It was a devastating loss—she and her uncles had been plundering the gardens for fresh produce for years, and she had found the overgrown banks and middens a great source of voles and harvest mice for Charlemagne.
Master Smythe planted his fists on his hips. “And anyway, don’t you know better than to answer back to your superiors?”
“I do, sir. Sorry, sir.” She attempted a curtsey, though she hated doing it. But not quite as much she hated Allan Smythe. He was an accursed Protestant, an ignorant townsman who thought he understood rural life but didn’t, and an ill-mannered boor. It was time to call the bird and go before she was tempted to slap the man’s arrogant face.
No sooner had she slipped her gauntlet on than Charlemagne launched himself off his branch and glided across the field toward her. He sailed past Smythe’s ear, wafting the man’s blond hair, and landed on her fist.
Smythe paled and took several steps backward. “Vile witch! You set your bird on me!”
Fear shot through her. Now both she and Charlemagne had been accused of assault. The time for mollification was over. Launching the peregrine straight back into the air, she took to her heels and ran for the trees. The bird could find his own way home—she would take a circuitous route in case Master Smythe followed her. Could she outrun him? With his long legs and obvious strength, he should be able to overtake her with no difficulty. Only—she knew the woods better than he, and in late August, there was plenty of cover to be had.
As she reached the spinney, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and saw, much to her surprise, that there was no pursuit. The man remained just as she’d left him, frozen into an attitude of alarm, and as still as a scarecrow on a windless day.
That pallor could not be fear, surely? It must be anger. He was stiff with outrage, and her punishment would be severe when he managed to work out who she was and where she dwelled.
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
