6. The Poison Prayer
VI
THE POISON PRAYER
The next child was a girl. No older than seven. She had been caught pocketing dried apples from the fall larders one month after the boy’s execution by rope.
Seren still had not told Henry of his child, but her handmaids knew she had missed her monthly blood.
They had urged her to tell him, but she would use it strategically, when it suited her most. Claim she had hid it from the handmaids, not knowing what was happening to her.
She would feign ignorance and hope the Lord de Thornwyck leaned into his beliefs about women.
It was the supper hour, and Lord Henry had summoned Mortlande nobles, stewards, barons, and lesser lords to dine and witness. The hall smelled of spiced meat and pine smoke.
Seren sat beside her husband at the high table, her goblet untouched.
Guards dragged the girl through the great hall. A rope was tied around her wrists, already bruising. The guards didn’t try to hide them. Her dark hair tangled, falling long, and her shift clung to her in the damp.
She looked like the girls from her home, like the girls who used to chase birds from the grain bins, and the ones Seren used to feed.
Seren’s stomach twisted again. Was it the Lord’s calling?
What if the girl were her daughter?
Would she still watch?
Would she still sit still?
No.
Lord Henry rose.
“Tonight,” he said, “we uphold the law—have the girl cleansed for her sin and then brought at dawn to be hanged.”
The girl screamed, and Seren stood.
All eyes snapped to Seren.
Commander de Montfort’s eyes grew wide, and his body stiffened. He had warned her. Be loyal, be pious, obey, and trust no one.
If Lord Henry demanded it, she would do it. But Lord Henry was not God.
The pendant cross burned hot against her skin, or perhaps her skin burned hot beneath its bronze.
Henry’s goblet was too far out of reach, and he’d smack her away before he’d allow her to touch him. And if he fell, now without an heir, chaos would ensue in the Marches.
Henry swung his gaze to his new wife. “You dare to speak against my law?” The question came low, as if asking for a reason to do away with her. She figured if he could make her the villain, then it would be a righteous reason enough to invade the Welsh chiefdoms.
She dipped her chin in reverence, knowing her plan.
“No, my lord,” she said, words meek as they were when she first spoke in the great hall, but blessed were the meek, thus said the Lord.
The thought gave her strength.
She had not wanted to use her unborn child for strategy, at least not yet. But at that moment, mercy demanded a price, and her child was the only coin she had left.
“I have word to give you,” she said in a voice of silk. “I am with your child.”
His eyes lit.
She continued, “And in honor of this new life that we will bring forth, I only ask to pray over the girl as she is transported to the prison in the bailey, so that her spirit may truly be cleansed and her feet may walk through Heaven’s gate.”
The words rang false in her own mind, but in Henry’s, they might have rang true. His gaze, when he met Seren’s, gleamed with amusement.
“My wife has asked to pray over the condemned,” he chuckled with a satisfied grin. “And so she shall. A loyal and pious woman with an obedient heart—who am I to refuse?”
The crowd in the great hall politely applauded.
Seren turned slowly, heart thudding beneath her ribs. Across the room, she caught sight of Commander de Montfort standing by the hearth, arms folded. His expression gave nothing away, but he watched her with sea-blue eyes like an angel might watch as the world burned.
The girl was brought forward, forced to her knees before the high table. She trembled as Seren approached. The guards stepped back—but not far.
Lord Henry raised his goblet. “Let Lady de Thornwyck do her duty.”
All eyes were on her and the girl.
Seren kneeled in front of the child. Her palms were shaking, but she steeled her face and lowered her voice into the rhythm of a prayer. Her long linen veil gave her and the girl privacy. She slid her thumb to the hidden chamber—one drop for a child.
The girl’s eyes were locked with Seren’s.
She slid the lid, dabbed the drop on the pad of her finger with such practiced ease and silence that the girl overlooked the swift action and said nothing.
“Lord and Father above, be near this child in her suffering; take her from this life in peace. If it is your will, let her suffering be only what is required for her sin.”
One drop. Was it murder? Or was it mercy? She could do nothing to save the girl from death, but she could save her from pain.
“Forgive the hunger that led her to steal,” Seren continued. “Forgive the pain she inflicted on the owners of what she stole.”
Her finger brushed the girl’s lips as if blessing her with oil.
“Cleanse her, Lord, and allow her to enter Heaven’s Gate.”
Seren leaned back. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Her hands dropped to her sides as the crowd said in unison, “Amen.”
The girl blinked too fast. Seren stood as the guards dragged the accused up.
Seren patted her head and gave a short nod. “Be strong, child. The Lord be with you,” she said.
The girl’s head lolled, and as they walked her from the great hall, she sagged. Her limbs slackened, and she dropped to the floor before they crossed the hall’s threshold.
Gasps rippled among the nobles. Some turned to look at Seren, their expressions ranging from curious to scandalized. The guard bent down and checked her breath. He stepped back in fear as he locked eyes with Lord Henry.
“She . . . she’s gone,” he stammered.
A deep, uncertain silence took root in the hall as all eyes turned to Seren, including Father Osbert’s.
She straightened her back and scanned the room, acting as surprised as everyone else. “The Lord . . . The Lord must have seen fit to take her,” she said, keeping her voice meek. “Make her suffer in accordance with her sin—that is what I prayed.”
She looked straight at Henry with large, innocent eyes.
“Is it not?”
The longer Henry studied her, the corners of Henry’s mouth rose as slowly as grass growing. His lips remained pinched. She’d stumped him, but had given him an excuse—it was the Lord. And who was to argue with the Lord God?
But no kindness lived in his expression.
“It is what you prayed, milady.” Henry addressed the crowd. “I am lucky to have such a wife that even the Lord listens to her prayers and responds with such urgency.”
Seren bowed her head.
“I am but a servant wife, my lord,” she said quietly, hands folded over her stomach. “If Heaven heard me, it is only because I serve a husband who rules with justice and commands with righteousness.”
Her voice barely rose above the hush. “All I have belongs to my lord husband—my prayers included.”
Henry chuckled, “Of course, Lady Seren.” He shifted his weight. He sipped his wine and cleared his throat.
“Return the girl’s body to her village,” he said. “Let it be known Lady de Thornwyck delivers her justice . . . on her knees.”
Laughter followed his chuckle as he raised his cup again.
But not everyone laughed.
Henry eyed Seren over the goblet’s silver rim.
“And let Lady de Thornwyck travel and attend the body,” he added. “Let her see it buried. Let them know she prayed for their thief, and Heaven answered.”
He let the words hang, then smiled thinly.
“Since the Lord seems to favor her prayers, let her explain to the girl’s mother why God struck her child dead.”
The implication was clear. If the villagers whispered, if rumors spread, it would be her name—her presence—attached to the child’s death. It would be a simple reason to get rid of her when the time came.
Henry’s gaze flicked to the Commander, who stood like a shadow against the stone wall.
“Commander of the Guard,” Henry said smoothly. “You will accompany milady and see that she and my child are safe and all is done . . . properly.” There was an emphasis on that last word with a pointed look that Seren caught in her glance, but acted as if she hadn’t noticed.
Another wave of quiet murmurs broke over the nobles.
Seren kept her head bowed, hands tightening over her stomach. Inside, her pulse thudded like a drum.
“Yes, my lord,” she murmured, echoing the Commander.
Henry sat and leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “Good,” he said. “I am blessed indeed—a wife whose prayers move Heaven, and a commander whose sword keeps order . . . and obedience.”
He lifted his cup again, and the hall echoed with another round of forced applause.
Commander de Montfort met her eyes at last. There was something there.
Respect. And concern.
Because now, the game had begun, and maybe Lord Henry had met his match.