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

would have been attracted to the warrens. Since the place has been left unmanaged, there is now a huge warren established in the banks of the moat. But stoats crave eggs above anything and, no doubt, would not hesitate to take a helpless squab if they could get at one.”

With a shiver, Cecily recalled her encounter with Allan Smythe. “I told him Charlemagne couldn’t have done it.”

“Ah, but he could have, couldn’t he?” Benedict’s eyes twinkled at her. “I’ve seen you train that bird to swoop through a section of field drain or a hole in the roof. I know he can’t be relied upon to perform when you want him to, but we all know he’s capable of such a feat.”

“He couldn’t have entered the dovecote without my knowledge,” she said crisply. “Besides, as you know, I’ve been caring for those doves ever since we were cast out of the commandery, feeding them with whatever grain I can glean, generation upon generation. Even after I adopted Charlemagne, I continued managing the dovecote so that there would always be food for us. I fed the birds, so in a sense, they are now mine.”

“We’re most grateful for what you’ve managed to purloin from the place. For my part, I can say my adopted trade as a cobbler has been poor in these uncertain times, so I’m most grateful for the odd dove or fish from the commandery.” Benedict fiddled with the wooden rosary he still held in his hand. “Some of the villagers are now mending their own shoes—badly, I have to say—rather than paying me to do it.”

Cecily let out a sigh. “There’ll be no more fishing and no more doves—we’ll be taken as poachers and punished. No more coneys, either—I must sneak over there at the next full moon and remove my traps before they’re discovered. I might be able to scramble over the wall sometime soon, and steal a few worts from the kitchen garden. He hasn’t tended to that yet, so wouldn’t miss anything.”

It was so unfair. By rights, everything that flew, grew, burrowed, or swam at the commandery should belong to these men, the remnants of the Knights Hospitaller who had owned the place. She knew no other home and had continued to care for the manor—keeping the fishponds clean and clear, cutting back the brambles, and harvesting honeycombs, apples and pears.

Of course, all the livestock, horses, oxen and donkeys had been seized and sold over a decade ago, to put money into the unprincipled King Henry’s hands. All the rents from the manor had gone to the king’s officials, and there was little of value remaining save the derelict buildings and land.

But there was something else, although the men had always told her it was a myth.

“What if we should find the Templar treasure? That would enable us all to leave this godforsaken realm and mayhap take sanctuary in France.”

Benedict tutted at her. “Even if such a treasure exists, it wouldn’t belong to us. We’re outcasts now and can no longer hold wealth or land. If anything of worth was secreted at the commandery before the Templars were exterminated, it would now belong to its new owners, Masters Smythe and Clark.”

Cecily clenched her fists. “I detest that Allan Smythe. It is he that is the felon—not us!”

A sudden battering at the door made her leap up in consternation. It was an official knock, the knock of a constable or a soldier—proprietorial and not to be denied.

She sped to the door and put her ear against the panels. “Who’s there?”

“Master Smythe—your new landlord. I wish to speak with you.”

For the next few moments, the cottage was a hive of activity. Anselm, the sprightliest of the men, scuttled up into the attic that Cecily used as a bedchamber. Martin lifted a hatch in the floor and clambered in to curl up in the root cellar, and Benedict hid in a niche behind a sacking drape.

Cecily hastily hid their cups, then planted the broth cauldron atop the trapdoor to the root cellar before sliding back the bolt on the door. Her stomach fluttered as she opened the door to reveal Allan Smythe, smiling at her. She fought to control her breathing.

Leaning arrogantly against the door frame, he raised an eyebrow, then looked her up and down. “So, this is where you dwell. You appear flustered. Not by seeing me, I hope. Unless you have something to hide.”

She tilted her chin at him. “You took me by surprise—that is all.”

“And what were you about, that you had to bolt the door? I’ve visited several of the cottages in the village, and none of the doors were locked. Afraid someone might steal your demonic winged beast?”

Curse the man. He wasn’t supposed to have noticed the bolt—she usually managed to draw it without a sound. Time to slap some more goose grease on the thing.

“Aye, indeed. He’s a valuable bird, able to catch pigeons for us—I mean, me. Wild ones only, as I have said before. Will you come within?”

It was an enormous risk to let him inside, but to keep one’s new landlord talking on the doorstep was unacceptably rude. And might raise more questions in his mind.

His smirk vanished. “Is the bird here? It’s under control, I trust?”

“Of course. As I said—he doesn’t fly free, except when I take him out hunting or for exercise.”

A horrible thought struck her—Smythe had come to take Charlemagne away! But he couldn’t just do that, could he? Which of the villagers had told him where she lived? There would be a reckoning when she found out—after all that she and the men from the commandery had done for them!

Smythe stooped to enter the cottage, and stood near the dying fire, staring around him. Her heart stopped. What if he wanted to examine the building? It belonged to him, after all.

In a rush, she said, “Will you take some mutton broth, sir? I made a goodly batch this morn.”

He peered into the cauldron.