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

won’t have anyone impugn my integrity. Cecily Neville—you have lost the battle. Now, take yourself and your bird off my land, and don’t raise a finger against me again, or you’ll have to face the consequences.”

How quickly his amusement had turned to cold fury. Cecily bent for her hat, slapped it on her head, then collected Charlemagne on her gauntlet.

“I give you good day, sir,” she said, stiffening her spine as she swung away from him. “God forbid that I should ever attempt to offer friendly, neighborly advice again. I shall watch you make error after error, and I shall sit back and laugh.”

She stomped off, refusing to glance over her shoulder, even though she could feel his eyes on her back all the way down the path to the highway.

“Well, Charlemagne, we shan’t attempt to help that vile creature again. He should know better than to make foes of us, my boy, should he not?”

The bird clicked his beak in response, reminding her that he was due to be flown and fed. Good. It always made her feel better to watch him fly, soaring up toward the heavens. She would imagine herself in his place, looking down on the land whose shackles she had escaped. Yet Charlemagne wasn’t truly free. No one was truly free, were they? And she was just a chattel, an appurtenance, something to be used for profit by men like Master Allan Smythe. As her landlord, he virtually owned her, and if he wished to cast her out of her cottage for withholding payment, he could do it—without question.

She had tried to reason with him, and he’d laughed in her face. She hated him and everything he stood for—the grasping, godless, Protestant swine.

She wouldn’t offer him her help again, even though she knew all there was to know about the Temple Roding Commandery and how to get the most out of it. His enterprise would fail. Perchance she could help that failure come a little sooner.

She would fly Charlemagne now. Then after that, when her mind was clear, she would think of a way to bring down the smug, overbearing Master Allan Smythe.

Chapter Six

“Who was that fine-looking wench, Brother-in-law?”

Allan glanced up from his labors to see Kennett looking down at him from the bank of the moat. He laid his shovel down and clambered out.

“Just one of the village girls, come to complain about the rents.”

“Not just one of the village girls, not with that prime falcon on her wrist. I wonder if she’d sell it.”

Allan scowled. “I doubt it.”

“Ah, you still think it’s been taking your doves and their young. That was a stoat, I tell you. Time to let that matter go, methinks. Hmm. I would enjoy going hawking again—it seems an age since I last did any. I will ask if she wants to sell the bird—where is the beauty to be found?”

Allan narrowed his eyes. “Which beauty—the bird or the woman?”

“Mayhap, both. I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at her. She had the kind of slender figure that a man would enjoy.”

Allan hid his grimace and gestured toward the village. “Yonder—I know not where,” he lied.

Kennett smiled. “No matter. I shall find her. I mean, them. When I go to collect the fees for the new leases.”

“About that.” Allan pulled his shirt on. “Are you sure it’s necessary?”

Kennett’s face fell as he held Allan’s gaze. “Alas, I fear it is. I have had bad tidings concerning our flock. Their arrival will be delayed since some of them have developed foot-rot and cannot travel.”

“What? I thought you said the flock was healthy?” Allan fought down the swell of panic. They needed those sheep now. Even if they wouldn’t have the fleeces until early next summer, the ewes would need to be settled and well-fed before they could be put with the rams. Even he knew that.

Yet Kennett, though solemn, did not appear to see this as a disaster. “It is merely a delay while the animals are treated. Or we could pay extra and have two separate droves—the healthy beasts could come now, and the poorly ones later, when they are recovered.”

“Jesu—how many sick creatures are there? Could they not be brought in a cart once they’re fit again?”

“I know not if that would cost less or more. But if the sheep fail us, we must garner income in some other way, and the only means I can think of is to acquire it from our tenants.”

“How stands your inheritance? Would that help us survive the winter?”

“Alas, ’tis barely enough to cover the costs of my travel and clothing. I must look my best, you understand, if I am to negotiate with farmers and villagers and maintain the upper hand.”

Allan glanced down at his damp, silt-smeared shirt, then ran his eyes over Kennett’s fancy slashed shoes, paned hose, brocade cloak, and cuffs embroidered with blackwork. Of course, the man was entitled to be profligate with his own money—but it didn’t make him much of a business partner.

So, he would be bearing the burden of the manor’s extra costs, would he? Kennett had insisted on being in control of the finances, since he’d invested more, but it didn’t sound as if he were managing the money all that well.

“Let’s go into the house. I need a drink.” There was a pitcher of small beer their servant Lettice had made and some bread she’d baked that morning. If she’d found the time, and the weather wasn’t too humid for it, there might even be some fresh butter.

“So, what was going on between you and that fair damsel?” Kennett asked as they walked back to the house.

“Nothing. As I said, she was complaining about the rents. Why do you have to suspect me of something?”

“You’re a hot-blooded man in his prime, deprived of his wife in the first year of marriage. You have your wants and needs—as do I.”

This pronouncement was distasteful. What did Kennett know of his wants