“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.”
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.
