Page 21 of Lord of the Manor

Another time, mayhap? Did she think he meant to make a habit of burning his pottage? He was left scratching his head as Cecily whispered a quick something to Martin, then sped out of the kitchen as if the devil dog Black Shuck himself were after her.

He couldn’t imagine what he might have said to frighten her so—for he had no doubt that she was afraid. Come to think of it, he still had no idea why she’d come to the commandery in the first place.

Hewing off a piece of hard Suffolk cheese with his knife, he chewed on it but tasted nothing. His mind was working rapidly, trying to work out how Cecily and the healer, Martin, seemed so at home in the commandery. Why, too, was Cecily so disturbed at the idea of demolition?

Forgetting he’d had no proper meal, Allan decided to interrogate Martin on the journey back to the village. And if the healer failed to enlighten him, he’d pursue Cecily and refuse to leave her alone until she’d given him some answers.

Between them, the men succeeded in getting Lettice on Baldur’s back without too much difficulty. He was impressed by her bravery, by her refusal to cry out or complain—in truth, he was impressed by everyone he’d met in the Temple Roding area. They were less complicated, less avaricious, and less ambitious than most townsfolk he knew. His arrival, and that of Kennett, must have sounded a discordant note in the community. If the opportunity arose, he would like to know them all better, and see if he could earn their respect.

He took hold of Baldur’s reins and pointed the horse toward the village. “So, Master Martin, where did you acquire your healing skills?”

There was the briefest of pauses before he answered, “Oh, here and there. I learned much from the physician at the commandery.”

“Indeed?” Allan supposed he should have expected the Hospitallers to play a large part in the community. Had they, and the Templars before them, truly been guilty of the abuses of which they’d been accused?

“You were quite young, then, I assume?” It was hard to imagine any village boy preferring possets and pills to archery and horse riding.

“Younger, yes. I helped when there was much sickness about, and at harvesttime, when so many injuries abound.”

Allan glanced up at Lettice. The girl looked pale, but her jaw was set. If there were going to be any further tears, she evidently had no intention of releasing them in front of her employer.

Reassured, he continued his questioning. “So, the commandery and the village have long worked hand-in-hand? Or they did so, until the Hospitaller order was dissolved?”

“Aye. The villagers had no complaints about how the Order conducted itself. Not that I can remember.”

“Then you must have been sorely aggrieved when their lands and assets were seized.”

He couldn’t see Martin’s face, because the man was walking on the other side of the horse, but his grunt said it all. However, to openly support a corrupt Catholic organization wasn’t in anyone’s best interests these days. He had better cease that line of questioning.

However, Martin had revealed why he and Cecily—and indeed, Lettice—seemed so at home in the commandery. Those who’d dwelled there had not been the fearsome, crusading knights of legend. They had been ordinary but godly men, working as farmers and administrators to raise funds for the conversion of the Infidel and the good of Christ. They had mingled with the local people, shared their skills, and made use of village labor when the occasion demanded it.

Whether they had intended to or not, Cecily and Master Martin had set him a challenge. He would not be outdone by his predecessors. He was going to make the commandery the most fruitful estate in the county, and everyone in the village would feel the benefit of his success. It would give him great pleasure to make Kennett regret his defection.

His ambition would require excessively hard work. That meant, alas, that he could not allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of Mistress Cecily Neville.

Chapter Ten

Though she had no reason to expect to see Allan Smythe, Cecily was nonetheless surprised that a whole month had passed without his sturdy frame darkening her doorway.

Without wanting to appear too interested, she’d made inquiries around the village and had learned that he’d taken possession of a flock of sheep and had put them out to graze on the Dovecote field. So not only was he running the manor, he was now a farmer of livestock—with so much to do, he was doubtless too exhausted to leave the commandery. Indeed, he hadn’t collected the Michaelmas rents in person—they’d been gathered by a stranger, going by the name of Master Swaffham, Smythe’s newly-appointed bailiff. One of the village boys had gone to look after the sheep, but if Smythe had employed any laborers to till the fields or cut the grass, he’d not taken them from Temple Roding village. Could he really be doing it all himself? Not knowing exactly what was going on at the commandery gnawed at her—and irritated her more than she could fathom.

She’d been in conclave with her “uncles” on several occasions recently. None seemed as concerned as she that Smythe would, while demolishing the derelict buildings, unearth the fabled Templar treasure. They were content with their comfortable, if penurious, lives, but she constantly nursed the fear that, one day, they might need that treasure—or its worth in coin.

What if young King Edward and his advisers became more intolerant toward Catholics? The signs were already there—gradually, celebration of the Mass was being abolished and a new prayer book was being brought in. There was talk of an Act of Uniformity which she feared would force everyone to renounce the pope. Would her mortal soul, and those of the men, be put in jeopardy? And if they refused, would they meet the same fate as the commandery’s preceptor? The treasure, whether it was in plate or coin, could protect them, and act as a shield against the agents of the king. Those agents were no more than men, after all, and officials were easily bribed. Or the money could be used to bear her and the brothers safely away to the Catholic realm of France.

Either way, it would be totally unjust for Smythe to discover it and claim it for himself. After much thought, she had hit upon a plan and had almost convinced her family to agree to it. The greatest obstacle lay ahead—she had to persuade Smythe to consent to it, too.

Thus, on a cloudy morning in late October, she left Charlemagne with Benedict, pinched the roses into her cheeks, combed her hair, and set off to win over Master Smythe.

It was strange, returning to the commandery after a full month. Hedges had turned brown, grass had been cut, trees had been felled, and the garden’s brick wall completely mended. Master Smythe had been busy.

Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, so knowing that Lettice had not yet returned to her post, Cecily hastened thither, curious to see who had taken the girl’s place. She was not a little surprised to see no one there but Smythe himself, in shirt sleeves and apron, beating eggs in a bowl with a hazel whisk.

This slipped from his hand as he glanced up and saw her—and for a moment, she was tempted to retreat. There was something intense in his blue-eyed gaze that turned her limbs to water.

Nay, she wouldn’t retreat. He had, as far as she knew, no reason to be angry with her. Unless the stoat had been at his doves again.

“Cecily.” He rescued the whisk, wiped his hands on his apron, and strode over to her.