32. The Mother’s Wisdom
XXXII
THE MOTHER’S WISDOM
The candles had burned low. The fire in the hearth had not been tended since she returned, and the chamber air had thickened with the scent of smoke.
Margot and Isolde had said nothing. Neither had Seren.
Words were meaningless.
Seren sat against the pillows in her bed, propped higher than was comfortable. Her chemise clung to the dried blood at her collar, stiff with crusted lace. The wound wasn’t too deep, but David kept glancing at it as if it might split open again.
He stood beside the bed, fists clenched. His little chest rose and fell too fast. His boots scuffed at the edge of the rug.
“He hurt you,” David whispered.
His voice was small but burning. She saw it—flashes of the morning’s power theater behind his eyes.
“Hurt you worse than any other time,” he said.
Seren reached out, smoothed the sweat-dark curls back from his damp brow. “The physician said I will heal.”
“You shouldn’t have to pretend you’re well. He put a sword to your neck.”
“And yet here I am,” she said softly. “Alive. Still with you.”
He shook his head, his small face drawn in rage. “Then, when I am grown, I shall slit my father’s throat just as he nearly slit yours.”
His mouth twisted. “When I am lord, I will erase his name. Strike it from the banners. From the walls. From the keep itself.”
“Son.” She caught his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. “Look at me.”
His eyes locked on hers, wide and furious.
“Your rage will make you bitter. And a bitter boy becomes a bitter man. A bitter man becomes a despotic lord like your father.”
“But he—”
“Do not be your father when the lordship becomes yours.”
David’s jaw tightened.
“Yes, Mother.” But his gaze slid back to the cut at her neck. “Still…” he said after a moment, his voice low, “he will pay for that one day.”
“Vengeance is the Lord’s,” Seren said, cupping his cheek. “Leave it to Him. Be a child, for you are still a child.”
He didn’t argue.
Instead, he crawled into the bed beside her, curling close the way he had when he was small. He kissed her cheek and whispered into the crook of her neck, “One day, I will protect you and my sisters and Ragnar. The way you and Commander de Montfort protect us.”
A knot formed in her throat, and she closed her eyes against the ache.
“That I know is true.”
She held him tighter.
“Is it true, though?” he asked. “Did you kiss the commander? Do you . . . love him?”
Margot dropped the basin, the water sloshing onto the floor. She stammered an apology, but Seren barely heard it.
Her heart beat fast.
“No, Son,” she said carefully. “Husband and wife share kisses, like the ones Captain de Léry spoke of. A kiss on the cheek is acceptable for friends . . . ”
Her voice faltered. She couldn’t lie to her son.
She loved Erik, so she didn’t answer his last question.
David sniffled and rubbed his eyes on her sleeve. “I thought maybe you did.”
Seren pulled him back to meet his face. “Why do you think that?”
His cheeks flushed red, and he tucked his chin. “I’m sorry.”
Seren tightened her embrace. “You have nothing to apologize for.” She drew him against her again.
He turned his face into her shoulder, and she kissed his hair.
“Does Father kiss you like the kiss Captain de Léry spoke of. You are husband and wife,” David asked.
It was an inappropriate question, but her son was smart enough not to ask his father such things. She rubbed the underside of her chin over his brow.
“No,” she said, with a tremble in her voice.
Henry had never truly kissed her. He’d grabbed her mouth from time to time, but there was never any love or tenderness in it.
“But when you take a wife, David, I want you to love her, and the kiss Captain de Léry spoke of will come in time.”
“Yes, Mother,” he whispered.
They stayed there as Margot and Isolde tended the room.
With care, she spoke again.
“I wanted to keep this from you since you are still a youth, but after this morning, I cannot.”
David tensed against her.
“There may be a day . . .” She shook her head. “There will be a day when your father speaks lies again, as he did this morning, and he will have me executed in front of you, just as his father did to his mother.”
His breathing hitched.
“That event shaped your father. Do not let what happens to me shape you for the worse.”
The air left her son’s lungs in one silent breath.
“If he kills you, I will kill him,” David said, picking at the dried blood on her collar.
“No.” Seren caught his hands, stilled them. “Keep your heart rooted in love. No matter what happens, a life built on love and compassion is easier to endure than one rooted in hate.”
David didn’t answer—only held her tighter.
She whispered, “You must know it will not be your fault, and you must forgive whoever wields the executioner’s blade.”
“Mother—” His whisper was desperate.
“Listen to me.”
She cupped the back of his head.
“Your father will lie. He may try to say again that I betrayed him. That I dishonored my vows. That I no longer bring peace from the Marches. That I endangered your place. That I am a traitor. Anything.”
“Why does he want to kill you?” David whimpered.
“That is a good question to ask. You are so intelligent, David. Always question.” She corrected. “Know when to question.”
“Why does Father hate you?”
“Because I have not given him more sons. Because his lords respect me more than they fear him. Because I make him feel weak. And weak men destroy what they cannot control.”
David’s breath shook.
“You mustn’t be like him,” she said. “You see what that hatred has done to him. You see what it is doing to your own heart.”
“I will save you,” David whispered. “I will order your release. I won’t let him hurt you again.”
“David . . .” Her voice broke. “If whoever he commands refuses to execute me, they and their families will die beside me. And if you try to save me, you will also die beside me. He can take another wife. He can have another son. But I—I cannot bear to lose you or have others die on my behalf—not when it’s futile. ”
He whimpered softly.
“And I want you to live,” she said, brushing the tears from his lashes. “Mortlande needs you. You must grow into a lord they would die for. Not one they are forced to obey.”
She held his face, memorizing it.
“Promise me,” she said, “when that moment comes, you will stand tall as I am struck down. You will remember my words. And you will live. And you will thrive.”
David’s tears burst from his eyes.
“Promise me, please,” she begged, hating the world for its unfairness. How could she ask such of a child?
Her fingers brushed his curls as he resettled beside her, his boy’s body finally relaxing, tears finally quieting.
“I promise, Mother,” David’s hot whisper warmed her nose. He sniffled. “I swear it,” he said, returning his head to her shoulder.
Their tears mingled down her chest, and for a while, neither moved, just listened to each other’s breathing and cherishing the time they had left together.