Page 10 of Lord of the Manor

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 early 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.