Page 127 of The Thornwyck Rose

“Come,” she said. “Let us take food together before the evening. See for yourself what has become of Thornwyck.”

Madoc raised a brow. “See if your boy truly sits the seat?”

“He does,” Seren said. “You will not find it empty.”

A few chiefs shifted their weight. “It could be a well-set ruse, Madoc,” one said. “Take us all within the bailey and strike us dead.”

Madoc threw his gaze toward Seren. “Then let only a few of us go and see if it is as the Lord and Lady say it is. If we have not returned by dusk, attack.”

Seren dipped her chin.

By midday, they crossed the gate of Castel Thornwyck.

Henry’s body lay in the chapel, guarded by the rites of the Church.

The air was cold and filled with incense. The Welsh chiefs stood silent as they took in the face of the man who had slaughtered their kin.

“He’s dead,” Gethin muttered.

“Then God took him, as Lady Seren said,” one of the older chiefs said, crossing himself.

And that was enough.

They didn’t bother looking twice.

They had come with siege in mind, and they left the keep’s chapel in fragile peace, the doors closing like the final page of a long war. Seren walked them to the gates, black skirts brushing the stones, her children beside her.

Before Madoc left the bailey, he drew Seren into his arms. He kissed her brow over the veil. “I named you Seren because I knew your light would never run out,” he whispered. “We are all indebted to you, my daughter.”

Seren slipped her hand to his cheek. “There is no debt to pay, Father.” She smiled, though he likely could not make it out beneath the veil. “Give Mother my love.”

Madoc kissed Seren’s hand. “Always.”

“A half-Welsh boy sits in the Marcher Lord’s seat,” Gethin said as they mounted again. “From one of our own’s blood.”

“And the people kneel,” Madoc replied. “Let them. Our Lord has done what we could not.”

They rode off, but Madoc turned before he crossed the drawbridge. “Give the Norseman my blessing. He will understand what it means.”

David nodded. “As you wish, Lord Madoc.”

They watched them ride off before dusk toward the clan lines in the distance.

“Do you think they will attack us?” David whispered to Seren.

“Not during the night, not while I live.” She glanced down. “In the morning, we will have a vigil in the bailey’s chapel for your father. The Welsh lords will either submit to you as Marcher Lord or they’ll try to kill us all.”

David sighed.

“So make your peace with God, then?” he asked.

Seren nodded and rubbed a circle in the dirt with her slippered toe. “We should pay respects to your father’s body to keep Mortlande, the church, and the king satisfied. Father Osbert remains by his side,” Seren said. “I’ll not ask him to lie for us—saying we were there when we weren’t.”

David glanced at his mother. He touched her forearm. “Thank you for preparing me. Thankyou for enduring.”

Seren covered his hand. “I am only grieved you were not a child for longer. You have done well, David, your first day as Marcher Lord.”

The transition of power was rarely stable, and Seren hoped her bloodline would save the bearers of the Thornwyck name.