Cheered by his findings, he rose and collected the basket containing the recovering baby coney. No sooner had he raised the lid than the little animal jumped out and scampered around the room. After some cursing and a few undignified leaps, he recaptured it and held it up to his face.
“Well, little one. It seems freedom calls you. Wait a moment or two while I remove the splint. There now—isn’t that better?”
Positively cheerful now, he galloped down the stairs with the creature clasped to his chest and crossed the old cemetery that lay between the garden and the east moat. He approached as close as he dared to the warren above the moat, not wanting to scare the coneys which sat chewing grass outside their burrows.
He set his burden down in the long grass. The coney wrinkled its nose at him for a moment, then hopped off and settled some distance away to chew on some fresh green stems.
A high whistle sounded above the trees on the other side of the highway that skirted the commandery.
Allan froze. It hadn’t occurred to him to make sure there were no predators around before releasing the coney. Was that a bird of prey circling above those tall oaks, or just a crow? He shaded his eyes, but the glare was too intense for him to make anything out clearly.
He pursed his lips. It was high time he paid another visit to the village and sorted out Cecily Neville. If that was her peregrine, it might not be on his land, but it was too close for comfort. If he went into the village to parley with her, he could also call on the local chair-bodger to see if he had any brooms or broom handles for sale. He would drop the issue of the overdue leases into the conversation—that would give the villagers time to get used to the idea that they would shortly be parting with more coin.
He turned back, planning to ready Baldur and ride into Temple Roding in state as befitted the new landlord, but his eyes snagged on something lying in the long grass.
Crouching down, he felt bile rise into his craw as he saw the feathers scattered around, the detached wings, and the exposed rib cage of a dove. One of his, no doubt. The kill looked fresh.
Fury drove him to his feet. He couldn’t wait until he got Baldur saddled and bridled—he’d walk into the village. And he’d deal with that accursed peregrine, once and for all.
Nothing Cecily Neville could do, or say, would stay his hand.
Chapter Five
“So, he was looking for me, was he?” Cecily planted her fists on her hips as she stood in conclave with Anselm and Martin in the small plot behind her cottage.
“Aye. He was angry, but trying not to show it.” Martin bent and cast a handful of grain to Cecily’s chickens. Her pig was pushing against the confines of its pen, but she ignored it.
“I’ll happily present myself to him, but I won’t bother to conceal my anger. A shilling per cottage to renew the leases? This is the thin end of the wedge, mark my words. The rents will be put up next. The greedy, grasping—”
Martin laid a hand on her arm. “Negotiation would be better than confrontation, methinks. I’m certain he is a reasonable man.”
“Pah!” Cecily knelt down, grabbed her cleaver, and started lopping at some wrinkled turnips for the pig. “And I’m certain he is not reasonable. I hope Benedict was right and that Smythe does like me, for then I can throw his ‘interest’ in his face!”
“What are you doing?” Anselm’s shadow had fallen across her light.
She tutted irritably. “Chopping some neeps for my sow. What does it look like?”
She felt a hand on her arm again, this time hauling her gently, but firmly, to her feet.
“Unless the animal enjoys eating fingers, I suggest you let me do the chopping until you’ve calmed down.”
Anselm was adept with his hands, and soon the chopping board was covered with bite-sized pieces of turnip. The pig snuffled gratefully as he scraped them into the wooden trough.
Cecily took a deep breath and wiped a hand across her brow. “Forgive me. You brought me up to be calm, kind, and well mannered—I must be a sore disappointment to you.”
He kissed her lightly on the brow. “You can be forgiven for your feelings of resentment. The Lord chose to take your mother away at the instant of your birth. We know He does naught without reason, but you are only human and cannot be blamed for being troubled because of your lack of parents.”
Anselm’s soft smile and kindly expression brought her back to her senses. “Of course, you’re right. I would’ve liked to have had a mother or father, but never did an orphaned babe fall more firmly on her feet than I did. Everyone at the commandery was so kind. If only that selfish monarch hadn’t—”
“Now, now.” Martin plucked a sprig of rosemary, crushed it in his fingers, then wafted it beneath her nose. “You’re letting that resentment come back already. Remember what has been good and sweet about your life, and look to the future with faith that all will be as it should.”
She took the rosemary from him, inhaling deeply of its earthy scent. Her “uncles” had cared for her so well, that she couldn’t fault them—and guilt assailed her at the fact that she struggled so to contain her fiery temper.
But the news Anselm had brought was terrible. How were the villagers going to pay the extra money? The prime growing season was already over—would they be forced to sell their chickens, ducks, and geese? Raid the stores to make payment in kind? It seemed so wrong, when Smythe and Clark had so much, and they so little.
“I suppose I shouldn’t seek out Master Smythe then, even if he does want to see me.”
“If you’re both angry, the result could be an increase in the payment—who knows? That would be disastrous, Niece. We will go about the village and discuss what might be done to meet the landlords’ demands. We can talk to Master Smythe—he will take more notice of us than he would of a woman. Even one he likes.”
She gasped. “Nay! Don’t expose yourselves to his notice. If he finds out who or what you really are, you would be cast into prison. Or worse.”
“As could you,” added Martin. “We have weathered many storms, Child. Be ruled by me. It is best you don’t go near the commandery for a while. I’m certain Benedict would agree with me. Now, I have some comfrey ointment to make for Goodwife Salter’s knife cut—it is not healing so fast as it should.”
“And I have been commissioned to make two stools for the preceptor’s house, as well as some broom handles and ladder rungs,” Anselm pointed out. “Remember what we have advised you, Niece. You can’t blame Master Smythe for our misfortunes. He may be irksome, but he was not the instrument of our fall. ’Tis better to make of him a friend than a foe.”
The two men left, and she hooked the gate back in place to keep the chickens contained, then wandered around, randomly plucking at weeds as she tried to sort out her thoughts.
Nay, this would not do. She needed distraction. A glance at the sky revealed it was well-nigh time to exercise and feed Charlemagne. She would take a brisk walk toward the neighboring village and fly him on the old common land there. It was well away from the commandery, so it should be safe.
She paused with one hand on the door latch. But why must she keep Charlemagne away from the commandery? He’d done nothing wrong. Come winter, when the highway was a quagmire and her gauntlet stiff with frost, she wouldn’t want to take him all the way to the next village every day. She needed to be able to fly him close to home—which would inevitably bring them near the forbidden lands.
She should seek out Master Smythe. She should attempt to demonstrate that Charlemagne couldn’t possibly get into the dovecote. No mention would be made of the lease renewals—unless he brought the subject up himself. She would remain calm throughout their conversation and not make an enemy of her new landlord.
The sun had baked the ground solid. Cecily adjusted her broad-brimmed straw hat over the top of her coif—it would not do to burn her cheeks in the late-August heat.
The highway was quiet, with just a few local women out collecting hips and haws for medicines and ear
ly blackberries for making tarts. She passed the time of day pleasantly with each one, never forgetting that it was due to the continued tolerance of these people that the small group of Catholics was permitted to remain in the village. Though she hadn’t voiced her fear to Anselm or Martin, she nonetheless nursed a concern that if the villagers were pressed for coin, one of them would break the unspoken pact of the past twelve years and surrender up the recusants in exchange for money.
Nay. She lifted her chin. She would not let that happen under any circumstances. She quickened her pace, eager to close the distance between herself and the commandery. Charlemagne shifted his grip, and his belt tinkled in remonstrance.
“Forgive me, my friend.” She slowed a little and kept her arm steady. “We are almost there.”
There were no impressive rides or roads leading up to the Temple Roding Commandery—the place had not been built for show. There were no grand chapels or monastic churches to inspire the casual passerby. The biggest buildings on the site were the two massive barns, designed to contain the produce that came in from the manor—principally barley and wheat. It was not like a normal monastery—a place for solitude and religious contemplation. It had been set up to turn the annual harvest into coin to fund the Templars’—and later the Hospitallers’—religious crusades to convert the infidel. It was a place for hard work and economy—none of the proceeds from the sale of the grain had ever been wasted.
Currently, a laborer was working in one of the moats, shirtless and up to his knees in water. A slimy pile of silt graced the edge of the moat, topped by a more uniform layer of what appeared to be clay. Faith—that could be a problem.
Cecily quickened her pace, ignoring Charlemagne’s click of annoyance.
“Ho there, fellow! What are you about?”
The man straightened, stared at her, then stuck his shovel in the heap of spoil and clambered out.
As soon as he turned to face her, she realized that this was no laborer. She should have recognized the blond hair of Master Allan Smythe, his broad shoulders, and his long legs. But now, his hair was dark with water. He must have been splashing himself to stay cool, for water coursed down his muscular torso, soaking into his waistband. His feet and lower legs were bare and black with mud.
“You’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” he announced, halting a couple of yards from her. “It is Cecily Neville, is it not? I know you from your russet-colored kirtle and determined stride, though your face is in shadow.”
She was glad her face was in shadow—it meant he couldn’t see the flush that painted her cheeks. She’d seen half-naked men before, but never anyone quite so… well-made. Wait—what did he mean, “determined stride”? She was dainty and ladylike when she walked. Wasn’t she?
Pah! His opinion of her mattered not one whit. Before she could remember what she’d come for or frame an answer, he gestured at Charlemagne.
“I see you carry your demonic familiar with you. Is there naught that can separate the pair of you?”
Good. He was being infuriating again—that made it far easier to talk to him.
“Why do you detest my bird so much?” She would dispute with Smythe, but she wouldn’t get angry—she’d been warned not to. And she would try to look at his face, not his bronzed chest. She resisted the urge to remove her hat and fan herself with it. It didn’t matter that he was a fine, handsome fellow—he represented everything she hated.
“Because it kills my doves. I found one the other day, close to where you’re standing, quite torn asunder.”
He was breathing heavily—he’d obviously been toiling hard in the moat. He slicked his hair back from his brow, then reached for a bundle of white cloth that turned out to be a shirt and dried himself with it. When he pulled it on, it was as if he’d released her from a trance.
She cleared her throat. “Was that why you came in search of me? To complain about my bird?”
“I came to ask for an explanation, certainly. I thought you’d agreed to keep it away from here.”
“I have kept my word.” She ran a finger down Charlemagne’s downy breast. “We have not been nigh in days. You do know that there are other creatures that might take a dove? A fox, a cat, a stoat—mayhap a kite or a buzzard.”
“Of course, I know. I lived in the countryside myself as a child—one does not forget such things. Do you swear your bird has not been near?”
He didn’t sound as angry as before—he must be tired from all the dredging. Unless he was being conciliatory. Suddenly, she remembered the rents and wondered how far this benign mood of his would stretch.
“I swear it. On my mother’s grave.” She couldn’t help but cast a glance toward the chapel and the cemetery where her mother lay at rest. Nameless, husband-less and hopeless, she lay there, having sought refuge with the monks when she was near her time. She had flatly refused to reveal anything of her circumstances, not even when she knew she lay dying after giving birth to her child. All the brothers could tell Cecily when she was old enough to understand was that her mother had looked—and sounded—foreign.
“What ails you? Is aught amiss?” Smythe had taken a step closer.
“If I look unhappy, sir, it is because I’ve learned you are to charge every household in the village an additional fee to extend the leases.”
Holy Mary—she hadn’t meant to tax him with that. She just didn’t want to talk about her mother.
“Ah.” He wiped his sleeve across his brow, then hunkered down on the grass in front of her. “I should have expected that, shouldn’t I? You’re not a woman to accept anything you don’t like.”
“It’s not a question of not liking.” She settled Charlemagne on the handle of Smythe’s shovel but remained standing. It made a change to be looking down at the man.
Smythe eyed the bird with a grimace. “Are you sure he’s not going to fly off that and attack something? Or someone?”
She threw her head back. “Hardly! He is capable of many tricks, but flying blind isn’t one of them. Trust me—his hood shall remain in place. Anyway, I’m not the only one disliking the fines. No one in the village has coin to spare, and the summer is almost done. We will need to buy more food and firewood in preparation for winter, and fodder to keep our animals alive when ’tis too cold to forage. Or when the ground is hardened by frost or buried by snow. You could afford to buy an entire manor.” She gestured toward the commandery buildings. “Surely you can afford to give the village a stay of execution.”
Smythe was shading his eyes and staring up at her, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You truly are an extraordinary young woman, Cecily Neville. You fly a nobleman’s bird, converse well, and make a good argument. You are cut from a different cloth to the other villagers, which makes me think you were once something more, and have come down in the world a great deal. What’s your story?”
She swallowed. She wasn’t used to anyone being interested in her. That way, peril lay.
“You step nimbly aside from the matter in hand. The leases, sir. Naught can convince me that you are motivated by anything other than greed.”
He got to his feet so swiftly, she stepped back, afraid he would strike her for her insolence.
He didn’t. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest.
“I will forgive you your lack of knowledge in this instance. You cannot know what it costs to run a manor of this size when the fields are little more than waste ground, the livestock is gone, and the buildings are in decay. Capital is needed to get the place running again.”
“Rumor has it that your business partner has capital.”
“Rumor seems to know a good deal about us. I can’t imagine where the information comes from.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Kennett’s funds come from an inheritance, but little remains of that now. We have dug deep into our coffers to restock the commandery. As you see—I’m forced to do all the heavy labor myself.”
“You have Lettice Carter now,” she countered. “
She can do a fair amount of hard work.”
“Aye. But she’s an additional expense, albeit a necessary one.” His face darkened. “Although much of the time, I seem to be eating alone, so I’m not even sure it’s worth having her do the cooking.”
So—where did Master Clark spend his time, then? And where was he now? Not prepared to get his hands dirty by clearing out a moat, evidently.
Cecily stared at the piles of spoil. “Your toil here will be in vain, I fear. You won’t be able to keep any fish in that moat. You still have the fishponds, of course, but only if you know how to maintain them properly.”
Curse it! She should watch her tongue. He wasn’t meant to know how familiar she was with the place.
“Why is that?” He had moved closer to Charlemagne. The bird remained still, as if asleep.
“Why should I tell you?” He’d better not be thinking of hurting the peregrine. Why was he working his way around behind it in that peculiarly stiff fashion?
“It would be neighborly to tell me. If you know something that I don’t.”
Her mind worked quickly. “If I tell you, it could save you money. So, you might not need to charge a whole shilling when you extend the leases.”
“Are you trying to haggle with me? Faith—I find you most entertaining. And foolish. What can you possibly know about clearing moats and fishponds?”
She was glad she entertained him—it meant she hadn’t made him angry. The men had warned her not to tackle him about the rents, but here she was, doing just that. Only—it hadn’t turned into a battle. Yet.
“I cannot change my mind about the leases. That money will have to be paid, sooner or later. I have every right to charge for what is rightfully mine—mine and Kennett’s. You must understand that.”
He was still standing behind Charlemagne, who was now awake and indicating by little shuffling movements and snaps of his beak that he was unsettled.
“But if my knowledge can save you money, you won’t need to. And pray, don’t stand behind Charlemagne like that. You’re making him nervous.”
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 4