Page 5 of Lord of the Manor

“How will we fare with these new landlords of ours, do you think?” Martin, who had once managed the guesthouse and hospital at the commandery, stared at Benedict.

“I can’t help but think we’ll fare much worse. These will be hard times for us all. And dangerous ones, for the new landlords are likely to pry. I know not what our fate will be if we are discovered.” Benedict gestured upward with his spoon. “Unless the good Lord has pity upon us.”

“I sometimes wonder if He can even hear us.” Anselm, youngest of the three, interjected. “With the pope no longer interceding for us, He may have turned a deaf ear to all of England.”

Cecily couldn’t help but agree. None of them wanted to be forced to recant the beliefs that had tied them to the commandery. Who would want to put his very soul in peril?

Understanding Benedict’s tendency to melancholy, she knew what would cheer him—at least in the short term. She rose, uncorked a costrel of her latest batch of precious mead, and offered it to him.

As he took a grateful draft, she said, “I’ve met one of our new lords of the manor. He strikes me as intransigent and very particular. It wouldn’t surprise me if he counted every single carp in his ponds, each apple on his trees, and even the number of clods in the midden.”

Anselm set aside the wooden platter he was rubbing to a smooth finish and laughed heartily. “I’ll warrant he doesn’t know the number of bees in his apiary, however.”

She sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. You know, he accused poor Charlemagne of having taken his pigeons. Not while flying around outside, mark you, but actually within the dovecote. Something has been eating squabs and eggs.”

“Most likely stoats,” offered Martin. “They would have been attracted to the warrens. Since the place has been left unmanaged, there is now a huge warren established in the banks of the moat. But stoats crave eggs above anything and, no doubt, would not hesitate to take a helpless squab if they could get at one.”

With a shiver, Cecily recalled her encounter with Allan Smythe. “I told him Charlemagne couldn’t have done it.”

“Ah, but he could have, couldn’t he?” Benedict’s eyes twinkled at her. “I’ve seen you train that bird to swoop through a section of field drain or a hole in the roof. I know he can’t be relied upon to perform when you want him to, but we all know he’s capable of such a feat.”

“He couldn’t have entered the dovecote without my knowledge,” she said crisply. “Besides, as you know, I’ve been caring for those doves ever since we were cast out of the commandery, feeding them with whatever grain I can glean, generation upon generation. Even after I adopted Charlemagne, I continued managing the dovecote so that there would always be food for us. I fed the birds, so in a sense, they are now mine.”

“We’re most grateful for what you’ve managed to purloin from the place. For my part, I can say my adopted trade as a cobbler has been poor in these uncertain times, so I’m most grateful for the odd dove or fish from the commandery.” Benedict fiddled with the wooden rosary he still held in his hand. “Some of the villagers are now mending their own shoes—badly, I have to say—rather than paying me to do it.”

Cecily let out a sigh. “There’ll be no more fishing and no more doves—we’ll be taken as poachers and punished. No more coneys, either—I must sneak over there at the next full moon and remove my traps before they’re discovered. I might be able to scramble over the wall sometime soon, and steal a few worts from the kitchen garden. He hasn’t tended to that yet, so wouldn’t miss anything.”

It was so unfair. By rights, everything that flew, grew, burrowed, or swam at the commandery should belong to these men, the remnants of the Knights Hospitaller who had owned the place. She knew no other home and had continued to care for the manor—keeping the fishponds clean and clear, cutting back the brambles, and harvesting honeycombs, apples and pears.

Of course, all the livestock, horses, oxen and donkeys had been seized and sold over a decade ago, to put money into the unprincipled King Henry’s hands. All the rents from the manor had gone to the king’s officials, and there was little of value remaining save the derelict buildings and land.

But there was something else, although the men had always told her it was a myth.

“What if we should find the Templar treasure? That would enable us all to leave this godforsaken realm and mayhap take sanctuary in France.”

Benedict tutted at her. “Even if such a treasure exists, it wouldn’t belong to us. We’re outcasts now and can no longer hold wealth or land. If anything of worth was secreted at the commandery before the Templars were exterminated, it would now belong to its new owners, Masters Smythe and Clark.”

Cecily clenched her fists. “I detest that Allan Smythe. It is he that is the felon—not us!”

A sudden battering at the door made her leap up in consternation. It was an official knock, the knock of a constable or a soldier—proprietorial and not to be denied.

She sped to the door and put her ear against the panels. “Who’s there?”

“Master Smythe—your new landlord. I wish to speak with you.”

For the next few moments, the cottage was a hive of activity. Anselm, the sprightliest of the men, scuttled up into the attic that Cecily used as a bedchamber. Martin lifted a hatch in the floor and clambered in to curl up in the root cellar, and Benedict hid in a niche behind a sacking drape.

Cecily hastily hid their cups, then planted the broth cauldron atop the trapdoor to the root cellar before sliding back the bolt on the door. Her stomach fluttered as she opened the door to reveal Allan Smythe, smiling at her. She fought to control her breathing.

Leaning arrogantly against the door frame, he raised an eyebrow, then looked her up and down. “So, this is where you dwell. You appear flustered. Not by seeing me, I hope. Unless you have something to hide.”

She tilted her chin at him. “You took me by surprise—that is all.”

“And what were you about, that you had to bolt the door? I’ve visited several of the cottages in the village, and none of the doors were locked. Afraid someone might steal your demonic winged beast?”

Curse the man. He wasn’t supposed to have noticed the bolt—she usually managed to draw it without a sound. Time to slap some more goose grease on the thing.

“Aye, indeed. He’s a valuable bird, able to catch pigeons for us—I mean, me. Wild ones only, as I have said before. Will you come within?”