Page 130 of The Thornwyck Rose

Isolde rushed back on soft feet, signaling she had heard footsteps on the stairs.

Margot replaced Seren’s veil.

Seren performed her duty as ordered upon the steward and guards’ return. Erik had dozed off, still in a haze.

“Rest,” she said to Erik, not knowing if he still heard her. “We’ll return tomorrow.”

Ragnar stayed, as he had. The steward closed the door after them.

David hugged Seren before entering his chambers. He whispered to her, “I will make right by you, Mother. Do you want a life with him?”

Seren nodded.

“I owe him and Ragnar my life many times over,” David continued. “I will make it right by them as well. I will liftthem up where my father oppressed, and with my gift to them, a chance for you and him.”

Seren stroked the back of her son’s head. “You have light in your soul, my son, and I am most proud.” She kissed his cheek. “You are my star, little David.”

David pressed his forehead to hers. Truth swelled behind his eyes, too tender to speak. “Goodnight, Mother.”

Seren walked with Margot and Isolde to her chambers at the other end of the corridor.

In her chest, beneath mourning and memory, a single truth rested: she had lost a husband, but not love. And she had gained something far more lasting—peace bought by faith, mercy, and the unwavering courage of her son.

For once, the future held a small ray of hope for a life desired, but a year was a long time, and Marcher Lords were never patient, especially for a woman favored by the Lord and the keeper of peace in the Marches.

XLIV

THE COLD REBIRTH

CASTEL THORNWYCK, FEBRUARY 1100

Snow driftedlow across the hills as the Thornwyck bailey filled with the lords and landholders of Mortlande for the church’s feast of Candlemas. They came early by invitation. Their retainers brushed frost from their cloaks as they surveyed Thornwyck keep with a wary eye.

David sat on the seat of honor beneath Thornwyck’s banner in the keep’s great hall, with Commander de Bramber standing behind him in solemn guard. Father Osbert stood before him, facing the aisle.

The young Marcher Lord's shoulders were squared, his hands calm upon the arms of the chair. He did not glance at Seren, veiled and seated on the first bench, nor at the nobles who clustered in rows. He looked only at the man who had protected his mother.

Erik knew Seren did not dare glance back, but kept her eyes forward as a mourning wife should. He, pale but upright, stepped from the shadows of the corridor under the weight of many eyes. There was no mistaking the warrior'sbearing in his stride. He wore a simple tunic of dark wool, and at his side walked Ragnar, freshly shaven, clad in a fitted jerkin of Norman cut. Both had cloaks clasped at the shoulder, the ends swept back to showcase their lack of weaponry as they approached David. The footfalls of their boots came in unison down the wooden aisle.

David rose when they came before his seat. The boy Erik held as an infant, cast aside by the father who didn’t want to hear his cries, now stood before him, granting him a new life, a life of choice and freedom. He had never imagined such a day in his dark existence.

"Erik Bjornsson, whom my father named Payen de Montfort,” he said, voice ringing clear across the stone wall and gaze sweeping the audience. "You have held this land as if it were your own, though no name or writ bound it to you.” His eyes fell to Erik. “You bled for my father and for my mother. You bled for my sisters and for me. And by your blood, peace holds in Mortlande."

A murmur moved through the crowd. Erik remained still, head bowed slightly.

"You took no oath," David continued, "yet you served as no man has ever served my father."

He descended the steps of the dais, a scroll in his hands.

"By the right of my inheritance," David said, "and the peace you have bought with blood and faith, I name you, upon your baptism under the Church, Baron of Fellmere, its keep now called Montfort Keep, to hold in my name, to guard the western march, and to take your place among the highest noble houses of Mortlande. Do you accept baptism under the Church and the land with my blessing?”

Erik’s blue eyes found Seren's beneath her veil, dangerous for him to do so, but he hoped that with the title, he could have her hand in marriage three days before the next Twelfthtide, when her mourning was complete. He glanced at Ragnar, who nodded. It was just as he had persuaded Henry to keep Ragnar alive, trained, and loyal to his son. It cost Seren’s blood, but at least, they had all survived in Henry’s wake. There was a bond between them all forged under Henry’s torment that would not likely break, though if David gave Seren to another in marriage, he wasn’t sure what beast he would unleash.

Erik stepped forward, kneeled, and laid his palm flat on the floor before David.

“I accept your blessing and the gift of baptism, Lord David,” Erik said, speaking the memorized line clearly.

“Then let the name Payen be buried as it was given in mockery of your pagan faith. Choose now your name in Christ,” David said.