Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 2

  Temple Roding had done just that, absorbing all his strength and thought from the very moment he’d inserted the massive iron key into the door of the preceptor’s house.

  “Greetings, Brother. A foul day—but methinks it will clear soon.”

  Allan spun around as his brother-in-law, Kennett Clark, entered the solar.

  “Why are you hiding away up here? Avoiding society, as is your wont? Still repining over the loss of my sister?”

  Allan bit his tongue. Kennett had an unfortunate way of saying precisely what he thought—not an endearing quality. The man had neither tact nor heart, but he couldn’t complain. Kennett already thought him soft for having mourned Hannah and the babe so long and so deeply. His own sister, by the rood! The man had no humanity. But he did have money, and that was probably his only positive quality. That, and an—allegedly—superior knowledge of sheep farming.

  “I was just wondering when it would be dry enough to go out and inspect the dovecote.”

  “Still worried about your fluffy little squabs?” Kennett twirled his gold chain around his finger. It was an infuriating habit and, ofttimes, Allan wished the damned thing would tangle and choke him. But nay, that was an unchristian thought. He must appreciate his brother-in-law—despite his faults.

  “Of course. If the squabs keep getting killed, there’ll be no birds to grace the table. I thought you enjoyed a nice fat pigeon, swathed in thinly sliced salt pork and served up with plum or applesauce?”

  “That I do, that I do. But there is enough bounty here to satisfy even the greatest hunger. So long as we can keep our thieving tenants away from the commandery grounds and lands.”

  “Speaking of thieving tenants—”

  “Yes?” Kennett’s brow furrowed. “Have they been at it again? I’ll brand them myself if I catch them. What have they been after this time? Carp from the fishponds, apples and pears, coneys?”

  “Oh… nay, nothing like that. I’m still trying to solve the mystery of the mauled squabs.” What had stopped him from mentioning the woman and her falcon?

  “Unless someone has trained a ferret to steal at their command, it’s probably a weasel or stoat.” Kennett waved a hand dismissively.

  “That’s what she—” Again, Allan stopped himself. If anyone were going to deal with the wench’s insubordination, it would be him. Kennett had a cruel streak, and he’d seen firsthand how ruthless he could be with animals—they were a commodity to him, no more. He afforded little more mercy to humans.

  “So, what makes you think it’s a stoat? They can climb, can they?”

  “To a certain extent, aye. Or, if a coney or a rat burrowed deep enough, it might create a tunnel through which a stoat could get into the dovecote.”

  That sounded highly unlikely. The brick walls continued well below ground level—Allan had inspected the buildings himself when he’d surveyed the place prior to buying it.

  “Could a bird of prey get in?” he queried.

  Kennett let out a derisive laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brother. They would far rather hunt in the open.”

  “What about a small one, like a merlin, or a hobby? Or even a peregrine?

  “Have you been at the poppy juice or something? You don’t get peregrines in East Anglia—or not that I know of. They like heights, and this place is as flat as a pancake. Mostly.”

  Allan had thought as much himself. A peregrine was a rare thing hereabouts, although he had seen a few in Cambridge when he’d been there for his studies—the falcons had enjoyed the high towers of both the churches and university buildings. How in heaven had a village girl come to own such a bird?

  Lettice was unlike any village girl he’d ever met. Her looks were striking, for one thing. Where had she acquired that flawless complexion and that raven’s wing hair? Those dark brown eyes had seemed to burn into his very soul—penetrating and intelligent. He fully suspected her of having a capacity for mischief—and of having given him a false name.

  Kennett was regarding him with a mocking expression. It was time to change the subject. He didn’t want his brother-in-law to know about the wench—he’d solve that problem himself. They’d agreed that he should take over the manor’s judicial responsibilities as he’d had a university education. They’d also settled that he should manage the buildings, having a passing interest in such things. Kennett’s tasks included dealing with the farming aspects, managing the accounts, and establishing good markets for their wool.

  “How are negotiations going with that farmer in Lavenham? Have you managed to bargain a fair price for his flock?”

  Kennett looked smug. “I’ve beaten him down on price quite considerably. He’ll drive the sheep down to us as soon as he can.”

  “Good.” They couldn’t afford to spend too much on their livestock. He’d sunk all he had into this undertaking and needed to save coin whenever possible so it could flourish.

  “It is a long journey from Lavenham to Temple Roding. They won’t get far in this weather.” The wind had turned, and the rain was now spattering against the window. A trickle of water penetrated between window and frame and pooled on the worn limestone of the sill. Another job to do—he’d have to stop the leak before it did any damage.

  “You’re far too gloomy, Allan.” Kennett came up behind him and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “And you have too soft a heart. Sheep are hardy animals, and the rain will just run off their fleeces. The fact that my sister Hannah turned out too fragile for this life doesn’t mean that every other creature is.”

  Allan pulled away from the window and couldn’t help glancing at a padded basket in one corner of the solar. Luckily, Kennett had turned away and appeared to be on his way out.

  He paused in the doorway. “How shall you spend the day? You can do little of use outside, and you needn’t help me with the accounts—I’m up-to-date with those.”

  “I thought I might walk to the village and engage us a servant or two. We could do with a wench in the kitchen, and a gardener, mayhap.”

  Perchance he would come across the defiant girl with the falcon. She wouldn’t dare set the bird on him in so public a place as the village, would she?

  “But don’t offer them too high a wage. We can’t afford much. Farewell.”

  Kennett left, not having vouchsafed how he would be spending this miserably damp day. Hunting down a trollop, most likely. Allan must be sure to engage an ugly kitchen wench or she’d find herself with Kennett panting and puffing between her legs before you could say “pease pottage”. So, it would definitely not be the young woman he’d met yesterday. She was far too comely.

  Besides going into the village, he must fix the tiles on the barn roof so that the sheep, when they arrived, could be penned up, checked over, and fed in comfort. He’d need a pair of ladders to get up there—had he seen ladders listed in the inventory when they’d bought the place? Even if he could find said ladders, he’d doubtless have to repair them before use. Just as well he had a practical bent in addition to his book learning—Kennett was too lazy, and too proud, to dirty his hands with such toil.

  The creak of the wooden door below told him his brother-in-law had left the preceptor’s house. Good. Now he could concentrate on his patient.

  Allan collected the basket from its corner and set it carefully on the bench, then lit a candle to dispel the gloom in the solar. How ironic, since the solar was supposed to be the sunniest room in the building! He carefully lifted out the golden-colored baby coney and held it up to his face.

  “You are a beauty, aren’t you, little one?”

  The small legs kicked and scrabbled, but not for long. Allan had painstakingly splinted the creature’s broken hind leg, but it must still hurt whenever it moved. Fortunately, the animal soon quieted and allowed itself to be cradled in his arms.

  He’d never seen a coney this color before he came to Temple Roding Commandery. Such animals were, in his limited experience, generally grey. But this one had a coat with the golden tint
of ripened barley, and he was keen to see the furry bundle make it to adulthood. Not for the pot, nor for its skin, but to see if it could generate a whole family of sandy-colored coneys. Only—would he have to raise them indoors? Such a light-colored coat must make them more vulnerable to predators.

  He rubbed a hand gently over the animal’s flattened ears and lowered his head to whisper, “I’ll take care of you until you are mended. Then, I will let you roam free. But not until I have put a stop to the depredations of that peregrine.”

  Quite how he would achieve that, he wasn’t sure, for the girl would not give up her pet easily, and he didn’t want to take it illegally. He was supposed to be the upholder of the law on the manor now and must therefore do everything according to the rules.

  As he shouldered into his most waterproof cloak, an idea struck him. He would put a net in the walnut tree, and if the falcon ever came there again, he would capture it and put an end to its rampages.

  And as for the young woman who claimed to own it—well, he wouldn’t want to see her pretty face spoiled by being put into the pillory or the stocks. He’d settle for compensation for the squabs and young coneys he’d lost—even peasants had skills or items they could offer in lieu of coin.

  A flush of heat washed over him. She’d had an attractive figure to match the comeliness of her face, so he’d better not tell Kennett he was after compensation. He couldn’t trust the man not to take advantage, and the very idea shocked him more than he could explain.

  Chapter Three

  A Catholic ceremony had been celebrated secretly in Cecily’s cottage, and the commandery’s former servants were now relaxing on benches, unwilling as yet to return to their various homes.

  She loved such moments, spent with the men who had been like fathers to her—although in public, she always referred to them as “Uncle”. “Father” had too many Catholic connotations.

  “Will you take another cup of broth?” As she reached to take Benedict’s horn beaker, her heart contracted. Over the past twelve years, the commandery’s former chaplain had taken on a haggard look. Both the passage of time, and the religious persecution following the late king’s repudiation of the pope, had taken their toll. Benedict was a man haunted, forever looking over his shoulder. Cecily loved him dearly but feared he’d worry himself into an early grave.

  “Thank you, Niece.” He accepted the mutton bone and rosemary broth, and pushed his feet toward the cooking fire.

  “How will we fare with these new landlords of ours, do you think?” Martin, who had once managed the guesthouse and hospital at the commandery, stared at Benedict.

  “I can’t help but think we’ll fare much worse. These will be hard times for us all. And dangerous ones, for the new landlords are likely to pry. I know not what our fate will be if we are discovered.” Benedict gestured upward with his spoon. “Unless the good Lord has pity upon us.”

  “I sometimes wonder if He can even hear us.” Anselm, youngest of the three, interjected. “With the pope no longer interceding for us, He may have turned a deaf ear to all of England.”

  Cecily couldn’t help but agree. None of them wanted to be forced to recant the beliefs that had tied them to the commandery. Who would want to put his very soul in peril?

  Understanding Benedict’s tendency to melancholy, she knew what would cheer him—at least in the short term. She rose, uncorked a costrel of her latest batch of precious mead, and offered it to him.

  As he took a grateful draft, she said, “I’ve met one of our new lords of the manor. He strikes me as intransigent and very particular. It wouldn’t surprise me if he counted every single carp in his ponds, each apple on his trees, and even the number of clods in the midden.”

  Anselm set aside the wooden platter he was rubbing to a smooth finish and laughed heartily. “I’ll warrant he doesn’t know the number of bees in his apiary, however.”

  She sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. You know, he accused poor Charlemagne of having taken his pigeons. Not while flying around outside, mark you, but actually within the dovecote. Something has been eating squabs and eggs.”

  “Most likely stoats,” offered Martin. “They would have been attracted to the warrens. Since the place has been left unmanaged, there is now a huge warren established in the banks of the moat. But stoats crave eggs above anything and, no doubt, would not hesitate to take a helpless squab if they could get at one.”

  With a shiver, Cecily recalled her encounter with Allan Smythe. “I told him Charlemagne couldn’t have done it.”

  “Ah, but he could have, couldn’t he?” Benedict’s eyes twinkled at her. “I’ve seen you train that bird to swoop through a section of field drain or a hole in the roof. I know he can’t be relied upon to perform when you want him to, but we all know he’s capable of such a feat.”

  “He couldn’t have entered the dovecote without my knowledge,” she said crisply. “Besides, as you know, I’ve been caring for those doves ever since we were cast out of the commandery, feeding them with whatever grain I can glean, generation upon generation. Even after I adopted Charlemagne, I continued managing the dovecote so that there would always be food for us. I fed the birds, so in a sense, they are now mine.”

  “We’re most grateful for what you’ve managed to purloin from the place. For my part, I can say my adopted trade as a cobbler has been poor in these uncertain times, so I’m most grateful for the odd dove or fish from the commandery.” Benedict fiddled with the wooden rosary he still held in his hand. “Some of the villagers are now mending their own shoes—badly, I have to say—rather than paying me to do it.”

  Cecily let out a sigh. “There’ll be no more fishing and no more doves—we’ll be taken as poachers and punished. No more coneys, either—I must sneak over there at the next full moon and remove my traps before they’re discovered. I might be able to scramble over the wall sometime soon, and steal a few worts from the kitchen garden. He hasn’t tended to that yet, so wouldn’t miss anything.”

  It was so unfair. By rights, everything that flew, grew, burrowed, or swam at the commandery should belong to these men, the remnants of the Knights Hospitaller who had owned the place. She knew no other home and had continued to care for the manor—keeping the fishponds clean and clear, cutting back the brambles, and harvesting honeycombs, apples and pears.

  Of course, all the livestock, horses, oxen and donkeys had been seized and sold over a decade ago, to put money into the unprincipled King Henry’s hands. All the rents from the manor had gone to the king’s officials, and there was little of value remaining save the derelict buildings and land.

  But there was something else, although the men had always told her it was a myth.

  “What if we should find the Templar treasure? That would enable us all to leave this godforsaken realm and mayhap take sanctuary in France.”

  Benedict tutted at her. “Even if such a treasure exists, it wouldn’t belong to us. We’re outcasts now and can no longer hold wealth or land. If anything of worth was secreted at the commandery before the Templars were exterminated, it would now belong to its new owners, Masters Smythe and Clark.”

  Cecily clenched her fists. “I detest that Allan Smythe. It is he that is the felon—not us!”

  A sudden battering at the door made her leap up in consternation. It was an official knock, the knock of a constable or a soldier—proprietorial and not to be denied.

  She sped to the door and put her ear against the panels. “Who’s there?”

  “Master Smythe—your new landlord. I wish to speak with you.”

  For the next few moments, the cottage was a hive of activity. Anselm, the sprightliest of the men, scuttled up into the attic that Cecily used as a bedchamber. Martin lifted a hatch in the floor and clambered in to curl up in the root cellar, and Benedict hid in a niche behind a sacking drape.

  Cecily hastily hid their cups, then planted the broth cauldron atop the trapdoor to the root cellar before sliding back the bolt on t
he door. Her stomach fluttered as she opened the door to reveal Allan Smythe, smiling at her. She fought to control her breathing.

  Leaning arrogantly against the door frame, he raised an eyebrow, then looked her up and down. “So, this is where you dwell. You appear flustered. Not by seeing me, I hope. Unless you have something to hide.”

  She tilted her chin at him. “You took me by surprise—that is all.”

  “And what were you about, that you had to bolt the door? I’ve visited several of the cottages in the village, and none of the doors were locked. Afraid someone might steal your demonic winged beast?”

  Curse the man. He wasn’t supposed to have noticed the bolt—she usually managed to draw it without a sound. Time to slap some more goose grease on the thing.

  “Aye, indeed. He’s a valuable bird, able to catch pigeons for us—I mean, me. Wild ones only, as I have said before. Will you come within?”

  It was an enormous risk to let him inside, but to keep one’s new landlord talking on the doorstep was unacceptably rude. And might raise more questions in his mind.

  His smirk vanished. “Is the bird here? It’s under control, I trust?”

  “Of course. As I said—he doesn’t fly free, except when I take him out hunting or for exercise.”

  A horrible thought struck her—Smythe had come to take Charlemagne away! But he couldn’t just do that, could he? Which of the villagers had told him where she lived? There would be a reckoning when she found out—after all that she and the men from the commandery had done for them!

  Smythe stooped to enter the cottage, and stood near the dying fire, staring around him. Her heart stopped. What if he wanted to examine the building? It belonged to him, after all.

  In a rush, she said, “Will you take some mutton broth, sir? I made a goodly batch this morn.”