24. The Star Stitch
XXIV
THE STAR STITCH
Henry hadn’t left his chambers. He was three days into a fever with no signs of recovery, too weak to sneer and too sick to scheme. Seren had stepped in on his behalf to welcome home the six-month campaign—the longest yet.
The keep doors groaned open; the echo reverberated up the stairwell.
Seren straightened in her seat, hands folded carefully in her lap beside the high table’s empty seat of honor. The sun had dipped low, staining the floor with burnt gold.
Boot steps echoed off the stone steps.
Erik, Geoffrey, and Jovin entered the great hall, their surcoats still dusty from the ride. Erik’s beard was fuller, his jaw tighter. His expression was grim.
She stood as custom dictated, her posture regal but not cold. But her heart—traitor that it was—thudded hard against her ribs.
She hadn’t seen him since the night in the stairwell.
She had told herself that what he did meant nothing. That he had only kissed her neck and wanted more because he was tired, or full of wine, or missed his wife, or because she had comforted Ragnar in his stead.
Too many wives before her had mistaken survival for love. She told herself again now: that night, it meant nothing.
But her breath caught when his gaze met hers.
He winced as her gaze dropped to the dark stain beneath his cloak, high on his shoulder, and the soft bend of his elbow. He was injured.
Her hand twitched against her skirt, but she stilled it.
“Lord Henry is ill,” she said evenly, her voice filling the room. “You’ll report to me as Lady de Thornwyck.”
Erik’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled against his side.
“What word do you bring from Mortlande’s outpost keeps?” she asked.
“They are secure. Shrewsbury surrendered,” Erik said, voice rough. His eyes didn’t linger on hers but looked unfocused past her.
“Very well.” She inclined her head, every movement deliberate to keep her breath calm. “On behalf of the Marcher Lord of Mortlande, I congratulate you on your victory. Go to your homes and enjoy the night. Lord Henry will summon you when he recovers from his illness.”
They bowed. Erik hesitated a moment longer than the others before turning to go.
It meant nothing, she told herself again, but she couldn’t let Erik walk away wounded.
“Commander de Montfort, please stay in the council chamber. I shall send vinegar and flax for your injury.”
He stopped, allowing the other two men to pass him into the stairwell. He turned to her, said nothing more, but gave a slight bow before proceeding to the council chamber down the hall.
Isolde went to the cellar to retrieve the wound-care items. Seren should have sent for the physician, but he was tending Henry. She’d stitched knights’ wounds before, but a slow, creeping, fluttering wave crossed her stomach when she thought of caring for Erik’s wound.
Her womb held a child once more, so perhaps the pregnancy was causing the flutter, though it wasn’t nausea. She reasoned it had nothing to do with being close to Erik, stitching a wound upon his bared skin.
Erik was her friend, nothing more, she told herself.
And she hoped after she rejected his kiss, he was still her friend—if it was a kiss that she rejected.
Her mind had played so many tricks on her, trying to believe lies, rejecting intuition, that she didn’t know what the truth was regarding Erik anymore, except one fact:
Under Henry’s tyrannical rule, Erik cared for her life and her children, and she cared for his and his son’s.
That was all.
That was all it could be.
She swallowed the bitter taste on her tongue and left for the council chamber. She entered quietly with Margot lingering behind, and was startled at the sight of Erik, though not unexpected.
He sat in the chair by Lord Henry’s table. His uniform lay discarded near the hearth, stiff with sweat and blood, and his chest rose with steady breaths that did not match the pain she knew he felt. He always bore it in silence.
Seren had seen his skin once before—bared under Henry’s cruelty, mocked for its pagan stains—but that had been forced, cruel, and public.
This was intimate in the worst way.
His fingers gingerly touched the open gash on the back of his shoulder. He stopped when he saw her.
“Lady de Thornwyck, you should not be here,” he whispered.
Seren glanced back down the corridor.
Tomas, the hall guard, walked it. She’d saved his life and stitched a wound for him after he failed an errand a few months prior. He owed her, though she kept no record. Tomas gave her a nod, so Seren responded to Erik.
“The physician is with Lord Henry, and I’ve always tended to wounds in his absence. Unknown to Lord Henry, of course.” Seren leaned against the door, waiting for Margot to come closer.
“You heal warriors, too?” he asked, his eyes lit.
“My grandmother was a healer,” Seren said. “She healed many and taught me everything I know.” Her heart filled with memories of the gray-haired woman whose wrinkled fingers pressed the bronze cross pendant into her young hands.
“My father taught me,” he said, but immediately his face fell. “My son will know nothing.”
“He knows his father loves him and sees him any chance he can,” Seren said, only imagining the guilt he must feel not being able to comfort his son after the whipping and being sent away for so long. “That is all that is important.”
His brow furrowed. “And I’m thankful for your time with him,” he whispered.
“You do not need to thank me. He needs a mother, and I’m happy to call him my son, though Lord Henry will never know it either.”
Seren’s gaze faltered at the look of gratitude that crossed Erik’s face. It was the same light and smile she’d seen on him in the garden when he spoke of Astrid. Perhaps he remembered his late wife at that moment, and it had nothing to do with her. Isolde’s footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Seren allowed Margot and Isolde to enter. They placed the items on the table near Erik. Isolde immediately left and stood outside the council chamber. Margot remained inside, but near the door.
Even though they had spoken little, words came easily with Erik. She wished they could share more. Wished they could speak every day without someone listening.
Seren walked toward him. His mouth slightly gaped, but he closed it as soon as it dropped and averted his eyes to the hearth.
“The first knight I tended to was wary of my technique,” Seren said with a smile to fill the silence. “I had to assure him, my father allowed me to stitch up my brothers all the time, and my brothers had access to the best care in all of northern Wales.”
“Then your hands are favored as well as your prayers,” Erik said.
“Perhaps,” Seren whispered as she stooped to examine the gash. It looked like the chain mail had kept him from losing his arm, but the hit had ripped open all the skin. The stitch would have to go deep to knit the flesh together.
“You are going to lose mobility of this arm for a while,” Seren said.
“I’d believe it,” he said. He glanced over his shoulder at her.
She handed him a goblet of wine. “You’ll need this.”
He drank it all in one gulp and rolled his head with a wince and a grunt. He blew out a breath through his teeth.
“Heal me, Valkyrie,” he whispered in a croon.
A lump grew in her throat, but she swallowed it down and asked the question that had plagued her since he’d first said it.
“Did you call all the wives ‘Valkyrie,’ Commander?”
Her fingertips tapped the skin to find good flesh before beginning, debating which answer she hoped for.
“I’ve called no one Valkyrie except for you, Lady Seren,” he said. His jaw clenched as if he hated spewing the truth.
Her head drooped, and she allowed herself to smile.
“I see,” she barely forced out. Perhaps she should not have asked the question. She had nearly convinced herself that she was no one special to him and that he’d called all the prior wives names of honor in his faith.
She bit her lip and begged herself not to see it for more than what it was: a gesture of respect, not a declaration of love.
Her gaze fell to the simple silver band on her ring finger. She was Lord Henry’s wife, and she could not pine for another. God himself said it was wrong to do so.
She grabbed the vinegar-soaked cloth from the bowl and wrung it out. With gentle hands, she tried to make his pain as little as possible. She stroked the pagan stain on his back to clean the blood before she sewed.
“This is the second time I have been indecent in front of you, milady. I apologize.” He ducked his chin as if he were ashamed of his runes.
“I’ve already requested you not to apologize, do you remember?” she asked, her gaze trailing the length of his arm.
“Yes, milady, I remember,” he said, his eyes fixed on the hearth.
She wiped up a little more blood off the image of the spearhead within a circle on his shoulder.
“I’ve never seen such artistry stitched into flesh, Erik,” she whispered and took a chance, guessing what he was feeling. “You never have to feel ashamed of them in front of me, though Lord Henry may mock you for them.”
Erik said nothing, but met her gaze. His eyes were wet. It undid the calm facade she had forced herself to wear.
Her hands shook, and her heart wouldn’t stop palpitating in her chest. It had happened once before when she was with child. Air was hard to take in.
“I . . .” she began. “My stitch . . . it will cross some of your marks.”
“Then you will give me a true mark of a warrior,” Erik said.
She picked up the threaded needle and held the tip over the flame.
Erik glanced at the slight tremble in her hands. He slid his hand over hers. Banded marks ran from his elbow to his fingertips. “I can wait for the physician if it is too much blood, Lady Seren.”
Her breath hitched at the warmth of his hand rather than the rough fabric of his glove. “I . . . I don’t know what’s come over me.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve tended to worse before.”