She stood staring in disbelief as the bird hovered above the two of them for a moment, then darted toward her. Instinctively, she put out her arm, and the bird landed on her glove, eyeing her laconically.
“Charlemagne? It can’t be.” She looked closer, and the bird made a soft, welcoming sound.
Gasping in astonishment, she turned to her new husband. “It’s Charlemagne? It’s really Charlemagne?”
The beam on his face said it all. “Aye. I wanted to make sure he was back to full health before he was restored to you. I know that you dote on that bird more than you do me. And with the brethren now departed to France, I feared you would be lonely.”
How could she be lonely when they spent virtually every day and, indeed, every night side-by-side? The commandery was now full of people, it seemed: agricultural laborers, Lettice, Simpkin, Master Swaffham, builders, local farmers, and merchants. Being entirely alone had become something of a luxury. But the brethren had been her only family until now, so she appreciated Allan’s thoughtfulness.
Still dazed in wonderment, she stroked the soft, speckled feathers on the falcon’s breast.
“He looks finer than ever. How did you find him?”
“I discovered him in the garden a couple of days after he first disappeared and have been nursing him back to health ever since. The granary above the old malthouse has now become a mews—I knew I could keep him a secret because you won’t go up there, disliking that treacherous, narrow staircase. Oh, don’t look alarmed. I’ve had the stairs repaired—I just chose not to tell you about it. I didn’t want you to see Charlemagne until I knew he’d make a full recovery. And I’ve worked with him a little, too—when you were away in the village, or at the market in Bulforde.”
Part of her wanted to chide him for his duplicity, but most of her wanted to kiss him until they both struggled for air, then take him to bed so she could show her appreciation in another way.
“Do you think Charlemagne would be too unsettled if I gave you a kiss?”
Allan’s eyes were bright with mischief. “Shall we try it and see?”
She loved the feel of his powerful male body pressed against hers, and the constant hunger of his kisses—as if he could never have enough. They only stepped apart when Charlemagne became restless.
She gazed at the bird. “As he has survived a conflagration and now looks better than ever, I wonder if a new name might be in order.”
“What did you have in mind, my lady?”
“I thought mayhap Phoenix would suit. I’d have to teach him to answer to it, though.”
Allan grinned. “Any creature, be it man or beast, can be made anew. Just as you have done with me. I will never cease to be grateful for it.”
She had given thanks for their marriage, too, every single day. And would continue to do so.
“Phoenix,” she whispered. “A splendid thing arising from the ashes. Akin to our love.”
That was the first of her husband’s great gifts to her.
The second came a month later after her uncles had written to reassure Master and Mistress Smythe that they were safely arrived in France and were settling in well. More correspondence followed, some of it addressed to Allan, and some to her. He didn’t disclose what was written in the letter to him, but she trusted him enough not to pry. It probably dealt with business matters, and mayhap, touched on the imminent execution of Kennett Clark, who had been tried and found guilty of both arson and attempted murder.
It was an unpleasant subject on which to dwell. There had been some hope of mercy for Clark since no one had actually died. Added to the charges against him, however, was one of fraud—which Master Swaffham had discovered when he finally got his hands on the account books. The officiating magistrate had decided that Master Clark was so steeped in wickedness, he deserved no clemency.
Clark had, as anticipated, attempted to save his skin by denouncing the Catholic “traitors” in the village, including Cecily. But the groundswell of support was in Cecily’s and Allan’s favor, not his, and the constable was too concerned about holding on to his position to assist Clark in any way.
The second big surprise came the day after Clark had been executed at Colchester. Allan came into the parlor of the preceptor’s house where Cecily was embroidering a collar for him. He was bearing a document and looking self-important.
“Cecily,” he said, taking her hand and gazing at her solemnly. “Have you ever wondered about who you really are?”
She laid her sewing on the chest beside her. “I know who I am. Cecily Neville that was, and now Mistress Smythe. I have always had a name and a family and been grateful for the love I’ve been shown.”
“It delights me to hear you say that, Wife. But in hopes of pleasing you, I have made inquiries. Pray tell me that I have not done wrong?”
“You did no wrong.” Her curiosity was aroused now—what had he discovered? “And I can’t have you knowing something that I don’t, so, I beg you, impart what you’ve found out.”
“First, I asked the brethren why they had named you Neville, thinking that might contain the clue to your origins. They couldn’t tell me why the name had come to them, but when I looked through some of the older documents relating to the commandery, I discovered a Cecily Neville had donated land to the Hospitaller order. I assume one of the men must have heard the name and liked it, even if he knew not whence it had come. So, your name does, truly, link you to the place that you call home.”
A warm glow stole over her. Her name connected her to the commandery after all, almost as if Fate had ordained it. A delicious discovery.
“Then I asked the brethren about your birth, about the kind of lady your mother was, how she dressed, and what she looked like. I attempted to discover if there’d been any scandals in the area amongst the nobility in the year or two immediately preceding your mother’s confinement.”
Cecily knotted her fingers together. She knew she must surely be the result of a scandalous match—but did she really wish to know the details?
“Shall I go on?”
After a brief pause, she nodded. She couldn’t stand not knowing.
“You have a long, elegant nose and delicate features. Not the flat face of a regular Englishman like myself, and your coloring is very dark, unlike that of the Saxons who once invaded and occupied East Anglia. I have seen a portrait of the man who might be your sire, and there is a likeness, but what I am about to tell you is pure surmise. A likeness may mean nothing at all, and much depends on whether or not the artist painted an accurate portrait.”
He stood, carefully lifted the shirt that she was embroidering, and sat on the chest beside her, taking and stroking her hand.
“The resemblance is to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, brother-in-law to the late King Henry. At one time, his wife, Henry’s sister Mary, fell ill from the sweating sickness. She recovered, but her health had been dealt a heavy blow. There were rumors that while she was sick, Charles took up with a young widow of Spanish extraction. The brethren said they couldn’t understand all of your mother’s speech, and it is quite possible that in her pain and delirium, she reverted to her native tongue.”
Cecily had naught to say. A by-blow of the Duke of Suffolk? He was not a father she could feel proud of—he had left a trail of too many wives, mistresses, and broken hearts behind him when he’d died several years ago. Or so she’d heard.
“So mayhap, Mary recovered, found out about the affair, and had the Spanish woman sent away.” The sister to a king could achieve a great deal—the exile of a rival would have easily been within her power. Her poor mother—what an ordeal it must have been! Hated by the king’s sister, bedded by a man who failed to protect her. Cecily’s eyes became moist.
“Oh, nay, my love—I didn’t mean to make you maudlin. I cannot be certain of any of this, but I thought I’d best tell you what I suspected.”
“How many more revelations do you intend to spring on me, Husband?” She dabbed at the tears.
“There may be more, but I shall only divulge those that will make your heart rejoice. Now, come.”
He pulled her up and into his embrace, and she melted against him, as always, both comforted and excited by his touch.
“Let’s go without. The first foundation trenches for our new house have been dug, so you can get a splendid idea of the size and layout of the place.”
She brightened at that. It would be a while before work could begin in earnest on the great house that Allan envisaged building—they needed to be confident that their farming enterprises would flourish. But the fact that the trenches had been dug made the vision seem more of a reality.
And she knew talking about his plans for their new house raised her husband’s spirits. And when he was happy, so was she.
She was able to respond to Allan’s third and final revelation with one of her own.
It happened in October, well-nigh a seven-month since their wedding. Cecily was well settled into her role at the commandery and had put the unpleasantness of the past behind her.
Spring and summer had brought new hope, with a goodly number of lambs birthed and a fine quality clip when the older ewes were shorn. Weavers had been found in Bury who could produce a high-quality cloth from the commandery’s fleeces, and Allan had made use of his old contacts in the woolen cloth trade to set up a network of buyers for the finished product.
Work on the new house was coming on apace—all the timber frames had been completed and jointed. Once they’d been erected and pinned together, and the gaps in-filled with brick, the building would be ready to move into.
Like the manor, the village also thrived, even in the absence of the brethren who had once been so essential a part of its fabric. Cecily’s old cottage had been rebuilt and was now occupied by Lettice and her new husband, a man she’d met in somewhat dramatic circumstances, following an accident upon the highway.
One of Cecily’s most significant achievements during the summer was learning to ride correctly. Allan had insisted she’d find it a useful skill and had provided her with a lovely grey mare. Phoenix had been introduced to the beast and, eventually, Cecily was able to go out with the pair of them, Phoenix seated proudly on her wrist, continually adjusting his balance to the horse’s movements. She had not yet been courageous enough to fly him from horseback but was looking forward to doing so in autumn when they might start hunting small game in earnest.
One bright, but cool October day, Allan arrived just as she was waiting for Simpkin to saddle her mare, Freya.
“Ah, good—you’re going riding. Will you be taking Phoenix out with you?”
She looked her husband up and down. He was dressed for going out, resplendent in a deep blue doublet, topped with a buff leather coat and half-cape. A jaunty pheasant’s feather adorned his hat, and he wore riding boots.
“I will. Whither are you bound today, Husband?”
“Wherever you choose to take me, my lady. But first, let me accompany you to the mews.”
There was some mischief afoot. Her husband’s blue eyes held that wicked glint she knew only too well. What was he up to now?
She walked her horse down to the malthouse, with Allan beside her, leading Baldur. When she ascended the—now much safer—stairs into the long gallery where Phoenix was installed, she was stunned to see a second perch beside his, bearing another bird. A peregrine falcon.
“What’s this?” She approached slowly, not wanting to alarm the new arrival. Phoenix made his usual ee-chup sound in welcome, while the other bird, slightly larger than him, swiveled its head to look at her.
“It is a mate for Phoenix—if he’ll have her. I’ve christened her Phoebe. We’ve been practicing, so we can accompany you and Phoenix when you go hunting.”
She gasped, then looked from Allan’s smug grin to the new bird, which was now eyeing Phoenix.
“What else have you been concealing from me, Husband? I cannot believe you were able to train and fly a peregrine without my noticing. Or that you even had the will to do it. You never had much liking for birds of prey.”
“That’s all in the past, dear heart,” he promised, sliding his hands around her waist. “You have taught me to see what pleasure can be had from flying so powerful and skillful a bird. And I’m partial to the pigeon pie you make, so I reckon if we can catch double the pigeons, the more often you will cook it for me.”
“Oh, I shall, shall I?”
He kissed her. “A man may hope, may he not?”
“I suppose he may.” She rested against him, nudging her cheek against the slight fuzz of stubble on his chin.
He pressed his lips against her temple. “And I shall enjoy riding out with you. The season for hawking has just begun, and though we are but a farmer and his wife, we shall make as good a showing as any noble.”
Cecily’s cheeks colored. “We may not be doing so much riding as hitherto.”
His hands, which had begun rhythmically stroking her back, stilled.
“Why not? Have you tired of Freya already? Shall I find you another mount?”
She hid her face against his neck. “Nay—’tis not that. It is rather that I find myself to be in what I believe is called a delicate condition.”
He held her away from him and stared at her, his jaw dropping.
She nodded in response to his questioning look, and the beam that spread across his face was like the midsummer sun emerging from behind a cloud—glorious and golden.
“You are with child? Oh, my love, you shall want for nothing. You must rest. We’ll get the finest physicians, the best midwives. No expense shall be spared.”
She chuckled. She’d never seen him in such confusion before—thrilled, elated, and terrified.
Recalling what had happened to his first wife, she was quick to soothe him. “Have no fear. As you know, I have helped deliver children. I shall make certain no harm comes to the babe, and will do naught to risk my own health.”
He kissed her gently, reverently. “Congratulations. The first lady of the manor of Temple Roding is to produce an heir. And a fine heir it will be, whether the babe be a girl or a boy—they shall have everything when we are gone. I shall make certain it is so.”
“Make sure there is room in your planning for siblings. Having been deprived of blood kin of my own, I have every intention of creating a sizeable family with you.”
“I have no objection to assisting you with that.” Allan gave her a look that melted her insides and made her want to throw him on the dusty floor and make love with him right there and then.
“I know that look.” He winked at her. “Patience, Madam. First, we must fly our birds together and ensure they are happy to become mates, and don’t just end up fighting all the time, as we were originally wont to do.”
She couldn’t imagine fighting with Allan now. He was perfect for her—theirs was a match made in heaven. There was nothing more she could ask for. He had made her Lady of the Manor.
And in return, she had made him Lord of Her Heart.
About the Author
Elizabeth Keysian is an international bestselling author of heart-pounding Regency romances, set mostly in the West of England. She is working on a fresh series for Dragonblade Publishing called Trysts and Treachery, which is set in the Tudor era. Though primarily a writer of romance, she loves to put a bit of mystery, adventure, and suspense into her stories, and refuses to let her characters take themselves too seriously.
Elizabeth likes to write from experience, not easy when her works range from the medieval to the Victorian eras. However, her passion for re-enactment has helped, as have the many years she spent working in museums and British archaeology. If you find some detail in her work you’ve never come across before, you can bet she either dug it up, quite literally, or found it on a museum shelf.
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Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Page 18
