43. The Mournful Twelfthtide
XLIII
THE MOURNFUL TWELFTHTIDE
The first of Twelfthtide came and passed in Mortlande three days after the vigil, where the Welsh chiefs disbanded, promising harmony if David remained peaceful.
Villagers, peasants, and lesser lords indulged in the Twelfthtide feasts Seren procured in Henry’s long absence before he returned to die.
She attributed it to David. The scent of roast meat drifted into the bailey.
Fires were lit. Song swelled. Laughter spilled from the garrison and market road. But Thornwyck Keep did not feast.
Inside the great hall, no tapestries hung.
No wine was poured. Seren wore black with a silver brooch at her throat.
David did as well. He sat in the seat of honor, signifying his inherited authority.
Though every contender had tested David, no one had contested his place, showing the prestige his mother had earned for Marcher Lord of Mortlande, the reverence of her prayer that took Henry’s life and established her son as fit to rule by God’s own judgment, and David’s well-prepared responses to each test.
A candle for Henry burned at the high table, and all who passed paid it the respect due to a noble death—even if none mourned him.
Seren sat in her usual seat, veiled and dignified, receiving the quickly rotating guests like a queen, while her mind circled all the possibilities her life could take.
If she could choose, she would choose Erik, but customs never afforded noblewomen such a luxury, and David was still a young lord, still having so much to prove.
So she tried her best to not want Erik, again. It would hurt too much to be denied him after so many years. She’d known her future as a young girl. She’d prepared herself for every moment of her life as a lord’s wife, except falling in love with someone she could never be with.
Servants had moved Erik from the council chamber to the lord’s guest chamber, where Erik had called his room for so long. He was alive—healing, still weak.
She had not yet seen him since the morning she’d pressed her lips to his. It was torture and ache, knowing it would likely never happen again. She again tried to push it from her mind beneath a polite smile and familiar meek words, but Erik kept resurfacing in her thoughts.
The keep eventually slipped into sleep and passed into wine-lulled silence. David yawned, tired of the constant testing, after the last guest left the hall.
“I shall retire,” David said. “You should too.”
Seren agreed, and they climbed the steps to the top floor. But rather than enter the lord’s chambers, David walked to the guest chamber. Its door was open.
Ragnar sat inside.
Margot and Isolde, along with David’s guards and steward, followed.
Ragnar rose and allowed David to sit in the only place of honor in the room.
“Mother, would you pray for him?” David asked, settled in the simple chair by the bed.
Seren kneeled beside Erik and placed her hands on his arm, but did not dare to hold his hand with so many observers.
She bowed her head and paused.
The truth set in. She was not favored. She’d only twisted her words to ensure it looked like she was—even Henry and David and Erik believed it.
She’d tricked them all, and it hurt her heart.
There was no reason to continue the facade—no one’s life to spare or favor to gain.
She only hoped the Lord listened and asked the Lord for a blessing.
“May the Lord preserve the breath in your lungs and the strength in your bones. May He judge you not for the path you walked, but for the lives you spared and the mercy you showed when power begged cruelty. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
Her fingers trembled where they touched his arm. She withdrew them, folding them into the blanket.
Ragnar bowed his head slightly, honoring the prayer. David remained still, watching Erik with the quiet yearning of a boy uncertain whether to reach forward or remain distant.
“Has he spoken?” Seren asked Ragnar softly.
“Not since yesterday. He can speak full words now, though. Took broth at dawn. Woke once for water, but only looked for . . . his Valkyrie,” Ragnar said low, glancing to the audience they had.
The words hit harder than she expected, and she hoped no one else knew she was the Valkyrie.
“I wanted to visit him in daylight,” David said. “With you here. I want the others to see . . . that our family and I stand with him and are indebted for saving your life, Mother.”
She nodded once. David was wise. Her presence with Erik was a noblewoman’s duty of care with witnesses, so no one could say it was improper. Her son was going to be a good lord.
Erik stirred—a flicker of muscle across his brow, a faint shift of his jaw.
Ragnar moved quickly, kneeling at the other side of the bed. “Father?”
Erik didn’t open his eyes, but he made a low sound, deep in his throat. He tried to turn his head, but lacked the strength.
Seren touched his shoulder lightly. “You’re safe,” she said, holding her tongue not to speak his Norse name. “You’re in Thornwyck Keep. The Welsh left in peace. No one here will raise a blade against you.”
Erik swallowed. His lips parted, and his eyes opened slightly.
His voice was hoarse and broken. “Seren.”
She coughed to cover his whisper, hoping no one heard it. Ragnar passed a goblet to her as soon as he whispered. She helped Erik sip without leaning too far.
The water seemed to ease his throat and clear the haze in his eyes. He scanned David, seated behind her, and the audience at the door.
When he tried again, his voice came through clearer.
“Lady de Thornwyck,” he said with bloodshot, unfocused eyes.
“Lady Dowager,” Seren replied.
She returned the goblet to Ragnar and readied herself to stand, but David said, “No one knows how to heal as you do, Mother. Tend to his wounds and have Margot assist you. I want to ensure he lives if it is God’s will.”
Seren returned to her position, and Margot entered. David wanted her to be with Erik; that was why he said what he said. He was lord now, had passed all the tests; his word held weight, but not enough to just give her to Erik in marriage.
She lifted the blanket and checked the wrapped wounds on his arm. David’s stitch was good enough. “I need vinegar, warm cloths, and arnica balm.”
David dismissed his steward to get it with a raise of his finger.
“Also, spiced wine and hot water.”
David pointed to both of his guards and they left to get what she needed.
Seren looked at Isolde, who understood the implicit order. She turned and leaned against the hallway near the stairwell to ensure she’d hear them returning. Seren slid her hand to his. He turned his palm up and closed his hand around hers.
Margot helped lift Erik’s shirt. Seren pressed her fingers to his side; his skin was warm. A good sign.
“Did you really need all of that?” Erik asked, in a haze.
Seren huffed a laugh as did Ragnar and David.
“Of course I did,” Seren said as she brushed his dark gold locks back from his brow. She lowered her face to his. “You will heal.”
Erik kept his eyes on her. “I wish I could see your face, Valkyrie.”
Seren looked over her shoulder at David, who nodded. Margot was too quick to help her with her veil.
Erik’s brow furrowed at the sight of her face.
His other hand grazed her cheek, where Henry had hit her to the floor for raising a prayer against him. “He’ll never hurt you again,” he whispered.
David scoffed. “That’s right,” he said. “And yet she’s still forced to mourn him.”
Erik scanned her face, and she brought his palm to her lips, leaving a soft kiss there.
“It’s now less than a year’s time,” she murmured.
“I will recover quickly, then,” Erik said as he returned his head to the pillow. He looked so pale.
“You are lucky to be alive, Erik. Take your time and rest. Heal, gather your strength.” Seren lifted her eyes to Ragnar to ensure he would make his father return to full strength.
Isolde rushed back on soft feet, signaling she had heard footsteps on the stairs.
Margot replaced Seren’s veil.
Seren performed her duty as ordered upon the steward and guards’ return. Erik had dozed off, still in a haze.
“Rest,” she said to Erik, not knowing if he still heard her. “We’ll return tomorrow.”
Ragnar stayed, as he had. The steward closed the door after them.
David hugged Seren before entering his chambers. He whispered to her, “I will make right by you, Mother. Do you want a life with him?”
Seren nodded.
“I owe him and Ragnar my life many times over,” David continued. “I will make it right by them as well. I will lift them up where my father oppressed, and with my gift to them, a chance for you and him.”
Seren stroked the back of her son’s head. “You have light in your soul, my son, and I am most proud.” She kissed his cheek. “You are my star, little David.”
David pressed his forehead to hers. Truth swelled behind his eyes, too tender to speak. “Goodnight, Mother.”
Seren walked with Margot and Isolde to her chambers at the other end of the corridor.
In her chest, beneath mourning and memory, a single truth rested: she had lost a husband, but not love. And she had gained something far more lasting—peace bought by faith, mercy, and the unwavering courage of her son.
For once, the future held a small ray of hope for a life desired, but a year was a long time, and Marcher Lords were never patient, especially for a woman favored by the Lord and the keeper of peace in the Marches.