28. The March Mother
XXVIII
THE MARCH MOTHER
By the time the first frost hardened the orchard rows, the villagers had begun to call Seren the March Mother.
No one dared speak it aloud within Castel Thornwyck—not with Henry’s ears in every corridor and his wrath wrapped tight around every shadow—but in the thinning Mortlande villages and along the reed-thick paths, the name passed between rag-wrapped hands like a secret prayer: “March Mother.”
Villagers whispered the name in prayer as if the name alone might bless the root stew or keep fever from taking the youngest in their sleep.
Seren sent what she could. Apples, wrinkled and sweet.
Barley in small cloth-tied sacks. The last onions from the Saint’s Garden, soft around the edges, but still enough for broth.
It was never enough, but it was more than nothing.
And in that year, Seren became something the people could cling to, a divine saint worthy of the designation.
She bled again the following winter. Another child. Another daughter. Small and fragile like Vala before her.
Cari: Seren named her. It meant beloved, and she was.
But Seren’s body had grown too tired for both birth and sorrow. Her hands trembled too much to stitch; a cough descended with fury, dropping her to her knees like a knight struck mid-charge.
Each fit left her gasping with aching ribs. She covered her mouth with a cloth to keep her children from catching whatever was plaguing her.
Isolde and Margot tended her quietly, both with scarves tied over their faces. They hadn’t left her room in over a month.
Once, David came with his nursemaid. He held a dried kingcup in both hands and said Ragnar had told him at the Lord’s worship to give it to her.
Seren smiled at Erik’s care, cried because she missed him and Ragnar, and drew David close because she could.
He’d grown tall at six years old—almost seven, still all knees and elbows, but his heart beat steady against hers, and his soft kiss on her cheek made her weary heart light.
It was Christmas Day; the start of the Twelfthtide, a long twelve days of eating and fun and rest.
Seren loved the celebration in her father’s chiefdom—everything was carefree—but in Lord Henry’s Mortlande, the only thing good about it was the food and wine.
Henry paid for the feasts lavishly, but everyone watched and guarded against silliness because they didn’t want to make the Marcher Lord angry with any foolery that toed the line of truth.
That year, Seren lay in bed, ill. Servants brought her food after the night had died down, along with a summons for Isolde after she saw to Seren.
“I don’t want to go,” Isolde whispered, wringing her hands.
Seren leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Her body pulsed with pain, and her voice rasped like wind through reeds. She’d barely eaten anything. Margot took her plate away.
“Start coughing,” Seren murmured.
Margot raised her eyebrows and peered over her shoulder at Isolde. “And sound convincing, or you may end up in the keep’s prison.”
Isolde coughed a few times to practice until both Seren and Margot nodded.
She left but returned not minutes later, grinning after quietly closing the door.
“He said to leave,” she whispered, triumphant.
Margot chuckled.
Seren smiled faintly. Her skin had gone pale as wax.
“Milady,” Isolde said, kneeling beside the bed, “the Lord does favor you.” She lifted Seren’s trembling hand to her forehead. “Thank you.”
Seren’s dry lips curled.
“Illness,” she rasped, “has its silver linings.” She thought of the past few months untouched by her husband and dreaded the day he’d again touch her.
Her rasp caught in a cough.
At the end of the illness, there were only two outcomes: death or recovery.
She had wanted to wish for death, an escape from this trial, but she’d forced herself away from such thoughts. She had children who needed her and a man who loved her—many women did not have as much.
Seren lived despite the odds of such a long illness, furthering her divinely favored reputation in the lands.
Cari grew stronger in the new year, and they all lived to see another winter pass.
Sometimes Seren wondered how many more daughters she could birth before Henry decided she had outlived her use. The only arm of protection she had left was the whispered reverence and the high regard of Norman nobles and lesser lords who called her pious, even holy, though she was no nun.
Henry couldn’t just do away with her with a reputation like that. He’d have to prove she was a traitor or unfaithful.
Maybe she was already both at heart, but Henry would never know it.