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

realized that this was no laborer. She should have recognized the blond hair of Master Allan Smythe, his broad shoulders, and his long legs. But now, his hair was dark with water. He must have been splashing himself to stay cool, for water coursed down his muscular torso, soaking into his waistband. His feet and lower legs were bare and black with mud.

“You’ve caught me at a disadvantage,” he announced, halting a couple of yards from her. “It is Cecily Neville, is it not? I know you from your russet-colored kirtle and determined stride, though your face is in shadow.”

She was glad her face was in shadow—it meant he couldn’t see the flush that painted her cheeks. She’d seen half-naked men before, but never anyone quite so… well-made. Wait—what did he mean, “determined stride”? She was dainty and ladylike when she walked. Wasn’t she?

Pah! His opinion of her mattered not one whit. Before she could remember what she’d come for or frame an answer, he gestured at Charlemagne.

“I see you carry your demonic familiar with you. Is there naught that can separate the pair of you?”

Good. He was being infuriating again—that made it far easier to talk to him.

“Why do you detest my bird so much?” She would dispute with Smythe, but she wouldn’t get angry—she’d been warned not to. And she would try to look at his face, not his bronzed chest. She resisted the urge to remove her hat and fan herself with it. It didn’t matter that he was a fine, handsome fellow—he represented everything she hated.

“Because it kills my doves. I found one the other day, close to where you’re standing, quite torn asunder.”

He was breathing heavily—he’d obviously been toiling hard in the moat. He slicked his hair back from his brow, then reached for a bundle of white cloth that turned out to be a shirt and dried himself with it. When he pulled it on, it was as if he’d released her from a trance.

She cleared her throat. “Was that why you came in search of me? To complain about my bird?”

“I came to ask for an explanation, certainly. I thought you’d agreed to keep it away from here.”

“I have kept my word.” She ran a finger down Charlemagne’s downy breast. “We have not been nigh in days. You do know that there are other creatures that might take a dove? A fox, a cat, a stoat—mayhap a kite or a buzzard.”

“Of course, I know. I lived in the countryside myself as a child—one does not forget such things. Do you swear your bird has not been near?”

He didn’t sound as angry as before—he must be tired from all the dredging. Unless he was being conciliatory. Suddenly, she remembered the rents and wondered how far this benign mood of his would stretch.

“I swear it. On my mother’s grave.” She couldn’t help but cast a glance toward the chapel and the cemetery where her mother lay at rest. Nameless, husband-less and hopeless, she lay there, having sought refuge with the monks when she was near her time. She had flatly refused to reveal anything of her circumstances, not even when she knew she lay dying after giving birth to her child. All the brothers could tell Cecily when she was old enough to understand was that her mother had looked—and sounded—foreign.

“What ails you? Is aught amiss?” Smythe had taken a step closer.

“If I look unhappy, sir, it is because I’ve learned you are to charge every household in the village an additional fee to extend the leases.”

Holy Mary—she hadn’t meant to tax him with that. She just didn’t want to talk about her mother.

“Ah.” He wiped his sleeve across his brow, then hunkered down on the grass in front of her. “I should have expected that, shouldn’t I? You’re not a woman to accept anything you don’t like.”

“It’s not a question of not liking.” She settled Charlemagne on the handle of Smythe’s shovel but remained standing. It made a change to be looking down at the man.

Smythe eyed the bird with a grimace. “Are you sure he’s not going to fly off that and attack something? Or someone?”

She threw her head back. “Hardly! He is capable of many tricks, but flying blind isn’t one of them. Trust me—his hood shall remain in place. Anyway, I’m not the only one disliking the fines. No one in the village has coin to spare, and the summer is almost done. We will need to buy more food and firewood in preparation for winter, and fodder to keep our animals alive when ’tis too cold to forage. Or when the ground is hardened by frost or buried by snow. You could afford to buy an entire manor.” She gestured toward the commandery buildings. “Surely you can afford to give the village a stay of execution.”

Smythe was shading his eyes and staring up at her, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You truly are an extraordinary young woman, Cecily Neville. You fly a nobleman’s bird, converse well, and make a good argument. You are cut from a different cloth to the other villagers, which makes me think you were once something more, and have come down in the world a great deal. What’s your story?”

She swallowed. She wasn’t used to anyone being interested in her. That way, peril lay.

“You step nimbly aside from the matter in hand. The leases, sir. Naught can convince me that you are motivated by anything other than greed.”

He got to his feet so swiftly, she stepped back, afraid he would strike her for her insolence.

He didn’t. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest.

“I will forgive you your lack of knowledge in this instance. You cannot know what it costs to run a manor of this size when the fields are little more than waste ground, the livestock is gone, and the buildings are in decay. Capital is needed to get the place running again.”

“Rumor has it that your business partner has capital.”

“Rumor seems to know