Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5)

by Elizabeth Keysian

  Whether they had intended to or not, Cecily and Master Martin had set him a challenge. He would not be outdone by his predecessors. He was going to make the commandery the most fruitful estate in the county, and everyone in the village would feel the benefit of his success. It would give him great pleasure to make Kennett regret his defection.

  His ambition would require excessively hard work. That meant, alas, that he could not allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of Mistress Cecily Neville.

  Chapter Ten

  Though she had no reason to expect to see Allan Smythe, Cecily was nonetheless surprised that a whole month had passed without his sturdy frame darkening her doorway.

  Without wanting to appear too interested, she’d made inquiries around the village and had learned that he’d taken possession of a flock of sheep and had put them out to graze on the Dovecote field. So not only was he running the manor, he was now a farmer of livestock—with so much to do, he was doubtless too exhausted to leave the commandery. Indeed, he hadn’t collected the Michaelmas rents in person—they’d been gathered by a stranger, going by the name of Master Swaffham, Smythe’s newly-appointed bailiff. One of the village boys had gone to look after the sheep, but if Smythe had employed any laborers to till the fields or cut the grass, he’d not taken them from Temple Roding village. Could he really be doing it all himself? Not knowing exactly what was going on at the commandery gnawed at her—and irritated her more than she could fathom.

  She’d been in conclave with her “uncles” on several occasions recently. None seemed as concerned as she that Smythe would, while demolishing the derelict buildings, unearth the fabled Templar treasure. They were content with their comfortable, if penurious, lives, but she constantly nursed the fear that, one day, they might need that treasure—or its worth in coin.

  What if young King Edward and his advisers became more intolerant toward Catholics? The signs were already there—gradually, celebration of the Mass was being abolished and a new prayer book was being brought in. There was talk of an Act of Uniformity which she feared would force everyone to renounce the pope. Would her mortal soul, and those of the men, be put in jeopardy? And if they refused, would they meet the same fate as the commandery’s preceptor? The treasure, whether it was in plate or coin, could protect them, and act as a shield against the agents of the king. Those agents were no more than men, after all, and officials were easily bribed. Or the money could be used to bear her and the brothers safely away to the Catholic realm of France.

  Either way, it would be totally unjust for Smythe to discover it and claim it for himself. After much thought, she had hit upon a plan and had almost convinced her family to agree to it. The greatest obstacle lay ahead—she had to persuade Smythe to consent to it, too.

  Thus, on a cloudy morning in late October, she left Charlemagne with Benedict, pinched the roses into her cheeks, combed her hair, and set off to win over Master Smythe.

  It was strange, returning to the commandery after a full month. Hedges had turned brown, grass had been cut, trees had been felled, and the garden’s brick wall completely mended. Master Smythe had been busy.

  Smoke rose from the kitchen chimney, so knowing that Lettice had not yet returned to her post, Cecily hastened thither, curious to see who had taken the girl’s place. She was not a little surprised to see no one there but Smythe himself, in shirt sleeves and apron, beating eggs in a bowl with a hazel whisk.

  This slipped from his hand as he glanced up and saw her—and for a moment, she was tempted to retreat. There was something intense in his blue-eyed gaze that turned her limbs to water.

  Nay, she wouldn’t retreat. He had, as far as she knew, no reason to be angry with her. Unless the stoat had been at his doves again.

  “Cecily.” He rescued the whisk, wiped his hands on his apron, and strode over to her.

  She gazed at him, noting the dark shadows around his eyes. His face looked more angular than she remembered it, and the lines of worry that creased his forehead had deepened. But the muscles that pushed at his shirt sleeves had not diminished—nor had his breadth or height. He’d been laboring hard, and bore the badge of it, but the weeks had taken their toll in another way—something had upset his peace of mind.

  “Are you well, sir?” Good, she’d made it sound like a greeting—she didn’t want him to think she was concerned about him.

  “Weary. But otherwise, hale—if not hearty. But I find my exertions keep me distracted and offer the benefit of dreamless sleep.”

  He’d moved aside and was gesturing for her to enter the kitchen. As she went past him, she felt his presence, even though he hadn’t touched her. Her cheeks heated.

  “Pray, be seated, and warm yourself by the fire. I must finish this.” He went back to his whisk and bowl and seemed completely absorbed in his task. Which was just as well, as she was struggling to recall what she’d come for.

  “Stones.”

  “I crave your pardon?” He stared at her.

  “I wanted to talk to you about stones. Nay, not stones. Stone. Building stone.”

  This was coming out wrong. He’d suspect her motives if she couldn’t put a coherent sentence together.

  “But I have disturbed you mid-task. Can I help?” If she could assist him, it would give her time to scrabble her thoughts back together.

  He ran a hand through his hair, then bent his unblinking gaze on her once more. So much for collecting her thoughts.

  “Aye, I expect you could. If you would fetch me sage, rosemary, and thyme from the garden—and mint if there is any—I’d be much obliged. I’m making erbolate—if you have nowhere else you must be, you might choose to eat it with me.”

  Was he genuinely inviting her to eat with him? An herb omelet he’d baked himself? There must surely be a catch. She swallowed.

  He waved the dripping whisk. “Now, don’t be coy. Don’t claim you don’t know where to find those herbs. You must take me for a fool if you think I don’t know that you, and the other villagers, have been helping yourselves all the time the manor lay unoccupied. No need to look afeared—what’s gone is gone. So long as no one plans on continuing the habit now that I’m in residence, we need not speak of it again. Go.”

  He reached for the saltbox and sprinkled a little into his mixture. Released from the prison of his penetrating gaze, Cecily scurried out to the walled garden.

  The cooler air and the absence of the man gave her time to reorder her thoughts. She’d come to offer assistance with the cooking and cleaning, but did he really need it when he was prepared to cook for himself? This was a blow to her plans. She tore off the herbs, tucked them in a fold of her skirt, and returned to the kitchen.

  “Shall I chop them for you?”

  “Aye, if you will. I need to fry these worts in butter before they go cold and limp.”

  She hurriedly chopped up the herbs, added them to the bowl of eggs, and stirred them in. Then she poured the mixture into a dish he’d set ready on the table and put it into the oven at the side of the fireplace. She tugged her cuff down as she closed the metal door, so she wouldn’t burn her hand.

  “Stay!” Smythe commanded. “Don’t use your sleeve—you’ll ruin it. Use the potholder—here.” He untucked a wad of cloth from his belt and handed it to her. “For when you fetch it out again. No need to spoil your bodice on my account.”

  Surprisingly thoughtful of him. “Is there aught else I can do?” She needed to make herself as helpful and amenable as possible. And stay long enough to put forth her proposal about her “uncles”.

  “Does this mean you’ve accepted my invitation to eat with me?”

  It was as good an opportunity to linger as any. She took it. “I’m hungry, sir, so I won’t say no.” She gave him her most dazzling smile. He grinned back, a tantalizing light in his eyes.

  Her voice was husky as she added, “Besides which, I have a proposition to put to you.”

  “A proposition, i’faith! I thought it was usually the gentleman
who propositioned the lady.”

  Smythe scowled, and Cecily realized it was not he who had spoken. She spun around, and her good humor leached away at the sight of Master Clark lounging against the doorpost, arms folded, a mocking, mirthless smile on his face.

  “What do you want, Kennett?” Smythe’s tone had a hard edge to it.

  “I was in the neighborhood and came to see how much longer I’ll be forced to wait for my money. The year is growing old, and the chances of you raising it by Christmas grow increasingly slender.”

  “You’ll have your money,” Smythe growled. “I have building materials and land I can sell. But if you could have waited until next summer, you would have made my life far easier.”

  “I’m not a patient man, Brother-in-law. I have my outgoings, too, and as you know, I invested most of my capital in this dilapidated batch of heretics’ dwellings. But I might be prepared to wait a little longer if you give me a taste of your honey.”

  Cecily’s eyes strayed to the poker behind Smythe. She didn’t like where this conversation was leading.

  Smythe frowned. “You’re welcome to some of my honey. I can give you a pot now if you wish it.”

  Clark threw his head back and laughed. It was a high, cold laugh that raised the hairs on the back of Cecily’s neck. Instinctively, she edged farther away from the man and closer to the array of knives and other pointed implements on the kitchen table.

  “Not that sort of honey, you fool. Your slut.”

  Smythe’s frown deepened. “I have no slut. If you mean Cecily, she is naught to do with me—she is a free woman and is here of her own accord. But I promise, if you lay a finger on her without her permission, I will remove that finger. Permanently.”

  Clark laughed again. Cecily’s hand closed around the handle of a large cook’s knife.

  “Do not think to menace me, Allan,” he said evenly. “I have all the legal support I need to ruin you twice over. And if you continue to threaten me, I shall put in a complaint about that with our local magistrate. You are only lord on this manor. There are many men hereabouts who are far more powerful than you.”

  Cecily’s knuckles whitened. “Your approach to wooing a woman wholly lacks finesse, Master Clark. No woman should be taken at the whim of a man. As Master Smythe said, I am not his property—only his tenant.”

  “You’re my tenant, too, until yonder tomfool pays me for my share of the manor. I could have you turned out whensoever I please.”

  “Kennett!” Smythe’s roar rattled the dishes on the shelves. “You will not threaten either me or my tenants. I have no fear of you, sirrah. I know you now for the weak-livered coward that you are. If only I had found out sooner… but there’s no point repining on what cannot be changed. I advise you to leave now before you insult either of us any further.”

  Master Clark narrowed his eyes. “Or what? Are you going to call the dogs on me? I have every right to inquire what progress you’re making with my debt. And I only asked for a taste of this comely wench. Surely, you don’t think she’s too fine to be shared?”

  Before Smythe could react, Cecily brandished the knife. “No dogs are needed, Master Clark. I’m prepared to defend myself and my honor. You, of course, have nothing to lose, as you have no honor to defend.” She didn’t fancy her chances against a man in his prime, armed with both dagger and sword, but fury had made her foolish.

  There was no sound in the kitchen but the spitting of a log in the hearth. Clark sucked in a breath, and Cecily tensed. She didn’t need to look at Smythe to sense the rage emanating from him.

  In a low voice that was almost a whisper, he said, “The maid speaks the truth. Begone, Kennett, ere I’m tempted to forget that we have any family bond.”

  Clark stared from one to the other, a mocking eyebrow raised. Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his arms then spread his hands. “I know where I’m not wanted. I see that I must have entered at a delicate stage in the negotiations between the pair of you. I shall leave you to conclude your business, but remember, Allan, that my offer remains open. When you tire of the bitch, send her over to me at the inn. I like a bit of fire in my women. And I’ll see you both profit from it.”

  With a final leer at Cecily that tempted her to use the knife anyway, he shoved away from the doorpost and stalked off. Moments later, she heard the jingle of harness and the clatter of hooves heading toward the road.

  She turned slowly to Smythe. The color was returning to his face, but his eyes blazed like coals. She hadn’t noticed, but he’d availed himself of a lethal-looking cleaver that had been hung up above the fireplace.

  He replaced it. “You may put that knife down now, Cecily. I wouldn’t have let you use it in any case. If anyone is going to spill that villain’s guts, it will be me. Now, I fear our dinner may be burning.”

  Having expected him to rant, rave, and throw things around the kitchen—as she felt inclined to do herself—she was perplexed by Smythe’s apparent calm. But as he scraped the slightly burned buttered worts onto two wooden platters and rescued the steaming erbolate from the oven, she saw a tremor in his hands that belied his expression.

  He set the platters down. “I apologize for using the kitchen table. A gale took most of the tiles off the refectory roof some time ago, and the place is full of vermin and damp.”

  She didn’t contradict him. The villagers had removed the tiles and sold them several years ago when their crops had failed. Instead, she asked, “Why would a mere village girl be too fine to eat at a kitchen table? You know well enough I don’t even have one of my own, just broad shelves to store and prepare my vittles. Eating on our laps serves me and my uncles well enough.”

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have mentioned the uncles just yet—he might start asking questions again. She busied herself with her meal, spooning a large helping of mixed leeks and cabbage into her mouth.

  “Despite what you say, you are too fine. ’Tis curious that you don’t look like any of your uncles, Mistress Cecily Neville. And as I learned when Swaffham returned with the rent book, none of your so-called relatives uses that surname.”

  Curse him. She’d let her guard down, enjoying the camaraderie that came from having bested a shared enemy.

  She lowered her spoon. “I’d rather speak of you, Master Smythe. You’re living hand-to-mouth here—no gentleman of your standing should live thus. I came to offer you help. Nay, do not interrupt me, I pray.” She waved her spoon at him. “If you want to be a farmer, if you want to be taken seriously by the local woolen merchants, you must cut a dash. You cannot do that when every hour is spent cleaning out fishponds, cooking your own dinner, and struggling with roofless buildings.”

  “You heard what Kennett said. He spoke the truth. I must pay him a huge sum if I am to keep any of the manor. Although I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I were forced to leave—it would give you and my tenants a chance to pilfer once more.”

  There was a teasing glint in his eyes, so she allowed herself to relax. “I can bear to have you own the place,” she conceded. Indeed, she’d far rather he had it than Master Clark. “What I am proposing is that I cook for you. You needn’t pay me in coin. Winter is coming, and I should be grateful for the odd carp from the fishponds or a coney when you can spare one.”

  “Nay.” His hand slapped the table decisively. “If you work for me, you’ll be paid properly. And you won’t need my coneys, fish or birds. Most days, I eat alone, so you must join me.” He paused, then brightened. “Besides, if you are forced to eat your own food, I know whatever you cook will be palatable.”

  He was trying to tease her again. She cocked an admonitory eyebrow at him, then cut off a bite-sized piece of her erbolate, chewing it as she pondered his suggestion.

  “Agreed. But I didn’t just want the fish and meat for myself. My uncles have had meager pickings of late.”

  “You have a great heart, Cecily Neville, despite your prickly exterior.”

  She flushed. That was—almost—a compliment. Or wa
s it an insult disguised as a compliment? She tutted impatiently—she hadn’t come here to listen to his honeyed words.

  “You could pay me in another way. By granting me a favor.”

  He stopped eating and regarded her thoughtfully. “What manner of favor?”

  “By providing work for those in need. Do you still mean to demolish the stone buildings?”

  “Aye, I fear I must. I don’t need them but I do need the money. I see no point in repairing what I cannot use.”

  “Will you raze the preceptor’s house as well?” While he continued to live in it, the Templar treasure—if it was, in truth, hidden there—would remain safe. The other places where it might be hidden included the old chapel, the refectory, and the kitchen. She assumed Smythe would keep the kitchen because he had no alternative. At least, at the moment. She very much hoped he wouldn’t demolish everything—it had, after all, once been her home.

  He pushed his empty platter away and leaned toward her. “Betwixt here and the old granary and malthouse, I hope one day to build a manor house worthy of the place. In brick, it being a more flexible material than stone. Just think, you can shape a brick in a mold in a fraction of the time it takes for a stonemason to sculpt a carving. I can have the latest style of windows, with glass therein, and a kitchen attached to the house, with its own separate chimney. I could have several rooms, each one boasting its own fireplace. I could build octagonal turrets with staircases. Hold—I am losing your attention.” He pulled a wry smile.

  “Not at all.” If she was turning glassy-eyed, it was because she’d never seen him so enthusiastic about anything before. When lively, animated, excited—he was easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen. She could imagine the building he wanted and had to agree it would be grand, indeed—and would dominate the neighborhood.