Page 126 of The Thornwyck Rose

“Then who can go against the Lord?” Madoc asked.

Seren shook her head. “No one.”

His gaze switched hard to David.

Now her son had to prove he would keep peace in the Welsh Marches. That he wasn’t so Norman he’d seek to wipe the Welsh from the land. If David spoke well, there would be peace. Letting Seren’s line rule would be the cleverest political move Madoc ever made—and all, without raising a single sword.

Madoc positioned himself in front of the young boy, still a head shorter than Madoc.

“And this boy,” Madoc said, “is he the one you bore the demon lord?” His voice still rumbled like the hills he hailed from.

David didn’t flinch. He stood straight and proud, the weight of the past week heavy on his shoulders. “I am David de Thornwyck,” he said. “And I am my mother’s son.”

“You wear black, too,” he said. “Mourning a man who made your mother bleed?”

David’s jaw grew tight. “I mourn for what should have been,” David said. “Not what was.”

That made Madoc still. His eyes flicked to Seren. Then he gave a single, solemn nod.

“A good answer,” he muttered and lifted his chin before asking, “How old are you, boy?”

David replied as Seren had coached him in Henry’s absence. “Age pales to competence as a Marcher Lord.”

Madoc murmured, “Another good answer.” He glanced behind David before addressing Seren. “I see a Norseman with golden hair, but that is not the one I let go. Where is the one Henry called Payen de Montfort? The Norseman who commanded his men?”

Seren inclined her head, veil brushing her cheeks, but did not answer—let her son do it. He had a name and role to grow into.

“He saved my mother’s life. Nearly died for it,” David said, again garnering Madoc’s focus. He pointed to Ragnar still mounted on David’s line. “That’s his son. Ragnar—he is like a brother to me.”

Madoc’s jaw twitched. “Then I owe the Norseman,” he said simply.

David faced Madoc. His eyes questioned his grandfather’s reaction, but Madoc gave nothing away.

Madoc stood in silence, and David matched it.

“You say you are your mother’s son,” Madoc finally said. “Prove it, and let’s not waste blood. I’ve only heard rumors of your obedience in following your father’s footsteps.”

David glanced at his mother. He didn’t know how to prove it. Seren swallowed hard. She thought words would have been enough.

But then David reached for the signet ring—Henry’s ring, now his. He turned it in his fingers, then pulled it free and held it out in the palm of his hand, plain for them to see as an act of trust.

“My father ruled through fear and unmerciful power. He spilled blood between peoples and called it peace.” He lifted his eyes from the signet ring to his grandfather. “I won’t do the same.”

Madoc picked the signet ring up and examined it as David continued speaking:

“I’ll rule the Marches with strength—but also with the honor my father had long forgotten. I’m not afraid to carry the weight of what he built, but I’ll answer for what comes next. My mother was willing and still ready to give her life for peace, as am I.” He paused, and Madoc met hisgaze. “I am both my mother’s son and the bearer of my father’s lordship.”

Madoc returned the signet to David’s palm with a controlled hand.

But he still said nothing, as if he wanted something more before his decision was made.

David understood and added, voice clear, “I swear before you and my mother, before God and the men of both bloodlines—I will not raise a sword unless it is to defend the border or the innocent. I will rule with both justice and mercy like the Lord above. And I will not forget the blood I carry from my mother, Lady Seren ferch Madoc.”

A murmur moved through the chiefs.

Madoc turned to his war band and raised his hand—weaponless. “The boy is ours.”

Relief didn’t show on Seren’s face, but it swelled thick in her chest.