Page 19 of Lord of the Manor

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. “You 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.