“Nothing urgent that needs castle intervention, Y’r Grace.”
They’d used the phrase “castle intervention” several times, apparently meaning assistance from the ducal coffers. But they were talking of barns, fences, and cottages on his lands that belonged to the estate and were provided to tenant farmers in exchange for their labor and the major portion of the crops. Royce allowed his frown to show. “What about situations that don’t require ‘castle intervention’? Are there any repairs or work of any kind urgently needed there?” His tone had grown more precise, his diction more clipped.
They exchanged glances—almost as if the question had confused them. He was getting a very bad feeling here. His father had been old-fashioned in a blanket sense, the quintessential marcher lord of yore; he had a growing suspicion he was about to step into a briar patch of old ways he was going to find it difficult to live within.
Not without being constantly pricked.
“Well,” Kelso eventually said, “there’s the matter of the cottages up Usway Burn, but your father was clear that that was for the tenants to fix. And if they didn’t fix things by next spring, he was of a mind to demolish the cottages and plow the area under for more corn, corn prices being what they are.”
“Actually,” Falwell took up the tale, “your late father would have, indeed should have, reclaimed the land for corn this summer—both Kelso and I advised it. But I fear”—Falwell shook his head, primly condescending—“Miss Chesterton intervened. Her ideas are really not to be recommended—if the estate were to constantly step in in such matters we’d be forever fixing every little thing—but I believe your late father felt…constrained, given Miss Chesterton’s position, to at least give the appearance of considering her views.”
Kelso snorted. “Fond of her, he was. Only time in all the years I served him that he didn’t do what was best for the estate.”
“Your late father had a sound grasp of what was due the estate, and the tenants’ obligations in that regard.” Falwell smiled thinly. “I’m sure you won’t wish to deviate from that successful, and indeed traditional, path.”
Royce eyed the pair of them—and was perfectly sure he needed more information, and—damn it!—he’d need to consult his chatelaine to get it. “I can assure you that any decisions I make will be guided by what is best for the estate. As for these cottages”—he glanced from one man to the other—“I take it that’s the only outstanding situation of that ilk?”
“As far as I’m aware, Y’r Grace.” Kelso paused, then added, “If there are other matters requiring attention, they’ve yet to be brought to my notice.”
Royce fought not to narrow his eyes; Kelso knew, or at least suspected, that there were other repairs or rectification needed, but the estate people weren’t bringing them to him. He pushed back from the desk. “I won’t be making any decisions until I’ve had time to acquaint myself with the details.”
He rose; both men quickly came to their feet. “I’ll send word when next I wish to see you.”
There was enough steel in his tone to have both men murmur in acquiescence, bow low, and, without protest, head for the door, even though Falwell had earlier informed him that his father had met with them on the first Monday of every month. For Royce’s money, that was far too infrequently. His father might not have needed more frequent meetings, but information was something he couldn’t function, hated trying to function, without.
He stood staring at the door long after the pairs’ retreating footsteps had faded. He’d hoped they would provide a bulwark between him and his chatelaine in all matters pertaining to the estate, yet after speaking with them for an hour, he wasn’t prepared to accept their views as being the full story on any subject. Certainly not on the Usway Burn cottages.
He wondered what Minerva’s views were—and why his father, who’d never doted on another in his life, much less changed his behavior to appease someone, had seen fit to, because of her ideas, stay his hand.
He’d have to ask her.
Seeing his plan to keep her at a distance crumble to dust, he couldn’t hold back a growl. Swinging around the desk, he headed for the door. Jerking it open, he stepped out, startling Jeffers, who snapped to attention.
“If anyone should ask, I’ve gone riding.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Before eliciting his chatelaine’s advice about the cottages, he’d test her advice about the horse.
She’d been right.
Incontestably right. Thundering over the gently rolling landscape, letting the gray stallion have his head, he felt the air rush past his face, felt an exhilaration he’d missed shooting down his veins, sensed all around him the hills and fields of home racing past at a madman’s pace—and blessed her insightfulness.
His father had been an excellent horseman, but had never had the patience for a mount with a mind of its own. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the challenge of making a compact with a horse, persuading it that it was in its best interests to carry him—so that together they could fly before the wind.
Sword was now his. He would carry him whenever and wherever he wished simply for a chance to run like this. Without restriction, without restraint, flying over fences, leaping rocks and burns, careening between the hills on their way to the breeding fields.
On leaving the study, he’d stridden straight for the stables and asked Milbourne for the stallion. On hearing he intended to ride the recalcitrant beast, Milbourne and Henry had accompanied him to the paddock at the rear of the castle’s holding fields. They’d watched him work the stallion, patient yet demanding; the pair had grinned delightedly when Sword had finally trotted all around the paddock with Royce on his back, then Royce had put the horse at the barred gate and sailed over to their cheers.
As he’d told Minerva, he hadn’t kept a horse in London. When he’d visited friends in the country, he’d ridden mounts they’d provided, but none had been of the ilk of Sword—a heavy hunter fully up to his weight, strong, solid, yet fleet of foot. His thighs gripping the stallion’s wide barrel, he rode primarily with hands and knees, the reins lying lax, there only if needed.
Despite his lack of experience, Sword had all but instantly picked up Royce’s directions, almost certainly because Royce was strong enough to impress them on him clearly. But that took focused strength and concentration, an awareness of the horse and its inclination that few riders possessed; by the time the breeding fields came into view, Royce was no longer surprised that not even Milbourne had been able to ride the stallion.
Grasping the reins, he let Sword feel the bit, slowing him by degrees, until they were trotting.
He wanted to see Conqueror; he didn’t know why. He wasn’t a sentimental man, yet the memories stirred through riding his old mount’s son had driven him there. Standing in his stirrups, he scanned the wide field, then heard a distant but soft trumpet; Sword answered with a snort and picked up his pace.
A group of horses emerged from a fold in the land, trotting, then galloping toward the fence.