9. The Yellow Kingcup #2
She took in his closeness and his cedar scent, now all the more intoxicating. She had told herself not to wish for a life not hers, but was it too much to ask for a life kinder? He had likely asked the same question.
She realized he was helping her because he respected her and saw her as a fellow warrior, but, at the same time, her hand was in his.
He’d stroked her fingers. Perhaps she was just a memory of Astrid.
That was all she could ever be anyway, but still her eyes trailed up his chest and neck, landing on his rugged profile.
This life was the only life she’d ever known. She didn’t want to dream of something more. It would make her long for something that would never be hers. But the man before her intrigued her with his care, kindness, and hurt.
Was she simply the next woman he could not save? Or had he chosen her, somehow, for something more? She didn’t want to believe in kindness that had no cost—but she wanted to believe in his.
So she told him the truth, whispered in their closeness.
“I try to pretend I love him and I want this life with him,” she said.
His gaze drifted back to her.
“Sometimes it’s the only way I make it through the night,” she whispered, holding back her tears. “He is truly awful. I’ll not apologize for saying it.” She realized his fingers were on her elbow, so she pulled her arm closer to her belly to nudge him off her for both their sakes.
“If anyone can survive Lord Henry, it is you,” Commander de Montfort whispered, before taking a step back to a respectable distance.
Seren stroked the bloom’s petal. She didn’t want to talk about her husband, not in the precious few moments of privacy with the Commander, her only friend in the keep.
She wondered if Astrid had bloomed in frost, too.
If love had made her brighter, not broken.
Seren vowed not to be another sunburst crushed by winter’s weight.
“Astrid is not a Norman name, and you do not look like the others.”
“We are Norsemen.”
She brought her hand closer to her eyes to examine the golden bloom. “Payen de Montfort is not your real name, then, is it?”
“It is now. I am only a shadow of the man I once was,” he said.
She stopped mid-stroke. Her brow furrowed.
“Well, I’d say if you are but a shadow, then the man you once were was a saint.
” She lowered her hand, holding the flower.
“A shadow wouldn’t have warned me on the wedding night to be silent, or at the grave site, to speak for listening ears, or even now to oblige my request for fresh air.
Lord Henry could well be on wife number six or seven by now if you hadn’t.
” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It seems you are more than your new name, Commander. Astrid chose well—her flower and her husband.”
His lips upturned. He opened his mouth to speak, but she stopped him.
“I don’t fear dying,” Seren said quietly.
“But I do fear what war will befall my homeland when I do, and now . . . leaving this child alone with him.” She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“I vowed to serve my people. I meant it. But I didn’t know it would mean dying by degrees.
I was born in the Welsh Marches, spent every day outside, and here, I have the small slit they call a window in my room.
I feel like I’m suffocating from the inside out in every way. ”
She didn’t expect tears to come, but they burned the backs of her eyes.
“I owe you my life three times over, and for what reason, other than wanting peace and children not to suffer?” She blinked back the tears so they would not fall.
“Thank you for being my friend, if I can call you as such. I will remember your kindness, for however long I have left.”
He slipped his gloved hand beneath hers that held the blossom again, and put another bloom in her palm.
“Leaning into kindness is how some wives got themselves killed,” he whispered.
“Be wary of my warnings. As I did before, and if I can again, I will call you without your title. But be alert. He will order me to do and say things to trap you. There is always someone listening.”
Her name, to him, wasn’t just a simple address; it was an oath of protection. Or so he said; she had to make sure.
“Is this a trap?” she said, brushing the new bloom’s petal.
“If it is, then I will die with you,” he whispered with a half-turn smile. “I just hope you can pray to your God for my son to have a painless death if the time comes, if you pity Norse boys as much as the Normans and Saxons.”
“A child is a child,” she whispered.
His eyebrows raised. Perhaps he was not expecting such an answer.
She thought about telling him about the poison, but decided against it. It was her one boon. “I will make that vow to you—if I am able and alive, I will pray for his painless death and beg the Lord to answer.”
A quiet peace settled in his eyes.
“You are a selfless woman, Lady Seren. I am indebted.”
For once, he didn’t look like a hardened battle victor, but rather a father, a husband who’d lost too much. He shared a part of his soul with her in his gaze, one she wanted to embrace and never let go. But she was a silly girl wishing for a life she could never have.
“There is no debt,” she whispered, never breaking eye contact.
The silence between them grew companionable. The garden was quiet again. Only the wind moved now, brushing against the petals between them. She shifted again, the child inside her kicking hard beneath her ribs. Her face twisted in discomfort.
His gloved hand reached forward—hesitated—then stopped just short of touching her arm.
She refused his aid and instead asked, “What is your real name, Commander?”
He shifted his weight. He glanced at Isolde, who had sat on the stone bench, leaning with her head in her hand, eyes closed. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll never use it again.”
“Then will you tell me your son’s name?”
His face softened in the fast-fading sunlight.
“Ragnar,” he whispered. “He’s eight.”
“Ragnar,” she repeated. The poor boy was just eight years old and couldn’t see his only parent without Henry’s permission. Her tongue turned sour at the thought. “Does he look like you?”
“Yes, but he has his mother’s wit.”
“Are you able to see him often?” she asked.
“He knows I come when I can. And it is enough. It has to be,” he said, though his jaw clenched.
She would seek out the boy in the attic, perhaps give him what Astrid would want for him—a mother’s love. She imagined a life caged, more so than hers.
Commander de Montfort glanced up at the sky.
The action was implicit. He was worried about what Lord Henry would do.
“I should be getting back. Will you escort us?”
He dipped his chin. “I would be honored.”
They locked eyes, but before she took a step, he stopped her. His face searched hers before he whispered, “You are my only friend as well, Lady Seren.”
A smile swept over her face and in her heart.
She shouldn’t have smiled, not with the palisade guards who might be watching, but she did.
Maybe this life wouldn’t be as hard to endure with a friend like the commander by her side.
But doubt teased the thought: He promised to warn her, but Henry commanded him, puppeted him.
He was Henry’s blade—the man who gave orders, broke men, and stood silent while women bled in rooms just like hers.
Perhaps he was both brutal and kind. And God help her, she feared that in the end it would be his kindness that destroyed them both—or maybe just her, like Henry’s prior wives.