Lord of the Manor
Trysts and Treachery
Book Five
By Elizabeth Keysian
© Copyright 2021 by Elizabeth Keysian
Text by Elizabeth Keysian
Cover by Wicked Smart Designs
Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.
P.O. Box 7968
La Verne CA 91750
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Produced in the United States of America
First Edition April 2021
Kindle Edition
Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.
All Rights Reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian
Trysts and Treachery Series
Lord of Deception (Book 1)
Lord of Loyalty (Book 2)
Lord of the Forest (Book 3)
Lord of Mistrust (Book 4)
Lord of the Manor (Book 5)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Publisher’s Note
Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
About the Author
Chapter One
Essex, England, 1552
“Charlemagne, come!”
Cecily Neville glanced around to ensure no one was looking, then let out a shrill whistle and swung the lure around her head. Her pet peregrine had settled in the walnut tree tucked into a corner of the walled garden and sat there looking smug.
“Curse you, you feathered fiend!”
A man’s voice uttered the very same words Cecily had been thinking.
“Come, Charlemagne!” Her voice sounded more desperate now—both she and the bird were trespassing. From the sound of heavy footsteps racing toward the gate leading from the walled garden, they were about to be caught by whoever had let out the curse.
Panic surged through her. If she ran, would the bird follow? What if he did not, and the angry-sounding man took a shot at him? No, wait, foolish girl. Men didn’t stroll around their gardens armed with bows. Did they?
She couldn’t risk the creature she loved most in the world—next to her “uncles”, of course—being harmed. Tugging off her gauntlet and hiding the lure behind her back, she edged away from the brick wall surrounding the garden.
Not fast enough—a man erupted through the gate. He was walking backward, staring at the peregrine, still perched rebelliously in its tree. He had not yet become aware of her presence.
She allowed herself a moment to take the man’s measure. From the quality of his doublet and hose, he was a gentleman, so presumably one of the pair who had bought the buildings and land belonging to Temple Roding Commandery. The fellow was bareheaded, with untidy blond hair, cut short. His physique was broad and muscular, and he appeared tall, though she would only know if she went closer.
If she went closer? Nay! She must hide before he saw her. It would never do for one of the new owners of her former home to catch her straying onto his land. Charlemagne would have to fend for himself. She must make for the trees and hide before she was seen. If she let the lure trail after her, it might excite the peregrine enough to make him follow. But before she could execute her plan, the stranger stooped for a stone.
“Nay!” Flinging caution to the winds, Cecily hared across the grass and flung herself at the man, clinging on to the hand holding the pebble. As she had hoped, he released the missile, but the next instant, he had both her arms in an immovable grip.
He stared at her in astonishment. “Odd’s blood! Who the devil are you, Wench?”
“Nobody. I am nobody.” My, but he had powerful hands—she’d be bruised if she struggled.
He gave her a little shake. “Why do you accost me thus?”
His voice was deep, with a foreign edge. He was not from Essex. The Fen Country, mayhap? But that wasn’t important. Where was Charlemagne? She flicked a glance sideways. Still in his tree, the little villain—he looked as if he were enjoying the spectacle of his mistress hanging helpless in the stranger’s grasp.
“Name?” the man barked out.
“Lettice, sir,” she lied. “I’m just a poor girl from the village.”
She lowered her gaze submissively—it was unnerving how the man’s blue eyes bored into her. She didn’t like the way his dark brows had drawn together in a scowl or the fact that he hadn’t released her. Still, what could one expect of a man who had bought a manor stolen from the Knights Hospitaller to feather his own nest? He must be despicable. As were all such ambitious, greedy men—especially King Edward’s late father, Henry—the greatest thief and heretic of all.
“You can stop pouting at me. I assume that must be your bird in yonder tree—you would not have assaulted me otherwise.”
She wasn’t pouting. She never pouted. “I did not assault you.”
Suddenly, images of constables, the stocks, the pillory, prison, limbs hacked off or boiled whirled through her head. This man could do her much harm if he decided to charge her with attacking him—and her trial would endanger the displaced commandery servants who’d become her family. They had survived twelve years since the seizur
e of the commandery by the Crown without being denounced as traitors and idolaters—she couldn’t risk exposing them now. It was important to be conciliatory, no matter how hard it came to her.
“My apologies, sir. It is my bird—he flew away from me, or I would never have presumed to trespass on your land. Pray, do not hurt him. He brings pigeons for me and my poor family.” She doubled her efforts to look submissive and fluttered her eyelashes at her captor.
His grip gentled, but his expression did not. “Brings you pigeons, indeed? I’ll wager he also brings you my squabs, my doves, and my baby coneys. That is theft, girl, no more and no less.”
A chill skittered up her spine at the word theft, and a fresh pageant of hangings, floggings, and lopping off of hands paraded through her imagination. Which was what he intended, of course—to put the fear of God into her. Detestable knave. She didn’t like being threatened. Nor did she like being called “girl”. Or “wench”.
She sucked in a breath and straightened to her full height so she could look the man square in the eyes, but her words caught in her throat. He was tall, just as she’d suspected. And standing so close, she could count each of his long eyelashes as he lowered his head to glare at her.
“Well? Naught to say for yourself, girl?”
She cringed at his use of the word “girl” again but resisted the urge to push her breasts out and disabuse him of the notion that she was as young as she looked. Instead, she pictured Charlemagne swooping down, tangling his talons in the man’s unruly hair, and pecking at his scalp until it bled. This immediately made her feel better and bolstered her courage.
“I have committed no crime, sir, beyond straying onto your hay meadow in search of my recalcitrant bird.”
“Recalcitrant?” His eyebrows shot up. “An educated ‘poor village girl’, by the rood. Who taught you such words, Maid?”
“Maid” now, was it? A little less insulting. But she couldn’t tell the truth about who had taught her not only her letters but much more besides. It would be most unwise to let this heretic newcomer know that displaced Catholics from the commandery were still living in the community. The three men—Benedict, Martin and Anselm, had been her only family since she was a babe in arms—she would give her life for theirs in an instant if need be.
“I don’t need to answer to you.” She jutted her chin at the stranger.
“I’m afraid you do, as I am, in effect, one of the lords of the manor upon which you dwell.”
She’d already worked that out. But which one was he—Master Smythe or Master Clark? Two men, neither of them local, had recently acquired Temple Roding Commandery and all its appurtenances, making them landlords to everyone in the village of Temple Roding—including herself.
“Forgive my manners, Master,” she mumbled. “I knew not who you were.”
Then, much to her surprise, he released her, threw his head back, and let out a throaty chuckle.
“I amuse you?”
“You do. Your acting does not fool me.”
It didn’t?
“I see I have found a chameleon.” He paused and looked at her intently. “Do I need to explain what one of those is? Or has this girl familiar with the word ‘recalcitrant’ also studied bestiaries? In which case, you will know that a chameleon changes color according to its surroundings, so that predators may not see it. I think you are the same—changing from one guise to another to confuse me. You know not whether ’tis better to delight or damn me—although I suspect you lean toward the latter. Come now, no pretense. Confess that it is your falcon that has been stealing my squabs, and I may be lenient with you.”
“Charlemagne has stolen nothing. He will take wild wood pigeons on occasion, but only when I bid him do so. And I swear to you—we rarely come this way. Besides, how could he get into your dovecote to take your squabs? The holes are far too small for him to swoop in, even where the brick has worn away.”
She clamped her mouth shut. This man must not find out how well she knew the place, or there would be even more awkward questions asked.
“Not prepared to confess your guilt? Then I will have to take the matter further.”
Charlemagne had tilted his head to one side. He had either seen a mouse or was watching the proceedings with interest. Had he had enough of his freedom? Would he come now if she called him?
“I don’t like your threats, sir. You cannot condemn me or my bird without evidence.”
“The evidence is the mutilated carcasses of my animals and birds, and the eggs that have been broken open and sucked dry in the dovecote. Your falcon is the most likely suspect.”
Nay! He must not threaten Charlemagne. The bird was vital to her.
Mayhap she could outwit the man. “So, who will you try, sir. My bird, or me?” It wasn’t unknown for animals to be hauled into court for misdemeanors. Then she realized what he’d just said.
“Wait a moment. You say that eggs have been eaten? It sounds as if you may have a stoat or a weasel at the commandery. My peregrine does not suck eggs.”
The man’s angry stance didn’t relax one bit. “We’ll see about that. Kennett has lived in the countryside longer than I, and he never suggested it was a stoat.”
Ah, so this man must be Allan Smythe, then. Everyone in the village knew his name, though few claimed to have seen him. Since he and his brother-in-law Kennett Clark had purchased the derelict manor, the pair had been more interested in barricading themselves in than going out and about to meet the villagers. They had every intention of keeping the commandery’s bounty to themselves, it seemed—hence the repairs to the brick wall around the kitchen and herb gardens.
It was a devastating loss—she and her uncles had been plundering the gardens for fresh produce for years, and she had found the overgrown banks and middens a great source of voles and harvest mice for Charlemagne.
Master Smythe planted his fists on his hips. “And anyway, don’t you know better than to answer back to your superiors?”
“I do, sir. Sorry, sir.” She attempted a curtsey, though she hated doing it. But not quite as much she hated Allan Smythe. He was an accursed Protestant, an ignorant townsman who thought he understood rural life but didn’t, and an ill-mannered boor. It was time to call the bird and go before she was tempted to slap the man’s arrogant face.
No sooner had she slipped her gauntlet on than Charlemagne launched himself off his branch and glided across the field toward her. He sailed past Smythe’s ear, wafting the man’s blond hair, and landed on her fist.
Smythe paled and took several steps backward. “Vile witch! You set your bird on me!”
Fear shot through her. Now both she and Charlemagne had been accused of assault. The time for mollification was over. Launching the peregrine straight back into the air, she took to her heels and ran for the trees. The bird could find his own way home—she would take a circuitous route in case Master Smythe followed her. Could she outrun him? With his long legs and obvious strength, he should be able to overtake her with no difficulty. Only—she knew the woods better than he, and in late August, there was plenty of cover to be had.
As she reached the spinney, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and saw, much to her surprise, that there was no pursuit. The man remained just as she’d left him, frozen into an attitude of alarm, and as still as a scarecrow on a windless day.
That pallor could not be fear, surely? It must be anger. He was stiff with outrage, and her punishment would be severe when he managed to work out who she was and where she dwelled.
She had just made an enemy of her new landlord. This was a situation that had little hope of ending well.
Chapter Two
Allan stared through the leaded panes of the former preceptor’s house at the driving rain beyond. He’d meant to ride out in search of the recalcitrant wench again, but that would be unkind to his grey stallion Baldur, who hated the wet.
He shivered. These stone-built houses were miserably cold, even in the summer. He would b
uild himself a rambling manor house—or at the very least, a farmhouse, when the sheep and lands started bringing in a profit. He’d build it in brick if he could afford it, or a combination of timber with brick footings if he could not, just like the massive barns at Temple Roding.
He’d really let that young woman get under his skin. He wasn’t normally so overbearing and awkward with others—but he’d been positively rude to the diminutive peasant. From her clothes, she was little more than a peasant, even if she had somehow tamed—or more likely stolen—a noble bird.
Noble bird? Pah! He’d had a healthy dislike of birds of prey ever since he’d seen a harrier steal his childhood pet—an orphaned lamb from his family’s flock in the Fens. Not only had he seen the lamb taken, but he’d also seen the bird perch and start to devour it. With their razor beaks and talons like freshly sharpened blades, such birds were cruel, greedy, and unpredictable.
Had she set that peregrine on him deliberately? And then run away in terror, realizing the seriousness of her crime? Luckily for her, the bird had flown off before any damage was done, but he’d remained rooted to the spot, ready to defend himself should it return.
A pox on it! He should not be so easily unsettled. Yet in his current mood, everything seemed a threat, and everyone a foe. It was a constant worry that he and Kennett had taken on more than they could handle by jointly purchasing Temple Roding. However, the former Hospitaller commandery, dissolved back in 1540, had been going at a bargain price because it had been left to rot. Kennett had cajoled him into purchasing it as a joint venture, offering to put up two-thirds of the capital. An added advantage was that King Edward, heir to the profligate Henry, was always pleased to have coin rolling into his coffers. And in this day and age, the king’s favor was worth more than gold.
If only Hannah hadn’t died! Allan’s wife had been such a comfort to him, and his heart was rent asunder when she passed away. If he could lose his dearest love, along with the precious child she carried, then nothing was sacred—nothing was safe. Putting himself into her grasping brother’s pocket had been a risk, but Hannah’s death had so overset him, he’d needed something to challenge him, to help him forget.
Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 1