Page 51 of The Thornwyck Rose

One act of servitude had chipped away at Henry’s power. Seren was building her own name, bringing peace to the land known for the dead buried there, all under her husband’s nose.

She had done nothing treasonous. She had only planted, listened, and harvested. But with it came a name whispered throughout the Norman empire: Seren ferch Madoc, a Lady of the Welsh Marches, Marcher Lady de Thornwyck of Mortlande.

XXI

THE CHILD’S LESSON

CASTEL THORNWYCK, JULY 1090

Bertrand de Valois,the esteemed tutor from Essex, arrived the summer after David’s fourth birthday. The firstborn son of Lord Robert de Beaumont, Count of Meulan, had begun tutoring at three, and Lord Henry refused to be outdone in the eyes of King William Rufus.

Bertrand held lessons in the public chapel in the bailey.

Ragnar copied Psalters nearby with Father Osbert. Ragnar was taller than he had been in the year prior. The soft weight of childhood had dropped from his frame, leaving the sharp outlines of manhood to grow in its place, in his jawline, collarbone, and shoulders.

Seren sat in the back pew, holding Vala while Aveline played with a cloth doll at her feet. David sat on a short bench. He was too small for such long hours and too restless for Latin declensions, but Seren tried her best to ensure David paid attention.

Yet, Vala cried, and Aveline tugged on her sleeve. The nurse attempted to console Vala in Seren’s arms, and Isolde and Margot whispered a request for orders.

Bertrand’s cane cracked against the table again, silencing all for a moment.

“Eyes down, young lord,” the tutor snapped.

David flinched. He tried. He really tried. But a moment later, his finger drifted over the wax tablet, tracing idle shapes instead of letters.

Snap.

The cane struck with more force than before.

A cry tore from David’s lips before the sound registered, shattering the chapel’s silence. Blood smeared the corner of his mouth.

Ragnar moved fast as Seren gave Vala to her wet nurse and rose at once.

“Ragnar—” she shouted, but it was too late.

Ragnar hit Bertrand like a raging bull, shoulder-first.

Bertrand yelped as he sprawled backward. His arms windmilled as he screeched and hit the shelves. Parchments fluttered like startled birds. The tutor’s cane clattered to the floor. Ragnar picked it up and chunked it into Bertrand’s chest. The tutor gasped, clutching his heart.

“Ragnar!” Seren reached him just as he lunged again. She grabbed his arm. He was stronger now, nearly thirteen and full of adolescent storm. It took all her strength to restrain him.

“He hit him!” Ragnar yelled, his body trembling with rage.

She cupped his cheeks, forced his eyes to hers. “I know. But you must stop.”

He wouldn’t and resisted her hold.

She managed to pull his head to hers and whispered in his ear, “Stop, Ragnar.”

“He hurt David!” Ragnar yelled with misted eyes.

Betrayal crossed his face when Seren didn’t let him go. He struggled against her more.

“Stop, Ragnar. Please,” she whispered again.

“He made him bleed!” Ragnar’s voice broke between boy and man.

Tears fell from Ragnar’s eyes as his chest heaved. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed his ear to her heart.