21. The Child’s Lesson
XXI
THE CHILD’S LESSON
Bertrand de Valois, the esteemed tutor from Essex, arrived the summer after David’s fourth birthday. The firstborn son of Lord Robert de Beaumont, Count of Meulan, had begun tutoring at three, and Lord Henry refused to be outdone in the eyes of King William Rufus.
Bertrand held lessons in the public chapel in the bailey.
Ragnar copied Psalters nearby with Father Osbert. Ragnar was taller than he had been in the year prior. The soft weight of childhood had dropped from his frame, leaving the sharp outlines of manhood to grow in its place, in his jawline, collarbone, and shoulders.
Seren sat in the back pew, holding Vala while Aveline played with a cloth doll at her feet. David sat on a short bench. He was too small for such long hours and too restless for Latin declensions, but Seren tried her best to ensure David paid attention.
Yet, Vala cried, and Aveline tugged on her sleeve. The nurse attempted to console Vala in Seren’s arms, and Isolde and Margot whispered a request for orders.
Bertrand’s cane cracked against the table again, silencing all for a moment.
“Eyes down, young lord,” the tutor snapped.
David flinched. He tried. He really tried. But a moment later, his finger drifted over the wax tablet, tracing idle shapes instead of letters.
Snap.
The cane struck with more force than before.
A cry tore from David’s lips before the sound registered, shattering the chapel’s silence. Blood smeared the corner of his mouth.
Ragnar moved fast as Seren gave Vala to her wet nurse and rose at once.
“Ragnar—” she shouted, but it was too late.
Ragnar hit Bertrand like a raging bull, shoulder-first.
Bertrand yelped as he sprawled backward. His arms windmilled as he screeched and hit the shelves. Parchments fluttered like startled birds. The tutor’s cane clattered to the floor. Ragnar picked it up and chunked it into Bertrand’s chest. The tutor gasped, clutching his heart.
“Ragnar!” Seren reached him just as he lunged again. She grabbed his arm. He was stronger now, nearly thirteen and full of adolescent storm. It took all her strength to restrain him.
“He hit him!” Ragnar yelled, his body trembling with rage.
She cupped his cheeks, forced his eyes to hers. “I know. But you must stop.”
He wouldn’t and resisted her hold.
She managed to pull his head to hers and whispered in his ear, “Stop, Ragnar.”
“He hurt David!” Ragnar yelled with misted eyes.
Betrayal crossed his face when Seren didn’t let him go. He struggled against her more.
“Stop, Ragnar. Please,” she whispered again.
“He made him bleed!” Ragnar’s voice broke between boy and man.
Tears fell from Ragnar’s eyes as his chest heaved. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed his ear to her heart.
“He hurt David,” he wept. “He’s just a boy. He’s just little.”
“I know.” She kept her voice low, steady. “You protected him. Now let me protect you.”
He sagged into her as his chest still heaved.
She turned her head—and saw David, pressed into the corner of the chapel wall, blood dripping down his chin.
He was cradled in his nurse’s arms but staring straight at her.
His eyes were wide with confusion, with pain, with betrayal that she hadn’t come straight to him.
She ached. She ached so deeply she thought her ribs would break from it. One son bled, and the other was about to bleed more.
Ragnar was going to be punished severely for what he’d done, though she doubted he’d lose his life because he was the only leverage Henry had over Erik.
She guided Ragnar to David’s bench and stroked his cheek as he settled. His fists were clenched, his jaw tight. She kissed his forehead.
“You must be still now,” she whispered. “I need to tend to David.”
Bertrand groaned behind her and struggled to rise, and Isolde went to help Bertrand.
Seren turned to David. He reached for her the moment she approached. She gathered him into her arms, and he held on like a noose.
His blood pressed warm against her neck. His body shivered in her arms. She rocked him gently as his breath hitched in little sobs.
“It’s all right,” she whispered into his hair. “I’ve got you, my sweet boy.” She wished she could promise no more harm would come to him, that she could protect me, but there was no use in lies.
She walked him over to Ragnar. Without hesitation, David reached for him. Ragnar extended his trembling arms. She passed David to him slowly and brushed both their hair as they clung to each other. She kissed each crown as the ache spread throughout her body.
She glanced at Father Osbert, standing across the chapel in silent judgment, having witnessed it all. Worry etched into his brow as his gaze fell to Ragnar. He knew what was about to happen, too.
Lord Henry was told within the hour.
Ragnar was bound and lashed at the post by the barracks.
Erik was made to watch, forbidden to interfere, and ordered to say nothing.
David had run to the nursery window when the shouting began despite Seren’s attempts to keep him in his cot.
His screams matched Ragnar’s—every time the whip cracked, David cried louder.
“Stop! Please!” David sobbed.
Seren held him in her arms, but he writhed to break free. She wrapped her body around his to stop him from running. He beat his fists against her chest, screaming for Ragnar.
When the last lash fell, Seren still held David tight. His small fists had stopped, but his breath came in hiccupping sobs. His voice was raw from crying.
“Why did they hurt him?” he asked, eyes swollen. He finally let Seren tend to his lip, though his gaze was distant.
She had no sweet answer to give him. Because what answer could a mother give in a house where kindness was punished, and loyalty was bled from boys?
So, she told him the truth—a hard truth—at four years old.
“Because this world is cruel.”
His small lip pouted.
Seren lifted his chin and whispered with tears in her eyes, “But maybe one day, when you are a man, you can change it.”
His gaze hardened as if he heard her, but couldn’t quite understand in his traumatized state. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he remained silent.
He ate in the nursery with others and went to bed early. She kissed his brow and Aveline’s. Their arms wrapped around her neck and didn’t let go until they both fell asleep. She kissed Vala in the crib and left them all with the nursemaids.
By supper, Bertrand was seen limping through the bailey with a cane and a bandaged wrist.
“You are quiet, Commander. More so than usual,” Henry said at supper.
Erik never said a word; Henry was going to rub whatever salt he could into Erik’s wounds.
In response, Erik simply shook his head.
“Care to make a request? I may allow it.” Henry patted his mouth with a cloth and leaned back in his chair.
Erik scanned the room.
Seren closed her eyes as a gesture to remain silent, but Erik either did not notice or did not heed her warning.
“My lord,” Erik began, “if I could tend my son in the attic and explain to him—”
“If your boy is going to act like a man, then let him be a man,” Henry said. “Your request is denied.”
Erik dipped his chin and said nothing else.
After the supper dishes were cleared and Henry retreated to the council chamber with Erik, Geoffrey, and a few chosen knights, Seren rose with Margot and Isolde at her heels.
“Isolde, please go prepare my room and wait for me there,” Seren said.
Isolde bowed and did as she was told.
Seren glanced at Margot, who left for the cellar without a command uttered. Seren dismissed the rest of the servants, ensuring they filled the council chamber with the best wine for the lord’s evening discussions.
When she saw Margot return at the stair landing, heading up, she left the hall.
The top floor was empty, so Margot and Seren climbed the stairs to the attic.
The attic was cold, with stone walls, dark shadows, low ceilings, rafter beams, and the scent of pungent dust in the air.
The only light came from the candlelight guttering near Ragnar’s cot.
He was on his stomach, shirtless, with the thin wool blanket pushed aside.
His back was swollen and welted, crisscrossed with bruises and gashes that told the whole story without a word.
At least, the knight doing the lashing had been somewhat kind. There were welts with broken skin, but none deep enough to need stitches.
Seren sat beside Ragnar’s cot, while Margot laid the items beside her.
She dipped a cloth into the bowl of vinegar water Margot had brought and pressed it softly to his wounds.
Ragnar flinched.
“I know,” she whispered. “It stings. But it will keep the rot from setting in.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
His voice had deepened this past year—still boyish, but with gravel in its edges. “You’ll be whipped too.”
“You are not to worry about me,” she said flatly.
She worked in silence for a few minutes, washing and salving, careful not to press too hard.
“Why did you stop me? Why was I the one whipped when the tutor struck Lord David?” Ragnar muttered.
“Because the tutor is a very well-known tutor,” Seren said, shaking her head. “Though it did cost you a good whipping, you taught David that someone would stand for him and that cruelty can be challenged.”
“So why did you stop me?” Ragnar asked, the debate in his eyes flickering between the pain of betrayal and the pain of truth.
“Because I knew that you would get whipped for attacking Bertrand. And I knew if you hurt him too badly, it wouldn’t matter that you are the Commander’s son. You and your father would be killed.”
Ragnar lifted his head. “What?”
Seren stroked his hair. “Ragnar,” she paused, not knowing what to say or how to say it. So instead, she pulled a small carved wolf, worn smooth with age, its snout lifted to the sky. It fit in her palm like a river stone.
“I thought of my father today,” she said, voice low. “He carved one like this for me when I was your age. Said the wolf knows when to wait and when to strike. He taught me to listen to the wind before I moved my feet.”
Ragnar gave a dry, brief laugh. Then winced.