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

or needs? The man was as shallow as a puddle on a flat rock. Kennett enjoyed the company of women but had shown no inclination to marry any of them. Mayhap, he feared that the expense of a wife would make it impossible for him to continue to dress as a coxcomb.

Allan thought of the miniature that hung suspended above his bed on a nail which must once have held the preceptor’s crucifix or a portrait of the Virgin Mary. Allan had commissioned the picture of Hannah to gift her on their wedding day, and it was an excellent likeness. If he had not planned to toil hard this day, the jewel would be in its usual place, nestling against his heart.

It was all he had left of her after she’d died tragically from a puerperal fever. The baby boy hadn’t long outlasted his mother, so Allan didn’t even have a child to dote upon. He’d sold all he had in order to buy a share of the commandery, but he hadn’t resented a single penny. He’d needed to begin his life again and bury himself in honest toil to heal the pain of his loss.

“I’m going to take a wash upstairs. Then let us hie to the old monks’ kitchen and see what Lettice has for us. Mayhap thereafter, you can show me the account books, so I know exactly how our finances stand.”

“I’ve already let you see the rent books.”

“Aye. It is the farm and household accounts that I want to see now.”

Kennett let out a hissing breath. “I’d hate to think you didn’t trust me, Allan. After all, I have hazarded much on this venture, more than you have. I’ve taken every care to ensure the books balance and that we continue to live within our means.”

“Forgive me, Brother. I’m cross from working too long in the sun, that is all. I shall be sweet-tempered once I have eaten and am refreshed.”

Wiping his hands on his hose, Allan clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, then picked his way across the cobbled yard to the preceptor’s house. It would not do to fall out with Kennett when so much was at stake. He must be diplomatic and also work out how he could become a buffer between the villagers and Kennett. For it sounded like Kennett was more than prepared to bleed the tenants dry. He could not, in all good conscience, sanction that. They must take no more than was absolutely necessary.

A visit to the most respected men in Temple Roding might not go amiss. And while there, he could warn Cecily Neville of his brother-in-law’s weakness when it came to women and the fact that she had come to his notice. He wouldn’t want to see Cecily fall victim to the man’s lust. Nor did he want Kennett to wrest the peregrine from her and take it for himself. The last thing Allan wanted was to have that flying devil take up residence at Temple Roding Commandery.

Chapter Seven

Hoping to speak with Cecily Neville after church that Sunday, Allan was concerned by her absence. Had she left the village? Was she unwell?

The inquiries he’d made of the few people who didn’t seem eager to avoid him gave him little satisfaction. Their evasive answers convinced him that everyone knew exactly where Cecily was and what she was doing but weren’t prepared to share that information with him. Why?

Shouldering the sack of globe artichokes that he’d harvested from the walled garden the previous day, he made his way directly to her cottage. When his knock produced no response, he tried the door and found it unbolted.

Calling Cecily’s name as he ducked his head to enter through the doorway, he mulled over the fact that these people had enough faith in their neighbors to leave their houses open. The good burghers of Cambridge would never have dreamed of doing such a thing. Of course, the unbolted door might mean Cecily was within and that he was right—she was ailing.

Depositing his sack on the floor, he scaled the narrow stepladder leading up to the loft space, calling as he went. He narrowly avoided cracking his head on a beam at the top of the steps and found the loft in darkness. There was no sound of breathing, no tiny rustle to give away the presence of a person. There was a rather charming scent up there, though, of lavender, mayhap, and possibly rosemary, too.

As his eyes grew used to the gloom, he could see no one in the bed, so he backed down the steps and returned outside. He scanned the yard, but there was no sign of Cecily, so he lingered outside the door, considering his next move.

There would doubtless be gossip if he went about from cottage to cottage asking after her. Mayhap he should just leave the artichokes. With her apparent knowledge of the commandery, she was bound to know they were a gift from him, a peace offering to help soften the blow that he could do naught about the leases at present. Not if Kennet had represented their financial situation correctly.

Rather than waste his time in the village, he decided to seek out the chair-bodger, and find out what progress the man had made on his order. A short walk brought him to the man’s cottage, where he knocked on the door.

There was some delay before his knock was answered with a rather breathless, “Who is it?”

“It is I, Master Smythe. Is all well, Anselm?”

There was another pause, and some distinct muttering, before he heard the sound of a bolt being slid slowly back. Puzzling.

When the bodger opened the door, Allan hid his curiosity with a smile. “God give you good day, Anselm. I trust I have not disturbed you at your meal?”

He evidently had, for there was a large cauldron of what smelled like pease pottage next to the fire, with Cecily standing beside it, brandishing a ladle like a