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

dipping his tankard into the water-filled puncheon that she used for washing, and rinsing it out. She replaced the ladle.

He strode to the still-open door to shake out the drops. Thanks be unto Mary—he was going! Not a moment too soon, especially for the other three closet Catholics concealed in the cottage.

Smythe turned just inside the doorway, the August sunlight burnishing his hair to a light golden color, and turning him from an unspeakable nuisance to a bronzed god. Cecily’s breath hitched.

“I shall call upon Mistress Lettice Carter straightway. Anon, Cecily Neville. I have no doubt we will meet again. Thank you for your hospitality.”

He ducked his head and departed, leaving her standing in a bright rectangle of sunlight, struggling with a tangled mess of emotions. When sense returned to her, she closed the door, bolted it, and shoved the cauldron away from the hatch.

There was a rustle from above, followed by the sound of hobnailed boots on the stair. Benedict whisked out from behind his drape, and Martin uncoiled himself from the root cellar and stood upright, brushing dirt from his doublet and hose.

“I can’t help think that we should have remained sitting around the fire, and brazened it out.” Benedict plucked a cobweb from his hair. “Why should Cecily not eat broth with those who everyone deems her kinsfolk? That man has never seen us before—how should he have any notion that we have not always been what we have now become? Do we have the words ‘papist’ or ‘recusant’ written across our foreheads?”

“Nay, indeed not.” Martin shook his head. “We’ve had many years in which to learn to keep our rosaries concealed, and not to burst into prayer whenever the church bell tolls the hour of the Angelus. Nor do we go about reading or speaking Latin. Surely we can now consider ourselves safe?”

“Not while we continue to secretly celebrate Mass instead of communion. Until we embrace the new ways of worship, none of us is safe.” Benedict glanced toward the door, then lowered his voice. “I suggest we begin rotating our meetings again. I will hide the religious vessels in my basket, and the Sunday after next, we shall celebrate at my cottage, under the guise of meeting for a family meal. Working sunwise around the village, we will meet in a different dwelling once every two sennights and in between, we must grit our teeth and attend services in the village church. Thus, it will be two months before we’re all in Cecily’s cottage again. By which time, we will know the truth.” Benedict’s expression as he gazed at Cecily was unfathomable.

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “What will we know?”

“We’ll know exactly what that man’s intentions are toward you.”

She gasped, her cheeks reddening. “Surely, you don’t think—?”

“Regrettably, I do. He has taken a fancy to you, even if he doesn’t yet know it.”

As the men made their farewells, Cecily chewed over Benedict’s startling revelation. He must be wrong, mustn’t he? But how was she to tell if Allan Smythe liked her or not? The village boys and youths had always seen her as something different, and avoided her. Everyone in the village knew full well that there were recusants amongst them, including her, but had turned a blind eye to the fact. They held no grudges against the former occupants of the commandery and, indeed, still found them most useful. But knowing that Cecily had been brought up in a Catholic religious order seemed to have kept away any potential suitors. She was doomed to die a maid—but she’d accepted that long since.

She had never set out to capture Smythe’s interest. The last thing she wanted was him popping up unexpectedly or trailing after her like some faithful hound. He would not prove as tolerant as the villagers, so she must avoid him at all costs.

For if she didn’t, and he discovered her duplicity, not only her life, but the lives of all those she held dear, would be at stake.

Chapter Four

“Why are you moving out?” Allan stared at Kennett, his jaw dropping.

His brother-in-law gestured around the small hall of the preceptor’s house. “Look around you. There’s green slime on the walls—inside! The windows leak when it rains and admit drafts when it’s windy. And even in the heat of August, the rooms are cold.”

Why should Kennett complain? Allan rather liked the cool—it was refreshing after a long haul outdoors, working on the buildings and the land.

“Where will you go?” Allan felt his temper start to flare. Was Kennett trying to avoid hard manual labor—as usual?

“I’ll stay at the inn in Roding until this place is made more habitable. But I’ll be over here every day.”

“Please reconsider. I’ve just employed a kitchen wench because I thought she’d be cooking for three—us, plus the gardener when we find one. Now, I shall have to let her go and do the cooking myself.”

Kennett waved a hand airily. “Fimble famble. You can give her extra duties, such as cleaning the mold off, for a start. And pay her less, so she doesn’t start thinking she’s important.”

Allan frowned. “Can we afford for you to stay at an inn?”

“I can afford it. I still have some of my inheritance, and the rents from this place will start coming in, too, once I’ve finished perusing the books and getting them up to date.”

This was true. And next spring, they’d be selling their fleeces, which would significantly improve their revenue. It was too soon to worry overmuch. But it was as well to be sure—Kennett had taken charge of Allan’s coffer and accounts, having claimed a superior ability with numbers.

“How are our funds at present?” He’d been too distracted by practical work to query their current financial situation. Why buy a hound if you’re going to bark yourself?

“Our joint finances are struggling, after the purchase of those sheep. You’ll have a paltry amount of your own money left, so it would be wise to find something