Page 18 of Lord of the Manor

“Yet another uncle? You seem to have many.”

“As I said, everyone in the village is closely related.”

He accepted this with a slight nod of his head. “And this particular uncle is able to control the bird? It won’t be destroying any more of my doves in your absence?”

“I have kept my word.” She couldn’t find it within her to rail at him for his unjustified accusations of Charlemagne, not when he had just acted as her champion. He was walking quickly, his body stiff, his expression grim—he must be deeply disturbed, despite his attempts at polite conversation.

“I am glad to hear it.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence. She knew he was thinking about the consequences of his actions outside the Boar’s Head Tavern. If he couldn’t soothe his brother-in-law’s ruffled feathers, those consequences would be dire, indeed.

When they reached her cottage door, she invited Smythe inside for refreshment. He shook his head as if to cast off melancholy thoughts and gave her an apologetic smile. “Alas, I cannot. Lettice will have left something for me. It’ll be vile, no doubt, as she is an adventurous cook, but she gets upset if I don’t eat what she’s made.”

He bowed briefly and handed her the basket. “I regret that your trip to the market was so cruelly spoiled,” he said, then turned away and walked back toward the commandery.

She gazed at his retreating back, admiring his powerful, purposeful stride, and was shocked by a startling revelation.

She no longer hated Master Allan Smythe.

Chapter Nine

Despite the dire situation in which he found himself, Allan couldn’t regret having rescued Cecily Neville. Certainly, she was a firebrand—though she tried hard not to be—and her presence excited him.

Was it wrong to be attracted to another woman after the death of one’s wife? He pulled the jeweled miniature from beneath his shirt, enjoying the way the sunlight sparkled on the gems. He gazed at the portrait. Hannah was pale, ethereal, an angel, and his heart was sore as he looked upon her delicate features. How delightful their son would have been, had he lived—a golden-headed Cupid. He would have loved running around the commandery, clambering over the crumbling old walls, hiding in haystacks, feeding the doves with a chubby hand and a grin, and riding around the manor on his father’s back, pretending he was on a horse.

Allan sucked in a deep breath and tucked the locket away. There was work to do, and he had no time for melancholy. It was mid-September, the time to harvest Nature’s bounty, and preserve it, dry it, or store it up against the depredations of winter.

Hands on his hips, he stared at the earthen bed where he’d been doing battle with the artichokes, and his thoughts strayed back to Cecily. She seemed to know her way around the manor and understood how it worked. How had she known about the clay that was needed to line the moat? That was not the kind of knowledge he’d expect a young peasant woman to have unless she had an intimate connection with the place. Had Cecily’s parents worked here, mayhap, before the old king dismantled all the monasteries? As he had long since suspected, there remained much to be discovered about Mistress Cecily Neville.

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.