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

He held it out of her reach. “I’ve just risked both my reputation and my livelihood in your defense, Cecily Neville. The least you can do is walk home with me. Besides which, you seem apt to attract the wrong kind of attention—would it not be best to have a protector?”

She bowed her head. He had just floored his business partner in her defense—it wasn’t every day that one’s enemy became one’s champion.

“I have never felt the need of a protector before this moment.” Not until the newcomers had thrown everything into turmoil. “But I thank you for coming to my aid, Master Smythe. Remind me to never overstep the mark with you.”

She knew there was a twinkle in her eyes, despite her best intentions. He responded with a disarming grin.

“I assure you that I would never harm a woman, no matter how much she goaded me—you are perfectly safe with me.”

That, of course, depended upon what he meant by “safe”. Nonetheless, he was a better man than that despicable Clark, so she gave him the victory, and let him carry the basket while she trotted along beside him, struggling to match his longer stride.

“Where is your bird this day?” he inquired.

“My Uncle Benedict is looking after it. He would have come to the market with me, were he not unable—temporarily—to walk.” He would be annoyed that she had no tidings to bring back. And she’d prefer not to share the latest gossip since it would now undoubtedly concern her.

“Yet another uncle? You seem to have many.”

“As I said, everyone in the village is closely related.”

He accepted this with a slight nod of his head. “And this particular uncle is able to control the bird? It won’t be destroying any more of my doves in your absence?”

“I have kept my word.” She couldn’t find it within her to rail at him for his unjustified accusations of Charlemagne, not when he had just acted as her champion. He was walking quickly, his body stiff, his expression grim—he must be deeply disturbed, despite his attempts at polite conversation.

“I am glad to hear it.”

The rest of the journey was made in silence. She knew he was thinking about the consequences of his actions outside the Boar’s Head Tavern. If he couldn’t soothe his brother-in-law’s ruffled feathers, those consequences would be dire, indeed.

When they reached her cottage door, she invited Smythe inside for refreshment. He shook his head as if to cast off melancholy thoughts and gave her an apologetic smile. “Alas, I cannot. Lettice will have left something for me. It’ll be vile, no doubt, as she is an adventurous cook, but she gets upset if I don’t eat what she’s made.”

He bowed briefly and handed her the basket. “I regret that your trip to the market was so cruelly spoiled,” he said, then turned away and walked back toward the commandery.

She gazed at his retreating back, admiring his powerful, purposeful stride, and was shocked by a startling revelation.

She no longer hated Master Allan Smythe.

Chapter Nine

Despite the dire situation in which he found himself, Allan couldn’t regret having rescued Cecily Neville. Certainly, she was a firebrand—though she tried hard not to be—and her presence excited him.

Was it wrong to be attracted to another woman after the death of one’s wife? He pulled the jeweled miniature from beneath his shirt, enjoying the way the sunlight sparkled on the gems. He gazed at the portrait. Hannah was pale, ethereal, an angel, and his heart was sore as he looked upon her delicate features. How delightful their son would have been, had he lived—a golden-headed Cupid. He would have loved running around the commandery, clambering over the crumbling old walls, hiding in haystacks, feeding the doves with a chubby hand and a grin, and riding around the manor on his father’s back, pretending he was on a horse.

Allan sucked in a deep breath and tucked the locket away. There was work to do, and he had no time for melancholy. It was mid-September, the time to harvest Nature’s bounty, and preserve it, dry it, or store it up against the depredations of winter.

Hands on his hips, he stared at the earthen bed where he’d been doing battle with the artichokes, and his thoughts strayed back to Cecily. She seemed to know her way around the manor and understood how it worked. How had she known about the clay that was needed to line the moat? That was not the kind of knowledge he’d expect a young peasant woman to have unless she had an intimate connection with the place. Had Cecily’s parents worked here, mayhap, before the old king dismantled all the monasteries? As he had long since suspected, there remained much to be discovered about Mistress Cecily Neville.

If he was right about that close connection, it must have been a terrible time for her family. Kennett had learned from the former bailiff that the preceptor had refused to take King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy—that insidious devil’s bargain that recognized the king as head of the Church in England. The preceptor had been made of stern stuff—despite torture, he’d refused to swear the oath and been executed publicly for his lack of compliance.

The rest of those who had lived or worked on the manor, including the lay brothers, chaplain, and steward, had all gone into exile, seeking new lives and occupations. They must have seen the pensions which were offered to them as blood money after what had happened to their preceptor. They hadn’t trusted the king. Allan didn’t blame them—no one should ever have trusted King Henry.

His son, young Edward, was a clever boy and a learned one—he might yet grow up to be a finer monarch than his father, undistracted by lust and greed. So long as he didn’t give way too easily to factions at court—and could get over his regular bouts of illness.

A high whistle made Allan