Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  But how could he hope to do that, now that his partnership with Master Clark was over?

  Her mouth drooped. “I fear I am the cause of your trouble with Master Clark. Were it not for you striking him in my defense, you might be well advanced with your plans by now.”

  “Nay—say not so.” His smile was warm, his eyes soft. “The rot had already set in. He cannot pin his interest in one place for long—if things become too dull or difficult, he just abandons whatever project he’s involved in and looks for other occupations. He is more interested in coin than in achievement, and if his coffers aren’t full to the brim, he mopes. I am well rid of him. I suspect—”

  Smythe didn’t finish his sentence, piquing her curiosity. What other sin had Master Clark committed?

  “Cecily?” His gaze had become serious now. “Is your bird well trained?”

  Why the abrupt change of subject? “Aye. Although he won’t always come back to me if he’s found something more interesting. Or the reward is insufficient. A little like your Master Clark, mayhap.”

  “I mean, is he trained to protect you?”

  “Not specifically. I wouldn’t want him put at risk. But I can make him take a man’s hat off, which would be a distraction. He’s very accurate when he dives.” Why was he asking these questions? Was he still afraid of Charlemagne?

  “May I suggest you take him with you while you are out? Should Kennett lie in wait for you, you would have an ally upon whom you could call. The falcon could sink his talons into Kennett’s finger while you run to safety. And indeed, the theft of his hat would be the perfect distraction. That vain coxcomb would rather chase that than you.”

  She sighed. “Mayhap, I shall not walk alone for the next few days.”

  “That would, indeed, be wise. I’ll accompany you home now unless you have further visits to make.”

  “Let me wash the dishes before I go. I mean, assuming we’re done. Done eating, that is. I must go. But I’ll do those first.” Holy Mother—had she forgotten how to speak?

  He laid a restraining hand on her wrist. “I am well able to do those for myself.” His mouth lifted at the corners, and his gaze warmed her.

  His touch sent shivers of sensation along her arm and into her body. Suddenly, her heart was thumping in her breast, and when he took his hand away, she could still feel the heat of it, like a brand on her skin.

  Did she really want to walk all the way back to the village with Master Allan Smythe? There would be talk if they were seen too much together—and the odious Kennett Clark had already drawn the wrong conclusion. Or had he? As Allan pushed his shirt sleeves down and shouldered himself into his doublet, his gaze never left her face.

  She looked away, flustered. It was high time she controlled her reaction to him. She had yet to make her propositions… proposals… suggestions to him, and she had no intention of sounding like a gibbering idiot, even though his nearness had mysteriously reduced her to one.

  He gestured to her to leave the kitchen, then followed, closing the door behind him.

  As soon as they were out in the cobbled courtyard and a safe distance apart, she ventured, “Is it safe to leave the place with the fire still in?”

  He squinted up at the sun. “Aye, safe enough. Simpkin, my new shepherd and helper, will shortly be in for his vittles. He’ll know to put the curfew on if I’m not nearby.”

  “Shall you not lock the door?” She remembered how enormous the key to the preceptor’s house had been. Did Smythe have the same key? Or had he changed the lock and had something made that was less like a bludgeon?

  He gave her a lopsided grin. “I don’t have that much worth stealing—not as yet, anyway. And if you’re worried about that knave Kennett, I have a dog that guards the house and another roaming the grounds. Kennett loathes the animals—they bring him out in hives.”

  Ah, so he had dogs now. Another reason to warn the villagers against poaching and pilfering. But did he really have naught worth stealing? For a man in joint possession of a manor, that was hard to believe.

  They fell into step as they made their way down the lane, Cecily keeping very much to her side. She needed to keep her mind clear if she was to get the result that she’d set out to achieve.

  “I would be willing to put my bird and my bow at your disposal,” she offered. “And cook and clean for you, too. In lieu of rent.” There, he couldn’t refuse that, surely? If he agreed, she’d be able to keep an eye on any demolition or building work and ensure the coffer containing the Templars’ treasure didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Into his hands.

  “I accept.”

  She almost missed a step. That had been too easy.

  “Don’t look at me askance. I had already made up my mind to ask you after Lettice hurt her wrist, but I sensed you would refuse me. You seem more… amenable now.”

  She tried to look less amenable. This man needed to be kept at arm’s length—she dared not let down her guard when he was around.

  She cleared her throat. “Then that’s settled.” Should she shake his hand? Nay, just the thought of his hot, firm grip tangled her insides.

  “I wonder if you might consider a similar bargain with my uncles.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like an entirely different matter. But pray, go on.”

  “They could work for you, too. Rather than pay rent.”

  “Pray allow me to collect some rents in coin, Mistress! Money is necessary to run a manor such as this—I cannot barter for the kind of supplies I need.”

  “I know, I know.” She plucked a stem of dead cow parsley from the verge and broke it into small pieces. “But it would serve you well in the end if the men were to take down the buildings for you, so you could sell the stone.”

  He slowed, glanced at her, then chuckled. “You’re certainly not lacking in wit or cunning, are you? I have yet to uncover all your secret skills, I am certain.”

  She looked away. She had too many secrets and seemed to be adding to them by the minute. But at least he was listening—and smiling, which augured well.

  She decided to press the point. “My uncles are fit and well, despite their grey hairs. Entirely trustworthy, loyal, and hard-working. They would appreciate the employment, as winter can be hard for us all.”

  “And must my kitchen feed them as well?” His eyes were bright, reflecting the pale blue of the October sky.

  “As I said, my bow and bird are yours. We can catch coneys, hares, pigeons, rooks, partridges, and pheasants. I can turn my hand to maintaining the vegetable and herb garden, and you would benefit from having a healer of Uncle Martin’s skill on the manor.”

  “You put your case well, Mistress Cecily Neville. I shall think upon all you have said. Now, we have arrived at the village, and there are several people around, so you should be safe should Kennett put in an appearance.”

  They’d arrived at the village? She hadn’t noticed. “Aye, indeed. Fare thee well, then, sir. You’ll send word when you’ve decided?”

  They had come to a halt before her cottage door.

  “Aye—I shall.” He held out his hand.

  Hesitantly, she took it. His grip was firm and warm but businesslike—his touch lingered no longer than was proper. His palm was hardened by calluses from his labor, but the touch of his hand had precisely the effect she’d predicted—she felt swamped, and her knees weakened. Curse the man!

  “God give you good day, Cecily. When next we break bread together, we will not be dining on burnt offerings. If you are anything like as good a cook as I expect you to be!”

  He gave her a smart bow, then swung away and strode off.

  She watched him leave, one hand resting on the door latch, inwardly exulting. She had made of Master Allan Smythe a friend, it seemed, despite having convinced herself he could be naught but foe.

  Then a shadow clouded her joy. She had also made of Master Kennett Clark an enemy. The consequences of that could be perilous, indeed.

  Chapter Eleven<
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  Allan could not recall the last time he’d felt so content. Not happy—nay, never that, as that would be an insult to Hannah’s memory. But having Cecily and her family about the manor had lifted his spirits, made him feel more welcome in the locality, and given him hope in his heart at the dawn of every day.

  Cecily had been his cook and general servant for a good two months, and as Christmastide approached, he hoped she would not be shocked or angered if he gave her a gift. It felt wrong, having her labor so hard but not paying her. Ofttimes, he thought what she did for him exceeded the value of her rent, but she’d hear none of it.

  She had changed. There was a hungry light in her dark eyes as if she had regained faith in good fortune, and she smiled more often. They seldom fought—though he still teased her, and she teased him back. One might almost say they had become fast friends, despite the chasm between their different stations in life.

  He supposed her mood must have improved because he’d acceded to her wishes. Her uncles came regularly to the manor now, wearing stout shoes and leather aprons stitched by Master Benedict, and—at Cecily’s insistence—bindings to protect their hands. Under Benedict’s supervision, they had started with the demolition of the old guesthouse, with Anselm chiseling out each stone, and Martin chipping off all the loose mortar before stacking the cleaned pieces.

  Master Benedict showed an artisan’s desire for precision—before the removal of each block of stone, he donned a peculiar-looking set of eyeglasses and stared closely at the wall. Then he tapped the stone with a mallet and listened, then checked the mortar before moving aside for Anselm. He’d even borrowed a set of surveyor’s chains which he proudly wore attached to his belt—apparently this task had given him a new lease on life. It was doubtless a welcome change from sitting hunched up over his cobbler’s clamp, mending rotting, pungent shoes.

  Cecily’s was a capable and adaptable family, and Allan had no doubt at all of her cleverness. But despite her continued smiles, conscientious toil, and cheerful exchanges with him, he knew he did not have her full story.

  Now that Master Swaffham had taken over the accounts and business affairs, Allan was able to devote himself more to the physical tasks that needed doing on the manor. This had given him plenty of time to mull over the mystery that was Cecily Neville. But thus far, he had drawn no conclusions, beyond the obvious one that she was clearly no blood relation to her so-called uncles. Had she been left as a babe on the doorstep of one of them? Perchance they’d adopted her. If so, he suspected that the circumstances of her adoption must cause too much grief to be spoken of—or too much scandal. With her refined features and long aristocratic nose, she could easily be the by-blow of some local dignitary—a hard-hearted villain who’d cast her off because he would have preferred a son.

  With Yuletide in the offing, he had every hope Cecily would let down her guard and make him party to her secrets. And with the mead he’d been brewing flowing freely, there was a chance that, even if she revealed naught, one of the others might.

  “Master Smythe? I thought to put these evergreens around the walls of the old malthouse. What say you?”

  Allan jumped and narrowly avoided losing his footing. He was on the roof of the guesthouse, gradually stripping off the tiles to sell. Only half the building remained now, due to the family’s diligent demolition work.

  He glanced down to see Cecily, almost entirely swamped by a large heap of ivy mixed with holly.

  “Why the malthouse?” he called, adjusting his footing.

  “It is small, warm, and a fine place for Christmas Day feasting.”

  Indeed? He’d have been perfectly happy to eat around the kitchen table. The old monks’ kitchen had quickly become his favorite place. Not least because that was where she was usually to be found.

  “Why not the kitchen? It will already be warm from the cooking fire.”

  “There’s a central hearth in the malthouse, so we can build a fire there. You may not have seen it—it was buried under a heap of rotting barley sacks. And I would prefer not to be surrounded by mess while we eat—which is why I don’t want to use the kitchen. I’ve put some old stooks of hay in the room, and Anselm has mended the benches, so if anyone’s too weary to seek their bed after the festivities, there’ll be a place to rest. May Lettice join us if she wants? I don’t want her to think she’s been forgotten.”

  He saw no reason to countermand Cecily’s wishes. After all, she was providing him with the first true family Christmas he’d had in years. Not that he put a great deal of store by the festivities, but mummers’ plays, mystery plays, and the chill magic of midwinter had always brought enjoyment.

  “Do as you please. I’ll be finished with this task soon and can come across to help you.”

  “Oh, no—that won’t be needful. But thank you.” She hurried away.

  He returned to his task, unpinning the tiles and stacking them neatly at intervals, ready to winch them down with the assistance of one of his new laborers. Why had she not wanted his help? Was she, mayhap, planning some surprise which his presence would spoil? A pox on’t—he couldn’t stop thinking about it now.

  Grinning to himself, he dusted his hands on his apron and descended the ladder, intending to take a wash before he followed Cecily.

  As he passed the chapel, he saw Benedict on hands and knees in the frosty grass, apparently examining the building’s footings. The sward around him was covered in neat mounds, sealing the graves of long-dead warrior monks, lay brothers, and the commandery’s servants. The graves always gave Allan the shivers—they were memento mori he could have done without.

  He had made no hard and fast decisions as yet concerning the chapel. It was in good repair, and all the offending Catholic paraphernalia had been stripped from it long before he’d acquired the place. But he had no need of a private chapel, and the locals worshipped at the church in the village. Would his soul be endangered if he were to pull the building apart?

  “How now, Benedict.” He gave the older man a cheery wave.

  Benedict shot upright and stepped away from the chapel wall with every indication of guilt, his surveyor’s chains rattling like those of a disconsolate ghost. What had he been doing that made him look so ill-at-ease?

  “Are you quite well?” Allan paused and stared at him.

  “Aye, indeed, Master. Well enough. I just pricked my finger on a thistle.” He put the injured digit in his mouth and sucked at it noisily.

  Puzzled, Allan drew closer. There were no thistles around the chapel that he knew of—Martin had weeded there the other day. Benedict folded his arms, not moving from the spot, and waited for Allan to come up to him. Then he gave him the polite bow of a servant greeting his master.

  “Have you decided yet what to do about the chapel, sir? It seems a pity to pull it apart for its stone.”

  Allan shook his head. “Alas, I need that stone to sell. I regret it, too. But what use do I have for a chapel?”

  “Do you think the current order will prevail? There is a Catholic princess, who is sister to our young monarch.”

  “There is also a Protestant one, the Princess Elizabeth. But I cannot see a woman becoming monarch of the realm. Edward will have heirs when he is well enough to sire them, and the sisters were excluded in the late King Henry’s will.”

  The older man’s face paled, and he blinked rapidly.

  Allan narrowed his eyes. Could this simple cobbler be a Catholic sympathizer? Old ways were hard to shift in the remoter parts of the country—or so he’d heard. It didn’t necessarily make Benedict dangerous—he’d also heard that country folk held all manner of superstitious nonsense in their heads.

  He forced out a chuckle. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid that the dead will arise from their graves to haunt us if the chapel is disturbed. Surely our faith will protect us from such vengeful spirits?”

  “Our faith? I mean—aye, it will. But there are those who will swear to you that ghosts are as real as you or me.” Benedict
’s Adam’s apple worked several times. “If the chapel were to be preserved, you could take down the malthouse instead, and sell the bricks.”

  “They would not fetch so high a price as the stone and would be too easily damaged during demolition. Besides which, Cecily would never forgive me. She seems fond of that part of the manor.”

  “Aye, she would be. That’s where—” Benedict fell silent, his eyes wide, the color returning to his cheeks.

  Allan placed his fists on his hips. “That’s where what, sirrah? I’m not the fool you all seem to think me. I know Cecily has a long association with this place. What is the nature of her connection? Did she steal away from her mother and play here as a child? Was her mother a servant here? I assume women would have had some use in a commandery—a practical use, I mean, as I know the Hospitallers themselves would have been celibate. Or should have been. We all know how many abuses had entered the church before King Henry put a stop to them—and superstitious practices.”

  Benedict’s pallor was back again—he’d clearly said something to upset the man. Was Cecily the result of an illicit liaison between a Hospitaller and a village girl? Was that the secret that they were all trying to hide? That she was not only a bastard but one with a shadow hanging over her mortal soul? Or was she, in fact, Benedict’s daughter?

  The other man seemed to have recovered himself. “That is Cecily’s story to tell, not mine. Well, sir—I must return to my surveying. You would not want your servants to stand around idle, methinks.”

  “Pray, continue.” Allan turned away, smirking. Let them have their little secrets. Come Christmas Day, when they were all in their cups, doubtless someone would reveal more than they ought, and the mystery of Cecily’s parentage would be solved.

  He’d barely taken a step toward the house when something small, brown, and furry shot across his path and disappeared off in the direction of the warrens. He glanced over his shoulder to see Benedict regarding him thoughtfully.