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

real as you or me.” Benedict’s Adam’s apple worked several times. “If the chapel were to be preserved, you could take down the malthouse instead, and sell the bricks.”

“They would not fetch so high a price as the stone and would be too easily damaged during demolition. Besides which, Cecily would never forgive me. She seems fond of that part of the manor.”

“Aye, she would be. That’s where—” Benedict fell silent, his eyes wide, the color returning to his cheeks.

Allan placed his fists on his hips. “That’s where what, sirrah? I’m not the fool you all seem to think me. I know Cecily has a long association with this place. What is the nature of her connection? Did she steal away from her mother and play here as a child? Was her mother a servant here? I assume women would have had some use in a commandery—a practical use, I mean, as I know the Hospitallers themselves would have been celibate. Or should have been. We all know how many abuses had entered the church before King Henry put a stop to them—and superstitious practices.”

Benedict’s pallor was back again—he’d clearly said something to upset the man. Was Cecily the result of an illicit liaison between a Hospitaller and a village girl? Was that the secret that they were all trying to hide? That she was not only a bastard but one with a shadow hanging over her mortal soul? Or was she, in fact, Benedict’s daughter?

The other man seemed to have recovered himself. “That is Cecily’s story to tell, not mine. Well, sir—I must return to my surveying. You would not want your servants to stand around idle, methinks.”

“Pray, continue.” Allan turned away, smirking. Let them have their little secrets. Come Christmas Day, when they were all in their cups, doubtless someone would reveal more than they ought, and the mystery of Cecily’s parentage would be solved.

He’d barely taken a step toward the house when something small, brown, and furry shot across his path and disappeared off in the direction of the warrens. He glanced over his shoulder to see Benedict regarding him thoughtfully.

“Was that a rat, Benedict? It moved too fast for me to tell.”

“A stoat, I think, Master. There are often stoats at the commandery. I mean—I have seen them here before, attracted by the baby coneys.”

Allan groaned and gazed skyward. It looked as if Cecily—and Kennett—had been right all along. It had been a stoat savaging the dovecote, not a bird of prey. Charlemagne was exonerated.

Which meant that he owed Cecily an apology. His self-deprecating grin broadened. He’d clean himself up, then head over to the malthouse to both assist her and to offer his apology for suspecting her peregrine of foul play.

And if he was very lucky, she would have already hung some mistletoe over the malthouse door, and he could avail himself of a kiss.

Chapter Twelve

Cecily stepped back and surveyed her handiwork. The old malthouse had been transformed by swathes of ivy interspersed with sprays of holly and bay. She had made an illuminated kissing ring and suspended it in the center of the room, so the circle of candles would exile the wintry shadows into all the corners.

Simpkin had got a goodly blaze going in the central hearth, and the smoke was, fortunately, finding its way out through the wind-eyes high up in the walls. Luckily, there was no wind to make it eddy around and make the revelers cough—it was a bright, crisp winter’s day, magically peaceful and still.

She had secretly celebrated the Catholic Mass with her “uncles” earlier, before attending the church in the village. They had to make a good show of it, despite the fear that they were endangering their souls by doing so. Now, the unpleasant conflict of beliefs could be forgotten. Everyone could join together to enjoy the feast she and Lettice had prepared, with the assistance of Simpkin—he was playing the part of both scullion and serving boy, roles which had him puffed up with self-importance.

“Close your eyes.”

Cecily started. Master Smythe had crept up on her, like a cat on its prey. She tried to turn and remonstrate with him, but he clasped one hand across her eyes and pulled her firmly against him.

The softness of his voice, and the heat and power of his presence, took the strength from her legs. With her eyes closed and her breathing coming in shallow bursts, she let him support her weight, enjoying the feel of his chest muscles against her back. It was a delight to bask in his heat and savor the fresh, spicy scent of him.

“Keep your eyes closed and hold out a hand. Do you trust me, Cecily?”

She had no reason not to. And even if she didn’t trust him, he’d deprived her of all will by touching her.

“Do I have a choice?” She held out her right hand and felt him slip something over it, pushing it over her fingers and up her wrist, almost to the elbow.

She gasped and shook his hand away so she could look. “A new gauntlet!”

“Aye.” She could hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “Your old one was tattered and torn—I feared that one day, Charlemagne would land on you and his talons would go right through to the flesh. See—I had it monogrammed.”

“A gift? For me?” She pulled the glove off and ran admiring fingers over it. The letters C and N entwined had been embossed into the leather on the back. The hide was thick but supple, which must have taken a great deal of work.

“You had this made specially?” She couldn’t turn to face him, dared not let him see the yearning in her eyes. She turned the gauntlet over and over, admiring the stitching and the quality.

“I commissioned Benedict to make it. But that’s not all. Turn around.”

She did, but was too shy to raise her eyes. She fixed her gaze on the chased bronze clasp of his cloak and waited.

“Hold