Page 118 of The Thornwyck Rose

A murmur rippled through the hall. If it were the Lord’s will, maybe this act would also end any lingering doubts about her fidelity.

Henry’s chest rose and fell as a fast-beating drum.

Father Osbert drew near and stood over Lord Henry.

“It seems the Lord has spoken,” Father Osbert said. He rubbed his braided prayer rope and recited the last rites. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want . . .”

Seren stooped and brushed Henry’s hair from his brow as Father Osbert continued.

“As your wife, I will follow all the mourning and remembrance rituals required of Lady de Thornwyck for David’s sake,” she said softly.

But then she locked her gaze with his. He tried to murmur something, but his tongue failed.

As the life faded from his eyes and his breathing slowed to a soft hitch, she stooped lower and whispered, “But as a woman, I know your soul will burn with that of your father.”

Fear replaced rage in his eyes before the light went out.

Mercy, she reminded herself.

This was mercy, not vengeance. She had murdered with mercy, not vengeance, she repeated to herself.

“I am not your mother,” she finally whispered to Henry. “Though I know why she did what she did, if it were even true.” She let his black locks fall back over his brow and sat back on her heels.

Her children would live.

And the price of peace had been paid—almost. Tomorrow would still come, and Thornwyck might still burn.

She bowed her head and steadied her breath.

All eyes turned toward David, who stood shaking, stunned—the boy suddenly Marcher Lord of Mortlande.

She rose from Henry’s corpse and walked to the dais. Both hands fell on her son’s shoulders.

David looked down at her; his busted lip and bruised cheek a testament that mirrored her own.

She pressed a smile and whispered, “It seems the Lord believes you fit to lead, David.” She hoped she had not angered God with her manipulations.

“Remember what your soul feels,” she told her son. “Remember to do good. Tell the men-at-arms of Ragnar and your sisters. Tell them, you and I will ride out tomorrow to meet the chiefs and secure peace.”

David pressed a finger and a thumb into his eyes to keep tears from falling and wiped his sleeve to remove the last of the blood from his nose.

“Yes, Mother,” he whispered. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his head in her neck. He took a deep breath as Father Osbert concluded the rites.

“Remember how I taught you,” Seren said low. “Think only of the words to say. You can do this. Be the lord I know you are.” She stroked the back of his head.

David kissed her cheek before releasing her and letting her step aside.

“My father has passed in the Lord’s service,” David stammered, addressing the great hall. He drew a long breath as he scanned the room and then looked back at Seren. She gave him a firm nod. He returned his gaze to the hall with a firmer voice.

“As the sole Heir de Thornwyck, I assume the title of Marcher Lord . . . unless the Lord God or the crown I serverevokes it, as is their rightful authority.” David paused, and the hall kneeled before him, except his mother and Father Osbert.

Seren lifted her chin in pride. He hadn’t asked the hall to kneel, and yet they did. All of them pledged fealty to her son. She stood beside him, and David glanced between her and Erik. “We told my father that Ragnar, son of the former Commander de Montfort, and my sisters had passed, but they are alive, hidden from my father’s wrath.”

Erik’s strong shoulders caved. Blood still ran down his arms.

David noticed too. “Bring the physician to tend any wounds, starting with the former Commander, for he saved my mother’s life,” David ordered, his words rushed.

“And tonight, sleep well. Tomorrow, Lady Dowager de Thornwyck and I . . .” —he caught his breath—“will ride to meet Chief Madoc and the northern chiefs to prevent war and siege . . . and forge peace once again.”