4. The Father’s Love
IV
THE FATHER’S LOVE
Payen’s gaze lingered on the oak door to the lord’s guest chamber, just down the hall from the lord’s, for the entire undressing and even as the guests had been led away from the great hall. Their laughter echoed faintly against the new stone wall.
He’d walked past Lord Henry’s guards, down the narrow hall to the guest chamber, his room for most nights, shut the door behind him, and his sword-belt and helmet were on the table, where he’d placed them earlier that day before changing into his noble’s uniform.
Though he donned a noble knight’s surcoat, Henry had refused to grant him land or a title, just the position of Commander of the Guard, and he kept him like a pet in his keep.
Payen removed his gloves and set them beside his helmet. Removed his surcoat and chainmail, placed them on one of the beds in the room. The basin water was cold as he cupped it into his hands and washed the day’s grime from his face.
His body ached from the journey, from the long days on horseback, the endless watching, and the weight of armor. His muscles longed for rest, for the comfort of the keep’s guest cot and the warmth of wool blankets—just one night of peace.
But from the wall adjoining the lord’s chamber came a sound he knew too well: a muffled whimper.
Then Henry’s voice, low and harsh: “Keep your mouth shut.”
Payen closed his eyes. He’d heard that sequence too many times before. The walls always told the same story. He had trained himself to shut it out, but tonight the sound dug under his skin. The guest beds lined the opposite wall, but he did not lie down.
Her voice had changed since she’d come to the keep—earlier, she’d spoken with the fire of a woman who knew her mind, rich and certain, the kind of voice that carried conviction even when the body trembled.
But inside the keep, it was barely more than a whisper, breaking under the weight of obedience.
Payen swallowed hard.
He had seen the lord’s wives weep before, heard the same cries echo behind the same walls—but something in Seren’s voice unsettled him.
He thought of the marchland woman who’d stood so still beneath a hundred staring eyes, even as she was stripped of her dignity.
Now, that same woman was forced to whisper for mercy to a man who didn’t deserve to say her name, but was the only one who could.
She was only ever to be Lady de Thornwyck to Payen, given his lesser status.
He pitied her—but it was more than pity.
It was respect.
The kind of admiration a warrior learns to feel for those who walk knowingly into their own undoing to save their fellow host. She had come to Thornwyck for peace for the Welsh chiefdoms, knowing what peace would cost. And though her body might bend beneath Henry’s will, Payen knew her spirit would not break.
He hoped that when Henry killed her, she would die like Astrid, with pride in her soul and conviction in her eyes.
Another muffled cry.
He left the room.
The stairs to the attic were narrow, the air growing hotter and thicker as he climbed in the summer night.
Baldwin stood at attention outside the little door, spear in hand, his eyes wary beneath his helm.
“May I see my son?” Payen asked quietly.
“Do you have the lord’s permission?” Baldwin’s voice was clipped but softer than his words.
“He is with his new wife,” Payen said, not quite a plea but close.
“You know the rules,” Baldwin muttered.
Payen hesitated, jaw tightening.
If Baldwin spoke of this to Henry, the consequences would not stop at him. But Baldwin had a heart, and over the years, he had shown a measure of kindness toward Ragnar—one of the few who had.
“Please,” Payen whispered. The word tasted like ash—a plea to see his own son.
Baldwin’s eyes swept the empty attic, then the landing at the stairs. His shoulders sank.
“Make it quick,” he murmured. “Before someone comes.”
Payen clasped Baldwin’s shoulder in thanks and slipped past, ducking under the low rafters. The door creaked softly as he eased it open.
Inside, the room smelled of straw and smoke from the kitchen shaft from the ground floor below. A single candle guttered in a dish of tallow, casting a thin halo of light over the cot where the child slept curled against the summer heat.
Seven, almost eight years old, and bigger than the servant boys, Ragnar’s shoulders already hinted at the fighter’s frame he’d one day wear.
His hair, tousled and damp at the temples, was a darkened gold, the color of barley before harvest. His cheek rested against a folded arm, and his lashes lay thick over sea-blue eyes that mirrored the man watching him sleep.
Payen crouched slowly, placing one knee to the floor. He watched his son for a moment in the peace that only sleep could grant a child born into a grim world.
“Ragnar,” he whispered, low and warm. He laid a calloused hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “Wake, little wolf.”
The boy stirred, brow creasing, then blinked up blearily. His face shifted from confusion to joy in the space of a breath.
“Father?” His voice was soft with sleep, but eager, too, as he sat upright.
“It’s me, boy,” Payen said, unable to keep the smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. He brushed a bit of straw from the child’s shoulder and sat beside the cot.
Ragnar leaned into him without hesitation, wrapping both arms around his father’s neck. The boy’s warmth clung to him, and Payen closed his eyes, letting the embrace anchor him.
Payen held him close for a long moment, a reminder that not everything in this place had hardened.
He pulled back slightly, looking into his boy’s face. “What have you learned while I was tending the Marches?” he asked gently. “Has Father Osbert filled your head with more verses and riddles?”
Ragnar beamed, still clinging to his arm. “I learned a verse yesterday,” he said. “From the Book of Matthew. Father Osbert said the kingdom of Heaven is for all children.”
Payen’s throat tightened around the words he didn’t want to speak. “Did he now?”
The boy nodded earnestly, though he was bleary-eyed. “He said there’s no pain there. No fighting. Everyone belongs.” His voice dropped. “Do you think I’ll go there? Do you think I’m still a child?”
The question hollowed his spirit.
For a long time, he didn’t answer.
In his mind, the mists of Helheim curled like breath in winter—cold, gray, and silent. He saw Astrid’s blood on the wooden floor planks again. The way her hands had reached for him even as she fell.
“Perhaps you will,” he said softly. “It sounds better than the mists of Helheim.”
He smoothed the boy’s hair back from his brow, eyes tracing his features as though trying to memorize them.
Heaven. A place with no pain, no fighting. No walls. No orders barked down staircases. No Henry.
The boy deserved that world more than the one Payen had bargained his life for.
But instead, Ragnar survived here—in the keep of a man who saw him only as a pawn, as leverage. His son’s world was books and priests and the smell of cold, damp stone. Payen wondered if even a child could grow up whole inside a cage built of other men’s wars.
He cleared his throat and forced a small smile. “Tell me, Ragnar—do you like your life here?”
The boy hesitated, as if testing the question. His fingers tightened in his father’s tunic, and his sea-blue eyes searched Payen’s face.
“I am a prisoner here, aren’t I, Father?”
Payen exhaled, the candlelight dancing with the draft. His lip trembled with the truth, but if Heaven were true, maybe he should let Ragnar be a child for a bit longer.
“Why do you say that?” he asked.
“My name doesn’t match anyone else’s, even yours, and the other servant boys don’t have guards like Baldwin or Reynard, following them through the gardens or the Chapel or standing outside their rooms.”
Instead of answering, Payen latched onto the one part he could bear.
“Well, you are not the prisoner. I am,” he said. “My name was once like yours, Erik Bjornsson. Lord Henry let me keep your name, Ragnar, but not mine. I hope you will keep it alive—our name—when I am gone.”
Ragnar pressed his forehead to Payen’s chest. “I don’t want you to leave me, Father.”
“I come at every chance I can. Know that, son. Know I love you. You are my pride and my joy,” Payen whispered. “And my reason for living.”
Ragnar’s hands wrapped around Payen’s neck, and he slid his head up to rest on his father’s shoulder. His breathing slowed.
“I know,” he whispered.
Within moments, the boy’s arms slackened, and he drifted back to sleep.
Payen sat on the edge of the cot, holding him, staring into the dark. He wondered if Heaven would be better than the life he had made, if he were ever to believe in Heaven.
A soft knock at the door broke the thought. Baldwin’s signal. His time was up.
Payen eased Ragnar down onto the straw, brushed a stray lock of hair from his brow, and kissed his temple. “Sleep well, little wolf,” he whispered. “You’re my only reminder of who I was.”
He pressed a forefinger and thumb into his eyes to keep tears at bay.
He left the room without a sound, closing the door gently. He gave a short nod to Baldwin, knowing what the guard risked to let him see his boy. He descended the stairs as a servant passed him on the way up.
Payen realized he could not sleep beside the lord’s chamber that night—not after what he had heard coming from within it.
Not from the brave, spirited woman from the Marches, who would have a life of pain after heeding his warnings.
At least, she was not dead, though part of him feared death might be kinder than what lay ahead for her.
Instead, he gathered his belongings, walked back down the winding stairs, past the guard’s room already filled, out of the keep, and crossed the bridge to the bailey, where his narrow cot in the barracks awaited him.
It didn’t offer comfort, and he’d sleep next to Jovin and Geoffrey, who had tried to kill him before.
But at least it didn’t share a wall with a monster that knew too many cries.