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

glance up, shading his eyes. Not the peregrine, surely? Had that woman no sense of honor? She’d promised. But then Allan recognized the forked tail of a kite. He let out a breath. He really must conquer this dislike of birds of prey—none had ever harmed him directly. And when he had his sheep roaming the fields hereabouts, it would not be anything as small as a peregrine that threatened them. He’d have to get a sheepdog and a guard dog, too, to keep stray dogs and other predators away.

The sound of a harsh scream, followed by a series of breathless, sobbing cries, concussed the peace of the lazy afternoon. He broke into a run, chasing out of the walled garden toward the kitchen, whence the sobbing came.

Lettice! There was no one else here that he knew of unless Cecily had decided to visit. He doubled his speed and burst into the kitchen to see his servant crouched on the floor, clasping one wrist with the other hand and rocking back and forth as tears streamed down her face.

He was on his knees before her in an instant. “What ails you?” he asked, though it was quite evident. A toppled stepladder lay before the great open fireplace, and a bunch of dried sage had fallen on the red-tiled floor.

“I’ve hurt my wrist, sir,” Lettice managed between sobs. “The ladder broke. I’m so sorry.”

He tutted as he gave the ladder a cursory glance. “Never mind that. It was old and rotten anyway. Have you broken your wrist?” He reached out.

She gingerly removed the hand cradling the injured limb, and allowed him to examine her arm. He winced when he saw a lump beneath the skin where no lump should be. The flesh was red, already starting to bruise.

Lettice tried to stifle her weeping while he examined her injury with infinite patience and care. “We need to get you somewhere more comfortable. If you put your good arm around me, I can lift you up.”

As he hefted her in his arms, he heard the bang of a door slamming and, suddenly, something that felt like a cobble struck him squarely between the shoulders. He spun around, still carrying his burden, and found himself opposite a red-faced Cecily Neville, an apple in her hand, poised to throw.

“I thought you more honorable than this, Master Allan Smythe,” she hissed. “How could you? Despoiling your own servants. I would never have suggested Lettice work here had I known you were such a monster.”

While Allan was still gasping at this injustice and the unexpected appearance of the woman who had never been far from his thoughts, Lettice spoke up.

“Nay, Cecily—be not angry. I fell. I’m hurt,” she ended with another sob.

Cecily’s demeanor changed in an instant, and she hurried forward. “What’s amiss?”

Lettice whimpered. “My wrist.”

Cecily took one look, then lifted her head to Allan’s. “Don’t stand there gaping, Master Smythe. Set her down somewhere comfortable. I’ll run and fetch Martin—I mean, my Uncle Martin. Have no fear, Lettice. I’ll give you a draft to ease the pain as soon as I can make one.”

“I’ll give the orders in my own house, thank you.” Allan’s feathers were still ruffled by Cecily’s accusation that he was “despoiling” Lettice. “You can stay here and minister to the girl. I’ll ride for your uncle if you tell me where he is to be found—it’ll be far quicker than you walking to fetch him.”

He settled Lettice in an ancient oak chair and carefully laid her bad wrist along one arm. “Try and keep your wrist still. This will give it some support while I’m gone. Cecily, keep her still if you can. Which is Martin’s cottage?”

Having received the directions, he hurriedly saddled Baldur and galloped off to Temple Roding village. He soon found the healer but was then delayed by the fact that Martin had no mount to take him quickly to the commandery.

“Do you ride, Master Martin?”

The man stared at him as if sizing him up.

Allan gritted his teeth, infuriated by the delay. “Well—can you sit a horse or not?”

“Aye, sir, I can. After a fashion. But there are none to be had in the village save a few plow horses or those more used to pulling a cart. They might, mayhap, get me there a little faster than walking, I suppose.”

“Here.” Allan thrust the reins into the older man’s hands. “Let me give you a leg up. Take my steed, Baldur. ’Tis more vital that you should get there quickly. Do what’s necessary for the girl, and help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

He bent and helped the other man into the saddle, then took Baldur’s bridle and told the horse firmly, “You have a mission to carry out, my boy. No tricks or tantrums—I need this gentleman delivered safely. Homeward!”

He gave Baldur a slap on the rump, and the animal jerked into movement. Ignoring the puzzled stares of the villagers, who had emerged to find out what the trouble was, Allan set off at a bracing speed in the wake of his horse and the healer.

By the time he reached the commandery, the warmth of the September afternoon had taken its toll. He had shed his sleeveless leather coat and his doublet and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He made straight for the well to dowse his head in the bucket before venturing into the kitchen. If he looked a fright, Cecily would just have to put up with that—he cared not what she thought of him. He was still smarting from their earlier encounter, and if he hadn’t needed her help at this precise moment, he would have gladly avoided her altogether.

He found the others still in the kitchen when he entered. Master Martin was pounding some dark roots in a mortar while Cecily stirred a steaming liquid in a pot set over an old chafing dish. The room smelled of burning charcoal and woodsmoke.

“How is the patient?”

“I shall set