46. The Midnight Window
XLVI
THE MIDNIGHT WINDOW
Candlelight flickered across the long table in the council chamber, casting tall shadows on the walls.
Seren sat near the hearth, veil set aside in the comfort of solitude, her ink-stained fingers sifting through scrolls and sealed letters. Margot and Isolde lounged half-asleep by the window, wrapped in woolen blankets, their quiet breaths the only sound apart from the occasional crackle of fire.
The air was cold despite the flames. The stone walls of Thornwyck always held the chill after the spring’s rain.
Outside, the wind swept through the bailey, but inside, Seren focused on the future she might never live to see—one written in names and dowries and tentative alliances.
She read line after line of noble matches for her daughters, lips pressed thin.
It was then she realized what her mother had to do for her. Knowing the life her daughter would lead, what man she would be subject to, being powerless to do anything about it, and knowing the likelihood of ever seeing her daughter again was slim.
She pushed the pending tears back into her eyes.
Aveline was of marriageable age by the coming summer, but still had no one.
Vala, still a child, already betrothed, a baron’s son in Chester.
He had seemed kind and pious as a young man when Seren agreed to it.
Next were Elen and Cari, both without a betrothal.
If only she had more time, she might do right by her daughters, but December was only eight months away. There had been no word from White Tower. It could be a ten-day one-way journey with a wagon. She only hoped to see a messenger rather than an army on the horizon in the days to come.
She drew in a loud breath and lowered the parchments to her lap.
“What is it, milady?” Margot asked.
“These are not men,” Seren murmured. “They are signatures. Land. Coin. Alliances.”
“Is that not what marriage is?” Isolde replied groggily from the blankets.
The king’s command still burned behind her eyes, even if David’s letter might buy her time. A year, perhaps. Maybe less if William Rufus rejected his request or grew impatient.
“Only for women,” Seren answered and sighed. “No love. No kindness, tenderness. Just a vessel for use.”
She pushed Henry’s abuses out of her mind. Though her back teeth grew tight, there was no use in hating him. He was already dead, and all hate did was spurn her soul. Her next breath blew in peace to replenish the strength she would need to endure her next husband.
She traced her finger over one name in particular. A baron’s heir from Hereford. Strong lands, poor temperament. His steward had written on his behalf. Likely needed a half-Welsh woman to stem the riots in the central Marches.
The door creaked.
She startled, then exhaled when Erik stepped into the light, with his dark cloak damp from the weather.
“Lord David and I are to meet,” he said, his voice low. “Saw the fire.” His eyes traced her face, her neck, her body in the chair, before his gaze lifted once more to meet her gaze.
“I thought everyone had gone to bed,” Seren said, her hand flinching toward her veil.
Erik glanced toward the door, then back at her. “Thought Lord David might be in here.” He took in Margot and Isolde, noting the impropriety of remaining alone with her with only her sleeping handmaidens.
He shifted his weight. Seren saw the desire to stay in his eyes, but the bitter words came from his lips: “I’ll leave you to your work.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said before she could think. “Come in. Sit. You said David will be here shortly.”
She had meant what she said. She didn’t want a scandal, but everything at the moment felt right with Erik, and the fact that she’d lose it all made her soul burn against the injustice she’d done to herself.
The corners of Erik’s mouth lifted as he picked a heavy wooden chair up and set it next to the hearth, too close to her. His fingers brushed hers as he settled in, and neither pulled away.
She forced a small chuckle as she lifted the parchments in the air with her other hand.
“They’re ridiculous, aren’t they?” she said, nudging one of the scrolls with her thumb. “These requests for my daughter’s hand. One of them thinks himself a poet. Another’s too sickly to ride.”
She tossed them onto the desk behind her.
Erik smirked. “A sickly poet. Quite the prize.”
He slid his fingers into her palm and up to interlace with her fingers. “In the north, we would have to show off our skills as a fighter and a farmer, bringing our best crop—win the heart of the woman and her parents.”
“Is that how you married Astrid?”
He nodded.
“Wait,” she laughed, his words catching up to her. “You were a farmer?” Her lips spread wide.
“We all were. Raiding season was just a season. My brothers and I were just exceptionally good at raiding.”
She squeezed his hand. The question came unwelcome. “Did Henry kill them, too?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t know what happened to them.”
His brow furrowed at Seren’s silence. She wanted to ask how he found himself under Henry’s thumb, and, reading her glance, as he had done so many times before, he answered.
“Astrid was sick with child. We were moving north to evade the Normans. I loved her too much to make her endure the terrain. She was so sick that she couldn’t eat or barely drink. So weak and tired.”
His gaze turned inward.
“My father warned me. I didn’t listen. We settled with a few who stayed behind with us until Ragnar was born. They left, but Astrid needed time to recover. Her arms and legs were as thin as needles. I should have carried them, but I didn’t.”
Erik sniffed as grief welled as a glisten in his eyes. He shook his head and sighed.
“Then Henry . . . brought me here.” He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. The fire painted gold across her skin.
“To you.”
Seren sat with his grief. “I am so sorry, Erik. Henry was an awful man. If it weren’t for him, perhaps you could be with your family somewhere north with Astrid and Ragnar and maybe more children.”
Erik only shook his head. “If not Lord Henry, it would have been another, and then I would never have met you.”
“I told myself you only ever wanted Astrid,” Seren whispered. “You kissed all of them—the ladies in the stairwells. I told myself you were just pretending with me, until I knew you weren’t.”
“I was never pretending, Seren. Not in the garden, not in the stairwell, the chamber, your room. Never.”
Silence swelled between them.
“I tried to help the others survive, yes,” Erik whispered, “but you were the one who stole my heart.” He kissed her hand once more. “My Valkyrie.”
Behind them, Margot’s soft snore buzzed, and Isolde stirred beneath the blanket.
“It is good to see your face again,” Erik said, his fingers slipping over her smooth cheek.
She studied him then—the crease at the edge of his eyes, the scar along his jaw, the new lines grief had etched beside the old ones carved by survival. The same smile lived on his lips and light in his eyes when he spoke of Astrid in the garden all those years ago, as when he spoke of Seren then.
But the burdens had lifted in his gaze. He believed someday Seren would be his wife, but Seren knew better. He’d lose two women he loved.
Reading the shift in her eyes, Erik spread his hand over her neck. “What is it?’
She caressed his hand. “King Rufus will not relent.” She lifted his hand from her neck, kissed his palm, and locked eyes with him again. “Maybe in another life, we could be together, ride our horses free from scrutiny in Fellmere.”
He closed the space between them. “No . . . in this life, milady.”
She shifted away, knowing his kiss was coming. She wanted it, but she didn’t, not now, now having to marry another before Twelfthtide.
He stopped, examined her face—worry in her brow—before kissing her cheek. “Do you not want me, Seren?”
“Of course I do,” she crooned with broken breath. “But the pain of knowing your love and then having it taken away . . . I can’t endure it. Not again.”
His brow knitted as he hovered over her lips. “It is worth any pain to know your kiss. Please.”
She yielded to him, and he pressed against her mouth, light and testing. Their eyes were open, trusting each other as they always had.
It was chaste, but she found herself longing even more when he pulled away.
“Erik,” she whispered his name, and her fingers grazed his shoulder and down his muscled arm.
He kneeled beside her, pulling her chair close with one hand and, with the other, grasping her neck, placing a parted mouth over hers. He kissed her slowly, restrained in his hunger, as if he wanted her to see the world, but he could only show her the view from the window.
His hand ran down the length of her arms and then her legs—firm—grounding her to the moment.
Each brush of his lips against hers pulled her deeper into the way he wanted her.
His hand joined the other on her neck and cupped her face, his fingers slipping into her hair as hers threaded his. He tugged and swallowed her soft moan.
The ache in her chest climbed upward, blooming behind her lashes, wondering at the beauty of the world she could only ever know from the view at the window.
Her first true kiss had come, and it was one that sealed itself into memory.
Footsteps sounded down the hall, not Tomas.
His kiss descended into small ones, slow and pressed until his forehead rested on hers.
She whispered, "You have shown me love all these years, and I am grateful to now know what it feels like."
Tears escaped, and he wiped them away. She turned her face into his palm. He kissed her cheek, her lips, and whispered, "I will carry you and your star with me all my days, Seren."
The door creaked open. He leaned back, hands falling to cup her elbow, his thumb rubbing the fatty flesh above the crook of her arm, and his other hand slid into hers.
David entered.
He stopped at the sight of Erik by her side, hands on her body, her mourning veil cast off. His eyebrow raised as he shut the door firmly. “You’ll cause scandal and ruin to Mortlande if someone else were to come in.”
“Margot and Isolde are here,” Seren said, gesturing toward the sleeping women.
David sighed. “They are handmaids, sleeping at that. You need someone of standing and awake. A lady-in-waiting. Commander Bramber. Father Osbert. Even me, if you must. Though I can’t say I’d enjoy watching Lord Erik woo my mother.”
Erik laughed, eyes never leaving Seren. “Ragnar, then?”
David grinned as he walked past them. “The ladies are quite taken with him. Perhaps he could give you a few pointers.”
Seren lifted her chin. “His wooing is perfect for me.”
“Not for my ears, Mother.”
A small laugh rippled between them.
David sobered as he rounded the table. “Though I’m happy to see you smiling. And crying happy tears, for once.”
Erik brushed her cheek. “Me too,” he whispered.
She touched the edge of his smile, returning the sentiment, and kissed the corner of his mouth, out of David’s sight. Erik turned, though, at the last moment, catching her full lips before leaning back with a playful smile.
David quickly changed the subject in the silence. “Why are you here, Mother? I thought you’d be asleep.”
“Looking over betrothals for your sisters.” She gestured to the table.
“Any good ones?”
“No,” Seren said and sighed.
“For their sake, I hope more requests come,” David said as he scanned the parchments.
Seren nodded. Erik patted her hand and then brushed her cheek before standing. “Thank you for meeting with me, Lord David.”
“My mother’s happiness is mine. Pull a chair,” David said.
The command startled Margot and Isolde awake.
Then, in a softer voice, “Mother, it’s been a long day, perhaps you should rest. You have an early morning for the last of father’s vigils.”
“And what will you discuss in my absence?” Seren asked. “Perhaps I could be of help.”
David shifted his weight. Seren couldn’t see him unless she peered around the chair’s high back.
“I know you could be, but I want you to sleep for now,” he said.
Seren stood alongside Erik. He helped place her veil back on her head and let it fall across her face. “Dream well, milady.”
He took her hands in his. The dark tattooed lines ran across the backs of his hands and striped across his knuckles, a reminder of his old faith.
“May God bless your work,” she whispered. She hugged David and then left with her handmaidens. At the close of the door, she heard their soft conversation, David speaking:
“If the king finds another bride, we will need to have bargaining power with the Marcher Lords . . .”
Then the door shut.
They were already assuming King William Rufus would not only accept the postponement but also find another bride.
She walked along the corridor, passed Tomas with a nod of her head, and wound the stairs in solemn silence.
Erik had kissed her like his wife, touched her like a woman, and told her she was loved.
But none of it would matter if the king said no.
They spoke as though her future were still hers to barter.
But her price had already been named—land, coin, alliances.
She only prayed her daughters would cost less.
Her veil shifted in the candlelight, heavy again, as if mourning what might never be. She wanted to believe in David’s plan, in Erik’s certainty, and in her own prayers.
But that night, she had seen the shape of joy and feared she would carry the ache of its absence for the rest of her life.