45. The King’s Decree
XLV
THE KING’S DECREE
Rain had turned the outer grounds to churned mire, so Seren and Erik replaced their daily walk and paced the great hall as if it were the garden.
Their murmured voices were lost in the staff chatter, and no one paid them attention or reported any accidental brushes of their hands.
Seren had their love, and Erik had their respect.
None of the keep servants would betray them, not after the prayer that ended Lord Henry’s life and absolved her of any misdeeds.
Margot and Isolde always stayed a few paces behind.
They spoke of Fellmere and its renamed Montfort Keep, of its new stone walls, of courtyards and chambers not yet built to send to Ragnar, already there overseeing the improvements.
Erik sought her opinion on hearth placement, on tapestries, on the chapel’s stained glass—but when the servants’ footsteps faded, and no curious ears lingered nearby, their conversation shifted like water flowing to deeper wells of devotion and long-held loves.
But the rush of footsteps up the stairs ended their conversation that day.
A royal messenger burst into the great hall, soaked. The knights accompanying him held the royal banners—the golden-stitched crown gleaming against the wet red wool.
“I must speak with Lord David at once,” he announced, his voice sharp enough to cut the hush in the hall.
Seren’s stomach dropped, but she stepped forward with her hands folded at her waist.
“Lord David is on the hunt, due to return soon, I’m sure, due to the rain. I am Lady Dowager de Thornwyck. May I assist you in Lord David’s absence?”
The messenger’s eyes raked her from mourning veil to slippers. Rainwater dripped from his cloak as he gave a half-bow. “I will wait.”
Seren ordered a place by the fire. “Rest here and warm yourself until his return.”
The messenger offered no nod or other thanks, simply waiting for the chair to be placed by the hearth and sitting once it arrived.
He dried slowly in the silence as the servants cast uneasy glances.
Rarely did the king bother with the Marcher Lord’s business.
Invitations to White Tower were openly provided to whoever was in the lord’s seat.
The fact that the messenger waited for the lord’s return spelled something personal and important.
Erik leaned against the wall, watching Seren at her place at the high table, offering the standard items for guests: wine, bread, and a cloak.
All denied.
Seren released a shaky breath. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
The hunting horns echoed before the young lord entered.
David’s cheeks were flushed from the wind, his smile broad from a morning well-spent.
The hounds raced ahead of him, shaking mud from their coats and collapsing near the hearth.
One pressed its nose to Erik’s hand, and Erik caught its muzzle with familiar warmth, fingers buried in wet fur.
But David’s smile faltered when he saw the royal banners. His eyes immediately found his mother’s.
The messenger stood as David approached.
“I am Lord David de Thornwyck. Have you word from White Tower?” David said, removing his hunting gloves and folding them across his palm in a calm facade.
Seren stood as well and drew near to David’s side.
“From His Grace, King William Rufus.” The messenger broke the wax seal and handed the scroll to the Marcher Lord.
David glanced at Seren before unrolling it and reading in silence. His jaw set, and he passed the parchment to Seren.
She held it lightly, but the words blurred the longer she read. She couldn’t finish and lowered the parchment. Her stomach knotted tighter. Her throat closed around her voice.
“What is your answer, Marcher Lord of Mortlande?” the messenger barked.
David inhaled deeply, setting his jaw. “Forgive me, royal guest. The hunt has drained my senses. I need time to consider the king’s command and what it means for Mortlande.”
The messenger’s lips thinned. “Very well.”
“There is a guest chamber near my quarters, warm and spacious,” David said, motioning to the steward. “You and your men may stay there. I shall send you to the king with my answer in the morning.”
The messenger and his retinue followed the steward without so much as a word of gratitude. When he rounded the stairwell, Seren locked eyes with David and then with Erik.
David opened his mouth—but no words came. The weight of the king’s crown was suddenly too real.
Erik took a step, then two, toward her.
But the room had already closed in, and she feared it would crush her.
She turned and strode, nearly breaking into a run down the corridor, with her heart pumping fast in her chest. The parchment shook in her hands as she debated which door to enter. Not the keep’s chapel—God felt far away—but the council room was empty.
The fire was low as she stumbled to the desk. Her palms pressed against its wooden top to steady herself. The edges of the royal parchment curled beneath her fingers as she read it again, but the script blurred in her vision.
So much hope.
Such foolish hope.
She had let herself believe she might be Erik’s. Her shoulders trembled. How foolish she had been. She’d let herself dream. Now she was hurting more than she should. She knew this would happen. She knew it in her heart, and she was right.
Margot and Isolde hovered at the door, silent and still.
Then came the creak of hinges.
“Lady Dowager,” Erik’s voice behind her. “May I request a private audience?”
She didn’t turn. “You cannot be here. Especially not now.”
He stepped into the room.
“David is coming. He had to see to the hunting party.”
The maids slipped out with hesitant glances. The door shut.
She slowly turned to face him as he approached. Her body trembled.
Erik removed his gloves and laid them gently beside her. His hands, warm and scarred, closed over hers.
Seren’s breath stuttered as sorrow gathered in the corners of her eyes.
“The king is more than Marcher Lords, Erik,” she whispered with shaky words, pulling her hands free, though she wanted to feel his embrace forever.
The gray light and watery window pulled her to it.
Her body shivered as if the cold winds bit her naked flesh, keeping her knees from collapsing and her soul from breaking.
He followed her and gently turned her to face him. “I will not let you go so easily.”
Seren grasped his noble’s cloak and pulled him closer, but lowered her head so she would disallow his lips to reach hers.
“I have ached for you for over a decade, Seren.” He lifted her chin. Erik’s gaze faltered between her eyes and her lips.
“If I have your kiss, I’ll never be content with another man’s. I cannot miss what I do not know,” she said.
“And if I have your kiss, I’ll never be able to watch you become a wife to anyone but me,” Erik murmured.
He stroked her cheek and pulled her close with a firm hand on the small of her back.
“Kings can be swayed,” he said. “Even Rufus.”
She grimaced and scoffed. “Rufus? His order has my marriage to him seven days before the Twelfthtide to show the crown’s control over the church.
He won’t even honor the one-year-and-one-day tradition of holy men.
You think he will respect a plea from a fourteen-year-old lord?
” Seren turned her face to the table. He followed her gaze, and his jaw grew taut.
“He wants a womb, and an alliance, not a wife, not love. He’s just like Henry. ”
Erik’s arms tightened around her as her legs gave way. She melted into his form, and he held her standing, absorbing heartache’s storm like a harbor wall.
Tears gushed from her eyes. Her erratic heartbeat thundered in her chest. The thought of being married to another man like Lord Henry coiled her stomach.
It was the second time she’d lost control of herself. The first was when she thought her children were going to be slaughtered in Henry’s mock attack, and now, when love was in reach, the king snatched it away.
Erik’s forehead pressed hard against hers. “I won’t let him take you.” His breath was hot on her lips. His eyes searched hers. “We’ll go to the Welsh Marches or to Scotland. I’ll take you back to my homeland. We can flee to Ireland.”
“And leave my son on charges of treason? Leave Thornwyck to fall as enemies of the king? Bring Norman war to wherever I am?” Seren sobbed.
Erik’s hand slipped beneath the veil, threading through her hair. His fingers held the back of her head steady as if he vowed to protect her from the world.
“I won’t lose you,” he gritted with glistening eyes.
The heat of his touch grounded her. His lips brushed hers over the mourning veil, and her fingers snaked into his golden, dark locks as they had in her dreams.
The door creaked, and Erik released her instantly to protect her honor and left her breathless and wanting.
David entered with eyes dimmed by worry. He marched to the desk and read the letter again.
He pressed a hand on either side of it and read it a third time.
Seren did not bother to wipe her eyes.
Erik stood leaning against the window, deep in thought.
David blew out a deep breath and walked to his father’s chair and sank into it.
“My answer,” he said, “is this.” He bounced a light fist atop the parchment.
“My great king, I am honored to bequeath my mother to your kingship as your queen in due time.” He paused.
His lips pressed thin as he thought. “Please accept this tribute of gold and horses to allow her to stay in Mortlande until she can secure alliances for my sisters and serve in my council until my eighteenth birthday—”
“No—” Seren said and shook her head. “You are challenging his authority. His judgment will be swift. You’ll bring bloodshed to Mortlande.”
Seren approached her son. “The King grants you privilege to rule in your own right, but if he comes, you will face treason.”
David shook his head. “No, Mother, the King wants loyalty among his lords and wants peace at the borders.” He slid the parchment to her. “He said so himself.”
Erik drew near and ran a finger over the parchment. “Remind him that if Seren leaves, the Welsh might unite and strike again. And if Seren remained here a few years, then maybe by then, King Rufus will find another wife, or perhaps a need will arise for a different marriage.”
David glanced up at him. “You call her Seren?”
Erik’s cheeks flushed. “My apologies, Lord David.” His chin dipped. “Lady Dowager.”
David pressed a smile as he noticed the gloves on the table.
“I know you love each other.” He rubbed his forehead before letting his hand drop over the chair’s arm.
“Know this, Lord Erik, if it were other nobles in Mortlande, my word would be law. She’d be yours.
If it were Marcher Lords, I could bargain, and she’d be yours.
But with the King . . . we can only appeal to reason. And to God.”
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 the divine’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.