Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) by Elizabeth Keysian (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📗

kindly expression brought her back to her senses. “Of course, you’re right. I would’ve liked to have had a mother or father, but never did an orphaned babe fall more firmly on her feet than I did. Everyone at the commandery was so kind. If only that selfish monarch hadn’t—”

“Now, now.” Martin plucked a sprig of rosemary, crushed it in his fingers, then wafted it beneath her nose. “You’re letting that resentment come back already. Remember what has been good and sweet about your life, and look to the future with faith that all will be as it should.”

She took the rosemary from him, inhaling deeply of its earthy scent. Her “uncles” had cared for her so well, that she couldn’t fault them—and guilt assailed her at the fact that she struggled so to contain her fiery temper.

But the news Anselm had brought was terrible. How were the villagers going to pay the extra money? The prime growing season was already over—would they be forced to sell their chickens, ducks, and geese? Raid the stores to make payment in kind? It seemed so wrong, when Smythe and Clark had so much, and they so little.

“I suppose I shouldn’t seek out Master Smythe then, even if he does want to see me.”

“If you’re both angry, the result could be an increase in the payment—who knows? That would be disastrous, Niece. We will go about the village and discuss what might be done to meet the landlords’ demands. We can talk to Master Smythe—he will take more notice of us than he would of a woman. Even one he likes.”

She gasped. “Nay! Don’t expose yourselves to his notice. If he finds out who or what you really are, you would be cast into prison. Or worse.”

“As could you,” added Martin. “We have weathered many storms, Child. Be ruled by me. It is best you don’t go near the commandery for a while. I’m certain Benedict would agree with me. Now, I have some comfrey ointment to make for Goodwife Salter’s knife cut—it is not healing so fast as it should.”

“And I have been commissioned to make two stools for the preceptor’s house, as well as some broom handles and ladder rungs,” Anselm pointed out. “Remember what we have advised you, Niece. You can’t blame Master Smythe for our misfortunes. He may be irksome, but he was not the instrument of our fall. ’Tis better to make of him a friend than a foe.”

The two men left, and she hooked the gate back in place to keep the chickens contained, then wandered around, randomly plucking at weeds as she tried to sort out her thoughts.

Nay, this would not do. She needed distraction. A glance at the sky revealed it was well-nigh time to exercise and feed Charlemagne. She would take a brisk walk toward the neighboring village and fly him on the old common land there. It was well away from the commandery, so it should be safe.

She paused with one hand on the door latch. But why must she keep Charlemagne away from the commandery? He’d done nothing wrong. Come winter, when the highway was a quagmire and her gauntlet stiff with frost, she wouldn’t want to take him all the way to the next village every day. She needed to be able to fly him close to home—which would inevitably bring them near the forbidden lands.

She should seek out Master Smythe. She should attempt to demonstrate that Charlemagne couldn’t possibly get into the dovecote. No mention would be made of the lease renewals—unless he brought the subject up himself. She would remain calm throughout their conversation and not make an enemy of her new landlord.

The sun had baked the ground solid. Cecily adjusted her broad-brimmed straw hat over the top of her coif—it would not do to burn her cheeks in the late-August heat.

The highway was quiet, with just a few local women out collecting hips and haws for medicines and early blackberries for making tarts. She passed the time of day pleasantly with each one, never forgetting that it was due to the continued tolerance of these people that the small group of Catholics was permitted to remain in the village. Though she hadn’t voiced her fear to Anselm or Martin, she nonetheless nursed a concern that if the villagers were pressed for coin, one of them would break the unspoken pact of the past twelve years and surrender up the recusants in exchange for money.

Nay. She lifted her chin. She would not let that happen under any circumstances. She quickened her pace, eager to close the distance between herself and the commandery. Charlemagne shifted his grip, and his belt tinkled in remonstrance.

“Forgive me, my friend.” She slowed a little and kept her arm steady. “We are almost there.”

There were no impressive rides or roads leading up to the Temple Roding Commandery—the place had not been built for show. There were no grand chapels or monastic churches to inspire the casual passerby. The biggest buildings on the site were the two massive barns, designed to contain the produce that came in from the manor—principally barley and wheat. It was not like a normal monastery—a place for solitude and religious contemplation. It had been set up to turn the annual harvest into coin to fund the Templars’—and later the Hospitallers’—religious crusades to convert the infidel. It was a place for hard work and economy—none of the proceeds from the sale of the grain had ever been wasted.

Currently, a laborer was working in one of the moats, shirtless and up to his knees in water. A slimy pile of silt graced the edge of the moat, topped by a more uniform layer of what appeared to be clay. Faith—that could be a problem.

Cecily quickened her pace, ignoring Charlemagne’s click of annoyance.

“Ho there, fellow! What are you about?”

The man straightened, stared at her, then stuck his shovel in the heap of spoil and clambered out.

As soon as he turned to face her, she