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

Why had she not thought of concealing the cauldron as well as the cups? Foolish girl. She was ill-prepared for such inquisitiveness. The man needed to leave as soon as possible before he spotted anything else incriminating. Yet, she had just invited him to stay.

“It is nothing special. Just mutton bones with nettles, sorrel, and rosemary.” Hopefully not at all to the tastes of a fine gentleman such as him.

“It sounds excellent.” He untied the pewter tankard that hung from his belt and handed it to her.

Defeated, she ladled a tiny helping into the tankard and hoped it would go cold quickly and congeal. He wouldn’t stay long if that were the case. In the meantime, she needed to keep his attention on herself, lest he notice any movement or sound from the three concealed men.

“Pray, be seated.” She pulled out one of the wooden stools made by Anselm’s clever hands, then planted herself in front of it so Smythe would have to sit with his back to the sacking drape. He glanced around him warily, then sat. “Where exactly is your falcon?”

He seemed genuinely worried by Charlemagne. Had he some unfounded fear of such birds? Mayhap she could play on this. She settled on the bench in front of her guest. “Asleep in a dark corner, with his hood on and his jesses tied to the perch. Why?”

“Oh, I’ve not come to impound him. Yet.” Smythe took a sip of his broth and blinked at her.

Good—the broth evidently wasn’t to his taste. Perchance, he’d choke on it.

“I swore to you that Charlemagne could not have made it into your dovecote. Falcons don’t fly when they’re full—he’d still have been at the scene of his crime had he feasted there. I know his weight and only fly him when he feels lighter and therefore needs feeding—it’s the best way to ensure his obedience. And as I said, I’m always present at such times.”

“We shall see what we shall see. This broth is monstrously good.”

Surely, he spoke in jest? It must be cold and congealing by now.

“In fact, the reason I’m in the village is to hire a kitchen wench.”

Her heart leaped. He could hire her, and then she’d be back at the Temple, her childhood home. She could secretly search for the gold reputedly hidden by the Knights Templar. She could sneak some of the manor’s produce out to her uncles to supplement their diet. And she could spy on Masters Smythe and Clark and report back to everyone. Only… she’d just fed the man cold, greasy broth. Not a good recommendation for a prospective kitchen wench.

He took another sip from his tankard and licked his lips. “Do you know anyone in the village who might be suitable?”

“Me,” she wanted to say. But she was too proud to beg. She sat up straight and looked expectant.

“I wouldn’t ask you, of course. You would try to poison me at the earliest opportunity.” He gave her a sideways look, but his eyes were smiling. “Besides, I’d be a fool to let you and that bird get any closer to my squabs. Do you have anyone you might recommend?”

She twisted her hands together. Was he deliberately trying to confuse her, raising her hopes before dashing them? Or was he teasing her? What an utterly infuriating fellow!

Suddenly, she remembered she was meant to be getting rid of him at the earliest opportunity. She rose.

“Lettice Carter is a capable enough girl. She lives in the cottage nearest the old well.”

He stood, too, and once again, she was reminded of his superior height and alarmingly muscular breadth. He was looking at her in that intense fashion again, as if he wanted to read her very soul.

“That reminds me,” he said, looming over her. “You told me that you were Lettice. When I asked in the village after the handsome young woman with the peregrine, everyone immediately knew you as Cecily. What do you have to hide, Mistress Cecily—?”

He’d called her handsome? Not that his opinion mattered. “Neville,” she supplied. “I thought you wanted to kill my bird. I was angry.” She still was, but she had to find a way to manage this man before he laid bare all her secrets.

“That may still happen.” His square jaw was set, his firm mouth hard. “But I will give you the benefit of the doubt and take no action until the murderous creature is caught in the act. I shall be out and about a lot, repairing the buildings, so I will be keeping an eye on that dovecote.”

This was a hammer blow. She’d have to make her food-gathering forays at night, then—if she dared continue with them at all. Faith, it would be a disaster if she couldn’t. There was less work for cobblers like Benedict in high summer, even when people could afford to use them. And in late August, most of the villagers were hale and hearty, which meant Martin, the healer, brought in little coin. Likewise, until the damp and cold of winter returned to rot the wood in the cottages, nobody had much need of Anselm’s wood-turning or chair-bodging skills. In such lean times, they all relied on being able to surreptitiously harvest produce from the Temple.

All she said was, “My peregrine will not come nigh your dovecote, sir. And I have naught to hide, I swear to you.”

He’d emptied his tankard now and there was no reason for him not to leave. But instead, he turned around and headed toward the large trestle table that she used for preparing food. What was he up to? Nosing around amongst her things, wondering what he might demand from her as compensation for his lost squabs? She reached for her ladle, wondering how much damage it would do if it connected with his head.

Nay, she mustn’t think such belligerent thoughts. Besides, his hard skull would doubtless break the ladle. Then she saw that he was merely