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

It cost him an enormous effort, but he managed to keep his voice level as he replied, “Had you listened to reason, and been prepared to wait until the spring, as I advised, you could have saved yourself the effort of a lawyer’s fee. You could also have avoided the inconvenience of having to throw me out and impound my goods. Yet—there is still time to grant me that stay of execution, and save yourself a good deal of trouble.”

“Trouble, eh?” Kennett raised an eyebrow. “I consider that a threat. You have two weeks—no more. I’ve waited long enough. Now, what has that accursed boy done with my horse?”

Allan had plenty more to say but, at that moment, Lettice emerged from the kitchen bearing a salver of forcemeat decorated with slices of orange and spoonfuls of redcurrant preserve. The feasting was about to begin.

As Kennett mounted up and glared down at him, Allan indicated the girl.

“My Christmas Day festivities are starting. You had best make haste, so you don’t miss your own.”

“I shall be partaking of better fare than minced liver and berries. Fare thee well. I will see you anon.”

Allan made no attempt to correct his former business partner. He knew from the smells in the kitchen—which he’d been forbidden to enter—that there was much more provender to come. But there was no point boasting about it. Kennett had set him a challenge, and his survival depended on him rising to meet it.

But he had, as yet, no idea of how it was to be done.

Chapter Fourteen

Cecily was proud of the feast that she and Lettice had prepared. The boar’s head had been particularly fine, the cheek meat being reserved for Allan. She’d made a rice mountain, flavored with a pinch of precious nutmeg and colored with rose petal conserve—and it hadn’t fallen apart. There were two braces of pheasant, served with roasted crab apples, and a raised game pie she’d made with Lettice’s help.

Lettice’s wrist was much better, though it ached, apparently, and she could only carry one dish at a time. Cecily was secretly glad because it meant that the girl could not yet return to her duties, so Allan still needed Cecily at the commandery. She should have been burdened with guilt for having such an unchristian thought, but she decided to exonerate herself—at least for the festive season.

Only, Allan—though he had dined well, and his face was ruddy from good cheer and the warmth of the fire—had failed, as yet, to smile. Had her efforts to please him been wasted?

Exhausted, full, and emboldened by mead, she boldly waved Benedict off the bench beside him and sat herself down. She immediately felt the pull of Allan’s body and leaned close, brushing his elbow with her own.

“Is aught amiss? Have our labors not met your expectations, Master?”

He clasped his hands around the stem of his pewter goblet but didn’t meet her eyes. “Nay, it is not that—of course not. You’ve outdone yourselves, and I’m right grateful. It is nothing about which you need concern yourself.”

Cecily stared glumly at her feet. She had so hoped to delight him with the feast, especially after he’d made her the gift of the gauntlet. What was it that taxed his mind and stole his enjoyment?

Simpkin, who appeared to have fallen asleep in his corner, suddenly dipped a hand inside his jacket and produced a crudely carved pipe.

“May I, sir?” The boy looked to Allan for approval.

“Only if you can play it. I won’t have my Christmas spoiled by the sound of souls being tormented in hell.”

“It might sound less like tormented souls if I accompany Simpkin on my viol,” Martin suggested. “If we can’t find a tune to please you, Master, you may add our instruments to the log pile.”

“I will do so, and gladly, if neither of you can play.”

A dimple appeared in Allan’s cheek—the first sign of good humor Cecily had seen in him since their kiss. Since their kiss—she’d not allowed herself to think about it while she concentrated on the cooking, but now the memory swamped her, heating her cheeks and filling her with nameless yearnings.

Benedict compounded her discomfort by whispering in her ear, “Why not persuade Master Smythe to dance? He’s far too gloomy for this celebration of our Lord’s birth.”

“I can’t dance,” she hissed back, as Martin unwrapped the cloth from his viol and started tuning the strings. “As well you know. ’Tis not the kind of thing they teach in a commandery.”

“Shush, Child—he’ll hear you.”

Benedict’s warning brought her back to herself. She mustn’t let the liquor she’d consumed make her foolish. There was a lot they had to hide from Master Allan Smythe, and she couldn’t afford to forget that fact.

Contrary to expectations, Simpkin could play his pipe. He performed a jolly tune that had Cecily tapping her feet and the others clapping in time. Martin played a few drones on his viol, then picked up the shepherd boy’s tune and embellished it.

Cecily lost herself, staring into the embers in the hearth, letting the music percolate into her soul, freeing her from earthly constraints.

“That’s a dreamy smile you have on your face, Mistress Neville. If those are perchance happy thoughts, shall you share them with me?”

Allan’s voice shook her out of her reverie. “Oh, I was… thinking of nothing, really.”

“Then let me give you something to think about. Dance with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” She was melting with embarrassment. “I couldn’t. I know not how to dance.”

“Don’t you have dances in the village? I’m certain you can manage a measure or two. I’d ask Lettice, but I don’t want to sprain her wrist.”

Seriously—she couldn’t dance with him. Everyone would see. Everyone would know. What if he tried to throw her about, like in one of those galliard things she’d heard of? His hands would be on her waist, and hers on his shoulders. It would be like that kiss—she wouldn’t be