Page 4 of Lord of the Manor

Allan had thought as much himself. A peregrine was a rare thing hereabouts, although he had seen a few in Cambridge when he’d been there for his studies—the falcons had enjoyed the high towers of both the churches and university buildings. How in heaven had a village girl come to own such a bird?

Lettice was unlike any village girl he’d ever met. Her looks were striking, for one thing. Where had she acquired that flawless complexion and that raven’s wing hair? Those dark brown eyes had seemed to burn into his very soul—penetrating and intelligent. He fully suspected her of having a capacity for mischief—and of having given him a false name.

Kennett was regarding him with a mocking expression. It was time to change the subject. He didn’t want his brother-in-law to know about the wench—he’d solve that problem himself. They’d agreed that he should take over the manor’s judicial responsibilities as he’d had a university education. They’d also settled that he should manage the buildings, having a passing interest in such things. Kennett’s tasks included dealing with the farming aspects, managing the accounts, and establishing good markets for their wool.

“How are negotiations going with that farmer in Lavenham? Have you managed to bargain a fair price for his flock?”

Kennett looked smug. “I’ve beaten him down on price quite considerably. He’ll drive the sheep down to us as soon as he can.”

“Good.” They couldn’t afford to spend too much on their livestock. He’d sunk all he had into this undertaking and needed to save coin whenever possible so it could flourish.

“It is a long journey from Lavenham to Temple Roding. They won’t get far in this weather.” The wind had turned, and the rain was now spattering against the window. A trickle of water penetrated between window and frame and pooled on the worn limestone of the sill. Another job to do—he’d have to stop the leak before it did any damage.

“You’re far too gloomy, Allan.” Kennett came up behind him and gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder. “And you have too soft a heart. Sheep are hardy animals, and the rain will just run off their fleeces. The fact that my sister Hannah turned out too fragile for this life doesn’t mean that every other creature is.”

Allan pulled away from the window and couldn’t help glancing at a padded basket in one corner of the solar. Luckily, Kennett had turned away and appeared to be on his way out.

He paused in the doorway. “How shall you spend the day? You can do little of use outside, and you needn’t help me with the accounts—I’m up-to-date with those.”

“I thought I might walk to the village and engage us a servant or two. We could do with a wench in the kitchen, and a gardener, mayhap.”

Perchance he would come across the defiant girl with the falcon. She wouldn’t dare set the bird on him in so public a place as the village, would she?

“But don’t offer them too high a wage. We can’t afford much. Farewell.”

Kennett left, not having vouchsafed how he would be spending this miserably damp day. Hunting down a trollop, most likely. Allan must be sure to engage an ugly kitchen wench or she’d find herself with Kennett panting and puffing between her legs before you could say “pease pottage”. So, it would definitely not be the young woman he’d met yesterday. She was far too comely.

Besides going into the village, he must fix the tiles on the barn roof so that the sheep, when they arrived, could be penned up, checked over, and fed in comfort. He’d need a pair of ladders to get up there—had he seen ladders listed in the inventory when they’d bought the place? Even if he could find said ladders, he’d doubtless have to repair them before use. Just as well he had a practical bent in addition to his book learning—Kennett was too lazy, and too proud, to dirty his hands with such toil.

The creak of the wooden door below told him his brother-in-law had left the preceptor’s house. Good. Now he could concentrate on his patient.

Allan collected the basket from its corner and set it carefully on the bench, then lit a candle to dispel the gloom in the solar. How ironic, since the solar was supposed to be the sunniest room in the building! He carefully lifted out the golden-colored baby coney and held it up to his face.

“You are a beauty, aren’t you, little one?”

The small legs kicked and scrabbled, but not for long. Allan had painstakingly splinted the creature’s broken hind leg, but it must still hurt whenever it moved. Fortunately, the animal soon quieted and allowed itself to be cradled in his arms.

He’d never seen a coney this color before he came to Temple Roding Commandery. Such animals were, in his limited experience, generally grey. But this one had a coat with the golden tint of ripened barley, and he was keen to see the furry bundle make it to adulthood. Not for the pot, nor for its skin, but to see if it could generate a whole family of sandy-colored coneys. Only—would he have to raise them indoors? Such a light-colored coat must make them more vulnerable to predators.

He rubbed a hand gently over the animal’s flattened ears and lowered his head to whisper, “I’ll take care of you until you are mended. Then, I will let you roam free. But not until I have put a stop to the depredations of that peregrine.”

Quite how he would achieve that, he wasn’t sure, for the girl would not give up her pet easily, and he didn’t want to take it illegally. He was supposed to be the upholder of the law on the manor now and must therefore do everything according to the rules.

As he shouldered into his most waterproof cloak, an idea struck him. He would put a net in the walnut tree, and if the falcon ever came there again, he would capture it and put an end to its rampages.

And as for the young woman who claimed to own it—well, he wouldn’t want to see her pretty face spoiled by being put into the pillory or the stocks. He’d settle for compensation for the squabs and young coneys he’d lost—even peasants had skills or items they could offer in lieu of coin.

A flush of heat washed over him. She’d had an attractive figure to match the comeliness of her face, so he’d better not tell Kennett he was after compensation. He couldn’t trust the man not to take advantage, and the very idea shocked him more than he could explain.

Chapter Three

A Catholic ceremony had been celebrated secretly in Cecily’s cottage, and the commandery’s former servants were now relaxing on benches, unwilling as yet to return to their various homes.

She loved such moments, spent with the men who had been like fathers to her—although in public, she always referred to them as “Uncle”. “Father” had too many Catholic connotations.

“Will you take another cup of broth?” As she reached to take Benedict’s horn beaker, her heart contracted. Over the past twelve years, the commandery’s former chaplain had taken on a haggard look. Both the passage of time, and the religious persecution following the late king’s repudiation of the pope, had taken their toll. Benedict was a man haunted, forever looking over his shoulder. Cecily loved him dearly but feared he’d worry himself into an early grave.

“Thank you, Niece.” He accepted the mutton bone and rosemary broth, and pushed his feet toward the cooking fire.