50. The Last Claim
L
THE LAST CLAIM
News came four weeks earlier: King Henry had chosen a queen—and it wasn’t Seren. Instead, he wed the young Scottish princess, forging another strategic alliance. And with that news, the lords descended on Thornwyck like wolves to a kill, eager to stake their claims and wed before Twelfthtide.
Within the first week of December, four Marcher Lords stayed in Thornwyck Keep:
Lord Richard de Grafton of Wellenford;
Lord Hugh d’Avranches of Chester;
and Lord Robert de Bellême of Shrewsbury;
Lord Henry de Beaumont of Warwick, a baron of Hereford and one of Stafford, also sat in the council room with Erik, David, and Father Osbert.
Erik peered over his wine goblet at the men, most of whom were older than the late Lord de Thornwyck.
Each lord had presented their so-called claim for Seren; Lord Robert had requested to go last before Erik could speak his wish to also go last, so he could counter any argument presented.
They all had spoken and now waited for Robert to speak.
Out of all the lords there, Erik hoped Robert would not gain Seren’s hand.
He’d come from his land in Normandy and succeeded his late younger brother as Marcher Lord two years prior, and already, he was known for his cruelty and persecution of the church.
God had no place in his home. Erik only imagined the horrors Seren would endure by his side.
Robert chuckled as he stood up. “I haven’t heard a single argument that warrants marriage to such an asset.” He scanned the others. “Half this room has no earldom, and this one,” he pointed to Erik, “has no noble birthright.”
A muscle in Erik’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t flinch. He merely held Robert’s gaze, letting the silence draw taut as the bowstring Robert had just drawn.
“Yet here we all are,” Erik said calmly, lifting his goblet with one brow raised and setting it on the steward’s tray. “Summoned by her son, debating her worth like a coin in a satchel. It seems even men with earldoms believe they must prove something, or they wouldn’t be here.”
Robert’s eyes flicked to David, who simply gave a nod and gestured to Robert. “Speak your argument for my mother’s hand, Marcher Lord of Shrewsbury, unless your argument solely consisted of snubbing the lords assisting your land’s defenses in the conflicts from the central Marches.”
The stewards in the room swallowed hard as their eyes danced between David, Erik, and Robert.
The amusement faded from Robert’s face. “I come on behalf of the king’s stability. You, boy, come with your mother’s skirt in your hand.”
Chairs scraped as the lords shifted in their seats. Even the torchlight seemed to hesitate, as if uncertain whether to burn brighter in defiance or vanish entirely in retreat.
Erik did not stand. His voice slid out calm but deep. His thumb brushed the hilt of his sword—not a threat, just a reminder. The lords at the table noticed.
“I don’t care who you are, you’ll watch your mouth when you speak to Lord de Thornwyck.”
“Who are you, Montfort? I’ve never heard of you.” Robert clenched both fists and spat venom. “Why do you even have a place in this room?”
Erik stood then with palm on his hilt. The fire behind him flared, catching the draft of his movement. The other lords leaned back. They knew who he was.
“You were off in Normandy while your father became my dog. I ended his rebellion. Had he not bent the knee to King William, I would have ended your line.”
The red in Robert’s cheeks mirrored the crimson in Thornwyck’s banners.
“I defeated your father,” Erik continued. “You will be no different.”
Robert growled. “Is that a threat, baron?”
Erik pointed at David. “This is Lord de Thornwyck, Marcher Lord of Mortlande. You called him ‘boy.’ You made the threat.”
Robert narrowed his eyes and lifted his chin as he addressed David. “I do not need to prove my worth to you. Give me Lady Dowager, or I will assume us rivals until the bitter end.”
Lord Hugh d’Avranches of Chester shifted while Lord Henry de Beaumont scoffed. The barons of Stafford and Hereford folded their hands in their laps with eyebrows raised.
“That is a bold statement, Lord Robert,” David said. He took a sip of wine, not in the least bit bothered. “Considering the rest of us are here to bargain. I would be certain we, who surround your land, will take offense to your ultimatum.”
All eyes fell on Robert. A few nods came. The others spoke their agreement through their eyes.
“Now,” David said after a few moments of heated silence, “I’ll give you one more chance to speak your argument unless you’ve already made it.”
Robert scoffed. “A lord made by mercy, not blood. I’m done here. I don’t need a whore as a wife.”
Erik’s knuckles went white around his sword hilt.
Father Osbert stirred uncomfortably in his chair.
A steward crossed himself.
“A whore?” David asked, cocking his head to the side. “You said she was such an asset just moments before.”
Robert sneered. The curl in his lip and nostril rivaled what the devil had been imagined to be. “I will be a thorn in your side, boy.”
“Thorns are easily plucked, Lord Robert,” David said. “Should you attack my men or my lands, I will withdraw Captain de Léry from your northern front in the central Marches conflict.”
Erik hid the smirk. David was more than capable of leading Mortlande and defending his own.
Lord Richard of Wellenford cleared his throat. “I’ll withdraw mine as well. And I’ll pray you’ll be able to hold the border on your own. The Welsh are not kind to prisoners of war. Your father got off easy with King William. The Welsh nor King Henry will show you the same courtesy.”
“You all forget,” Robert said, dismissively, “I have land on the Eastern shore and in Normandy. My resources are vast.”
“Same as your father,” Erik said. “There is no difference to us.”
The other lords silently wagered whether Robert would walk out, sit down, or speak an argument. He had paraded into their community of power like God himself. Though tensions existed among them, Robert had made it easy to know which one was liked least or perhaps even hated most.
A few of the other lords shifted, their silence turning from passive to wary. Robert’s reputation had always preceded him—ruthless, pitiless, and loyal to no one but himself.
Robert sneered again and pointed at David. “I hope your snark is not snuffed out before you grow hair on your chest.” With that, he turned and left the council room, throwing the door open.
David gestured to his steward. “Ensure Lord Robert is sent with our best, as he will not be welcome at Thornwyck again.”
The room seemed to breathe a little easier with one less lord in attendance.
One by one, each baron and lord left the room with no favors to barter, each with a debt owed to David’s father, and David collected until only Lord Richard of Wellenford and Erik remained.
Of all the men who came, Lord Richard would be the one to benefit the most from Seren’s marriage.
His land bordered the Northern chiefdoms, and they had not been kind to Wellenford, while Mortlande remained untouched since Seren’s arrival.
The strategic answer was to give her to Lord Richard since David, Madoc’s accepted grandson, sat as Marcher Lord of Mortlande, ensuring peace there.
But strategic advantage or not, Erik wasn’t just going to hand her over.
The three men sat comfortably at David’s table with Father Osbert in a chair by the window, recording the debts and payments.
But it was then that Lord Richard grew teeth. “Lord David, it is an insult to be at a table with a baron. I am a Marcher Lord. I have the first right to your mother’s hand.” He shot a glare at Erik.
Erik said nothing, but his jaw ticked. The old blood stirred—the part of him that once answered arrogance with steel. He exhaled slowly, anchoring himself as Lord Richard spat.
“You know nothing of our ways, pagan.”
David interjected. “Now, Lord Richard, Lord Erik was baptized into the church upon acceptance of his land and title. He is no longer a pagan, but our brother in Christ the Lord.”
Richard chuckled as he ran his gaze down to Erik’s ungloved hands. “What makes you think, then, Lord Erik, a faithful and righteous woman such as Lady Seren, would want to look upon your pagan stains for the rest of her life? It is unfortunate you cannot remove the reminders of your former ways.”
Erik curled his fingers into a fist. “Are you afraid of a Norse warrior, Lord Richard?”
Richard’s eyes lifted to meet Erik’s gaze.
“These hands protected and bled for her family.” Erik studied his fists. “Perhaps when she looks upon my stains, she’ll see that man.”
Richard opened his mouth to protest, but David interjected.
“Let us go back to advantage, lords. Personal attacks are beneath us. Lord Robert did enough of that already.”
Both men chuckled and agreed.
David flicked a glance toward Erik, then to the banner hanging behind Lord Richard, as if measuring every move before he made it. Then he gestured to Lord Richard to continue first.
“Lady Dowager’s presence in Wellenford would greatly decrease the raids from the Welsh Marches, as I am sure you are both well aware,” Richard said. “As it seems, the Welsh chieftains accepted you as Marcher Lord, leaving Thornwyck unscathed after your father’s retreat.”
Erik folded his hands in front of his chest. “Yes, but Lady Dowager in Fellmere helps both Mortlande and Wellenford. Surely you remember the blood baths that swept those fields.”
Richard leaned toward David at the table. “I want peace for all of Wellenford, not just Fellmere.”
David remained silent, reclining slightly, thumb tracing the rim of his goblet in thought. Lord Richard was the logical choice. Everyone knew it.
“Lord David,” Richard pleaded, “our families have been allies for a long time. Your mother’s marriage to me would further that alliance.”
“Are you threatening our alliance, Lord Richard?” David asked.
Richard straightened. “Not at all, Lord David. But I will be saving your mother from the very man who did whatever Lord Henry ordered, including the will to execute a fellow guard for nothing worth death. I was here and witnessed such acts. Is that who you want your mother to be with?”
David set down his goblet with a quiet clink, fingers steepled in front of him. “For every act of obedience you saw, this very man saved my mother’s life tenfold. He taught me how to wield a sword and tended my wounds in secret. I love his son as my brother.”
Richard narrowed his eyes as David continued.
“I saw you when I was eight years old, and my father accused my mother of infidelity, having conspired against her. You said nothing, Lord Richard, even as the blades fell.”
Richard shifted in his seat and pressed his lips thin.
David’s gaze sharpened as he rested his arms on the table.
“I do not blame you. It is the way of the Marcher Lords, is it not?”
“It is,” Richard said.
“So was the way of those that lived under my father’s thumb.” David gestured to Erik. “I know how Lord Erik treats his family, and I would be honored if my mother were his wife. I do not know how you run your keep.”
“She will be well treated,” Lord Richard said.
“And if not, attack me, but the matter of the fact is: there is a greater benefit with her presence in Wellenford than Fellmere, and I am a Marcher Lord and Lord Erik is a baron, or would you rather further the rumors of their adultery when he takes her as a wife?”
“I’m not sure how God’s favored can remain in His favor if she truly were an adulterous woman,” Erik said. “Simple logic should crush those rumors upon springing their nasty heads.”
“The world does not run on simple logic, Lord Erik,” Richard said, but he did release a large breath.
Erik kept his face still. Richard had unknowingly played into their hand. The chances were not certain that Seren would be Erik’s wife, but they were certainly more promising than they had been.
David swallowed hard before following their prepared plan. “My mother’s wishes are to be with Lord Erik come the end of her mourning. Simple logic would put her in your hand, Lord Richard, but as you said, the world does not run on simple logic. Will you please withdraw your claim?”
“The people will talk that she is stained, chose the pagan,” he cocked his head with a swift jerk, “former pagan, her rumored lover.”
“I am aware of that, but only if you withdraw without a reason. I have a reason.”
“Go on,” Lord Richard said, running his finger and thumb over his beard.
“Peace between our lands doesn't have to end with my mother. If your concern is violence from the northern chiefs, then let us speak of the future—of legacy. Your son is eighteen,” David said. “How do you believe he would treat his wife?”
“Lady Dowager is much too old—”
“I’m talking about my sister,” David interrupted.
“I’ve spoken with Lady Aveline, and she will be of age next summer.
I saw what my mother lived through, and I don’t want it for her.
I also saw your disagreement with my father that day six years ago.
So I ask you again, how would your son treat his future wife? ”
Lord Richard chewed his lip. “I loved my late wife, one of the few Marcher Lords who did, does. My son saw that love, so he knows what it looks like.”
“If she is mistreated, I will attack Wellenford to retrieve her. I love my sisters as much as I love my mother,” David said.
Richard nodded in consideration.
“You will have your Welsh woman for Wellenford, securing its future long after you expire in the Lord’s service, my sister will be in good hands, and my mother where she wants to be.”
David lifted his chin.
“So I will ask you again. Will you, Lord Richard, release your claim on my mother?”