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

knees, fanning Allan’s face and calling for water to stem his coughing, while struggling to see through her tears. His clothing was hot to the touch, his hair singed in places, and he couldn’t stop coughing—but he was alive, thank the Lord.

“Here—we’ll take him into my cottage.” She heard Martin’s voice, right by her ear. “Constable—can you help me carry him?”

“Nay, I’ll help.”

Cecily breathed a sigh of relief—Anselm was there, too.

“Master Wright—I believe you have another duty to perform.” Anselm’s expression was grim.

Cecily was cradling Allan against her chest, supporting him as he gasped and retched, patting his back and covering his face with kisses in between the spasms, but she looked up when Anselm said, “Constable?” She’d never heard him use so harsh a tone before.

Both men were staring at Master Kennett Clark, who stood observing the still-raging fire with a puzzled frown, licking his wounded hands. When the constable nodded at Anselm and approached Kennett, the man flung up his hands, looking the very picture of outraged innocence.

“Did you see that? That bird attacked me? It should be killed, and its owner cast into prison.” He pointed a shaking finger at Cecily.

“My apologies, sir, but I can’t ignore what I witnessed with my own eyes. You deliberately withheld the key.” The constable looked cross and awkward, being the same man who had unjustly incarcerated Allan a few weeks earlier. Some of the villagers who weren’t involved in the bucket chain rushed to surround Master Clark, shaking their fists and shouting angrily.

Face red with fury, Clark sent Cecily and Allan a look that promised dire retribution. But the next instant, the constable wrenched his arm up behind his back and forced him into movement. The villagers’ jeers accompanied their progress as the constable marched Clark off to be incarcerated.

Cecily didn’t think she could ever hate anyone more than she hated Master Clark. He’d risked the life of the man she loved, threatened her, and destroyed her home. If he were to be executed for his crimes, she wouldn’t turn a hair.

The power of her anger buoyed her up, and she followed Anselm and Martin back to Martin’s cottage, too concerned with Allan’s well-being to even think about the fate of all her possessions. It wasn’t until Allan was settled in a chair, having his hot clothing and skin doused with water and his fingers dabbed with ointment, that she thought to look for her courageous peregrine.

“Anselm, Martin—have either of you seen Charlemagne?”

Martin glanced over his shoulder, and his expression chilled her.

“I regret that I have, my dearest Cecily. I saw him flying across the rooftops with smoke coming from his plumage. A stray spark must have landed on him after he attacked Master Clark. I’m so sorry.”

Fortunately, Anselm was standing right beside her, or she would have fallen. Charlemagne gone? The cottage gone, too? The Templar hoard was doubtless reduced to a useless mess, and Allan had burned hands and, quite possibly, damaged lungs from the excessive smoke. The best night of her life, followed by the worst morning conceivable. How would she ever recover from this?

Chapter Twenty-Three

Allan awakened in his own bed, the grey light of early dawn filtering through the shutters. His chest ached, and his throat tickled relentlessly, forcing him instantly upright so he could cough up the dark phlegm that clogged his lungs. Someone held out a bowl for him, which was fortunate, since his hands were both too firmly bandaged to be of any use at all.

“Cecily?” His voice sounded like that of another man’s, and it hurt to speak.

“I’m here. And Martin is below. I urged him to return home, but he refused.”

Allan pondered this for a moment. “They should leave. All of them.”

He paused to cough, and Cecily held a horn beaker to his lips. He swallowed a sweet liquid that numbed his throat a little. It tasted good.

“What’s that?”

“Hoarhound and honey, with a bit of licorice. Martin made it.”

“It’s good. Kennett?”

She smoothed his forehead and stroked a hand down one side of his face. “In prison. To be tried at the next assizes for arson and attempted murder.”

“Arson?” Had Kennett started the fire deliberately? And had he known both Cecily and he were inside?

“Indeed. Master Copeland was out early taking his pig to the common, and saw Clark shoot a fire arrow at the thatch. Later, the area where he’d been standing was searched and the bow, pitch and tinderbox were discovered.”

Ah. Allan remembered that tinderbox—it was inscribed with Kennett’s initials. That would have sealed his fate, no doubt.

“There’s no way on God’s earth that he can fight the charges, no matter how many people he tries to bribe. There were too many witnesses, including the constable himself.”

“It should never have come to this. If only I’d realized sooner how immoral, how deranged—”

“Nay.” She took the empty beaker from him. “You cannot blame yourself. No one could have predicted Kennett would go to such ends to take the commandery from you. Or to have me.”

“To have you?” Allan sank back against his pillows. “But you were in the cottage with me. He could have killed you, too.”

“I don’t think he meant to harm me. He didn’t lock the door until I was safe. How he knew you were in there with me, I’ve no idea.”

“He must have been watching.” How deep did Kennett’s depravity go? How could so sweet a woman as Hannah have had so selfish, manipulative, and unprincipled a brother?

“I had no idea he had become so obsessed with me. I never imagined your friendship with me could put you in such danger.”

Friendship? It was a great deal more than that, especially now. But he mustn’t press her—she was probably still in shock. “It’s all over now. He can’t hurt us anymore.”

“But your poor hands! They could be ruined.”

He could feel the sting of the burns, but though they pained him, he could move all his fingers. “They’ll heal.”

He stilled. Talking was an effort.