Page 132 of The Thornwyck Rose
This was death by vow.
"I renounce what no longer holds me,” he said.
The murmur stirred again.
Father Osbert, a good man as Erik had come to know him, pressed on despite his half-hearted answer, quieting the room.
“And do you receive this baptism in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost for the forgiveness of your sins and the rebirth of your soul?”
Erik swallowed.
He had been wrong.Thiswas the death. Not of his belief, but of his isolation. He would be accepted into society again with a noble title in hand. He could have a sanctioned marriage to the woman heloved.
"I do,” he said.
The water struck his brow, shockingly frigid, running into his eyes, down his face, soaking his hair and chest. For a moment, the world narrowed to sensation—stone, breath, ache, water.
He bowed his head as Father Osbert murmured a Latin rite and pushed two fingers on Erik’s shoulder, commanding Erik to dip, so Erik sank.
The cruelly cold water embraced his body, rushed over his head, and filled his soul. The cold seemed to warm, but when he rose again, the air chilled the water on his skin even more than it had been before.
Father Osbert gave the final blessing, raising a crucifix over Erik’s head.
Beneath the words meant for heaven, Erik whispered his own—too low for anyone to hear.
“Men who wished to break me and call me a heathen gave the name Montfort. But I am Erik Bjornsson. Let this God know me as such.”
Erik let the water from his hair run down his face. It felt like death and birth, both. As if one part of him dissolved and another took its place. As if the stubborn hold of ages past finally let go, but he didn’t feel holy. He felt claimed again by land and by oath, but also by the fragile, dangerous hope of a future he had chosen for himself.
Erik exited, his clothes clung to him, revealing the pagan stains they had so hoped to cover. An acolyte quickly wrapped his cloak over his shoulders. Erik fastened the brooch himself. Its woolen warmth hid the shiver in his body as he looked out at the Mortlande nobles and wondered if they would think his baptism a fraud.
Ragnar entered the pool next.
Where Erik had hesitated, his son did not.
Ragnar spoke the vows clearly, fervently, the way boys raised between altar and psalter did. Father Osbert and Seren had raised Ragnar in the Lord’s service, and Erik had let Odin and the other gods drift away to memory.
When the water touched Ragnar’s brow, Erik felt the tension ease in his chest. If one of them believed withoutquestion, perhaps that was enough for the realm to honor David’s grant.
Father Osbert rose from the pool after Ragnar and anointed both of their heads with holy oil across the brow. The congregation erupted in solemn song, after which Father Osbert led a prayer and blessed the assembly.
At the end of the rites, David stepped forward.
"Let it be known, before Church and crown,” the young lord declared, "that Erik de Montfort is noble in name, in blood, and in God’s service, as is his heir.”
As the last “Amen” echoed in the chapel, Seren approached him in the candlelight. He bowed to her, and she dipped her chin as was custom. Then she did the same to Ragnar.
The Candlemas feast lasted long into the night, and when sweet wine had taken over most of the guests, Erik approached Seren from behind, taking a stance beside her and brushing her hand with his.
It had been a long day of conversing with people of the church, bearing congratulations and jealous sneers. His hair was still damp, and he hadn’t been allowed to wipe away the oil.
Erik whispered, "I mostly did this for you.”
She wrapped her small finger around his. He suppressed a smile, though his lips twitched.
“You’ve given me everything, including my life,” she said. “I only hope that if you do not receive what you desire, you and your descendants will be better off as nobility in the Norman empire.”
“All of the Marcher Lords are married, milady,” Erik said, understanding the reason behind her words. “And now I am one of the highest nobles of Mortlande and have no wife.”
