If he was right about that close connection, it must have been a terrible time for her family. Kennett had learned from the former bailiff that the preceptor had refused to take King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy—that insidious devil’s bargain that recognized the king as head of the Church in England. The preceptor had been made of stern stuff—despite torture, he’d refused to swear the oath and been executed publicly for his lack of compliance.
The rest of those who had lived or worked on the manor, including the lay brothers, chaplain, and steward, had all gone into exile, seeking new lives and occupations. They must have seen the pensions which were offered to them as blood money after what had happened to their preceptor. They hadn’t trusted the king. Allan didn’t blame them—no one should ever have trusted King Henry.
His son, young Edward, was a clever boy and a learned one—he might yet grow up to be a finer monarch than his father, undistracted by lust and greed. So long as he didn’t give way too easily to factions at court—and could get over his regular bouts of illness.
A high whistle made Allan glance up, shading his eyes. Not the peregrine, surely? Had that woman no sense of honor? She’d promised. But then Allan recognized the forked tail of a kite. He let out a breath. He really must conquer this dislike of birds of prey—none had ever harmed him directly. And when he had his sheep roaming the fields hereabouts, it would not be anything as small as a peregrine that threatened them. He’d have to get a sheepdog and a guard dog, too, to keep stray dogs and other predators away.
The sound of a harsh scream, followed by a series of breathless, sobbing cries, concussed the peace of the lazy afternoon. He broke into a run, chasing out of the walled garden toward the kitchen, whence the sobbing came.
Lettice! There was no one else here that he knew of unless Cecily had decided to visit. He doubled his speed and burst into the kitchen to see his servant crouched on the floor, clasping one wrist with the other hand and rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.
He was on his knees before her in an instant. “What ails you?” he asked, though it was quite evident. A toppled stepladder lay before the great open fireplace, and a bunch of dried sage had fallen on the red-tiled floor.
“I’ve hurt my wrist, sir,” Lettice managed between sobs. “The ladder broke. I’m so sorry.”
He tutted as he gave the ladder a cursory glance. “Never mind that. It was old and rotten anyway. Have you broken your wrist?” He reached out.
She gingerly removed the hand cradling the injured limb, and allowed him to examine her arm. He winced when he saw a lump beneath the skin where no lump should be. The flesh was red, already starting to bruise.
Lettice tried to stifle her weeping while he examined her injury with infinite patience and care. “We need to get you somewhere more comfortable. If you put your good arm around me, I can lift you up.”
As he hefted her in his arms, he heard the bang of a door slamming and, suddenly, something that felt like a cobble struck him squarely between the shoulders. He spun around, still carrying his burden, and found himself opposite a red-faced Cecily Neville, an apple in her hand, poised to throw.
“I thought you more honorable than this, Master Allan Smythe,” she hissed. “How could you? Despoiling your own servants. I would never have suggested Lettice work here had I known you were such a monster.”
While Allan was still gasping at this injustice and the unexpected appearance of the woman who had never been far from his thoughts, Lettice spoke up.
“Nay, Cecily—be not angry. I fell. I’m hurt,” she ended with another sob.
Cecily’s demeanor changed in an instant, and she hurried forward. “What’s amiss?”
Lettice whimpered. “My wrist.”
Cecily took one look, then lifted her head to Allan’s. “Don’t stand there gaping, Master Smythe. Set her down somewhere comfortable. I’ll run and fetch Martin—I mean, my Uncle Martin. Have no fear, Lettice. I’ll give you a draft to ease the pain as soon as I can make one.”
“I’ll give the orders in my own house, thank you.” Allan’s feathers were still ruffled by Cecily’s accusation that he was “despoiling” Lettice. “You can stay here and minister to the girl. I’ll ride for your uncle if you tell me where he is to be found—it’ll be far quicker than you walking to fetch him.”
He settled Lettice in an ancient oak chair and carefully laid her bad wrist along one arm. “Try and keep your wrist still. This will give it some support while I’m gone. Cecily, keep her still if you can. Which is Martin’s cottage?”
Having received the directions, he hurriedly saddled Baldur and galloped off to Temple Roding village. He soon found the healer but was then delayed by the fact that Martin had no mount to take him quickly to the commandery.
“Do you ride, Master Martin?”
The man stared at him as if sizing him up.
Allan gritted his teeth, infuriated by the delay. “Well—can you sit a horse or not?”
“Aye, sir, I can. After a fashion. But there are none to be had in the village save a few plow horses or those more used to pulling a cart. They might, mayhap, get me there a little faster than walking, I suppose.”
“Here.” Allan thrust the reins into the older man’s hands. “Let me give you a leg up. Take my steed, Baldur. ’Tis more vital that you should get there quickly. Do what’s necessary for the girl, and help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”
He bent and helped the other man into the saddle, then took Baldur’s bridle and told the horse firmly, “You have a mission to carry out, my boy. No tricks or tantrums—I need this gentleman delivered safely. Homeward!”
He gave Baldur a slap on the rump, and the animal jerked into movement. Ignoring the puzzled stares of the villagers, who had emerged to find out what the trouble was, Allan set off at a bracing speed in the wake of his horse and the healer.
By the time he reached the commandery, the warmth of the September afternoon had taken its toll. He had shed his sleeveless leather coat and his doublet and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He made straight for the well to dowse his head in the bucket before venturing into the kitchen. If he looked a fright, Cecily would just have to put up with that—he cared not what she thought of him. He was still smarting from their earlier encounter, and if he hadn’t needed her help at this precise moment, he would have gladly avoided her altogether.
He found the others still in the kitchen when he entered. Master Martin was pounding some dark roots in a mortar while Cecily stirred a steaming liquid in a pot set over an old chafing dish. The room smelled of burning charcoal and woodsmoke.
“How is the patient?”
“I shall set the bone in a moment, sir, once Lettice has had her willow bark tea to ease the pain.”
“What’s in the mortar?” Allan peered at it, all the while aware of Cecily’s eyes on him, even though he had given her no greeting. Mayhap she realized she’d offended him. Good.
“It is comfrey root from the garden,” Martin answered.
It was impressive how swiftly Martin and Cecily had found what they needed in the overgrown walled garden. It added to his suspicion that Cecily had been wont to come here—with or without her falcon—while the place lay untenanted, and doubtless others had done the same.
“What has become of Master Clark?” the healer asked amiably, taking some powder from his scrip and adding it to the mess in the mortar. “No one has seen him for days.”
Cecily’s gaze on Allan was like a physical touch. He continued to ignore her as he went to examine Lettice. The kitchen wench smiled weakly up at him so he patted her consolingly on the shoulder. It gave him a moment to word his answer to Martin’s question.
“He is no longer a partner in this undertaking.”
To his satisfaction, Cecily drew in a sharp breath, and she stopped stirring her brew.
“Oh, that must be a burden to you.” Martin sniffed at his mixture before nodding in satisfaction. “Y
ou cannot run a manor of this size without help. Why, even if you acted as steward yourself, you’d still want a bailiff, agricultural laborers, someone to mind the fishponds and tend the garden, not to mention—”
Cecily’s spoon clattered onto the table, and Martin’s speech came to an abrupt end. The man cleared his throat, then announced, “If you’re ready to administer the draft, Niece, I can set the bone and apply the poultice.”
Allan stood back as Cecily handed Lettice the tisane. Martin had spoken authoritatively about the running of the estate—he was a clever fellow, and there was no reason he shouldn’t know about such things. So, why had she felt the need to silence him?
“I’ve seasoned the drink with a little honey. Drink it down as fast as you can, though, as it will still be bitter.”
Allan watched the movement of Cecily’s slender hand as she tipped the cup to Lettice’s lips. Her fingers were gentle, her voice soothing. It seemed this wildcat could purr as well as hiss.
He suddenly became aware that Martin was speaking to him.
“I crave your pardon—I heard you not.”
“I said that I would be much obliged if you and Cecily would hold the girl steady while I work. People are apt to hit out when hurt. Be of good cheer, Lettice! I swear that the pain will ebb away soon enough. Cecily, if you would stay there and lift the injured arm a little?”
Allan found himself facing Cecily across Lettice’s lap, holding his servant’s good arm against the chair so she couldn’t lash out. He knew his attention should be on the invalid, who writhed and gasped as Martin prodded at her arm, then applied the force required to snap the bone back into place. But he had finally made eye contact with Cecily and was unable to look away. Her gaze was locked with his, her eyes round, her pert mouth pinched, her determined little chin set. If only he could guess at her thoughts.
Then Lettice moaned in agony, and tears sprang to Cecily’s eyes. But she wasn’t going to let go of Lettice’s arm, despite the horror of the girl’s suffering. Tender, immovable, harsh, caring—Cecily was a contradiction in every way. But when she held his gaze and gave him a watery smile, he suddenly felt more alive, more vital—as if he’d been walking in the shadows and had just emerged into the sunlight.
Martin applied his poultice. “We must wait until the comfrey root sets hard. Then I’ll add a splint to keep the wrist still.”
Allan barely heard him—he was still puzzling over his response to Cecily. She wasn’t trying to flatter or manipulate him, and she wasn’t giving him coy smiles or fluttering her eyelashes. She was letting him see the real Cecily Neville—the true depth of feeling and passion that lay within.
“I’m sorry, sir. It was so foolish of me. I should have tried to hook the herbs down, not climb up for them. Your dinner will be ruined.”
Allan shook his head, shattering the bubble that had enclosed him and Cecily.
“No matter. You may be relieved of your duties, Lettice. I can cook well enough and clean when needed. When Master Martin pronounces you fit to move, I’ll set you on my horse and take you home. Fear not—I’ll walk at his head to make sure he doesn’t jostle you.”
He caught sight of Cecily’s raised brows and cocked an eyebrow back at her. Didn’t know he could cook, did she? Nor had she imagined him capable of performing domestic tasks. There was much she had yet to learn about him—he’d had to fend for himself immediately after Hannah’s death and could do so again. The heavy work around the commandery would be delayed if he had domestic chores to do, however, which was a problem. He needed to ensure everything was in order by the time the sheep arrived.
While Martin packed his things away and Cecily comforted Lettice, Allan took a potholder and removed the cooking pot from the fire. Its contents were dry and blackened, and he knew from bitter experience that burned pottage was not worth eating. He’d scrape it into an old crock and give it to Cecily for her pig—if she wanted it. Ham and cheese would have to suffice for his meal.
His skin tingled as Cecily appeared beside him. What was it about the woman that affected him so? He gazed at her, waiting expectantly.
“What will you do now?”
“I suppose I should employ someone else until Lettice is better. It seems only fair to have her back thereafter.”
She looked up at him, almost shyly. “Did you have anyone in mind?”
“Nay.” He couldn’t possibly ask her. That would be like walking around on red-hot nails—he would never be comfortable with her in the house.
She laid a hand lightly on his arm and eased him farther away from the others. “What has happened to Master Clark? Why did he abandon you?”
“Not because of anything I’ve done.” He lifted his chin—why did he feel the need to defend himself to her? Anyway, the trouble had all begun because of Cecily. If he had doubts that Kennett had been totally honest about the accounts, he had no intention of letting the wench spread that juicy piece of gossip around the village.
She nodded, her dark gaze serious. “I think you are well rid of him. He seemed not a man to be trusted.”
He was so astonished that Cecily seemed to have read his mind that he couldn’t think of what to say.
“I suppose he’ll be wanting his capital back,” she commented, running her fingers idly along the edge of the kitchen table. It came up dusty, and he cringed inwardly.
“I daresay he will.” It was unnerving, having this woman talk to him as if to an equal. Not that it was the only reason she unsettled him.
He cleared his throat. “Which means I cannot afford to keep the entire manor. And I don’t need so many buildings in order to run a sheep farm.”
She inhaled sharply. “Sell some of the property? Break up the commandery, you mean?”
“Aye.” Why should that concern her so? “It is only land, after all. I’m sure one of the local yeoman farmers would be happy to have it. If I keep Dovecote field, New Farm field, and Ten Acre, that should be enough for my needs. The rest can be sold. But I was thinking of selling the stonework, too.”
“The stonework? What stonework?” Cecily’s face had turned as pale as the Caen limestone in the kitchen walls.
He eyed her closely. “Some of the buildings can be demolished. Obviously, I’ll keep the preceptor’s house until I have the resources to build my own—in brick, if I can ever afford it—but the rest can be broken apart. Stone is a rare commodity in East Anglia and will fetch a pretty price.”
“Forgive me, Master Smythe. I have just remembered that I need to hurry home. Fare thee well.”
“Wait—I was going to offer you my burned dinner for your pig.” Curse it. He really needed to come up with some more tempting lines of conversation.
“Very kind of you. Another time, mayhap.”
Another time, mayhap? Did she think he meant to make a habit of burning his pottage? He was left scratching his head as Cecily whispered a quick something to Martin, then sped out of the kitchen as if the devil dog Black Shuck himself were after her.
He couldn’t imagine what he might have said to frighten her so—for he had no doubt that she was afraid. Come to think of it, he still had no idea why she’d come to the commandery in the first place.
Hewing off a piece of hard Suffolk cheese with his knife, he chewed on it but tasted nothing. His mind was working rapidly, trying to work out how Cecily and the healer, Martin, seemed so at home in the commandery. Why, too, was Cecily so disturbed at the idea of demolition?
Forgetting he’d had no proper meal, Allan decided to interrogate Martin on the journey back to the village. And if the healer failed to enlighten him, he’d pursue Cecily and refuse to leave her alone until she’d given him some answers.
Between them, the men succeeded in getting Lettice on Baldur’s back without too much difficulty. He was impressed by her bravery, by her refusal to cry out or complain—in truth, he was impressed by everyone he’d met in the Temple Roding area. They were less complicated, less avaricious, and less ambitious than m
ost townsfolk he knew. His arrival, and that of Kennett, must have sounded a discordant note in the community. If the opportunity arose, he would like to know them all better, and see if he could earn their respect.
He took hold of Baldur’s reins and pointed the horse toward the village. “So, Master Martin, where did you acquire your healing skills?”
There was the briefest of pauses before he answered, “Oh, here and there. I learned much from the physician at the commandery.”
“Indeed?” Allan supposed he should have expected the Hospitallers to play a large part in the community. Had they, and the Templars before them, truly been guilty of the abuses of which they’d been accused?
“You were quite young, then, I assume?” It was hard to imagine any village boy preferring possets and pills to archery and horse riding.
“Younger, yes. I helped when there was much sickness about, and at harvesttime, when so many injuries abound.”
Allan glanced up at Lettice. The girl looked pale, but her jaw was set. If there were going to be any further tears, she evidently had no intention of releasing them in front of her employer.
Reassured, he continued his questioning. “So, the commandery and the village have long worked hand-in-hand? Or they did so, until the Hospitaller order was dissolved?”
“Aye. The villagers had no complaints about how the Order conducted itself. Not that I can remember.”
“Then you must have been sorely aggrieved when their lands and assets were seized.”
He couldn’t see Martin’s face, because the man was walking on the other side of the horse, but his grunt said it all. However, to openly support a corrupt Catholic organization wasn’t in anyone’s best interests these days. He had better cease that line of questioning.
However, Martin had revealed why he and Cecily—and indeed, Lettice—seemed so at home in the commandery. Those who’d dwelled there had not been the fearsome, crusading knights of legend. They had been ordinary but godly men, working as farmers and administrators to raise funds for the conversion of the Infidel and the good of Christ. They had mingled with the local people, shared their skills, and made use of village labor when the occasion demanded it.
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 7