
Maybe he regretted whatever unspoken thing passed between them when he’d squeezed her hand. Maybe that guilt lived behind his silences.
“I didn’t realize you were married, Commander,” Seren continued, filling in the silence. “I don’t know . . . why I assumed otherwise. I would like her company . . . The keep is lonely and quiet when you and Lord Henry are away—”
“I misspoke, Lady Seren,” he said, gently interrupting her rambling.
His eyes grew wide. He’d said her name when he should have called her Lady de Thornwyck. Maybe he’d thought of her as Seren for so long that it slipped. She would not chide him, though.
“What did you misspeak?” she asked.
He looked away.
“My wife is in her grave.”
The quiet finality of his words struck deep—the way he said “her grave”, like she was still someone he belonged to. It made Seren’s throat ache. No one had ever spoken of her like that. No one ever would. Her heart twisted for him and for herself.
“I’m so sorry.”
He held the bloom between his fingers.
To see a man with such a brutal reputation, stop and stare at a flower in memory of his wife, made her wonder even more, why give her warnings? Why help her?
“Did she fall ill?” Seren asked.
He shook his head. Eyes still averted. “I tried to save Lord Henry’s first wife, so he took mine.”
Her jaw fell, and she took a half-step back.
He’d once tried to save a woman like her from Henry—and lost his wife for it.
And now he’d warned Seren. Helped her. Walked beside her.
Protected her still. But how long before she, too, became a reason someone else suffered?
But the question repeated, why would he help her?
Especially after losing his wife for it?
He muttered, “Demanded obedience or my son would meet the same fate.”
Her brow furrowed. “Your son?”
“He sleeps in the attic. I can only see him with Lord Henry’s permission.”
The long-held gaze between the Commander and the two knights hit hard. “Am I . . . endangering your son by being here after you saw me leave the keep?”
He found her eyes. He said nothing, but she knew the answer.
“Please forgive me,” she whispered. “Let us return then. I want nothing to happen to him.”
He held his hand out to block her path. “You need fresh air.”
“But why? Why risk his life for me? I am no one to you.”
She asked the question she’d held since he gave her the hidden warnings on her wedding night.
“Because you . . . ” He struggled for words. “You knew what this life was . . . and you came anyway to protect peace. To save your homeland. You care for children, not even your own. They are no one to you, yet you risked your life for them. Endure your husband’s mockery for them.”
The poison that hung around her neck felt heavy in those words. “And I won’t risk your son’s life for fresh air,” she said. “Please forgive me.”
“You have done nothing wrong, Lady Seren,” he said.
Twice now, her name had fallen from his lips, and she didn’t mind it. She wanted to hear it again, hear her name spoken by someone other than Henry.
He plucked the bloom and gently placed it in her palm, stroking the petals.
In that moment, she saw him in a different light.
He was a man, perhaps not brutal, but compelled to follow the orders of his master, his owner, who held his son hostage for obedience.
He was just as much a prisoner as she was.
Seren burned his striking image into her memory the longer he remained silent—strong jawline with a trimmed beard, high cheekbones, dark blonde, tousled waves covering his brow, a sharp nose, and eyes, a deep, clouded blue.
“My wife, Astrid, loved this bloom because it was hardy, bloomed even in cold frost, and was a bright yellow like the sun, the guiding light.” Commander de Montfort said, low.
He said her name like a prayer. Astrid.
Seren hadn’t expected the sting—jealousy of the love real enough to mourn. She wondered what it would feel like to be loved like that, even years after death separated them. She’d likely never know what it felt like.
“Called them sunbursts,” he continued. His thumb stroked the side of her hand as he remembered his late wife. “It’s been years since I’ve been in the garden . . . I miss her so much.”
Seren swallowed the lump in her throat at the slight break in his voice.
She envisioned how Henry must have killed Astrid, and the years-long toll on the Commander to witness his life’s love be tortured and slain.
Seren’s fingers tightened around the bloom.
Astrid. The name clung to the petals, light and fragile, like all things Henry tried to crush.
“She was a lot like you,” he said, his gaze finally meeting hers again. His eyes misted, and it nearly broke her heart. “She was a fighter, a survivor until . . .”
Seren shivered from the truth beneath his words. Was he mourning Astrid still, or warning Seren that love saved no one?
“He is an awful man,” she said.
“Don’t say that too loudly.” He stepped closer as if to shield her and glanced back at Isolde, who stood with eyes closed and head drooping.