I willed him to look upon my face. When he did, I answered. “This is true, my lord. However, if I may be so bold, you’re a few days early. I assumed that collection would not take place until the day itself and so have not prepared my dues.” It was hard to keep the remonstration from my tone. “I was expecting to make payment on Hocktide. By my calculation, I still have eight more days.”
“You’re mistaken, Mistress Sheldrake.”
“I do not think so, my lord. Your father—”
“Entrusted me to examine your books and collect all monies owing and that’s what I’m here to do. You have too much to say for yourself, Mistress Sheldrake. He warned me as much.” He struck the desk with the flat of his hand, the noise loud and violent in the small space. I almost leaped off my seat. A vein in Sir Symond’s temple began to throb. It was then I noticed the scar that ran down the side of his face and across the upper part of his cheek. It was white and jagged, pulling the flesh into a ravine. I wondered if he’d received it in battle or from being struck across the face for want of manners. Certainly, he didn’t possess the charm of his younger brother or, for that matter, the polish of his father. What he did possess was an awareness of his social status and an ability to make me acutely aware of where I stood.
“Good,” he said, his lips, which were also ravaged by a deep split, curving into what might have passed for a smile. “Now that you’re listening, I will say this one more time only: I’m here to collect the rent.”
“My lord.” Adam stepped from the hearth.
“Was I addressing you?” snapped Sir Symond.
“Why, no, but my lord, I—”
“Will mind your place.” Sir Symond glowered at Adam. “As much as it disturbs me to do business with a woman, I’ll not discuss these matters with a servant.”
I inhaled sharply. Anger flooded every part of my body and it took all my control not to order this man from the room. I needed his cooperation, not his irritation. I could ill afford to give offense.
Half-twisting in my chair, I gave Adam a reassuring smile, even as I burned. “It’s all right, Adam, thank you. I’m sure Sir Symond and I can settle this.”
“There’s nothing to settle.” He drawled the last word and stood. “Michael, take Master Barfoot and conduct an inspection of the premises, would you? Father wants a report on the condition of the house.” The lie was as evident as his nose, but Sir Symond didn’t care.
Adam hesitated. Propriety demanded he didn’t leave me unchaperoned. Sir Symond clearly didn’t see it as a problem. To him, I was a mere tenant and due no such courtesy.
With a slight brush against my shoulder, which Sir Symond observed with an arch of his brow, Adam ushered Michael de Montefort from the office.
Waiting till his squire closed the door behind him, Sir Symond sank back into the chair and drank. “Where were we?” He smacked his lips together. “This is uncommonly good,” he muttered. “Oh, aye, the lease.”
Taking my time, I rose from my seat and moved to the hearth. I wanted distance between us. “The facts are, my lord, I cannot pay the lease in full today. I’m short by a small amount. However, I hope that by Hocktide I’ll have the requisite monies.”
Putting down the mazer, Sir Symond rested his elbows on the table and pressed his palms together in an attitude of prayer. He possessed long, thick fingers with calluses across the palm—the hands of someone used to wielding a sword. Famous for his bravery across Elmham Lenn and beyond—how he’d ridden at the king’s side at Shrewsbury, masqueraded as our monarch to confuse the enemy, single-handedly saving him when an arrow struck him in the face—stories of how Sir Symond earned his knighthood were well known. It was rumored he was about to be endowed with a greater honor as well, reward for his courage against the Welsh and his loyalty to the House of Lancaster. This was a man accustomed to victory.
I swallowed, feigning indifference to his bold gaze.
“Despite what Father and Leander told me”—his voice was quiet, amused—“you’re not what I expected.”
Leander had spoken of me to his brother? I knotted my fingers together. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“Disappoint?” Pushing back his chair, he stood and came around to the other side of the desk, the mazer small in his huge hand. “On the contrary, that’s not the word I’d have used. You’re nothing like your mother, not really . . .”
He knew my mother? His eyes were the color of the sea as it lapped the ships in port. I lowered mine. The conversation was heading down a dangerous path.
“The facts are, my lord”—I took a step toward the door, keeping my voice businesslike, trying not to let this man see how much he unnerved me—“as I wrote to your father and brother, we had an . . . an incident here. A tragedy, actually. One of my servants, Will Heymonger, was—”
“Murdered,” finished Sir Symond. “I was informed. I’m not sure why you see fit to raise it, Mistress Sheldrake, or why you wasted time appraising Father or Leander. It’s irrelevant. A contract is a contract and must be honored regardless of any inconvenience.”
My cheeks grew hot.
“Aye, my servant’s death was most inconvenient.” I spat the word and was rewarded with a flicker of those hard eyes. “It’s meant that not only have we been a hand short, but due to superstition and fear, custom has all but dried up and the monies I’d anticipated receiving have failed to materialize. In light of what’s happened, I’d hoped . . . rather, I’d intended to ask your father if I might change the terms of our contract.”
I’d never considered this. I was simply clutching at straws, thinking on the wing.
“Change them? Mistress Sheldrake, you’re clearly unfamiliar with—”
I swept on as if he hadn’t spoken.
“I intended to ask if I might pay Lord Rainford for the months already owed now and the months I owe in advance at a later date.” I ducked behind the desk and swung the ledger around to underline my point.
Sir Symond turned slowly, his face suffused with color. I pretended not to see.
“If you will look here, my lord, you will see that I can readily pay—”
“I’m afraid that will not do, Mistress Sheldrake. The terms of the contract are clear.” Placing down the drink, he reached into a coat pocket and produced a copy of the original, tossing it upon the desk and gesturing for me to read. “I suggest you familiarize yourself with what you and my father agreed upon once more.” One side of his mouth curled, the contract becoming something vile.
I quickly unfurled and reread the parchment, glancing at my signature, thinking how foolish I’d been not to bargain harder, insist on more time. But then, I’d been in no position to ask for anything. Just as I wasn’t now . . .
Leaning over the desk, Sir Symond brought his face to within inches of mine. I could smell the ale on his breath, the sweat of his body, see the fine weave of his amber coat. “This states it’s all or nothing.” He jabbed the parchment. “It’s clear. As is your signature.” He ground my name into the vellum.
The terms were unambiguous. My heart sank until something caught my eye.