Page 116 of The Thornwyck Rose

THE TURNED TABLES

THORNWYCK KEEP, DECEMBER 1099

“My lord,”she said, halting the guards’ movements.

Her voice was hers, not the meek one she played. Erik watched her walk past him. His hand was ice, trembling as though the cold had seeped into his bones, and she felt the shudder travel through her own arm. He had come back to her barely upright. She feared that if she let go, he would fall, and if she held on, Henry would kill him for it. Her fingers slipped through his, and she hoped it wouldn’t be the last time.

“I did not pray for your victory when you first left, but now my homeland marches here to kill my son.”

She strode to Henry with grace, her long hair in loose waves, fallen from her braid, down her back and shoulder.

“Let me ask God now, as his favored one, for victory. Let all your hosts and Father Osbert be present.”

Henry chuckled, but his pride swelled in a beam surveying his subjects. He straightened his tunic and announced to the hall:

“The lady wishes to pray for her lord.”

He stepped forward and off the dais. “You realize, at last, you are alone, Lady Seren, but I will take your prayer, as youare, as it seems, favored. I will reconsider your place here, should the Lord answer.” The lie slid easily from his lips.

Henry shot a glare at Erik as if Henry had won.

“Pray, Seren,” Henry said and patted her cheek with too much force.

The hall exhaled, unsure where to fix its eyes.

Seren chose not to kneel because the words about to be spoken would not be holy, or perhaps they would be. She had tried her whole life to live within God’s commands, to keep faithful to her vows and the Lord’s purpose of repentance and love, but the insatiable claws of vengeance took hold of her heart.

She felt Erik behind her—shaking with shallow breaths. She heard the scrape of his boots as he tried not to fall. The Lord had brought him back to her doorstep, but at what cost? If she did not end Henry now, Erik would die by Henry’s will or by exhaustion before dawn.

Her pulse hammered in her throat.

Three drops.

That was all it would take.

The time was right. David was barely old enough to take his father’s place. They had all survived Henry’s reign.

“Oh Lord, Our Father who art in Heaven,” she began, her eyes never closing, but staring into Henry’s soul. The one she was about to extinguish.

She had prayed for her enemies before. She had forgiven worse than this man’s cruelty. But what she had planned—it was too close to her soul.

And Erik was watching. Her son was watching. She hoped this act would not rot her heart or make them see only sin in her if they ever learned the contents of her pendant necklace.

The prayer in her heart cried to the Lord,“Let my hand be righteous. Let my heart be blameless. Let this justice be Yours, not mine. He will kill all I love and so many more if I do not do it. And if I let my son or Erik remove him, it will mar David’s lordship. Peace will only come after much blood. If there is another way, intervene for me, Lord.”

She drew in a deep breath and calmed her shaking hand. The others poisoned, she had simply taken away their agony from a certain death, like her grandmother before her, but this time—this time, it was different.

Was it mercy for Mortlande and its borders? Was it murder? Was it an eye for an eye?

The Lord would answer her.

“I pray for victory for your righteous one,” she said aloud.

She heard Erik grunt and shuffle behind her, and her chest tightened. He sounded like a man standing on the last of his strength.

Stay with me, Erik,she wanted to tell him.

“Decide now who is righteous, Lord.” Her words rushed from her lips. “If Lord Henry is not, strike him down. If he is not worthy to rule as a Marcher Lord, remove him.”