Page 23 of Lord of the Manor

Cecily’s eyes strayed to the poker behind Smythe. She didn’t like where this conversation was leading.

Smythe frowned. “You’re welcome to some of my honey. I can give you a pot now if you wish it.”

Clark threw his head back and laughed. It was a high, cold laugh that raised the hairs on the back of Cecily’s neck. Instinctively, she edged farther away from the man and closer to the array of knives and other pointed implements on the kitchen table.

“Not that sort of honey, you fool. Your slut.”

Smythe’s frown deepened. “I have no slut. If you mean Cecily, she is naught to do with me—she is a free woman and is here of her own accord. But I promise, if you lay a finger on her without her permission, I will remove that finger. Permanently.”

Clark laughed again. Cecily’s hand closed around the handle of a large cook’s knife.

“Do not think to menace me, Allan,” he said evenly. “I have all the legal support I need to ruin you twice over. And if you continue to threaten me, I shall put in a complaint about that with our local magistrate. You are only lord on this manor. There are many men hereabouts who are far more powerful than you.”

Cecily’s knuckles whitened. “Your approach to wooing a woman wholly lacks finesse, Master Clark. No woman should be taken at the whim of a man. As Master Smythe said, I am not his property—only his tenant.”

“You’re my tenant, too, until yonder tomfool pays me for my share of the manor. I could have you turned out whensoever I please.”

“Kennett!” Smythe’s roar rattled the dishes on the shelves. “You will not threaten either me or my tenants. I have no fear of you, sirrah. I know you now for the weak-livered coward that you are. If only I had found out sooner… but there’s no point repining on what cannot be changed. I advise you to leave now before you insult either of us any further.”

Master Clark narrowed his eyes. “Or what? Are you going to call the dogs on me? I have every right to inquire what progress you’re making with my debt. And I only asked for a taste of this comely wench. Surely, you don’t think she’s too fine to be shared?”

Before Smythe could react, Cecily brandished the knife. “No dogs are needed, Master Clark. I’m prepared to defend myself and my honor. You, of course, have nothing to lose, as you have no honor to defend.” She didn’t fancy her chances against a man in his prime, armed with both dagger and sword, but fury had made her foolish.

There was no sound in the kitchen but the spitting of a log in the hearth. Clark sucked in a breath, and Cecily tensed. She didn’t need to look at Smythe to sense the rage emanating from him.

In a low voice that was almost a whisper, he said, “The maid speaks the truth. Begone, Kennett, ere I’m tempted to forget that we have any family bond.”

Clark stared from one to the other, a mocking eyebrow raised. Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his arms then spread his hands. “I know where I’m not wanted. I see that I must have entered at a delicate stage in the negotiations between the pair of you. I shall leave you to conclude your business, but remember, Allan, that my offer remains open. When you tire of the bitch, send her over to me at the inn. I like a bit of fire in my women. And I’ll see you both profit from it.”

With a final leer at Cecily that tempted her to use the knife anyway, he shoved away from the doorpost and stalked off. Moments later, she heard the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves heading toward the road.

She turned slowly to Smythe. The color was returning to his face, but his eyes blazed like coals. She hadn’t noticed, but he’d availed himself of a lethal-looking cleaver that had been hung up above the fireplace.

He replaced it. “You may put that knife down now, Cecily. I wouldn’t have let you use it in any case. If anyone is going to spill that villain’s guts, it will be me. Now, I fear our dinner may be burning.”

Having expected him to rant, rave, and throw things around the kitchen—as she felt inclined to do herself—she was perplexed by Smythe’s apparent calm. But as he scraped the slightly burned buttered worts onto two wooden platters and rescued the steaming erbolate from the oven, she saw a tremor in his hands that belied his expression.

He set the platters down. “I apologize for using the kitchen table. A gale took most of the tiles off the refectory roof some time ago, and the place is full of vermin and damp.”

She didn’t contradict him. The villagers had removed the tiles and sold them several years ago when their crops had failed. Instead, she asked, “Why would a mere village girl be too fine to eat at a kitchen table? You know well enough I don’t even have one of my own, just broad shelves to store and prepare my vittles. Eating on our laps serves me and my uncles well enough.”

Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the uncles just yet—he might start asking questions again. She busied herself with her meal, spooning a large helping of mixed leeks and cabbage into her mouth.

“Despite what you say, you are too fine. ’Tis curious that you don’t look like any of your uncles, Mistress Cecily Neville. And as I learned when Swaffham returned with the rent book, none of your so-called relatives uses that surname.”

Curse him. She’d let her guard down, enjoying the camaraderie that came from having bested a shared enemy.

She lowered her spoon. “I’d rather speak of you, Master Smythe. You’re living hand-to-mouth here—no gentleman of your standing should live thus. I came to offer you help. Nay, do not interrupt me, I pray.” She waved her spoon at him. “If you want to be a farmer, if you want to be taken seriously by the local woolen merchants, you must cut a dash. You cannot do that when every hour is spent cleaning out fishponds, cooking your own dinner, and struggling with roofless buildings.”

“You heard what Kennett said. He spoke the truth. I must pay him a huge sum if I am to keep any of the manor. Although I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I were forced to leave—it would give you and my tenants a chance to pilfer once more.”

There was a teasing glint in his eyes, so she allowed herself to relax. “I can bear to have you own the place,” she conceded. Indeed, she’d far rather he had it than Master Clark. “What I am proposing is that I cook for you. You needn’t pay me in coin. Winter is coming, and I should be grateful for the odd carp from the fishponds or a coney when you can spare one.”

“Nay.” His hand slapped the table decisively. “If you work for me, you’ll be paid properly. And you won’t need my coneys, fish or birds. Most days, I eat alone, so you must join me.” He paused, then brightened. “Besides, if you are forced to eat your own food, I know whatever you cook will be palatable.”

He was trying to tease her again. She cocked an admonitory eyebrow at him, then cut off a bite-sized piece of her erbolate, chewing it as she pondered his suggestion.

“Agreed. But I didn’t just want the fish and meat for myself. My uncles have had meager pickings of late.”