Smythe flung up his hands. “God forbid that I should upset your precious bird.”
He moved away and came closer to Cecily. She fought to stand her ground, though it made her tingle in every limb to be so close to him. She was temporarily at a loss for words.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know and if I decide it will save me money in the long run, I might consider delaying the increase on the leases until the spring. Does that sound like a bargain?”
Quite fair. Surprisingly so. But only if Smythe was a man of his word. She gazed at him, at the drying blond hair forming a halo around his head while the bright sunlight picked out sapphire sparks in his eyes. He looked earnest, honest—but the harsh light showed lines on his cheeks and between his brows that suggested suffering. He was either older than she had at first thought him, or his life before he came to Temple Roding had been a hard one.
“Very well. I can tell you that you’ve dug through the moat’s clay lining, so all the water will drain away. You must line it with fresh clay ere you refill it.”
He went very still for a moment. Then he threw back his head and barked out a laugh.
She couldn’t see what was so funny. She pressed her lips together and glared at him.
“I already knew that, Wench. I had every intention of putting the clay back first and filling in the gaps with more. I’m a practical man, you know, as well as learned one. It is possible to be both, though I can tell from your scowl that you don’t believe it. So—what value has your information now? You haven’t saved me any money at all by telling me what I already knew.”
Fury boiled up in her, and her fists clenched. “You lie! That is a falsehood! You didn’t know!”
He stood there, arms still folded across his chest, mocking her. “Prove it,” he said.
Something snapped, and in a rage, she ran at him, hoping to knock him into the muck he’d dredged out of the moat. But he was as sturdy as a rock. He merely snorted, then opened his arms and captured her wrists.
“Whoa, enough. You must learn to control your temper, Maid.” He yanked on her wrists until she was almost chest to chest with him and looked down at her with a half-smile on his face. She could do naught but fume and struggle.
“Don’t treat me like a child,” she spat.
“I shall if you behave like one.” He had lowered his head to hold her gaze as he spoke, and his breath fanned her face. She could feel his strength, his power, pounding into her veins, coursing around her body and bringing her under his control.
This was not how she’d anticipated this conversation would go.
“Unhand me, you villain,” she growled, tugging to break free.
“I’m merely protecting myself from attack. And finding out what you look like up close.”
That stilled her struggles. The sun was full on her face now—her hat had fallen off. She hoped Smythe didn’t intend to do anything more than look. Because if he did, she would be utterly helpless against him.
He released her suddenly and stepped away. “There’s no need to fear me—I would never harm a woman. But I was getting a trifle bored of being threatened. Pray, take yourself and your insults elsewhere, and cool your temper. I do not tell falsehoods, I never break my word, and I won’t have anyone impugn my integrity. Cecily Neville—you have lost the battle. Now, take yourself and your bird off my land, and don’t raise a finger against me again, or you’ll have to face the consequences.”
How quickly his amusement had turned to cold fury. Cecily bent for her hat, slapped it on her head, then collected Charlemagne on her gauntlet.
“I give you good day, sir,” she said, stiffening her spine as she swung away from him. “God forbid that I should ever attempt to offer friendly, neighborly advice again. I shall watch you make error after error, and I shall sit back and laugh.”
She stomped off, refusing to glance over her shoulder, even though she could feel his eyes on her back all the way down the path to the highway.
“Well, Charlemagne, we shan’t attempt to help that vile creature again. He should know better than to make foes of us, my boy, should he not?”
The bird clicked his beak in response, reminding her that he was due to be flown and fed. Good. It always made her feel better to watch him fly, soaring up toward the heavens. She would imagine herself in his place, looking down on the land whose shackles she had escaped. Yet Charlemagne wasn’t truly free. No one was truly free, were they? And she was just a chattel, an appurtenance, something to be used for profit by men like Master Allan Smythe. As her landlord, he virtually owned her, and if he wished to cast her out of her cottage for withholding payment, he could do it—without question.
She had tried to reason with him, and he’d laughed in her face. She hated him and everything he stood for—the grasping, godless, Protestant swine.
She wouldn’t offer him her help again, even though she knew all there was to know about the Temple Roding Commandery and how to get the most out of it. His enterprise would fail. Perchance she could help that failure come a little sooner.
She would fly Charlemagne now. Then after that, when her mind was clear, she would think of a way to bring down the smug, overbearing Master Allan Smythe.
Chapter Six
“Who was that fine-looking wench, Brother-in-law?”
Allan glanced up from his labors to see Kennett looking down at him from the bank of the moat. He laid his shovel down and clambered out.
“Just one of the village girls, come to complain about the rents.”
“Not just one of the village girls, not with that prime falcon on her wrist. I wonder if she’d sell it.”
Allan scowled. “I doubt it.”
“Ah, you still think it’s been taking your doves and their young. That was a stoat, I tell you. Time to let that matter go, methinks. Hmm. I would enjoy going hawking again—it seems an age since I last did any. I will ask if she wants to sell the bird—where is the beauty to be found?”
Allan narrowed his eyes. “Which beauty—the bird or the woman?”
“Mayhap, both. I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at her. She had the kind of slender figure that a man would enjoy.”
Allan hid his grimace and gestured toward the village. “Yonder—I know not where,” he lied.
Kennett smiled. “No matter. I shall find her. I mean, them. When I go to collect the fees for the new leases.”
“About that.” Allan pulled his shirt on. “Are you sure it’s necessary?”
Kennett’s face fell as he held Allan’s gaze. “Alas, I fear it is. I have had bad tidings concerning our flock. Their arrival will be delayed since some of them have developed foot-rot and cannot travel.”
“What? I thought you said the flock was healthy?” Allan fought down the swell of panic. They needed those sheep now. Even if they wouldn’t have the fleeces until early next summer, the ewes would need to be settled and well-fed before they could be put with the rams. Even he knew that.
Yet Kennett, though solemn, did not appear to see this as a disaster. “It is merely a delay while the animals are treated. Or we could pay extra and have two separate droves—the healthy beasts could come now, and the poorly ones later, when they are recovered.”
“Jesu—how many sick creatures are there? Could they not be brought in a cart once they’re fit again?”
“I know not if that would cost less or more. But if the sheep fail us, we must garner income in some other way, and the only means I can think of is to acquire it from our tenants.”
“How stands your inheritance? Would that help us survive the winter?”
“Alas, ’tis barely enough to cover the costs of my travel and clothing. I must look my best, you understand, if I am to negotiate with farmers and villagers and maintain the upper hand.”
Allan glanced down at his damp, silt-smeared shirt, then ran his eyes over Kennett’s fancy slashed shoes, paned hose, brocade cloak, and cuffs embroidered with blackwork. Of course, the man was entit
led to be profligate with his own money—but it didn’t make him much of a business partner.
So, he would be bearing the burden of the manor’s extra costs, would he? Kennett had insisted on being in control of the finances, since he’d invested more, but it didn’t sound as if he were managing the money all that well.
“Let’s go into the house. I need a drink.” There was a pitcher of small beer their servant Lettice had made and some bread she’d baked that morning. If she’d found the time, and the weather wasn’t too humid for it, there might even be some fresh butter.
“So, what was going on between you and that fair damsel?” Kennett asked as they walked back to the house.
“Nothing. As I said, she was complaining about the rents. Why do you have to suspect me of something?”
“You’re a hot-blooded man in his prime, deprived of his wife in the first year of marriage. You have your wants and needs—as do I.”
This pronouncement was distasteful. What did Kennett know of his wants or needs? The man was as shallow as a puddle on a flat rock. Kennett enjoyed the company of women but had shown no inclination to marry any of them. Mayhap, he feared that the expense of a wife would make it impossible for him to continue to dress as a coxcomb.
Allan thought of the miniature that hung suspended above his bed on a nail which must once have held the preceptor’s crucifix or a portrait of the Virgin Mary. Allan had commissioned the picture of Hannah to gift her on their wedding day, and it was an excellent likeness. If he had not planned to toil hard this day, the jewel would be in its usual place, nestling against his heart.
It was all he had left of her after she’d died tragically from a puerperal fever. The baby boy hadn’t long outlasted his mother, so Allan didn’t even have a child to dote upon. He’d sold all he had in order to buy a share of the commandery, but he hadn’t resented a single penny. He’d needed to begin his life again and bury himself in honest toil to heal the pain of his loss.
“I’m going to take a wash upstairs. Then let us hie to the old monks’ kitchen and see what Lettice has for us. Mayhap thereafter, you can show me the account books, so I know exactly how our finances stand.”
“I’ve already let you see the rent books.”
“Aye. It is the farm and household accounts that I want to see now.”
Kennett let out a hissing breath. “I’d hate to think you didn’t trust me, Allan. After all, I have hazarded much on this venture, more than you have. I’ve taken every care to ensure the books balance and that we continue to live within our means.”
“Forgive me, Brother. I’m cross from working too long in the sun, that is all. I shall be sweet-tempered once I have eaten and am refreshed.”
Wiping his hands on his hose, Allan clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, then picked his way across the cobbled yard to the preceptor’s house. It would not do to fall out with Kennett when so much was at stake. He must be diplomatic and also work out how he could become a buffer between the villagers and Kennett. For it sounded like Kennett was more than prepared to bleed the tenants dry. He could not, in all good conscience, sanction that. They must take no more than was absolutely necessary.
A visit to the most respected men in Temple Roding might not go amiss. And while there, he could warn Cecily Neville of his brother-in-law’s weakness when it came to women and the fact that she had come to his notice. He wouldn’t want to see Cecily fall victim to the man’s lust. Nor did he want Kennett to wrest the peregrine from her and take it for himself. The last thing Allan wanted was to have that flying devil take up residence at Temple Roding Commandery.
Chapter Seven
Hoping to speak with Cecily Neville after church that Sunday, Allan was concerned by her absence. Had she left the village? Was she unwell?
The inquiries he’d made of the few people who didn’t seem eager to avoid him gave him little satisfaction. Their evasive answers convinced him that everyone knew exactly where Cecily was and what she was doing but weren’t prepared to share that information with him. Why?
Shouldering the sack of globe artichokes that he’d harvested from the walled garden the previous day, he made his way directly to her cottage. When his knock produced no response, he tried the door and found it unbolted.
Calling Cecily’s name as he ducked his head to enter through the doorway, he mulled over the fact that these people had enough faith in their neighbors to leave their houses open. The good burghers of Cambridge would never have dreamed of doing such a thing. Of course, the unbolted door might mean Cecily was within and that he was right—she was ailing.
Depositing his sack on the floor, he scaled the narrow stepladder leading up to the loft space, calling as he went. He narrowly avoided cracking his head on a beam at the top of the steps and found the loft in darkness. There was no sound of breathing, no tiny rustle to give away the presence of a person. There was a rather charming scent up there, though, of lavender, mayhap, and possibly rosemary, too.
As his eyes grew used to the gloom, he could see no one in the bed, so he backed down the steps and returned outside. He scanned the yard, but there was no sign of Cecily, so he lingered outside the door, considering his next move.
There would doubtless be gossip if he went about from cottage to cottage asking after her. Mayhap he should just leave the artichokes. With her apparent knowledge of the commandery, she was bound to know they were a gift from him, a peace offering to help soften the blow that he could do naught about the leases at present. Not if Kennet had represented their financial situation correctly.
Rather than waste his time in the village, he decided to seek out the chair-bodger, and find out what progress the man had made on his order. A short walk brought him to the man’s cottage, where he knocked on the door.
There was some delay before his knock was answered with a rather breathless, “Who is it?”
“It is I, Master Smythe. Is all well, Anselm?”
There was another pause, and some distinct muttering, before he heard the sound of a bolt being slid slowly back. Puzzling.
When the bodger opened the door, Allan hid his curiosity with a smile. “God give you good day, Anselm. I trust I have not disturbed you at your meal?”
He evidently had, for there was a large cauldron of what smelled like pease pottage next to the fire, with Cecily standing beside it, brandishing a ladle like a weapon. Hah! What good fortune. His smile widened.
Anselm indicated that he should enter. “Nay, sir. We were just about to eat. Will you partake of some?”
He’d better not. Lettice was at home attempting to roast a brace of doves. She was so sensitive about her culinary skills, that she’d probably resign her position in a huff if he’d already eaten when he returned home.
“Don’t trouble yourself. I only came to find out when the stools and other items would be ready.”
There was something amiss here. Both the wood-turner and his guest looked self-conscious—anxious, even. And the door had been bolted, even though they were both within. Surely there couldn’t be anything between Cecily and the much older Anselm? Acid rose in Allan’s stomach.
“The stools will be ready in a day or two. I’ll work on them upon the morrow.”
Cecily was still grinning blithely at Allan as if she were delighted to see him. There was definitely something going on here.
Scarcely glancing at Anselm, he said, “Thank you,” then held Cecily’s gaze. “I’ve been looking for you, but you weren’t in church. I trust you are not unwell?”
He saw her cheeks darken, and the next thing he knew, she had a hand around his arm and was escorting him outside.
“How kind of you to ask after me. But I assure you—all is well.”
He blinked. Did he imagine it, or had she just fluttered her eyelashes at him?
“Good,” was all he could think of to say. The feel of her small hand on his arm was distracting, but he let her lead him all the way to her cottage without complaint.
&nb
sp; As they paused before her door, he remembered his question. “I looked for you in church.”
“Ah, that was Anselm’s fault. He kept me talking so long, I quite forgot. Won’t you come within?”
He stooped and entered. “You’ll have heard the church bells, surely?”
“Hush.” She stood before him and pressed a finger to his lips. “You need not fear for my soul, sir. It is quite secure. Can I offer you refreshment—a drink, mayhap?”
“Aye, if you would.” A pox on it—he hadn’t meant to say yes. “A drop of cordial would serve—if you have any, that is.”
“I have a redcurrant one. Merciful heaven—someone’s been here!”
Cecily was staring at the sack he’d left on the floor by her pantry shelf. Her rosy flush and smiles were all gone as her eyes darted around the room.
“That’s from me. A peace offering, if you will—we didn’t part as friends last time.”
Suddenly, she was all smiles again—it was as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud.
As she filled a cup with cordial for him, he realized his lips still tingled from her touch. No one had been so bold with his person since Hannah—so it was hardly surprising that Cecily’s touch should excite him. Nay. Not excite—intrigue, rather.
As she sipped her own cordial, she regarded him over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. What had he done to deserve such beneficence? She hadn’t even looked in the sack yet. He ought to make neighborly conversation but couldn’t think of anything to say.
Cecily drained her cup and laid it on the shelf. He did the same and noticed a tremor in his fingers—this woman’s proximity was unsettling him. Her benign mood bothered him even more than her usual antagonism.
“Don’t you want to see what I brought you?” He gestured at the sack.
“A peace offering, you said? I confess that I would rather we were friends than foes.” She delved a hand into the sack.
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 5