Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  “Allan!”

  He returned to the door in an instant. “Cecily? What are you doing here? I thought you had sent Master Swaffham as your messenger.”

  “Aye, but he’s gone into the constable’s cottage to negotiate. I wanted to speak with you alone.”

  “Why not wait until I am released? It may not be long now. And why give Swaffham your basket if you always meant to come yourself?”

  “You are right to question me. I have done little but evade your questions, and tell you falsehoods, so why should you trust me? Especially when I tell you what I wanted to say to you in private. I fear it will make you trust me less and hate me even more.”

  An invisible blow made the muscles in his stomach clench. What else had she kept from him? He didn’t know how much more anguish his battered heart could take. Had she a lover already—a husband, even? Did she actually know who she really was, and was there something in her lineage that meant she could never be with him?

  “Curse you, Cecily Neville. Just as I’ve made up my mind that it’s safe to care for you, you trample upon my trust again. What secret have you kept from me this time? Nay, look not so sorrowful—I don’t think I could ever hate you.”

  Tears glistened on the ends of her lashes, and he could see she was twisting her hands together. Whatever she had to say must be weighty indeed to affect her thus. He prepared himself for the fall of the ax.

  “Allan—I come to bring you hope. Hope for all of us. There may be something concealed at the commandery, something the king’s commissioners never found when they valued the site.”

  She glanced around her, then lowered her voice. “The Templar knights of two hundred years ago concealed a treasure. The Knights Hospitaller never found it and soon gave up looking, believing the story a myth, as so many of the tales told about the Templar order have surely been. But Benedict thinks he knows where the cache might be. We’re looking for it now, and when—or if—we find it, we’ll hide it well. Not at the commandery, as we cannot afford for Master Clark to find it.”

  Allan’s throat tightened. Was this what the brothers had been up to, under the pretense of helping him demolish the buildings to sell the stone? And when they found their treasure, had they planned to escape the country, leaving him with nothing? It was a vicious blow, indeed.

  “And now, I curse myself. I am a fool. A lovelorn, blind fool.” He had been manipulated, by one party or another, ever since arriving at the Temple Roding Commandery. His fists clenched against his side.

  “Nay, Allan. You have it all awry. We can use the coin to help you. Or the plate, or whatever it might be that we find. That’s why the men are now demolishing the chapel, even though nobody wanted to. So, you see, you shall have your stone, and the Templar’s hoard, too, for none of us wants to see it fall into Master Clark’s hands.”

  So much hope built on a dream. He had thought Cecily more level-headed than that.

  “Will you never heed me? I told you to lie low and avoid attracting Kennett’s attention, but what do you do? Borrow my horse and charge about the countryside, putting yourself and doubtless the animal, too, at risk. I shall save my own neck—I have already put a plan into action.”

  “Vile ingrate! If I hadn’t fetched Master Swaffham, what could you have done from inside a cell? I have incurred the wrath of my uncles by coming here to tell you about the treasure, yet all you do is chide me. It is I who am a blind, lovelorn fool, Master Smythe. I have now put all our lives completely in your power. I fear I have made a terrible mistake.” She stepped away from the door and hurried out of view.

  He stood on tiptoe, grasping the bars. “Nay, Cecily—wait! I only wished to keep you safe. Cecily? Can you hear me? I was thinking only of you.”

  There was no reply. He eased back from the bars, and when the blood finally ceased thundering in his ears, he was aware of the sound of footsteps receding rapidly into the distance.

  There. He’d made a tanner’s midden of it. Again. He rested his forehead on the cold, sobering steel of the window bars, pushing against them and relishing the pain. He felt like a player, caught up in some high-stakes game of knucklebones. He’d thrown his pieces into the air, had hazarded everything, and had no idea how they were going to fall.

  If Master Swaffham failed to bribe or convince the constable and the magistrate, he would have plenty of time in which to regret the consequences of his ill-judged actions.

  If Cecily and the men found the so-called treasure, they would flee the country. He would be unable to pay Kennett, and the manor would be sold. He might be able to recover some of his capital, hopefully enough to put a roof over his head.

  But what was the point of a home and a hearth if he had no family? Could he really start his life over again—reinvent himself a third time?

  And if he had no one with whom to share his life, then did he really want to?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cecily swung her mallet at another section of stone.

  That pig-headed, pigeon-brained oaf would see in the end—aye, that he would! He’d see that she was only trying to help him, risking all she held dear to do so.

  Crack. Some of the mortar flew out, allowing her to insert her chisel in the gap between the stone blocks. She heaved until she feared the implement would break, then laid it down on the turf beside her and picked up the mallet again.

  She was about to swing it against the wall when a hand caught at her arm, and the next thing she knew, four firm fingers had enclosed her wrist.

  “Don’t strike so hard, Woman. No one will buy that stone if it’s in pieces. Here—give me the mallet.”

  All the breath whooshed out of her body. Allan! She sat back on her heels while her heart threatened to beat its way right out of her chest. She’d thought she hated him, she’d thought she didn’t care—but his sudden appearance beside her rekindled all those feelings she’d experienced when she’d danced with him, kissed him, and rested in his arms. The effect of his presence, so near, so vital, was overwhelming.

  “You’re free,” she managed.

  He swung the mallet at the stone, and it shifted easily.

  “Aye,” he agreed, seizing the chisel and easing the stone from its setting. He lifted the block clear and set it down next to him, then picked up a maul, re-sited the chisel, and started chipping away at the ashy mortar holding the next block in place.

  She watched him—redundant now, all her certainties having deserted her. Did he want her to go away? What was she supposed to do?

  He had not yet met her eyes, and she scarcely trusted herself to meet his, worried he’d see all the longing, all the fear that surged through her. She wanted him to like her—she wanted him to need her. But that was impossible now—she’d put the needs of herself and her family before his as if he were of no account.

  But now she knew he was worth so much more. She watched the firm, expert movements of his hands as he attacked the stonework, feasted her eyes on the rippling of the muscles across his back, and recalled the strength with which he’d lifted her on that Christmas night. How long ago it seemed now. Did he even remember it?

  She waited until he’d dealt with the next ashlar, then asked, “How is it that you’re free? Did Master Swaffham manage it? What of Master Clark?”

  “I have bought myself justice, of a sort,” he replied, his eyes still fixed on his task. “Thank you for that basket, by the way. The game pie was particularly flavorsome.”

  “Caught with the assistance of Charlemagne.”

  She shivered. It was getting cold, just sitting on the ground, no longer venting her wrath on the stones of the chapel. She remembered how Allan had once warmed her, and her cheeks colored.

  “Sir—forgive me. I have wronged you, and I know it.”

  “It matters not. On balance, I would say you never meant to. Kennett, on the other hand, always intended to best me. And no doubt still does. But he won’t be able to bribe anyone for a while—the constable at Bulforde has denounced
and washed his hands of Kennett. He wouldn’t want anyone questioning his suitability for what must be a lucrative position. The magistrate was most amenable, and I’m a completely free man.”

  What about Kennett’s discovery that she and the men had been worshipping in secret, and refused to give cognizance to the new prayer book, or accept Edward as Supreme Head of the Church?

  “I know not if things can continue as they have been, however.”

  Sancta Maria—she was weary of looking at the back of Allan’s head! Why didn’t he put the tools down and talk to her properly, and meet her eyes?

  “What do you mean?” She shuffled closer and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder.

  Her touch seemed to release something in him. He laid down his tools and swiveled to face her. “Get up, Cecily. You are dirtying your skirts.”

  She would have stood sooner, only she wasn’t sure if she could trust her knees to hold her. She made an effort but lurched sideways, her skirt trapped under her heel.

  “Fie on you, Woman. Have you no grace?” His mouth twisting, he helped her up, sweeping her free of the ground before setting her on her feet.

  “Now go inside and stoke up the kitchen fire. Your uncles and I will be eager for some hot broth come dinnertime.”

  He was sending her off into the kitchen, without explaining anything?

  She stood her ground. “What do you mean, things cannot continue? Look at me, Allan. What’s going on?”

  “I have already spoken with Benedict. We think it best you all leave the village. There is no knowing the depths to which Kennett will stoop to get his vengeance. He doesn’t like being beaten. I fear that, even if I pay him off with interest, he will not be satisfied. We have but stalled him for the moment. But how long will it be until an avaricious magistrate comes along, or some other greedy official, eager to make their name or their living by exposing traitors and closet Catholics? Kett’s Rebellion will not soon be forgotten, nor the uprisings in the west against the new prayer book—people are still uneasy. I would rather you were all safe, and well away from here. Perchance, even in France, where you should be accepted without question.”

  “But what of our labors here?” She indicated the heap of stone and mortar dust from the chapel demolition. “Don’t you need us to finish it, so you can sell the stone? So that we can find—”

  “Hush.” He raised his hands to her shoulders, his fingers digging in. “Speak not of that. It is a dream, a sprite, a will-o’-the-wisp. The future cannot be founded on fairytales. Anyway, I shall find other laborers to continue the demolition. And the first lambs are coming now, so the farm will soon be generating income. I can, and will, deal with my brother-in-law. I don’t want you, or your uncles put at risk on my account.”

  He was telling them to go without looking for the treasure? Had they destroyed their beloved chapel for nothing?

  “Don’t be downhearted. If you wish to remain in England, you all have skills that will serve you well in another village or town—somewhere your history is not known. I’ll give you whatever coin I can spare—Master Swaffham has already found a buyer for the tiles from the guesthouse and for some of the limestone. Kennett can no longer hurry me to make good my debt to him. His worth in the county has suffered a blow.”

  Cecily trembled in Allan’s grasp, feeling as if the ground were giving way beneath her feet.

  And then realized with a shock that it actually was.

  “Cecily!” He caught her just she was about to plunge into a hole that had opened up beside the chapel wall.

  She clung to him, and gazed down into the small void that had opened up, keeping well back as clods of earth, still with grass attached, broke off around the edges and tumbled into the hole.

  “What was that?” Benedict came puffing up. “Did something fall?”

  Allan, still holding Cecily around the waist, peered down. “Aye. It appears as if something has. Can you send someone to fetch a light?”

  Cecily clutched at Allan’s arm. “You’re not going down there?”

  “Only if I can ascertain that it’s safe. It must be a crypt or the cellar of a building long since lost. Either way, I need to be sure. We dare not continue work on the chapel if the ground surrounding it is unstable.”

  Fear worked its icy fingers into Cecily’s flesh. If it wasn’t safe to work on the chapel, would they stand any chance of finding the Templars’ cache? This collapse would make it far harder for Allan to demolish the rest of the building—it might cost him more to take it down than he would make from selling the stone blocks.

  Benedict returned with a glowing lantern. Allan released Cecily, lay on his stomach, and lowered the light into the hole.

  “The structure is small. More like an old wine cellar or root storage hole. There are some sacks in the corner. Wait—what’s that?”

  Cecily’s heart sped up, and prickles of excitement scudded down her spine. Had he found the hoard?

  “What do you see?”

  “Simply some very old, very mouse-bitten sacks. But there’s a glint—I’m going down.”

  “Nay!” Benedict grabbed the back of Allan’s doublet. “I’ll fetch a rope in case we need to pull you out in a hurry. We know not how stable the sides of this hole might be.”

  Cecily waited, all thought suspended, as Martin and Anselm joined them, and Benedict returned with a rope to tie firmly around Allan’s waist.

  Could it be true? Could it be that the solution to all their problems had lain just a couple of yards below the turf, had been there, beneath their feet, all this time?

  Allan jumped into the hole, and the lantern was handed down to him.

  “It’s not deep. A barrel-vaulted roof, just a small one, is about a foot above my head. Some tree roots have worked their way in amongst the stones, which is why the roof has partially collapsed. The stonework is rough, not shaped, or faced. I’m certain this is just a storage cellar—something practical and workaday.”

  “What is practical and workaday?”

  The new voice had Cecily spinning around, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Standing right behind her, his hands resting casually on his hips, stood Master Kennett Clark.

  The very last person any of them wanted to see.

  Chapter Twenty

  Cecily had built up the fire in her cottage and now sat huddled by it. Charlemagne dozed on his perch, from which hung the new hood and jesses that Allan had given her at Christmas. That time felt dim and distant, though it was but a few weeks past. So much had happened, what with Allan being cast into prison, the discovery of the forgotten cellar, and the inopportune arrival of Master Clark. Several months’ worth of excitement had occurred in just a few weeks.

  She eyed her cottage door, which was locked, with the key on the inside. Darkness had fallen, and the room was even gloomier than usual, with the shutters drawn over the window holes to protect against prying eyes. But tonight, Cecily wasn’t tensely waiting for the men to arrive for a covert celebration of Mass—she was waiting for Allan.

  Her gaze slid to the heap of sheep’s fleeces that hid the trapdoor to her underground hiding place. Would Master Clark think to look beneath the fleeces, should he chance to visit? Could she even risk allowing him over the threshold?

  It had been a nightmare getting rid of the man on the day when they’d found the Templars’ cellar. Fortunately, Allan had been the quickest thinking of all of them, immediately demanding that Martin start handing him blocks of stone so he could shore up the sides of the hole. He’d greeted his brother-in-law with a studied politeness that did him credit, and, when pressed, had informed Master Clark that they were sinking a new well and were just completing the first few tiers of stonework.

  Allan’s new laborers had gathered around the hole, holding the rope, hefting stones, passing tools down, but keeping as far back from the edge as they could. They had repulsed every effort on Master Clark’s part to come closer and look into the hole, claiming that the edges were
not safe. They’d pretended, as she was later informed, that Allan was precariously perched on the top of a long ladder going deep into the ground, instead of on a packed earth floor only eight feet below the turf. Fortunately, Master Clark could find no vantage point that revealed the actual situation.

  Eventually, the unwelcome visitor had received enough apparently accidental elbows shoved into his ribs, stones dropped close to his feet, and warnings shouted in his ear that he realized he was in the midst of a hive of dangerous activity and should retreat before he got hurt.

  Cecily hadn’t enjoyed the leer Clark had sent her before he departed, however. There was too much cunning, too much determination in his expression. She was reminded by that look that he still wanted her and was ready to seize her the moment she let down her guard.

  She shuddered at the memory, then glanced again at the locked door and the shuttered windows. Clark would not gain access easily. And she had pots, pans, and knives aplenty with which to protect herself should he decide to attempt an invasion.

  It was not just herself she was protecting—it was the knowledge she held. For the Templars’ gold had, indeed, been found. The rotting sacks in the cellar had proved to contain coin and several sacred vessels in silver and gold. Fortunately, everything had been carefully packaged up by the Templars before deposition, which made it easier to retrieve. The men hadn’t attempted this until after dark on the day of the discovery, to conceal the find from greedy, curious eyes—particularly those of the omnipresent Master Clark.

  Cecily had had no idea what the cache was worth, nor what was to be done with it, but Allan had immediately insisted that the find belonged to the brethren and not to himself. After considerable argument, it had been decided the hoard should be divided between all five of them and hidden in different locations around the village to make it harder for anyone else to find.