Page 2 of Lord of the Manor

“Recalcitrant?” His eyebrows shot up. “An educated ‘poor village girl’, by the rood. Who taught you such words, Maid?”

“Maid” now, was it? A little less insulting. But she couldn’t tell the truth about who had taught her not only her letters but much more besides. It would be most unwise to let this heretic newcomer know that displaced Catholics from the commandery were still living in the community. The three men—Benedict, Martin and Anselm, had been her only family since she was a babe in arms—she would give her life for theirs in an instant if need be.

“I don’t need to answer to you.” She jutted her chin at the stranger.

“I’m afraid you do, as I am, in effect, one of the lords of the manor upon which you dwell.”

She’d already worked that out. But which one was he—Master Smythe or Master Clark? Two men, neither of them local, had recently acquired Temple Roding Commandery and all its appurtenances, making them landlords to everyone in the village of Temple Roding—including herself.

“Forgive my manners, Master,” she mumbled. “I knew not who you were.”

Then, much to her surprise, he released her, threw his head back, and let out a throaty chuckle.

“I amuse you?”

“You do. Your acting does not fool me.”

It didn’t?

“I see I have found a chameleon.” He paused and looked at her intently. “Do I need to explain what one of those is? Or has this girl familiar with the word ‘recalcitrant’ also studied bestiaries? In which case, you will know that a chameleon changes color according to its surroundings, so that predators may not see it. I think you are the same—changing from one guise to another to confuse me. You know not whether ’tis better to delight or damn me—although I suspect you lean toward the latter. Come now, no pretense. Confess that it is your falcon that has been stealing my squabs, and I may be lenient with you.”

“Charlemagne has stolen nothing. He will take wild wood pigeons on occasion, but only when I bid him do so. And I swear to you—we rarely come this way. Besides, how could he get into your dovecote to take your squabs? The holes are far too small for him to swoop in, even where the brick has worn away.”

She clamped her mouth shut. This man must not find out how well she knew the place, or there would be even more awkward questions asked.

“Not prepared to confess your guilt? Then I will have to take the matter further.”

Charlemagne had tilted his head to one side. He had either seen a mouse or was watching the proceedings with interest. Had he had enough of his freedom? Would he come now if she called him?

“I don’t like your threats, sir. You cannot condemn me or my bird without evidence.”

“The evidence is the mutilated carcasses of my animals and birds, and the eggs that have been broken open and sucked dry in the dovecote. Your falcon is the most likely suspect.”

Nay! He must not threaten Charlemagne. The bird was vital to her.

Mayhap she could outwit the man. “So, who will you try, sir. My bird, or me?” It wasn’t unknown for animals to be hauled into court for misdemeanors. Then she realized what he’d just said.

“Wait a moment. You say that eggs have been eaten? It sounds as if you may have a stoat or a weasel at the commandery. My peregrine does not suck eggs.”

The man’s angry stance didn’t relax one bit. “We’ll see about that. Kennett has lived in the countryside longer than I, and he never suggested it was a stoat.”

Ah, so this man must be Allan Smythe, then. Everyone in the village knew his name, though few claimed to have seen him. Since he and his brother-in-law Kennett Clark had purchased the derelict manor, the pair had been more interested in barricading themselves in than going out and about to meet the villagers. They had every intention of keeping the commandery’s bounty to themselves, it seemed—hence the repairs to the brick wall around the kitchen and herb gardens.

It was a devastating loss—she and her uncles had been plundering the gardens for fresh produce for years, and she had found the overgrown banks and middens a great source of voles and harvest mice for Charlemagne.

Master Smythe planted his fists on his hips. “And anyway, don’t you know better than to answer back to your superiors?”

“I do, sir. Sorry, sir.” She attempted a curtsey, though she hated doing it. But not quite as much she hated Allan Smythe. He was an accursed Protestant, an ignorant townsman who thought he understood rural life but didn’t, and an ill-mannered boor. It was time to call the bird and go before she was tempted to slap the man’s arrogant face.

No sooner had she slipped her gauntlet on than Charlemagne launched himself off his branch and glided across the field toward her. He sailed past Smythe’s ear, wafting the man’s blond hair, and landed on her fist.

Smythe paled and took several steps backward. “Vile witch! You set your bird on me!”

Fear shot through her. Now both she and Charlemagne had been accused of assault. The time for mollification was over. Launching the peregrine straight back into the air, she took to her heels and ran for the trees. The bird could find his own way home—she would take a circuitous route in case Master Smythe followed her. Could she outrun him? With his long legs and obvious strength, he should be able to overtake her with no difficulty. Only—she knew the woods better than he, and in late August, there was plenty of cover to be had.

As she reached the spinney, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and saw, much to her surprise, that there was no pursuit. The man remained just as she’d left him, frozen into an attitude of alarm, and as still as a scarecrow on a windless day.

That pallor could not be fear, surely? It must be anger. He was stiff with outrage, and her punishment would be severe when he managed to work out who she was and where she dwelled.