Cecily had naught to say. A by-blow of the Duke of Suffolk? He was not a father she could feel proud of—he had left a trail of too many wives, mistresses, and broken hearts behind him when he’d died several years ago. Or so she’d heard.
“So mayhap, Mary recovered, found out about the affair, and had the Spanish woman sent away.” The sister to a king could achieve a great deal—the exile of a rival would have easily been within her power. Her poor mother—what an ordeal it must have been! Hated by the king’s sister, bedded by a man who failed to protect her. Cecily’s eyes became moist.
“Oh, nay, my love—I didn’t mean to make you maudlin. I cannot be certain of any of this, but I thought I’d best tell you what I suspected.”
“How many more revelations do you intend to spring on me, Husband?” She dabbed at the tears.
“There may be more, but I shall only divulge those that will make your heart rejoice. Now, come.”
He pulled her up and into his embrace, and she melted against him, as always, both comforted and excited by his touch.
“Let’s go without. The first foundation trenches for our new house have been dug, so you can get a splendid idea of the size and layout of the place.”
She brightened at that. It would be a while before work could begin in earnest on the great house that Allan envisaged building—they needed to be confident that their farming enterprises would flourish. But the fact that the trenches had been dug made the vision seem more of a reality.
And she knew talking about his plans for their new house raised her husband’s spirits. And when he was happy, so was she.
She was able to respond to Allan’s third and final revelation with one of her own.
It happened in October, well-nigh a seven-month since their wedding. Cecily was well settled into her role at the commandery and had put the unpleasantness of the past behind her.
Spring and summer had brought new hope, with a goodly number of lambs birthed and a fine quality clip when the older ewes were shorn. Weavers had been found in Bury who could produce a high-quality cloth from the commandery’s fleeces, and Allan had made use of his old contacts in the woolen cloth trade to set up a network of buyers for the finished product.
Work on the new house was coming on apace—all the timber frames had been completed and jointed. Once they’d been erected and pinned together, and the gaps in-filled with brick, the building would be ready to move into.
Like the manor, the village also thrived, even in the absence of the brethren who had once been so essential a part of its fabric. Cecily’s old cottage had been rebuilt and was now occupied by Lettice and her new husband, a man she’d met in somewhat dramatic circumstances, following an accident upon the highway.
One of Cecily’s most significant achievements during the summer was learning to ride correctly. Allan had insisted she’d find it a useful skill and had provided her with a lovely grey mare. Phoenix had been introduced to the beast and, eventually, Cecily was able to go out with the pair of them, Phoenix seated proudly on her wrist, continually adjusting his balance to the horse’s movements. She had not yet been courageous enough to fly him from horseback but was looking forward to doing so in autumn when they might start hunting small game in earnest.
One bright, but cool October day, Allan arrived just as she was waiting for Simpkin to saddle her mare, Freya.
“Ah, good—you’re going riding. Will you be taking Phoenix out with you?”
She looked her husband up and down. He was dressed for going out, resplendent in a deep blue doublet, topped with a buff leather coat and half-cape. A jaunty pheasant’s feather adorned his hat, and he wore riding boots.
“I will. Whither are you bound today, Husband?”
“Wherever you choose to take me, my lady. But first, let me accompany you to the mews.”
There was some mischief afoot. Her husband’s blue eyes held that wicked glint she knew only too well. What was he up to now?
She walked her horse down to the malthouse, with Allan beside her, leading Baldur. When she ascended the—now much safer—stairs into the long gallery where Phoenix was installed, she was stunned to see a second perch beside his, bearing another bird. A peregrine falcon.
“What’s this?” She approached slowly, not wanting to alarm the new arrival. Phoenix made his usual ee-chup sound in welcome, while the other bird, slightly larger than him, swiveled its head to look at her.
“It is a mate for Phoenix—if he’ll have her. I’ve christened her Phoebe. We’ve been practicing, so we can accompany you and Phoenix when you go hunting.”
She gasped, then looked from Allan’s smug grin to the new bird, which was now eyeing Phoenix.
“What else have you been concealing from me, Husband? I cannot believe you were able to train and fly a peregrine without my noticing. Or that you even had the will to do it. You never had much liking for birds of prey.”
“That’s all in the past, dear heart,” he promised, sliding his hands around her waist. “You have taught me to see what pleasure can be had from flying so powerful and skillful a bird. And I’m partial to the pigeon pie you make, so I reckon if we can catch double the pigeons, the more often you will cook it for me.”
“Oh, I shall, shall I?”
He kissed her. “A man may hope, may he not?”
“I suppose he may.” She rested against him, nudging her cheek against the slight fuzz of stubble on his chin.
He pressed his
