“I hoped to find you at your leisure,” Belmaine said.
“I am never at my leisure.” That was true and had the added benefit of being unfriendly.
Belmaine smiled as if Thomas had made a jest. “Then I shall be brief.”
Hob made a faint sound behind Thomas. No man who said he would be brief ever was.
Belmaine looked around the yard, taking in the stable, the repaired east wall, the stacked timber, the boys carrying kindling, the new thatch laid in bundles near the hall. His eyeslingered on each improvement with a careful, measuring quality Thomas disliked.
“Your place looks better than when last I saw it,” Belmaine said. “Michaelmas was kind?”
“Michaelmas was paid.”
“A miracle in these times.”
“Work,” Thomas said.
“Ah.” Belmaine’s smile sharpened. “Even better. Miracles make men grateful. Work makes them proud.”
Thomas said nothing.
The man had not come to discuss weather, walls, or pride. Belmaine turned his gaze toward the hall. “A cold morning. Walk with me?”
“No.”
The word landed between them as Belmaine blinked.
Hob turned his head slightly, as if admiring a bird on the wall.
“Say what you came to say.”
For one heartbeat the warmth in Belmaine’s face thinned. It returned quickly, but Thomas had seen what lay beneath, and filed it away with the same part of him that watched an opponent’s shoulder before the blow.
“As you wish.” Belmaine folded his gloved hands. “Plain speech, then. Between neighbors.”
“We are neighbors.”
“Friends, I had hoped.”
“We are neighbors,” Thomas repeated.
This time Belmaine laughed. A soft, polished laugh, the sort a man used at another man’s table when the meat was overdone and the host too useful to offend.
“Very well. Neighbors.” His gaze flicked once toward Hob, then back again. “What I propose concerns both our houses.Mayhap we might speak without your man-at-arms breathing at your shoulder?”
“Hob hears what I hear.”
Hob inclined his head. “Unless I am asleep, Sir Roger. Then I hear more.”
Belmaine’s eyes cooled.
Thomas nearly smiled.
“Very well,” Belmaine said again, though there was less velvet in it now. “My daughter, Cecily. You have heard me speak of her.”
Thomas had, though only because Belmaine had made certain of it during his first visit. A good girl. Quiet. Well trained in household management. Old enough to marry. Young enough to breed. These things had been stated with the satisfied air of a man discussing a mare with strong hips and no ill temper.
“Aye,” Thomas said.