The Grey Lady of the Manor

Chapter One

Essex, England 1553

Lettice Carter was not having the best of days. An argument with her spiteful stepmother had sent her out of the house early, and now she'd dropped an iron cauldron, cracking its base and rendering it useless.

The crash would have woken the dead. But with any luck, her employers, Master and Mistress Smythe, were already awake, catering to the needs of their baby son. They were a loving and patient couple, but how many more bent latten spoons, broken knives, or cracked cauldrons would they tolerate?

Letty couldn't lose her position here—she just couldn't. It was her only escape from the poisonous atmosphere back home, where her new stepmother wanted the house to herself, and her father was too besotted to notice the war being waged upon his only daughter.

"It's as though I'm cursed. Or these things are bewitched." She glanced uneasily toward the doorway of the old monks' kitchen, thinking she saw a man's figure. Master Smythe?

She shook her head. Nay—just a shadow. The former Hospitaller commandery was bound to make anyone feel nervous and send shivers down one's spine. So much tragedy had occurred in this place over the years. The broad lawn before the recently demolished chapel was pockmarked with the graves of former inhabitants—not all of whom would have died from natural causes.

How anyone could live cheek-by-jowl with a graveyard without having nightmares was beyond Letty. The sooner the master's new house was completed and the last of the old commandery buildings demolished, the better. Mayhap then, there would be a room available for her so that she need never darken her father's door again.

Could she survive that long? If she couldn't find out how to mollify the mischievous sprites that made her appear so clumsy, her place here would be given to someone else. Then her only hope of escape would be by marriage. But even if one of the village lads in Temple Roding were prepared to take her, she would still be within her stepmother's reach.

"Another accident, Letty?"

She spun around as Mistress Smythe entered the kitchen.

"Oh, Mistress—how long have you been there?" Her heart pounded in her throat.

"I have but lately come, in response to the crash. You're not hurt, I trust?"

Letty finally remembered her manners and bobbed a curtsy. "Your pardon. I thought someone was in the doorway earlier, but they vanished."

"Was it Simpkin? Did he startle you into dropping the pot? 'Tis high time he learned not to play tricks on people."

"Nay, it was a man's shadow that I thought I saw, not a boy. And that was after I broke the cauldron. Forgive me, Mistress. I'll take it to the forge for repair—pray, take the cost from my wages."

"Simpkin can take it. You have more important things to do."

Mistress Smythe gazed around the kitchen and Letty froze, hoping she wouldn't find fault with anything. She'd already seen to it that there was a plentiful supply of herbs suspended from the beams of the roof, that the wooden saltbox was filled and clean, and the shelves were tightly stacked with newly-cleansed crocks and pewter. She'd given the long table a thorough scrub—all would have been well had she not dropped that accursed cauldron!

"I have it in my mind to make up some tinctures today, for little Myall's cholic. What say you that I do that and make breakfast, too, while you clean the parlor? It's been neglected ever since my husband moved here, as he cares only for the farm and his new house."

And you, Mistress, and the babe. Letty had never seen a couple more in love, nor more devoted to one another. She bobbed another curtsy, wiped her hands on her apron, and gathered up a besom and cloth.

Mistress Smythe was emptying water from the pail into a spare cauldron.

"Are you certain you wouldn't like me to do that?"

"Nay. Take this pail and fill it, then mop the parlor floor. 'Tis a fine day, and the floor will dry quickly enough."

Letty ducked her head and went—she'd been dismissed from the kitchen and sent to clean a room containing fewer breakables. Mistress Smythe would manage well enough—until last year, she'd been no more than a village girl like herself—albeit an odd one who kept a pet falcon and had a surfeit of uncles. Domestic labor was nothing new to Mistress Smythe, Cecily Neville as was. She had developed an air of ladylike grace since her marriage, but she was still practical—and not in the least bit proud.

As Letty toiled at the well handle, she stared down the stone-lined shaft to the black water below. In just over a sennight, all the maidens from the village would be performing their midsummer magic, picking nine kinds of flowers, dancing at midnight with garlands in their hair, and looking down wells in the hope of seeing the image of the man they would one day marry.

She flushed as she seized the well bucket and emptied it into her pail. Not a single one of the local young men had ever set his cap at her. Was it because she was so short that she barely came up to their chins? Because she had too slender a figure? Mayhap it was the way her dark brown hair curled relentlessly around her head, refusing to ever be tamed. From occasional stolen glances in the glass, she knew that her large brown eyes looked too serious and that her overbite rendered her expression anxious. What lad would want a wife who wasn't pretty? Her stepmother had pointed this out on numerous occasions.

Stomping across the yard, Letty entered the parlor of the former commander's house. The sunlight had yet to penetrate its small windows or warm the stone walls, and she couldn't repress a shudder as she entered.

She must make an effort and clean the room to perfection, to make amends for having damaged the cauldron. As she dragged a cross-backed chair over to the door to create some space, she speculated on the reason Mistress Smythe had given her this task.

There was little made of metal in here and nothing of any value. No blades, armor, or decorative items of weaponry, no toasting forks or chimney cranes. In truth, nothing that she was liable to break. Simpkin had teased her when she came to work at the commandery, calling her an "anti-smith"—someone who destroyed rather than created metal objects. She had even broken her wrist on one occasion. Had she accidentally offended a house sprite or a hobgoblin and been turned into a walking catastrophe?

She looked askance at the wide iron fireback in the empty fireplace. Surely, that was too sturdy for her to damage—but perhaps it would be best to avoid it. Once Simpkin was done with his tasks, she would get him to clear the ashes and dust the grate.

Now surrounded by cloth, leather, wood, and ceramics—things she was never clumsy with—she swept and mopped the floor, dusted the surfaces, and removed the cobwebs.

In the far corner, a heavy, carved armoire confronted her. It ought to be moved so she could clean underneath, but it would be wise to empty it first. Kneeling, she decanted the contents—some moth-eaten tapestries, an enormous Bible, several old parchments, and a hinged square box.

A shiver ran through her when she placed the box on top of the armoire. It might be best to look within to make sure the contents were sound, and not something she could easily break.

The box wasn't locked, so she had no expectation of finding anything precious inside. But the last thing she thought to see were the empty eye sockets of a human skull glaring at her.

With a scream, she dropped the lid, but the movement sent the box crashing to the floor. The upper part of the skull rolled and smashed against the foot of the armoire, breaking into three pieces.

A shadow writhed up from the fragments and enveloped her.

Her mind reeled, her heart stopped, and the world went black.