He peered into the cauldron. “You did indeed. Are you preparing to feed an army?”
Why had she not thought of concealing the cauldron as well as the cups? Foolish girl. She was ill-prepared for such inquisitiveness. The man needed to leave as soon as possible before he spotted anything else incriminating. Yet, she had just invited him to stay.
“It is nothing special. Just mutton bones with nettles, sorrel, and rosemary.” Hopefully not at all to the tastes of a fine gentleman such as him.
“It sounds excellent.” He untied the pewter tankard that hung from his belt and handed it to her.
Defeated, she ladled a tiny helping into the tankard and hoped it would go cold quickly and congeal. He wouldn’t stay long if that were the case. In the meantime, she needed to keep his attention on herself, lest he notice any movement or sound from the three concealed men.
“Pray, be seated.” She pulled out one of the wooden stools made by Anselm’s clever hands, then planted herself in front of it so Smythe would have to sit with his back to the sacking drape. He glanced around him warily, then sat. “Where exactly is your falcon?”
He seemed genuinely worried by Charlemagne. Had he some unfounded fear of such birds? Mayhap she could play on this. She settled on the bench in front of her guest. “Asleep in a dark corner, with his hood on and his jesses tied to the perch. Why?”
“Oh, I’ve not come to impound him. Yet.” Smythe took a sip of his broth and blinked at her.
Good—the broth evidently wasn’t to his taste. Perchance, he’d choke on it.
“I swore to you that Charlemagne could not have made it into your dovecote. Falcons don’t fly when they’re full—he’d still have been at the scene of his crime had he feasted there. I know his weight and only fly him when he feels lighter and therefore needs feeding—it’s the best way to ensure his obedience. And as I said, I’m always present at such times.”
“We shall see what we shall see. This broth is monstrously good.”
Surely, he spoke in jest? It must be cold and congealing by now.
“In fact, the reason I’m in the village is to hire a kitchen wench.”
Her heart leaped. He could hire her, and then she’d be back at the Temple, her childhood home. She could secretly search for the gold reputedly hidden by the Knights Templar. She could sneak some of the manor’s produce out to her uncles to supplement their diet. And she could spy on Masters Smythe and Clark and report back to everyone. Only… she’d just fed the man cold, greasy broth. Not a good recommendation for a prospective kitchen wench.
He took another sip from his tankard and licked his lips. “Do you know anyone in the village who might be suitable?”
“Me,” she wanted to say. But she was too proud to beg. She sat up straight and looked expectant.
“I wouldn’t ask you, of course. You would try to poison me at the earliest opportunity.” He gave her a sideways look, but his eyes were smiling. “Besides, I’d be a fool to let you and that bird get any closer to my squabs. Do you have anyone you might recommend?”
She twisted her hands together. Was he deliberately trying to confuse her, raising her hopes before dashing them? Or was he teasing her? What an utterly infuriating fellow!
Suddenly, she remembered she was meant to be getting rid of him at the earliest opportunity. She rose.
“Lettice Carter is a capable enough girl. She lives in the cottage nearest the old well.”
He stood, too, and once again, she was reminded of his superior height and alarmingly muscular breadth. He was looking at her in that intense fashion again, as if he wanted to read her very soul.
“That reminds me,” he said, looming over her. “You told me that you were Lettice. When I asked in the village after the handsome young woman with the peregrine, everyone immediately knew you as Cecily. What do you have to hide, Mistress Cecily—?”
He’d called her handsome? Not that his opinion mattered. “Neville,” she supplied. “I thought you wanted to kill my bird. I was angry.” She still was, but she had to find a way to manage this man before he laid bare all her secrets.
“That may still happen.” His square jaw was set, his firm mouth hard. “But I will give you the benefit of the doubt and take no action until the murderous creature is caught in the act. I shall be out and about a lot, repairing the buildings, so I will be keeping an eye on that dovecote.”
This was a hammer blow. She’d have to make her food-gathering forays at night, then—if she dared continue with them at all. Faith, it would be a disaster if she couldn’t. There was less work for cobblers like Benedict in high summer, even when people could afford to use them. And in late August, most of the villagers were hale and hearty, which meant Martin, the healer, brought in little coin. Likewise, until the damp and cold of winter returned to rot the wood in the cottages, nobody had much need of Anselm’s wood-turning or chair-bodging skills. In such lean times, they all relied on being able to surreptitiously harvest produce from the Temple.
All she said was, “My peregrine will not come nigh your dovecote, sir. And I have naught to hide, I swear to you.”
He’d emptied his tankard now and there was no reason for him not to leave. But instead, he turned around and headed toward the large trestle table that she used for preparing food. What was he up to? Nosing around amongst her things, wondering what he might demand from her as compensation for his lost squabs? She reached for her ladle, wondering how much damage it would do if it connected with his head.
Nay, she mustn’t think such belligerent thoughts. Besides, his hard skull would doubtless break the ladle. Then she saw that he was merely dipping his tankard into the water-filled puncheon that she used for washing, and rinsing it out. She replaced the ladle.
He strode to the still-open door to shake out the drops. Thanks be unto Mary—he was going! Not a moment too soon, especially for the other three closet Catholics concealed in the cottage.
Smythe turned just inside the doorway, the August sunlight burnishing his hair to a light golden color, and turning him from an unspeakable nuisance to a bronzed god. Cecily’s breath hitched.
“I shall call upon Mistress Lettice Carter straightway. Anon, Cecily Neville. I have no doubt we will meet again. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He ducked his head and departed, leaving her standing in a bright rectangle of sunlight, struggling with a tangled mess of emotions. When sense returned to her, she closed the door, bolted it, and shoved the cauldron away from the hatch.
There was a rustle from above, followed by the sound of hobnailed boots on the stair. Benedict whisked out from behind his drape, and Martin uncoiled himself from the root cellar and stood upright, brushing dirt from his doublet and hose.
“I can’t help think that we should have remained sitting around the fire, and brazened it out.” Benedict plucked a cobweb from his hair. “Why should Cecily not eat broth with those who everyone deems her kinsfolk? That man has never seen us before—how should he have any notion that we have not always been what we have now become? Do we have the words ‘papist’ or ‘recusant’ written across our foreheads?”
“Nay, indeed not.” Martin shook his head. “We’ve had many years in which to learn to keep our rosaries concealed, and not to burst into prayer whenever the church bell tolls the hour of the Angelus. Nor do we go about reading or speaking Latin. Surely we can now consider ourselves safe?”
“Not while we continue to secretly celebrate Mass instead of communion. Until we embrace the new ways of worship, none of us is safe.” Benedict glanced toward the door, then lowered his voice. “I suggest we begin rotating our meetings again. I will hide the religious vessels in my basket, and the Sunday after next, we shall celebrate at my cottage, under the guise of meeting for a family meal. Working sunwise around the village, we will meet in a different dwelling once every two sennights and in between, we must grit our teeth and attend services in the village church. Thus, it will be two months before we’re all in Cecil
y’s cottage again. By which time, we will know the truth.” Benedict’s expression as he gazed at Cecily was unfathomable.
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “What will we know?”
“We’ll know exactly what that man’s intentions are toward you.”
She gasped, her cheeks reddening. “Surely, you don’t think—?”
“Regrettably, I do. He has taken a fancy to you, even if he doesn’t yet know it.”
As the men made their farewells, Cecily chewed over Benedict’s startling revelation. He must be wrong, mustn’t he? But how was she to tell if Allan Smythe liked her or not? The village boys and youths had always seen her as something different, and avoided her. Everyone in the village knew full well that there were recusants amongst them, including her, but had turned a blind eye to the fact. They held no grudges against the former occupants of the commandery and, indeed, still found them most useful. But knowing that Cecily had been brought up in a Catholic religious order seemed to have kept away any potential suitors. She was doomed to die a maid—but she’d accepted that long since.
She had never set out to capture Smythe’s interest. The last thing she wanted was him popping up unexpectedly or trailing after her like some faithful hound. He would not prove as tolerant as the villagers, so she must avoid him at all costs.
For if she didn’t, and he discovered her duplicity, not only her life, but the lives of all those she held dear, would be at stake.
Chapter Four
“Why are you moving out?” Allan stared at Kennett, his jaw dropping.
His brother-in-law gestured around the small hall of the preceptor’s house. “Look around you. There’s green slime on the walls—inside! The windows leak when it rains and admit drafts when it’s windy. And even in the heat of August, the rooms are cold.”
Why should Kennett complain? Allan rather liked the cool—it was refreshing after a long haul outdoors, working on the buildings and the land.
“Where will you go?” Allan felt his temper start to flare. Was Kennett trying to avoid hard manual labor—as usual?
“I’ll stay at the inn in Roding until this place is made more habitable. But I’ll be over here every day.”
“Please reconsider. I’ve just employed a kitchen wench because I thought she’d be cooking for three—us, plus the gardener when we find one. Now, I shall have to let her go and do the cooking myself.”
Kennett waved a hand airily. “Fimble famble. You can give her extra duties, such as cleaning the mold off, for a start. And pay her less, so she doesn’t start thinking she’s important.”
Allan frowned. “Can we afford for you to stay at an inn?”
“I can afford it. I still have some of my inheritance, and the rents from this place will start coming in, too, once I’ve finished perusing the books and getting them up to date.”
This was true. And next spring, they’d be selling their fleeces, which would significantly improve their revenue. It was too soon to worry overmuch. But it was as well to be sure—Kennett had taken charge of Allan’s coffer and accounts, having claimed a superior ability with numbers.
“How are our funds at present?” He’d been too distracted by practical work to query their current financial situation. Why buy a hound if you’re going to bark yourself?
“Our joint finances are struggling, after the purchase of those sheep. You’ll have a paltry amount of your own money left, so it would be wise to find something to sell—or we could put the rents up, from which we will both profit.”
The skin on Allan’s scalp tightened. He hadn’t realized he was sailing quite so close to the wind. They needed to spend more on the property before it started turning a profit, so now was not a time when he wanted to make savings. Yet, it sounded as if he needed to do exactly that.
“Couldn’t you put a bit more of your capital into the place, Kennett? We need furnishings, and coin for wages and a few animals, so we don’t have to buy our own eggs or pork.”
“I could.” Kennett tilted his head. “It would have to be by a formal agreement, drawn up by a lawyer so that if it all goes awry, my loss would be proportionate to the amount I’d put in.”
Why should there be any loss? Had Kennett lost faith in their venture so soon? Allan began to wonder how much he really understood—or trusted—his brother-in-law.
“And of course, if you want good fleeces, you’ll want extra food for the sheep when they arrive. We bought this place too late to harvest the hay, and there is no convenient field of old neeps into which we can put the animals to forage. You—I mean, we, will have to purchase fodder for the winter.”
Allan couldn’t dispute that fact, although he did wonder if he might be able to plant some turnips or beets now and harvest them gradually over the wintertime. Would Kennett bend his back and help him in the fields? He very much doubted it.
“I’ll consult Fitzherbert’s Book of Husbandry and see what can be done.”
Kennett threw back his head and guffawed. “You can’t learn husbandry from a book, you fond fool! You were born and bred on a farm—I assumed you must’ve learned all you needed from that. Have I overestimated your abilities and knowledge?”
Allan resisted the urge to tug on Kennett’s dark beard and make him wince. He didn’t like being called a “fond fool”. Aye, he had been born on a farm, but his father had wanted him to be more than just a farmer, so he’d been sent to school to gain what could be learned from books. That had been followed by a spell as a scholar at Cambridge—he knew the Scriptures, he’d studied Law and Classics, and he even knew a little Latin and Greek.
But on the practical side, his skills lay in the manufacture and sale of woolen cloth, not in livestock rearing. He knew how to dye wool, how to make Linsey and Wolsey mixes, and how many threads to an inch one needed on the loom—but he’d been relying on Kennett to supervise the actual production of the fleeces.
“We could always exchange roles. I could take over the accounts while you spend more time on the animal husbandry. You also come from a family of sheep farmers—Hannah told me often how well you dealt with the animals.”
Kennett kicked at a pile of dust and leaves with his boot, avoiding Allan’s eye. “Too late for that. I’ve worked hard to make contacts hereabouts. How will it look if suddenly they have to deal with you rather than me? People will think you don’t trust me—which could lead to all kinds of difficulties.”
Allan gave up the uneven struggle. He would leave the matter, at least for now. And as soon as Kennett was gone, he’d fetch a broom and clear away that pile of leaves. They’d been here over three weeks now, and it was inexcusable to have such a mess in their abode. A gentleman simply didn’t live like this.
“Now, Brother—I am off up to Lavenham today to see how our sheep are fattening up for their journey. I’ll be gone overnight. Pray, do nothing dangerous while I’m away, such as clambering about on roofs.”
“I won’t.” Allan struggled to keep the sourness from his voice. There was so much that needed doing, yet Kennett was gallivanting off to Suffolk on a bright August day, with the prospect of a good cooked meal in his stomach at day’s end, and the best quality ale with which to wash it down.
“Fare thee well. Now, don’t forget what I said about putting up the rents. I’ve left the relevant account book in the solar, it being the driest place in the house. Anon.”
Allan shrugged his shoulders and gazed gloomily out the window as Kennett mounted his steed and clattered off. He hadn’t wanted to get involved in the books today. While the weather remained fair, he needed to clear the fishpond of weeds and check the number of carp. He also needed to work out why the water level in the moat was so low—he feared for the survival of the wild roach that had taken up residence there.
Ah, well. Needs must. He mounted the narrow spiral stair and entered the solar, then settled himself at the table and opened the account book.
Outside, he could hear the soft cooing of doves and the braying of a
donkey. Pleasant country sounds, far better than the blare and babble of the urban life he’d experienced in Cambridge. How he longed to be outside, under the blue heavens, inhaling the scent of the late roses, ox-eye daisies, and willowherb. Those were among the few flowers he could name, but he meant to learn the names of all the rest as soon as he found a gardener who could teach him.
He opened the book, then gazed into empty air. Cecily Neville would know what all the plants were called, he was sure. Although—she didn’t look like any country girl he’d ever met. Though her hands were rough from labor, her features were fine and daintily sculpted, and her hair—what he’d seen of it escaping from her coif—was as black as a moonless night. Her eyes were such a dark brown that they were almost black. Coupled with her long, dark eyelashes, they gave her an exotic foreign look, although she had the porcelain skin and rosy cheeks of an English country maid. Most of the villagers, who were almost certainly interrelated, had light eyes and pale or mousey hair. She didn’t fit in with the rest of them. So, what was her story?
He forced himself to concentrate on the figures again. Kennett’s pronouncement had made him anxious—he must be sure to make as much out of the rents as possible, but without reducing the tenants to penury. As he ran his eyes over the columns, an idea wormed its way into his mind. It wasn’t a particularly delightful one, but it would solve his immediate financial worries.
The leases on the cottages and their appurtenances were, it turned out, overdue. This was something of a surprise, as he would have expected the king’s grasping officials to have kept a close eye on the rent payments. It seemed they had not, since all the leases had been due for renewal the previous Easter. Many landlords collected additional monies to cover the renewal of leases. If he were to do that, rather than put the rents up, he would have the coin in his coffers well-nigh immediately, instead of having to wait for the next quarter day. Performing some rapid calculations, he decided a fee of one shilling per household would not be too burdensome.
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 3