Page 125 of The Thornwyck Rose

Margot spoke. “Your children wouldn’t leave.”

“Yes,” Seren said. It was the truth. They hadn’t wanted to leave Erik, not knowing if he would live or die. “I couldn’t leave my children, not after Lord Henry passed in the Lord’s service.”

Isolde added, “Yes, and Montfort also saved your life. The children felt indebted to him. How would a mother have pulled her frightened children away from their mother’s savior?”

The tension in Seren’s chest loosened. That would have to be a good enough excuse.

"You need to wash and dress before anyone sees you. I laid out mourning robes in your chamber. We’ll take you through the nursery. You’ll be in the great hall before any gossip stirs."

Seren nodded, then glanced back once more at the pile of bodies sleeping soundly around Erik.

That was all she allowed herself.

One look at the man who bled for her, and the children who wrapped him in something that felt dangerously close to family. Then she turned her back on his warmth and walked into duty’s mourning.

The fields glittered with frost,but the sun broke gold across the sky. The morning was clear—too bright for a land that had nearly fallen to blood and ash.

Seren sat atop her white mare, robed in black with silver trim. A black translucent veil shadowed her face.

In black, David looked more lord than boy, the feelings he didn’t speak written into every seam of his mourning garb. He sat atop his own horse, a nut-brown, young stallion. He shaded his eyes as he looked west.

The ground rumbled with the threat of war approaching. Seren hadn’t seen her father in almost fifteen years. Would he remember her? Would he accept David as his half-Welshgrandson? Would they all die that day?

She released a slow breath through her lips, which curled into fog before her face and soon dissipated in the morning sunlight.

Ragnar, her handmaidens, Father Osbert, Godric, and Commander de Bramber stilled on their horses behind Seren and David.

The first clan arrived on the plains, followed by the others. They dotted the horizon, banners rising like brushstrokes across the sky—reds, greens, and golds of the mountain and river folk. Hooves crunched frost in the distance.

Seren’s fingers tightened on the reins to steady the mare.

Madoc rode toward them. Two of Seren’s brothers flanked him along with mounted Welsh chiefs. Their axes rested flat against their backs, but their stares could cut just as easily.

Seren glanced at David and nodded. David led them forth and they met the Welsh chiefs in the Mortlande fields stretching before Castel Thornwyck.

Madoc pulled his horse to a slow halt a few yards from David’s line. Silence stretched long enough to pull the breath from the air.

She reined in, dismounted with grace alongside her son, and they walked to Madoc and the chiefs without bow or formality. Welsh and Norman boots crunched through frostbitten grass as they met between the lines.

The last time she’d spoken face-to-face with her father, she’d been young, and he’d bound her to Henry’s will. Now she stood tall and unchanged in soul, but sharpened by years in Thornwyck’s fire.

Madoc did not speak at first. His hard eyes scanned David, then returned to her. His hair, once deep sable, now streaked with silver, curled beneath his helm.

Gethin—her eldest brother—wore a half-smile beneath a wary brow. He scanned Geoffrey and Ragnar with suspicion, but when his eyes landed on Seren, his chest lifted in relief.

“You wear widow’s black,” Madoc said, his eyes softening the longer he focused on her face beneath the sheer black veil.

“I do,” Seren replied. “Lord Henry has passed.”

Madoc nodded as he glanced at the other chiefs standing alongside him.

“How?”

She didn’t blink but brushed her pendant cross with her forefinger, suppressing any guilt she had over taking her husband’s life. “The Lord willed a righteous hand. It was God who struck him down.”

The corners of Madoc’s mouth curled upward, knowing. He gave her a slow nod.

Seren had proved she was not tainted by Norman wealth or power, that she was still Welsh in the eyes of the chiefs.