Page 3 of Lord of the Manor

She had just made an enemy of her new landlord. This was a situation that had little hope of ending well.

Chapter Two

Allan stared through the leaded panes of the former preceptor’s house at the driving rain beyond. He’d meant to ride out in search of the recalcitrant wench again, but that would be unkind to his grey stallion Baldur, who hated the wet.

He shivered. These stone-built houses were miserably cold, even in the summer. He would build himself a rambling manor house—or at the very least, a farmhouse, when the sheep and lands started bringing in a profit. He’d build it in brick if he could afford it, or a combination of timber with brick footings if he could not, just like the massive barns at Temple Roding.

He’d really let that young woman get under his skin. He wasn’t normally so overbearing and awkward with others—but he’d been positively rude to the diminutive peasant. From her clothes, she was little more than a peasant, even if she had somehow tamed—or more likely stolen—a noble bird.

Noble bird? Pah! He’d had a healthy dislike of birds of prey ever since he’d seen a harrier steal his childhood pet—an orphaned lamb from his family’s flock in the Fens. Not only had he seen the lamb taken, but he’d also seen the bird perch and start to devour it. With their razor beaks and talons like freshly sharpened blades, such birds were cruel, greedy, and unpredictable.

Had she set that peregrine on him deliberately? And then run away in terror, realizing the seriousness of her crime? Luckily for her, the bird had flown off before any damage was done, but he’d remained rooted to the spot, ready to defend himself should it return.

A pox on it! He should not be so easily unsettled. Yet in his current mood, everything seemed a threat, and everyone a foe. It was a constant worry that he and Kennett had taken on more than they could handle by jointly purchasing Temple Roding. However, the former Hospitaller commandery, dissolved back in 1540, had been going at a bargain price because it had been left to rot. Kennett had cajoled him into purchasing it as a joint venture, offering to put up two-thirds of the capital. An added advantage was that King Edward, heir to the profligate Henry, was always pleased to have coin rolling into his coffers. And in this day and age, the king’s favor was worth more than gold.

If only Hannah hadn’t died! Allan’s wife had been such a comfort to him, and his heart was rent asunder when she passed away. If he could lose his dearest love, along with the precious child she carried, then nothing was sacred—nothing was safe. Putting himself into her grasping brother’s pocket had been a risk, but Hannah’s death had so overset him, he’d needed something to challenge him, to help him forget.

Temple Roding had done just that, absorbing all his strength and thought from the very moment he’d inserted the massive iron key into the door of the preceptor’s house.

“Greetings, Brother. A foul day—but methinks it will clear soon.”

Allan spun around as his brother-in-law, Kennett Clark, entered the solar.

“Why are you hiding away up here? Avoiding society, as is your wont? Still repining over the loss of my sister?”

Allan bit his tongue. Kennett had an unfortunate way of saying precisely what he thought—not an endearing quality. The man had neither tact nor heart, but he couldn’t complain. Kennett already thought him soft for having mourned Hannah and the babe so long and so deeply. His own sister, by the rood! The man had no humanity. But he did have money, and that was probably his only positive quality. That, and an—allegedly—superior knowledge of sheep farming.

“I was just wondering when it would be dry enough to go out and inspect the dovecote.”

“Still worried about your fluffy little squabs?” Kennett twirled his gold chain around his finger. It was an infuriating habit and, ofttimes, Allan wished the damned thing would tangle and choke him. But nay, that was an unchristian thought. He must appreciate his brother-in-law—despite his faults.

“Of course. If the squabs keep getting killed, there’ll be no birds to grace the table. I thought you enjoyed a nice fat pigeon, swathed in thinly sliced salt pork and served up with plum or applesauce?”

“That I do, that I do. But there is enough bounty here to satisfy even the greatest hunger. So long as we can keep our thieving tenants away from the commandery grounds and lands.”

“Speaking of thieving tenants—”

“Yes?” Kennett’s brow furrowed. “Have they been at it again? I’ll brand them myself if I catch them. What have they been after this time? Carp from the fishponds, apples and pears, coneys?”

“Oh… nay, nothing like that. I’m still trying to solve the mystery of the mauled squabs.” What had stopped him from mentioning the woman and her falcon?

“Unless someone has trained a ferret to steal at their command, it’s probably a weasel or stoat.” Kennett waved a hand dismissively.

“That’s what she—” Again, Allan stopped himself. If anyone were going to deal with the wench’s insubordination, it would be him. Kennett had a cruel streak, and he’d seen firsthand how ruthless he could be with animals—they were a commodity to him, no more. He afforded little more mercy to humans.

“So, what makes you think it’s a stoat? They can climb, can they?”

“To a certain extent, aye. Or, if a coney or a rat burrowed deep enough, it might create a tunnel through which a stoat could get into the dovecote.”

That sounded highly unlikely. The brick walls continued well below ground level—Allan had inspected the buildings himself when he’d surveyed the place prior to buying it.

“Could a bird of prey get in?” he queried.

Kennett let out a derisive laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous, Brother. They would far rather hunt in the open.”

“What about a small one, like a merlin, or a hobby? Or even a peregrine?

“Have you been at the poppy juice or something? You don’t get peregrines in East Anglia—or not that I know of. They like heights, and this place is as flat as a pancake. Mostly.”