7. The Laid Rose #2
Payen wished she would not make enemies with the holy man.
He was mostly responsible for the second wife’s death.
She had come to the church to bring accusations against Lord Henry, that his beatings were out of anger and not correction.
She had the bruises and open wounds to prove it, but Father Osbert simply made Henry vow not to act in anger.
The following year, she was dead, and Henry was free to marry again. Father Osbert had said nothing else.
Payen followed Seren toward the edge of the field, where the grave had been dug. The villagers gathered around, and they lowered the wrapped girl down. The girl’s father was the first to throw a handful of dirt over her. The village wept.
Payen watched Seren, making sure she did not cry. Father Osbert watched her too, likely for the same reason.
The sun touched the horizon as the ground swelled with fresh dirt. The villagers had scattered, their sobs lingering like smoke. Only the grave remained, and Seren.
He had buried men. Comrades. Enemies. His own heart, once. Feared burying it again.
But this felt different.
He looked at her then. Truly looked. Truly admired.
Seren was a woman standing over the grave of a child she did not birth.
Mourning behind misted eyes as if the girl had come from her own womb.
Risking her life so that one nameless child would not have to endure torture before a public execution, all because Lord Henry did not provide enough food for his conquered lands.
He hated what was coming next.
Lord Henry had designed the tests and had made him execute them.
He could only hope Seren remembered his warning.
Not to trust him. He thought of Ragnar, his son, and knew he couldn’t bury him alongside his mother’s ashes.
Her handmaids were a few steps behind them.
Father Osbert, within earshot, gave him a pointed nod to begin.
So, it would be the priest reporting to the lord.
Seren held a withered rose. The stem trembled in her hand, but her face did not falter.
Payen came and stood beside her, remaining mute.
When the rose touched soil, she whispered something he couldn’t hear.
Henry’s orders hollowed his chest. He hoped only she remained vigilant.
"You buried her with care," he said.
Seren remained silent.
Payen studied her for a long moment.
Her veil had slipped in the wind, revealing the edge of a bruise on the side of her neck, half-shadowed by a loose strand of hair.
It looked fresh. His jaw tensed, and he fought the urge to look away.
Instead, his eyes scanned her collarbone, the edge of her gown, where faint purple marks peeked like whispers from beneath linen.
Her hands were folded across her belly, still not showing with child.
He’d wondered if she truly was with child, or if she’d just said it to show the girl mercy and to keep Lord Henry’s wrath at bay.
Perhaps that was why the lord had coached him on what to say, how to trick the fifth Lady de Thornwyck into an untimely death.
But he had to say what the lord wanted, or Ragnar would pay the price.
So he spoke.
“It seems you believe thieves should be exempt from the law? Or that Lord Henry’s law is too harsh, too strict?”
Seren pursed her lips before turning to lock eyes with him. “Well, I believe—” Her voice was strong and sultry again, not meek. He knew she was about to trust him.
He whispered, low and quick, so only they could hear, “Seren.”
No title. Just her name that he was not allowed to say. An implicit warning. It was all he could do with listening ears nearby.
She paused. Her gaze dropped to his lips before returning. She glanced in Father Osbert’s direction. Her meek voice returned slowly as if she had just gathered her thoughts. “I believe that Lord Henry is lord for a reason. His word is law.”
He nodded, realizing the sultry voice was hers, and the meek was the part she played.
“Yes, you are right,” he said. “Your Lord God would not establish such a man if his law was not good.”
She’d passed the first part.
Now came the second—the harder one. The one that only worked if she felt safe with him. Or trusted him. Or both.
Henry’s instructions scorched through his memory: “Flatter her. Provoke her. See if she is tempted without touching her. See if she wavers. If she does, I’ll know she’s like the rest and get rid of her.”
Payen hated it. Hated playing the part. Hated reciting what Henry ordered him to say.
But each of the wives had faced this same test—and with Seren, the lines blurred. The memorized words, spoken only to serve the lord’s cruelty, struck too close to the truth.
She’d been in his thoughts—more than she should have been.
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
“You, Lady de Thornwyck, are an honorable wife. Worthy of admiration and respect due to your title. Lord Henry is lucky you are his.”
He paused, then forced the rest. “For I am a little jealous.”
He wasn’t meant to tempt her—only to see if she would be tempted.
But he hated the bruise on her neck. Hated saying these words with it still dark on her skin.
She studied him. “That is a bold statement, Commander de Montfort.”
He gritted his teeth. The next line had to be said.
If Father Osbert thought he hadn’t gone far enough or repeated all of the lord’s lines, Henry would harm Ragnar.
“I admire you, milady. I’ll not keep it hidden.” He paused and forced the rest: “Sometimes I wish you were my—”
“Do not wish for a life not yours,” she cut in. “And I will not wish for a life not mine. I am Lord Henry’s wife, not yours. Nor will I ever be. Do not flatter me further.”
“Your word is my command, Lady de Thornwyck,” he said.
She’d passed.
The following silence between them echoed louder than applause.
Yet the sad spoken truth remained: Even if Henry died—by sword, by sickness, by the wrath of God—her son, if she bore one, would inherit the title.
She could never remarry unless reassigned by King William, renegotiated to another Marcher Lord, or Henry’s kin claimed her.
And Henry had no kin. Had no mother to love him either.
Just a wretched father who had made him what he was: a paranoid, despotic lord.
Seren’s words had sealed her fate in the eyes of the test. They were what Father Osbert needed to hear. Payen could only hope the priest repeated them with precision—and without malice.
Payen and Seren said nothing.
But in that quiet, the mask slipped.
Her chin lifted. The dying light caught her eyes—and in them, another cruel truth: She wished for another life.
Maybe she saw the truth in his eyes, too, that his words weren’t all lies. That he did admire her. That he wanted better for her. Maybe he even wished to believe in love again.
But none of that mattered. Not here. Not in Thornwyck. Not anywhere in Mortlande.
The weight of what could never be sat between them like a stone dropped into water.
After a long moment, he extended a gloved hand in a silent invitation to return to Thornwyck Keep. She took it with grace and without another word. Her hand fit into his as if it had always belonged there.
The first time she’d taken it, she’d trembled. The second time, she’d trusted. Now—she chose.
Her fingers wrapped firmly into his palm; her thumb brushed the armored knuckles, soft, as if on purpose. As a gesture of gratitude, perhaps.
He returned the pressure.
Her lips twitched. A smile almost rose—reckless. But in that flicker, he understood: resisting her would only demand more of him—and perhaps, of her.
But the last truth hurt the most: since Astrid, Seren would be the hardest one yet to watch die.
He led her to her mare and helped her mount.
As the villagers offered prayers and tears, the noble company turned for home. And in the hush that followed, the single Thornwyck rose lay on the newly turned Mortlande earth as a symbol of Seren’s defiant spirit, untouched by the foot of man.