35. The Needed Calm
XXXV
THE NEEDED CALM
The keep breathed easier in Henry’s long absence.
Every morning, Seren would walk in the garden and through the wild grasses outside the castle with her children and Godric.
Her fingers slid over the carved wooden petals of the kingcup Erik had given her and whispered a prayer for his safety and return.
She scanned the western road and hoped it would one day reveal Erik bringing Henry’s body back, having been slain in battle, and spare them all their role in her likely execution. But it had been over a year with no word from Henry’s host at war, and the road remained empty.
By mid-morning, the courtyard was alive.
David rode in from the pasture, cloak snapping behind him, along with his steward and his guards, one being Ragnar—a knight now in his own right.
David dismounted with the grace of a growing lord, handed the reins to a stable boy, and walked to her with a seriousness that made him look much older than thirteen, heeled by Ragnar.
“Master Fulk says the accounts from the mill are off again,” David said, falling into step beside Seren. “He thinks someone is pocketing grain.”
“Then let Fulk’s steward investigate,” Seren said, glancing at both her sons. “And ask him to bring you the findings. You must learn to see where the truth ends and where excuses begin before taking action.”
David nodded, absorbing every lesson. He was growing into his face, though she saw Henry in his jawline in certain lights. It made her pray every night that she would not see Henry in his heart.
She saw Erik in the twenty-one-year-old Ragnar; the sight of him brought back memories of when Erik held the flaps open for her to board the wagon to Thornwyck. But Erik’s eyes had been sorrowful then, and Ragnar’s were full of hope. And she prayed they stayed that way.
They entered the great hall.
Several men stood waiting—tenants with minor disputes, a tradesman requesting permission to travel, a shepherd asking for a judgment regarding lost sheep.
Seren settled into Henry’s empty chair—not at the center, never pretending authority she did not claim, but at the side, where a lady’s judgment still carried weight.
David stood at her shoulder. Ragnar with the guards.
Seren listened. Spoke softly. Asked questions Henry would never have cared to ask. When she finished, no one bowed to her out of performance; they bowed because they trusted her fairness.
When the last petitioner left, David whispered, “You make it look easy, Mother.”
Seren slipped her hand into his. “Your father makes it look hard?”
David nodded. “With father, everything is a fight for dominance. Proving his authority with every command. You just suggest, and they do.”
She stood up and placed her hands on his shoulders. He was now taller than she was.
“Invite obedience. If they trust you, if they love you, they will obey.” Seren tilted her head, studying her son. The people loved her. They trusted her, and that love fell on her son. “Be loyal to them, and they will be loyal to you.” Her eyes drifted to Henry’s seat. “Not always, though.”
“Maybe the war will kill him,” David muttered low, following her gaze. “Hasn’t bothered to send word back. For all we know, they marched off the edge of the world.”
Seren patted David’s chest.
“He doesn’t fight in war, my son,” she said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “He will come home alive. Don’t make wishes—only work for what you can change. It is easier on the heart and the mind in that way.”
Her brow creased as she lifted her face to his. “Do you remember what I told you when he accused me of being unfaithful with Commander de Montfort and every year since?”
David shifted his weight and averted his eyes. His jaw clenched. He remembered.
“When he kills me,” she began.
“You always say that, but every year it doesn’t happen,” David cut in.
“When it does,” she began again, “what are you to do?”
He remained silent.
“Look at me, please,” Seren asked. It pained her always to speak to David about how she could die, but she had to teach him survival at least until he was lord, and then she had to make sure his heart did not falter into darkness after she was gone.
David’s eyes slid to his mother’s. “When he tries to kill you again, I will not let him.”
“You will let him, son. You will stand there and say nothing. Though you are his only heir, you are replaceable. He will find another wife who will bear him a son. And if he tortures me, I will do my best not to scream, but if I do, you will remember hymns, and if he makes you watch, you will envision me in the arms of our Lord in Heaven.”
A confession shimmered at the edge of his gaze. His lips thinned, and his head drooped.
“You will take my necklace, and if your grandfather comes for me, you will show it to him to save your and your family’s lives.” Seren dipped her head, but kept her gaze locked with her son. “Do you understand?”
His lips twitched as he fought to hold back the mist in his eyes.
“And when your father is dead, you will lead Mortlande into a new era.”
“I could just kill him,” David finally said, in a rush of words. “Ragnar taught me to fight, to kill. Teaches me all the time.”
“That is murder,” Seren whispered. “Though I am glad you know how to wield a blade, don’t begin your lordship with bloody hands. Don’t make your brother or those loyal to you bloody their hands either.”
“He murders people. He’d murder you,” David said, loud enough to draw the attention of the guards.
“Yes, he does,” she said with complete trust in the keep guards’ loyalty to her, even the elusive Reynard. “And yes, he will. But not you. You are not a murderer. You are above your father.”
He wrapped his arms around Seren’s waist and dropped his forehead to her neck before placing a small kiss there.
“I am afraid. You taught me everything I know that is worthwhile,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you. I love you, Mother.”
Seren pulled him closer. “I don’t want to leave you, but the Commander and Ragnar .
. . they love you too. I’ve asked them to stand aside as well.
Let Henry do as he pleases and continue to protect you and your sisters as they have always done.
Not lose their lives for my sake.” She pulled back and stared at her son, who had to become a man too early.
Outside, the wind caught the banners, and her daughters’ laughter carried from the orchard up into the great hall.
“I’ve taught you everything you need to say in the beginning; the rest will come in time.
The host in this keep, this castle, they are loyal to me and so will be loyal to you as long as you keep good in your heart.
You will be a great lord, David. Don’t let what your father does to me shape you in his image.
Be like King David in the scripture, the man after God’s own heart .
. . just don’t make his same mistakes.” The corners of their mouths rose on thinned lips.
Seren continued. “Don’t let power consume you as it did him.”
She tapped David’s side where she had placed her star stitch on a wound he had when he was a child. “Remember, I will always be with you if you carry my star. Remember my love and my teachings. Remember the Lord God above.”
He kissed her cheek.
“I will,” he whispered.
“Good,” Seren said and took his hand. “The duties are done for the day. Let us see your sisters.”
David pressed a half-smile and nodded. “Does father know how well the keep runs without him?”
“No,” she said with a chuckle, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “And if he did, that alone might seal my fate faster.”
In the orchard, the girls played in the keep’s shadow. When they weren’t practicing stitches and ladies’ duties with Seren or memorizing scripture with Father Osbert, they ran through the wild grasses outside the palisade barefoot, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons.
Seren let them while Henry was away.
She had done it as a child in the Marches, but she also taught them what it meant to be a lady. They would be lords’ wives if their father didn’t kill them when he returned—if he returned. She prayed he didn’t and that the Lord would spare David the spectacle.
The girls plucked early pears from the lowest branches of the orchard, arguing over which were sweeter.
“Mother, taste this one!” Vala said, holding up a half-ripe pear.
Seren bit it, and the tartness made her eyes water and her cheeks cave in. The girls giggled.
“Oh, I’ve tasted it and want no more,” Seren said, handing it back to Vala, who bit into it like it was nothing.
Vala grinned, juice dribbling down her chin. “It’s not so bad if you expect it to bite back.”
Seren laughed softly, brushing Vala’s cheek with her thumb. The orchard light crowned her daughters in gold—more precious than any dowry.
She looked at each of them—Aveline, quiet and thoughtful; Vala, bold and wild; Elen, ever the joy-bringer; and Cari, the bright adventurer.
She committed them to memory. Their giggles. Their muddy hems. The way the sun threaded rubies through their dark hair.
If this was the last spring she had with them, she would remember this moment and hoped they did too.
She hoped that whatever future they had, if it was likely to be hard like hers, they could remember this time as she remembered the Marches, giving her soul light in the darkness.
It was the most challenging part of being a mother to daughters, knowing their lives would end up the same, or worse, than her own, and knowing she was powerless to change it.
She reached out, gathering all four girls into her arms and pulling David and Ragnar in, too.
“Never forget this day,” she whispered to all six children. “No matter what comes.”