Page 136 of The Thornwyck Rose

They both looked at Seren as if the idea descended upon them at the same time. “Pray, Mother. Your prayers have always been answered.”

Seren’s lip twitched. She was a fraud, but in that moment, she had to be what they thought she was. “I will.”

“Then I will request your presence until my eighteenth birthday, and we will have faith that another marriage will become more desirable to our king during that time,” David said.

“Do not start a war over me, my son,” Seren pleaded.

“King William Rufus is not unreasonable. We just need to request in the right manner with the right tribute to show no ill will or challenge.”

Erik slid his arms around her as David looked away to give them some privacy. “There will be no war, milady.” He cupped her face. “Pray, and it shall be. I’ve seen God answer you. Your faith is great.”

But it wasn’t. It had been a cunning survival in a harsh world. She squeezed his hands, warm and belonging beneath the pagan stains from his prior life. “I shall go to the chapel then.”

She sniffled and then left Erik and David to craft the reply to the king.

Her black skirts whispered over the dark wood of the chapel floors. The doors closed behind her.

Alone, Seren kneeled before the cross, veil drawn, shoulders trembling. The incense was faint, and the air, cold.

And at last, her heart cried aloud—not to be delivered from suffering, but to be granted the courage to endure it. She dared not pray for herself again, for she had twisted God in the minds of men, and she was doing it again. But maybe—perhaps—the merciful God still heard her. If not for her sake, then for theirs. She brought her final requests before thedivine’s throne: to bring peace and to keep Erik and her children in God’s hands.

She wept before the cross.

“Forgive me, Lord,” she whispered, breath ragged. “Forgive me for everything.” She’d killed children slated for torture and murdered her husband; God had already spoken. Her punishment: not death, but a loveless crown beside a faithless and ruthless king, even the Church feared to oppose.

XLVI

THE MIDNIGHT WINDOW

THORNWYCK KEEP, MAY 1100

Candlelight flickeredacross the long table in the council chamber, casting tall shadows on the walls.

Seren sat near the hearth, veil set aside in the comfort of solitude, her ink-stained fingers sifting through scrolls and sealed letters. Margot and Isolde lounged half-asleep by the window, wrapped in woolen blankets, their quiet breaths the only sound apart from the occasional crackle of fire.

The air was cold despite the flames. The stone walls of Thornwyck always held the chill after the spring’s rain. Outside, the wind swept through the bailey, but inside, Seren focused on the future she might never live to see—one written in names and dowries and tentative alliances. She read line after line of noble matches for her daughters, lips pressed thin.

It was then she realized what her mother had to do for her. Knowing the life her daughter would lead, what man she would be subject to, being powerless to do anything about it, and knowing the likelihood of ever seeing her daughter again was slim.

She pushed the pending tears back into her eyes. Aveline was of marriageable age by the coming summer, but still had no one. Vala, still a child, already betrothed, a baron’s son inChester. He had seemed kind and pious as a young man when Seren agreed to it. Next were Elen and Cari, both without a betrothal.

If only she had more time, she might do right by her daughters, but December was only eight months away. There had been no word from White Tower. It could be a ten-day one-way journey with a wagon. She only hoped to see a messenger rather than an army on the horizon in the days to come.

She drew in a loud breath and lowered the parchments to her lap.

“What is it, milady?” Margot asked.

“These are not men,” Seren murmured. “They are signatures. Land. Coin. Alliances.”

“Is that not what marriage is?” Isolde replied groggily from the blankets.

The king’s command still burned behind her eyes, even if David’s letter might buy her time. A year, perhaps. Maybe less if William Rufus rejected his request or grew impatient.

“Only for women,” Seren answered and sighed. “No love. No kindness, tenderness. Just a vessel for use.”

She pushed Henry’s abuses out of her mind. Though her back teeth grew tight, there was no use in hating him. He was already dead, and all hate did was spurn her soul. Her next breath blew in peace to replenish the strength she would need to endure her next husband.

She traced her finger over one name in particular. A baron’s heir from Hereford. Strong lands, poor temperament. His steward had written on his behalf. Likely needed a half-Welsh woman to stem the riots in the central Marches.