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

Besides going into the village, he must fix the tiles on the barn roof so that the sheep, when they arrived, could be penned up, checked over, and fed in comfort. He’d need a pair of ladders to get up there—had he seen ladders listed in the inventory when they’d bought the place? Even if he could find said ladders, he’d doubtless have to repair them before use. Just as well he had a practical bent in addition to his book learning—Kennett was too lazy, and too proud, to dirty his hands with such toil.

The creak of the wooden door below told him his brother-in-law had left the preceptor’s house. Good. Now he could concentrate on his patient.

Allan collected the basket from its corner and set it carefully on the bench, then lit a candle to dispel the gloom in the solar. How ironic, since the solar was supposed to be the sunniest room in the building! He carefully lifted out the golden-colored baby coney and held it up to his face.

“You are a beauty, aren’t you, little one?”

The small legs kicked and scrabbled, but not for long. Allan had painstakingly splinted the creature’s broken hind leg, but it must still hurt whenever it moved. Fortunately, the animal soon quieted and allowed itself to be cradled in his arms.

He’d never seen a coney this color before he came to Temple Roding Commandery. Such animals were, in his limited experience, generally grey. But this one had a coat with the golden tint of ripened barley, and he was keen to see the furry bundle make it to adulthood. Not for the pot, nor for its skin, but to see if it could generate a whole family of sandy-colored coneys. Only—would he have to raise them indoors? Such a light-colored coat must make them more vulnerable to predators.

He rubbed a hand gently over the animal’s flattened ears and lowered his head to whisper, “I’ll take care of you until you are mended. Then, I will let you roam free. But not until I have put a stop to the depredations of that peregrine.”

Quite how he would achieve that, he wasn’t sure, for the girl would not give up her pet easily, and he didn’t want to take it illegally. He was supposed to be the upholder of the law on the manor now and must therefore do everything according to the rules.

As he shouldered into his most waterproof cloak, an idea struck him. He would put a net in the walnut tree, and if the falcon ever came there again, he would capture it and put an end to its rampages.

And as for the young woman who claimed to own it—well, he wouldn’t want to see her pretty face spoiled by being put into the pillory or the stocks. He’d settle for compensation for the squabs and young coneys he’d lost—even peasants had skills or items they could offer in lieu of coin.

A flush of heat washed over him. She’d had an attractive figure to match the comeliness of her face, so he’d better not tell Kennett he was after compensation. He couldn’t trust the man not to take advantage, and the very idea shocked him more than he could explain.

Chapter Three

A Catholic ceremony had been celebrated secretly in Cecily’s cottage, and the commandery’s former servants were now relaxing on benches, unwilling as yet to return to their various homes.

She loved such moments, spent with the men who had been like fathers to her—although in public, she always referred to them as “Uncle”. “Father” had too many Catholic connotations.

“Will you take another cup of broth?” As she reached to take Benedict’s horn beaker, her heart contracted. Over the past twelve years, the commandery’s former chaplain had taken on a haggard look. Both the passage of time, and the religious persecution following the late king’s repudiation of the pope, had taken their toll. Benedict was a man haunted, forever looking over his shoulder. Cecily loved him dearly but feared he’d worry himself into an early grave.

“Thank you, Niece.” He accepted the mutton bone and rosemary broth, and pushed his feet toward the cooking fire.

“How will we fare with these new landlords of ours, do you think?” Martin, who had once managed the guesthouse and hospital at the commandery, stared at Benedict.

“I can’t help but think we’ll fare much worse. These will be hard times for us all. And dangerous ones, for the new landlords are likely to pry. I know not what our fate will be if we are discovered.” Benedict gestured upward with his spoon. “Unless the good Lord has pity upon us.”

“I sometimes wonder if He can even hear us.” Anselm, youngest of the three, interjected. “With the pope no longer interceding for us, He may have turned a deaf ear to all of England.”

Cecily couldn’t help but agree. None of them wanted to be forced to recant the beliefs that had tied them to the commandery. Who would want to put his very soul in peril?

Understanding Benedict’s tendency to melancholy, she knew what would cheer him—at least in the short term. She rose, uncorked a costrel of her latest batch of precious mead, and offered it to him.

As he took a grateful draft, she said, “I’ve met one of our new lords of the manor. He strikes me as intransigent and very particular. It wouldn’t surprise me if he counted every single carp in his ponds, each apple on his trees, and even the number of clods in the midden.”

Anselm set aside the wooden platter he was rubbing to a smooth finish and laughed heartily. “I’ll warrant he doesn’t know the number of bees in his apiary, however.”

She sighed. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he did. You know, he accused poor Charlemagne of having taken his pigeons. Not while flying around outside, mark you, but actually within the dovecote. Something has been eating squabs and eggs.”

“Most likely stoats,” offered Martin. “They