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

time to mull over the mystery that was Cecily Neville. But thus far, he had drawn no conclusions, beyond the obvious one that she was clearly no blood relation to her so-called uncles. Had she been left as a babe on the doorstep of one of them? Perchance they’d adopted her. If so, he suspected that the circumstances of her adoption must cause too much grief to be spoken of—or too much scandal. With her refined features and long aristocratic nose, she could easily be the by-blow of some local dignitary—a hard-hearted villain who’d cast her off because he would have preferred a son.

With Yuletide in the offing, he had every hope Cecily would let down her guard and make him party to her secrets. And with the mead he’d been brewing flowing freely, there was a chance that, even if she revealed naught, one of the others might.

“Master Smythe? I thought to put these evergreens around the walls of the old malthouse. What say you?”

Allan jumped and narrowly avoided losing his footing. He was on the roof of the guesthouse, gradually stripping off the tiles to sell. Only half the building remained now, due to the family’s diligent demolition work.

He glanced down to see Cecily, almost entirely swamped by a large heap of ivy mixed with holly.

“Why the malthouse?” he called, adjusting his footing.

“It is small, warm, and a fine place for Christmas Day feasting.”

Indeed? He’d have been perfectly happy to eat around the kitchen table. The old monks’ kitchen had quickly become his favorite place. Not least because that was where she was usually to be found.

“Why not the kitchen? It will already be warm from the cooking fire.”

“There’s a central hearth in the malthouse, so we can build a fire there. You may not have seen it—it was buried under a heap of rotting barley sacks. And I would prefer not to be surrounded by mess while we eat—which is why I don’t want to use the kitchen. I’ve put some old stooks of hay in the room, and Anselm has mended the benches, so if anyone’s too weary to seek their bed after the festivities, there’ll be a place to rest. May Lettice join us if she wants? I don’t want her to think she’s been forgotten.”

He saw no reason to countermand Cecily’s wishes. After all, she was providing him with the first true family Christmas he’d had in years. Not that he put a great deal of store by the festivities, but mummers’ plays, mystery plays, and the chill magic of midwinter had always brought enjoyment.

“Do as you please. I’ll be finished with this task soon and can come across to help you.”

“Oh, no—that won’t be needful. But thank you.” She hurried away.

He returned to his task, unpinning the tiles and stacking them neatly at intervals, ready to winch them down with the assistance of one of his new laborers. Why had she not wanted his help? Was she, mayhap, planning some surprise which his presence would spoil? A pox on’t—he couldn’t stop thinking about it now.

Grinning to himself, he dusted his hands on his apron and descended the ladder, intending to take a wash before he followed Cecily.

As he passed the chapel, he saw Benedict on hands and knees in the frosty grass, apparently examining the building’s footings. The sward around him was covered in neat mounds, sealing the graves of long-dead warrior monks, lay brothers, and the commandery’s servants. The graves always gave Allan the shivers—they were memento mori he could have done without.

He had made no hard and fast decisions as yet concerning the chapel. It was in good repair, and all the offending Catholic paraphernalia had been stripped from it long before he’d acquired the place. But he had no need of a private chapel, and the locals worshipped at the church in the village. Would his soul be endangered if he were to pull the building apart?

“How now, Benedict.” He gave the older man a cheery wave.

Benedict shot upright and stepped away from the chapel wall with every indication of guilt, his surveyor’s chains rattling like those of a disconsolate ghost. What had he been doing that made him look so ill-at-ease?

“Are you quite well?” Allan paused and stared at him.

“Aye, indeed, Master. Well enough. I just pricked my finger on a thistle.” He put the injured digit in his mouth and sucked at it noisily.

Puzzled, Allan drew closer. There were no thistles around the chapel that he knew of—Martin had weeded there the other day. Benedict folded his arms, not moving from the spot, and waited for Allan to come up to him. Then he gave him the polite bow of a servant greeting his master.

“Have you decided yet what to do about the chapel, sir? It seems a pity to pull it apart for its stone.”

Allan shook his head. “Alas, I need that stone to sell. I regret it, too. But what use do I have for a chapel?”

“Do you think the current order will prevail? There is a Catholic princess, who is sister to our young monarch.”

“There is also a Protestant one, the Princess Elizabeth. But I cannot see a woman becoming monarch of the realm. Edward will have heirs when he is well enough to sire them, and the sisters were excluded in the late King Henry’s will.”

The older man’s face paled, and he blinked rapidly.

Allan narrowed his eyes. Could this simple cobbler be a Catholic sympathizer? Old ways were hard to shift in the remoter parts of the country—or so he’d heard. It didn’t necessarily make Benedict dangerous—he’d also heard that country folk held all manner of superstitious nonsense in their heads.

He forced out a chuckle. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid that the dead will arise from their graves to haunt us if the chapel is disturbed. Surely our faith will protect us from such vengeful spirits?”

“Our faith? I mean—aye, it will. But there are those who will swear to you that ghosts are as