15. The Power Theater
XV
THE POWER THEATER
The summons came late in the summer morning. Lord Henry wanted a prayer offered for the safe return of Bishop Thurstan of Ely, who had narrowly survived a skirmish near the border on his way to Thornwyck with the Marcher Lord of Wellenford, Richard de Grafton, to coordinate defenses.
Seren stood at the back of the hall, flanked by Isolde and Margot, her belly rounded with a second child beneath her wool robes.
She hadn’t seen Commander de Montfort in weeks, but he was in the hall that morning, speaking with the guards near the stairs.
He’d told her not to trust him, and she wondered if he was the one to tell Henry of her time with Ragnar and their time in the garden—their conversation about the kingcups.
He’d left out everything else, though.
Isolde was the only other one there, and she was half-asleep.
Seren’s eyes slid to the fair-haired maiden next to her.
Perhaps, she had only been pretending to sleep.
Ragnar had told her his father had not come to see him very often, even when Seren knew he was in the keep.
That did not seem like him; perhaps, he was on alert as well, or being punished by Henry.
Maybe it was Isolde who told.
Maybe it was a watchman from the keep’s roof, or Master de Bramber or Captain de Léry who had let the commander go with her.
Whoever it was, someone watched closely. That was all she needed to know.
She couldn’t take many more chances. If she were to have any more conversations with her friend, they had to be strategic and well-played to ensure the lives of both her and Ragnar would continue. She did not fear for David’s life, but she feared what he would become if he were left to Henry alone.
The prayer service, held not in the chapel but in the hall, meant one thing to Seren: Henry was planning to exert his power before a public and highly noble audience.
She would be ready, and if he retaliated against her, either now or in the future, he’d have to deal with the Bishop of Ely and Lord Richard, who were in attendance and no doubt would report it to King William at the White Tower. At least her death would not go unpaid.
But it meant not giving him reason to accuse her of any wrongdoing. She would need to plan her time with Ragnar to appear coincidental and avoid taking any chances with Commander de Montfort. She forced herself not to look at him, though she wanted to acknowledge her friend.
Margot and Isolde dressed her in a plain but noble blue dress at her request. Her reason was two-fold: to show she was with child and to gain standing among Henry’s men-at-arms.
Lord Henry swept into the room with a regal grace. His two guards flanked him until he sent them to the edge of the room with a snap.
He did not glance at Seren, though he had deliberately positioned her at the fringe of his court, showing her visible belly and bowed head. The murmur of conversation stilled as the nobles rose to acknowledge him.
“My lords,” Henry’s voice rang out, “we give thanks for the sparing of the Bishop of Ely and pray for swift healing in body and spirit. God has not abandoned us, though the border grows more perilous by the day.”
A smattering of “amens” echoed, and Henry gave a single nod in acknowledgment. Then the warmth drained from his tone.
“Let it be known,” he said, pivoting on his heel to survey the gathered crowd, “that loyalty shall not be found idle.”
His eyes settled briefly on the Marcher Lord, Richard, then flicked to Bishop Thurstan. But it was the guard stationed nearest the doors—young, nervous, and clutching his spear with slick hands—that drew Henry’s next command.
“You. Bring forward the scroll I had sealed this morning.”
The guard froze, uncertain, and turned his gaze—not to Henry—but to Commander de Montfort.
The room tensed. Seren felt it ripple through the air like the sudden drop before a storm breaks.
Henry did not miss the hesitation.
He seized it.
“Are my orders in question now?” he barked.
The hall fell deathly silent.
The guard’s head shook, and he tried to leave to do as commanded.
“Halt there,” Henry’s voice sharpened. “Did you look to my dog for permission?”
The guard gulped and shook his head again.
“You did.”
Henry snapped at the guard, Reynard. “Go. Fetch the Commander’s whelp. Now.”
Seren’s heart dropped to her stomach. She glanced at Commander de Montfort. His arms uncrossed, and he shifted his weight. His gaze froze on Lord Henry. She scanned Bishop Thurstan and Lord Richard, who sat stiff-backed and silent, watching the authority theater play out.
Reynard’s boots hit the floor as he headed up to the attic.
The young guard stiffened and tried to correct his error. “Lord Henry, please have mercy. I only looked at the Commander because I did not know where—”
“Silence!” Henry’s order rippled across the hall. “Come forward. You and Commander de Montfort.”
They both walked before the seat of honor where Henry stood.
“Do you know what they call this man?” he asked the room, pointing at his commander. “My shadow. My blade. Because I made him that way. And I can unmake him just the same. Just as I can make and unmake any of you!”
The words cracked like the whip they were.
Henry faced Commander de Montfort. “Strip. Show them who you really are.”
Seren’s skin prickled.
Commander Montfort’s jaw tensed as he dipped his chin. “In front of your lady?” he asked, low, not to draw attention.
But Henry chuckled. “This man is worried for milady’s eyes,” he said to the room. “You said yourself, she sees you as nothing. So if you are nothing to her, let her look.”
At that, Commander de Montfort pulled the fine blue surcoat over his head, followed by his chain mail. His fingers were steady as he unlaced the top of his tunic, but Seren could see the tension in his jaw and the lines around his eyes. He pulled his gloves off and the rest of his uniform.
Seren lowered her eyes, not wanting to see his body standing in nothing but loose trousers and boots, but Henry marched over to her and snatched her by the chin.
His grip hurt as he shook her head. “Look, milady. Look at the Norseman and the pagan horns on his skin. He is beneath us.”
She looked as commanded.
“Do you see now?” Henry growled at her.
Black ink marked Commander Montfort’s chest, shoulders, and torso.
A knot covered the side of his ribs with points pointing to his heart, his belly, and his back.
What looked like a compass with pagan runes laid on his shoulder, and an encircled spearhead marked the other.
Dark bands with foreign letters alternating with flesh started at the elbow and went to his fingers.
His body was pure muscle beneath the pagan stains, and she had to close her lips and pretend she would never wonder how such strength could hold her hand and a bloom so gently or how she had felt safer near him than she ever had in her husband’s bed.
“I see, Lord Henry,” she whispered through his squeeze.
Henry ripped his grip from her chin and spoke to the room as he returned to the seat of honor.
“Commander Payen de Montfort’s former name is Erik Bjornsson.”
Seren whispered his real name under her breath as Henry talked.
That was the man beneath the Norman uniform, who stood bare-chested before her.
That was the man from the garden. The man on the road to Thornwyck.
The man at the gravesite. The man who had brought David to her bedside. That was her friend. Erik.
But Henry’s voice cut through her thoughts.
“He was with one of the last Norsemen’s settlements in the empire, which I conquered.
He killed so many of my men defending his family that when they finally pinned him down, I made him my mercenary.
Then, he was so proficient at killing that I made him my commander. ”
Henry shoved Erik’s shoulder. “But you see, his loyalty to me is not true.” He spoke to Bishop Thurstan and Lord Richard. “He gives it only because I hold authority over his family.” Henry’s fingers closed in a slow grip. “He disobeyed once and lost his wife. Now, all he has left is his son.”
Reynard appeared with Ragnar and Baldwin. Each guard held one of Ragnar’s arms and brought him to Henry’s side. Henry grabbed Ragnar’s head of curls and yanked back. “Tell the hall your name and age, boy.”
“My name is Ragnar Eriksson; I’m nine years old,” Ragnar said, his eyes wide and darting between Lord Henry and his half-naked father. His chest pumped, betraying his fast-beating heart.
Cold dread snaked up Seren’s spine and settled in her shoulders. She prayed to God in her heart. “If I have a righteous hand, be with me, Lord. Let no blood be spilled tonight.”
“Now, milady, my brave host, my distinguished guests,” Henry said, cutting through her prayer, with a smile that waited for thunder.
“Watch me command a Norse warrior. He will do anything for his child. He is not your friend. He is not your commander. He is not worthy of your respect. But I am: Lord de Thornwyck, Marcher Lord of Mortlande, not a pagan Norseman.”
It was the silence that followed that gave her a twitch. The silence that always came before one of Henry’s public reckonings.
“Please, Lord,” she begged in her mind.
Henry stood at the dais like a king enthroned, though he’d never wear a crown.
“I’ll prove it to you.” His voice rang off the stone. “And now Erik Bjornsson, you will kill the guard who dared disobey me, an act of treason it was.”
Lord Richard’s eyes narrowed. Bishop Thurstan readjusted in his seat. They disagreed, but they were going to say nothing to usurp Henry’s authority.
Father Osbert murmured something under his breath, but kept his hands folded tight.
Seren stood near the hearth, one hand over the swell of her belly. She felt the whispers of the child stir beneath her ribs—startled.
The young guard in question stood frozen, too stunned to move. He was barely of age.
Erik snatched the dagger from his boot. His eyes flicked to the young guard, and then to Ragnar, who watched his father with fear etched into his face.
Seren’s heart thundered.
The guard—young, loyal, afraid—was going to die.
Baldwin stiffened, still holding Ragnar’s arm. Father Osbert’s brows drew in. Even the others in the hall looked uneasy.
This wasn’t just punishment. This was a theater just as Seren had assumed.
Erik unsheathed the blade and took two steps toward the young guard, flipping the dagger in his hand to a kill strike.
The room stopped breathing.
No one was going to say anything, so Seren did, and again, she used the Lord as her shield.
Seren’s voice broke through the quiet.
“My lord.”
Henry turned with eyes ablaze.
Erik stopped in his deadly path.
Seren stepped forward, every step deliberate. Her slippered feet were silent on the stone as her doe’s voice opposed the arrogance in Henry’s. “Perhaps blood is not the lesson Thornwyck Keep needs tonight.”
Henry stared at her. The room stared at her. Father Osbert shared a glance with Bishop Thurstan.
Women were to be silent, but she had a reputation for being favored by the divine, and she hoped it carried her well.
She kept her voice calm, reverent, meek. She bowed her head as a good wife would do.
“The guard’s hesitation was wrong. Would not Christ offer mercy to those who falter?”
She moved closer to Lord Henry. “Would not a pious lord, as you are, choose grace, as God does for us all?”
Father Osbert looked up and met Henry’s gaze without a word. So did Lord Richard and Bishop Thurstan.
Henry said nothing.
So she pushed further.
Her gaze didn’t flinch. “Let your justice be righteous, not wrathful, my lord, as is our God’s. That would make you not only feared—but also revered in the land. A legend of your power and your piety.”
Henry’s jaw grew taut, and she heard the slightest growl from his throat. She couldn’t embarrass him or take away his power if she were to save a life and save Erik from becoming less in his son’s eyes.
“My lord, command your guard to repent of his disrespect. You have the power over every life in your land. The men and women of Thornwyck already fear your wrath. We honor it.”
She looked directly into Henry’s eyes. “Show them, now, the greater strength to grant mercy like Christ our Lord.”
His jaw twitched before allowing a cruel, controlled smile in the silence of Bishop Thurstan, Lord Richard, and Father Osbert, signaling their staunch agreement with Seren. Even Bishop Thurstan glanced heavenward before furrowing his brow and giving a short nod as his only response.
Henry couldn’t kill her now unless he found a way to prove she was a traitor or unfaithful. She was neither.
That was why he hated her, perhaps, even feared her, but fearful men could become desperate, and desperate men were never predictable.
Henry turned to the young guard.
“You are saved by your lady’s mercy,” he said. “Repent it. Now.”
The guard immediately dropped to one knee and bowed his head. “I repent of disrespecting my lord. Have mercy, Lord Henry.” His breath shook, and his shoulders trembled.
“Good,” Henry said coldly. “Then rise. And remember who keeps you breathing.”
He addressed Erik. “Dress yourself, Norseman.”
Then he swept his arm toward the stairs to dismiss him. “This was a test—and you passed. For now.” He turned his attention to Baldwin. “Take the whelp back to the attic.”
Henry’s sights refocused on Seren. He grabbed her hands as a loving husband would, but the strength in his grip nearly crushed her bones.
“Milady, I am fortunate to have such a pious wife. Always looking to the Lord. It is no wonder he blesses you and answers your prayers.”
The words were right. The underlying tone was not.
The room applauded, and Henry’s ears turned red as his eyes narrowed.
She would pay for the peace she brought, but she hoped it had garnered some favor with the church and the neighboring Wellenford as well as built loyalty among the guards. She was willing to risk her life for them, so the question remained: would they risk their lives for her?
“Father Osbert,” Henry said, still holding on to Seren’s hands and eyes still holding her gaze. “Lead the prayer for Bishop Thurstan and Lord Richard’s safe return.” He took Seren to her seat beside his seat of honor on the dais.
Erik grabbed his sword-belt, his attire, and headed up the stairs to change, following behind Ragnar and Baldwin. He kept his head down, and for that, Seren was thankful. She wanted nothing that would further endanger her or Ragnar.
Father Osbert led the hour-long prayer with perfection. Erik had slipped in unnoticed, fully clothed once again, and afterward, Henry and Seren bid farewell to their guests.
When the drawbridge had raised, Henry half-dragged Seren back inside the keep. He dismissed Margot and Isolde to their alcove attached to Seren’s room and dragged Seren up the stairs with a crushing grip on her hand.
The door slammed shut behind her. She had played his game, and she was winning. But the price for that victory would be blood and bruises.