42. The First Morning
XLII
THE FIRST MORNING
Sunlight streamed across the council chamber, tinged with winter’s chill despite the hearth's embers. Seren blinked awake to warmth at her belly and the comforting weight of a familiar breath at her neck. For a moment, she didn’t move.
Erik’s presence steadied her like an anchor set deep in the waters. She imagined what it would be like to wake beside him always—not as fugitives from war or scandal, but as man and wife. What a foolish imagination she had.
She shifted, untangling herself without waking him. His brow was pale, lips dry but pinker than they’d been the night before. His breathing was steady. She paused just long enough to press a kiss to his mouth—a release of what she had wanted to do for so long.
But she remembered where she was. Her eyes grew big as she retreated. She was a widow, and widows had to mourn for a year and a day, not kiss another man in the few hours after their husbands’ passing. Her mourning had only just begun.
And yet—here she was, tangled in warmth that wasn’t supposed to be hers. She wondered if anyone had entered the night, and a pit opened in her stomach.
After David stitched Erik’s wounds, she barely remembered the servants entering with her garments that Henry had ordered removed, but nothing more.
Shame came from knowing what the court might say if they saw her here, like this, with him. It could unravel everything she had built for David to take the mantle of Marcher Lord and the peace for which she had sacrificed so much.
She glanced around, saw Ragnar asleep in a chair, her children snuggled against Erik like shields. Margot and Isolde curled up, back-to-back, at Erik’s feet.
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, not there beside Erik.
She swallowed the lump in her throat as she rose and prayed no one had entered during the night, and saw her curled around the man Henry had accused her of being lovers with, dressed in nothing but her chemise.
Her hand grabbed the thin fabric at her belly.
The whole of the great hall had seen her in it at Henry’s command. She’d never put her garments back on.
The fur made a soft sound as she pulled free. Her daughters barely stirred. Vala and Elen were knotted together, clinging to Erik’s arm, and Aveline’s back pressed against his leg. David lay propped at the lower corner of the pallet, chin tucked to his chest in sleep with Cari in his arms.
Seren smoothed her hair quickly and stepped away, reaching for her mantle, leaving the overdress on the table. She stared at the door and hoped no one had entered in the night. She wrapped the mantle over her shoulders and its warmth replaced Erik’s warmth.
Margot and Isolde stirred. Margot awoke.
“Milady,” she whispered, nudging Isolde awake. “Oh, milady,” she whispered again, glancing around. “Forgive us. We fell asleep.”
“Do you know whether anyone saw me stay the night?”
Margot, up now, shook her head.
Isolde, the same.
“This is not good,” Seren said and paced. “Tell the keep if they know . . .” Her mind blurred from the evening’s events. So much to happen in such a short time. Her eyes kept flicking to her children.
Margot spoke. “Your children wouldn’t leave.”
“Yes,” Seren said. It was the truth. They hadn’t wanted to leave Erik, not knowing if he would live or die. “I couldn’t leave my children, not after Lord Henry passed in the Lord’s service.”
Isolde added, “Yes, and Montfort also saved your life. The children felt indebted to him. How would a mother have pulled her frightened children away from their mother’s savior?”
The tension in Seren’s chest loosened. That would have to be a good enough excuse.
"You need to wash and dress before anyone sees you. I laid out mourning robes in your chamber. We’ll take you through the nursery. You’ll be in the great hall before any gossip stirs."
Seren nodded, then glanced back once more at the pile of bodies sleeping soundly around Erik.
That was all she allowed herself.
One look at the man who bled for her, and the children who wrapped him in something that felt dangerously close to family. Then she turned her back on his warmth and walked into duty’s mourning.
The fields glittered with frost, but the sun broke gold across the sky. The morning was clear—too bright for a land that had nearly fallen to blood and ash.
Seren sat atop her white mare, robed in black with silver trim. A black translucent veil shadowed her face.
In black, David looked more lord than boy, the feelings he didn’t speak written into every seam of his mourning garb. He sat atop his own horse, a nut-brown, young stallion. He shaded his eyes as he looked west.
The ground rumbled with the threat of war approaching. Seren hadn’t seen her father in almost fifteen years. Would he remember her? Would he accept David as his half-Welsh grandson? Would they all die that day?
She released a slow breath through her lips, which curled into fog before her face and soon dissipated in the morning sunlight.
Ragnar, her handmaidens, Father Osbert, Godric, and Commander de Bramber stilled on their horses behind Seren and David.
The first clan arrived on the plains, followed by the others. They dotted the horizon, banners rising like brushstrokes across the sky—reds, greens, and golds of the mountain and river folk. Hooves crunched frost in the distance.
Seren’s fingers tightened on the reins to steady the mare.
Madoc rode toward them. Two of Seren’s brothers flanked him along with mounted Welsh chiefs. Their axes rested flat against their backs, but their stares could cut just as easily.
Seren glanced at David and nodded. David led them forth and they met the Welsh chiefs in the Mortlande fields stretching before Castel Thornwyck.
Madoc pulled his horse to a slow halt a few yards from David’s line. Silence stretched long enough to pull the breath from the air.
She reined in, dismounted with grace alongside her son, and they walked to Madoc and the chiefs without bow or formality. Welsh and Norman boots crunched through frostbitten grass as they met between the lines.
The last time she’d spoken face-to-face with her father, she’d been young, and he’d bound her to Henry’s will. Now she stood tall and unchanged in soul, but sharpened by years in Thornwyck’s fire.
Madoc did not speak at first. His hard eyes scanned David, then returned to her. His hair, once deep sable, now streaked with silver, curled beneath his helm.
Gethin—her eldest brother—wore a half-smile beneath a wary brow. He scanned Geoffrey and Ragnar with suspicion, but when his eyes landed on Seren, his chest lifted in relief.
“You wear widow’s black,” Madoc said, his eyes softening the longer he focused on her face beneath the sheer black veil.
“I do,” Seren replied. “Lord Henry has passed.”
Madoc nodded as he glanced at the other chiefs standing alongside him.
“How?”
She didn’t blink but brushed her pendant cross with her forefinger, suppressing any guilt she had over taking her husband’s life. “The Lord willed a righteous hand. It was God who struck him down.”
The corners of Madoc’s mouth curled upward, knowing. He gave her a slow nod.
Seren had proved she was not tainted by Norman wealth or power, that she was still Welsh in the eyes of the chiefs.
“Then who can go against the Lord?” Madoc asked.
Seren shook her head. “No one.”
His gaze switched hard to David.
Now her son had to prove he would keep peace in the Welsh Marches. That he wasn’t so Norman he’d seek to wipe the Welsh from the land. If David spoke well, there would be peace. Letting Seren’s line rule would be the cleverest political move Madoc ever made—and all, without raising a single sword.
Madoc positioned himself in front of the young boy, still a head shorter than Madoc.
“And this boy,” Madoc said, “is he the one you bore the demon lord?” His voice still rumbled like the hills he hailed from.
David didn’t flinch. He stood straight and proud, the weight of the past week heavy on his shoulders. “I am David de Thornwyck,” he said. “And I am my mother’s son.”
“You wear black, too,” he said. “Mourning a man who made your mother bleed?”
David’s jaw grew tight. “I mourn for what should have been,” David said. “Not what was.”
That made Madoc still. His eyes flicked to Seren. Then he gave a single, solemn nod.
“A good answer,” he muttered and lifted his chin before asking, “How old are you, boy?”
David replied as Seren had coached him in Henry’s absence. “Age pales to competence as a Marcher Lord.”
Madoc murmured, “Another good answer.” He glanced behind David before addressing Seren. “I see a Norseman with golden hair, but that is not the one I let go. Where is the one Henry called Payen de Montfort? The Norseman who commanded his men?”
Seren inclined her head, veil brushing her cheeks, but did not answer—let her son do it. He had a name and role to grow into.
“He saved my mother’s life. Nearly died for it,” David said, again garnering Madoc’s focus. He pointed to Ragnar still mounted on David’s line. “That’s his son. Ragnar—he is like a brother to me.”
Madoc’s jaw twitched. “Then I owe the Norseman,” he said simply.
David faced Madoc. His eyes questioned his grandfather’s reaction, but Madoc gave nothing away.
Madoc stood in silence, and David matched it.
“You say you are your mother’s son,” Madoc finally said. “Prove it, and let’s not waste blood. I’ve only heard rumors of your obedience in following your father’s footsteps.”
David glanced at his mother. He didn’t know how to prove it. Seren swallowed hard. She thought words would have been enough.
But then David reached for the signet ring—Henry’s ring, now his. He turned it in his fingers, then pulled it free and held it out in the palm of his hand, plain for them to see as an act of trust.
“My father ruled through fear and unmerciful power. He spilled blood between peoples and called it peace.” He lifted his eyes from the signet ring to his grandfather. “I won’t do the same.”
Madoc picked the signet ring up and examined it as David continued speaking:
“I’ll rule the Marches with strength—but also with the honor my father had long forgotten.
I’m not afraid to carry the weight of what he built, but I’ll answer for what comes next.
My mother was willing and still ready to give her life for peace, as am I.
” He paused, and Madoc met his gaze. “I am both my mother’s son and the bearer of my father’s lordship. ”
Madoc returned the signet to David’s palm with a controlled hand.
But he still said nothing, as if he wanted something more before his decision was made.
David understood and added, voice clear, “I swear before you and my mother, before God and the men of both bloodlines—I will not raise a sword unless it is to defend the border or the innocent. I will rule with both justice and mercy like the Lord above. And I will not forget the blood I carry from my mother, Lady Seren ferch Madoc.”
A murmur moved through the chiefs.
Madoc turned to his war band and raised his hand—weaponless. “The boy is ours.”
Relief didn’t show on Seren’s face, but it swelled thick in her chest.
“Come,” she said. “Let us take food together before the evening. See for yourself what has become of Thornwyck.”
Madoc raised a brow. “See if your boy truly sits the seat?”
“He does,” Seren said. “You will not find it empty.”
A few chiefs shifted their weight. “It could be a well-set ruse, Madoc,” one said. “Take us all within the bailey and strike us dead.”
Madoc threw his gaze toward Seren. “Then let only a few of us go and see if it is as the Lord and Lady say it is. If we have not returned by dusk, attack.”
Seren dipped her chin.
By midday, they crossed the gate of Castel Thornwyck.
Henry’s body lay in the chapel, guarded by the rites of the Church.
The air was cold and filled with incense. The Welsh chiefs stood silent as they took in the face of the man who had slaughtered their kin.
“He’s dead,” Gethin muttered.
“Then God took him, as Lady Seren said,” one of the older chiefs said, crossing himself.
And that was enough.
They didn’t bother looking twice.
They had come with siege in mind, and they left the keep’s chapel in fragile peace, the doors closing like the final page of a long war. Seren walked them to the gates, black skirts brushing the stones, her children beside her.
Before Madoc left the bailey, he drew Seren into his arms. He kissed her brow over the veil. “I named you Seren because I knew your light would never run out,” he whispered. “We are all indebted to you, my daughter.”
Seren slipped her hand to his cheek. “There is no debt to pay, Father.” She smiled, though he likely could not make it out beneath the veil. “Give Mother my love.”
Madoc kissed Seren’s hand. “Always.”
“A half-Welsh boy sits in the Marcher Lord’s seat,” Gethin said as they mounted again. “From one of our own’s blood.”
“And the people kneel,” Madoc replied. “Let them. Our Lord has done what we could not.”
They rode off, but Madoc turned before he crossed the drawbridge. “Give the Norseman my blessing. He will understand what it means.”
David nodded. “As you wish, Lord Madoc.”
They watched them ride off before dusk toward the clan lines in the distance.
“Do you think they will attack us?” David whispered to Seren.
“Not during the night, not while I live.” She glanced down. “In the morning, we will have a vigil in the bailey’s chapel for your father. The Welsh lords will either submit to you as Marcher Lord or they’ll try to kill us all.”
David sighed.
“So make your peace with God, then?” he asked.
Seren nodded and rubbed a circle in the dirt with her slippered toe. “We should pay respects to your father’s body to keep Mortlande, the church, and the king satisfied. Father Osbert remains by his side,” Seren said. “I’ll not ask him to lie for us—saying we were there when we weren’t.”
David glanced at his mother. He touched her forearm. “Thank you for preparing me. Thank you for enduring.”
Seren covered his hand. “I am only grieved you were not a child for longer. You have done well, David, your first day as Marcher Lord.”
The transition of power was rarely stable, and Seren hoped her bloodline would save the bearers of the Thornwyck name.