8. The Divine Test
VIII
THE DIVINE TEST
The warmth of the keep’s fireplace pressed in against her skin, but it couldn’t soothe the ache. Not after the grave soil, or the mother’s tears, or the child’s body stiff in her arms. Not after the whispered prayers, or the way Commander de Montfort’s hand had closed around hers.
That had been months ago. And still, the memory of the dirt clung beneath her nails. She’d saved one other boy thief from torture, and her husband had not taken kindly to her. But he hadn’t let her bury the boy, not after proving she was with child.
Winter had come, and with it, a frost as cold as Henry had been to her.
The bells had barely rung for six when a servant arrived. “The Marcher Lord wishes his lady’s presence in the council chamber.”
Not the chapel. Not his chambers.
The council chamber. The place for war councils and noblemen and blood and men’s wine.
Commander de Montfort would be there. If he had only simply cared for her life, it was enough in the somber place to give her heavy heart a thread of light.
She dressed plainly, though still presentable as a noblewoman.
Margot had begged her to wear pearls, pins on her bodice, and a belt woven with gold thread.
But Seren refused. She was with child. That was beauty enough.
She had kneeled beside a poor girl’s grave while Henry laughed over bones and bread.
Let them say she looked lowly. She did not care.
When the door opened, heat rolled out with the smoke of spiced wine and burning cedar. The council chamber was full, and its air was thick with expectation.
Maps cluttered the center table, weighed down with pewter markers, each stamped with a symbol of territory, allegiance, or war.
Candles guttered in iron sconces along the walls, and the voices of stewards and lords murmured over battle routes and border disputes.
Mortlande’s nobles lined the perimeter in courtly disarray—some with cups in hand, others with scrolls and ledgers tucked under arms.
Seren entered with her chin slightly bowed, her veil draped neatly over her shoulders, and her hands resting on the swell that had only just begun to show beneath her russet-red bodice.
Margot and Isolde flanked her. The nobles and stewards around the room straightened at her presence. Some offered curt nods. Others studied her too openly, as if her body were a shrine or a livestock pen.
The commander stood near the hearth, arms folded, his blue surcoat dusted with ash from the road, but otherwise in pristine condition.
His cloak draped over his shoulders. He hadn’t removed his gloves.
His eyes shifted to her the moment she entered with a gleam of relief—perhaps glad she was still alive—but his stoic expression again gave nothing away.
Her gaze faltered on him, though.
She’d missed his presence every time he went on a campaign, though he was always at arm’s length and silent when he was at the keep.
A voiceless guardian with warnings contained in small head nods or shakes to confirm or reject what she was about to do.
He’d been with Lord Henry for seven years; he knew how to survive more than she did, but part of her wondered, why would he help her?
Why did the man whose reputation left blood and agony in his wake look at her with sorrow, respect, even?
Why give her warnings? Why hold her hand?
Speak to her in half-truths, or perhaps, they were all lies or tests?
Whatever the answers were, he did care for her life; she knew that much.
Lord Henry sat on the high-backed chair near the window, the morning sun catching on the rings on his fingers.
“There she is,” he announced, rising. “Lady de Thornwyck. Whole, hale, and favored by the Lord.”
A few muted chuckles answered him.
He reached his hand toward her and made her walk across the room until she slipped her fingers into his palm. He presented her like a prized offering.
“My advisors have seen her strength, and now you shall too,” he continued. “Already with child, not yet six moons wed. And no blood since the wedding night.”
More laughter.
Henry didn’t release her hand. “And she prays with such devotion that Heaven takes pity on thieves. Let us hope she does as much for my men-at-arms.”
Seren kept her expression composed. She had learned early not to flinch when mocked. The bronze cross warmed her breastbone beneath the gown. It steadied her and reminded her that God heard what men scorned.
Henry turned toward his commander. “The campaign rides again at first light. De Montfort leads it, with my blessing. But I know there’s another whose prayers reach higher than even Father Osbert’s.”
More titters of amusement echoed.
Henry looked down at her and let her hand slip from his. “I’ve summoned you here to pray, milady. Ask God for victory. Ask Him to keep our commander and fellow men alive. If He listens to you, then let Him prove it now.”
There was always a test with Henry after the first child she’d saved from torture—a prayer to do something that she had no hand in its outcome.
The day the Lord did not answer was the day Henry would likely kill her for falling out of favor with God—no more use for such a wife, especially as he grew his host. She knew, deep down, that her marriage only bought him time to build what he needed to take her homeland.
She kneeled as gracefully as she could, cupping her belly as she went down. Henry did not help her.
She pressed her hands in front of her heart.
The room fell silent immediately.
“O Lord,” she began softly, her voice clear despite the thundering silence, “be near to those who fight beneath our banners. Strengthen the righteous. Humble the proud. Let those who wield the sword in defense of justice return home whole. And if they fall, let their souls be carried swiftly to Your throne.”
She paused.
“And if You still answer—I pray that You show favor to the one who leads them.”
No one spoke.
She hoped they would assume that statement was for Henry, but she meant it for Commander de Montfort. He’d saved her life when he didn’t have to. Took a chance that Father Osbert or her handmaids would hear his whispered warning.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost—”
Henry clapped once, sharp.
“Amen,” he said, smiling with teeth. “Now let us see if God favors the bold—or only the beautiful Lady Seren.”
It was the first time Henry had called her beautiful. Too bad it was meant to cheapen what she had offered to Heaven.
She waited for her husband’s hand to help her stand, but it never came, so she leaned forward and pushed off the cold floor herself.
He gripped her chin as soon as she was up, hard enough to know what would come if she disobeyed, but soft enough not to raise eyebrows of those in attendance.
“Do you believe God listens to you, milady?” His words were fine; his tone was not.
“I believe He listens to all who ask,” she replied gently.
He squeezed. She let him do it.
“The Lord,” he said, “blesses legacy.” He released his grip and turned to the nobles. “Have I not grown my legacy? Is it not blessed by the Lord?”
“Here, here!” The nobles said, raising their glasses.
“And now my wife has prayers heard and answered by God himself.” He found Seren’s hand again. “My child shall be blessed with legacy and blessed with divine favor.”
There were murmured congratulations. Some half-hearted. Others reluctant. All directed to Henry.
Only Commander de Montfort spoke clearly.
"Congratulations, Lord Henry." He offered Seren the slightest nod and the only well-wish in the room for her. "May the child be strong, the birth easy, the recovery quick.”
“Yes, Commander, not like my last wife, who gave me a dead child after his third breath,” Henry said as he turned his attention to Seren. “A dead boy is a useless heir, and I have no use for dead babes or wives who birth them.”
The chill of winter’s frost did not compare to the cold in her spine. Her stomach recoiled—not just from fear, but the horrible truth: he did not mourn that child. He only measured what he had lost.
Henry smiled and placed a soft kiss just behind her ear. “Perhaps you should say a prayer for yourself, Lady de Thornwyck,” he whispered.
His hand grazed her lower back like a doting husband. He guided her from the council chamber like an infatuated lover, his arm looped at her waist and his voice low with pride, but the possessive grip in his fingers pressed into her side told the real story.
He dismissed her with a flick of his hand and summoned her to the gardens at first light to see off the campaign. The council chamber door slammed shut, leaving her with her handmaids on the outside of it.
She stared at the heavy oak and sighed.
“Back to my chambers,” Seren said, flatly. “Lord Henry requires nothing more of his wife, and I am tired.”
They bowed their heads as they went back to the top floor and undressed her.
“See, Margot,” Seren said as they pulled the veil off her head. “Less to put on, less to take off.”
“Yes, milady,” Margot said with a slight, cautious chuckle.
Margot and Isolde put Seren to bed and went to their alcove to lie down as well.
But even as Seren rested, deep in the hollow of her ribs, she made a vow.
“I will not die because of this man,” she whispered. “And this child will not be his father. Lord, hear me now, this child will be a son, and he will not become his father.”