Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) Elizabeth Keysian (pocket ebook reader txt) 📖

would be like walking around on red-hot nails—he would never be comfortable with her in the house.

She laid a hand lightly on his arm and eased him farther away from the others. “What has happened to Master Clark? Why did he abandon you?”

“Not because of anything I’ve done.” He lifted his chin—why did he feel the need to defend himself to her? Anyway, the trouble had all begun because of Cecily. If he had doubts that Kennett had been totally honest about the accounts, he had no intention of letting the wench spread that juicy piece of gossip around the village.

She nodded, her dark gaze serious. “I think you are well rid of him. He seemed not a man to be trusted.”

He was so astonished that Cecily seemed to have read his mind that he couldn’t think of what to say.

“I suppose he’ll be wanting his capital back,” she commented, running her fingers idly along the edge of the kitchen table. It came up dusty, and he cringed inwardly.

“I daresay he will.” It was unnerving, having this woman talk to him as if to an equal. Not that it was the only reason she unsettled him.

He cleared his throat. “Which means I cannot afford to keep the entire manor. And I don’t need so many buildings in order to run a sheep farm.”

She inhaled sharply. “Sell some of the property? Break up the commandery, you mean?”

“Aye.” Why should that concern her so? “It is only land, after all. I’m sure one of the local yeoman farmers would be happy to have it. If I keep Dovecote field, New Farm field, and Ten Acre, that should be enough for my needs. The rest can be sold. But I was thinking of selling the stonework, too.”

“The stonework? What stonework?” Cecily’s face had turned as pale as the Caen limestone in the kitchen walls.

He eyed her closely. “Some of the buildings can be demolished. Obviously, I’ll keep the preceptor’s house until I have the resources to build my own—in brick, if I can ever afford it—but the rest can be broken apart. Stone is a rare commodity in East Anglia and will fetch a pretty price.”

“Forgive me, Master Smythe. I have just remembered that I need to hurry home. Fare thee well.”

“Wait—I was going to offer you my burned dinner for your pig.” Curse it. He really needed to come up with some more tempting lines of conversation.

“Very kind of you. Another time, mayhap.”

Another time, mayhap? Did she think he meant to make a habit of burning his pottage? He was left scratching his head as Cecily whispered a quick something to Martin, then sped out of the kitchen as if the devil dog Black Shuck himself were after her.

He couldn’t imagine what he might have said to frighten her so—for he had no doubt that she was afraid. Come to think of it, he still had no idea why she’d come to the commandery in the first place.

Hewing off a piece of hard Suffolk cheese with his knife, he chewed on it but tasted nothing. His mind was working rapidly, trying to work out how Cecily and the healer, Martin, seemed so at home in the commandery. Why, too, was Cecily so disturbed at the idea of demolition?

Forgetting he’d had no proper meal, Allan decided to interrogate Martin on the journey back to the village. And if the healer failed to enlighten him, he’d pursue Cecily and refuse to leave her alone until she’d given him some answers.

Between them, the men succeeded in getting Lettice on Baldur’s back without too much difficulty. He was impressed by her bravery, by her refusal to cry out or complain—in truth, he was impressed by everyone he’d met in the Temple Roding area. They were less complicated, less avaricious, and less ambitious than most townsfolk he knew. His arrival, and that of Kennett, must have sounded a discordant note in the community. If the opportunity arose, he would like to know them all better, and see if he could earn their respect.

He took hold of Baldur’s reins and pointed the horse toward the village. “So, Master Martin, where did you acquire your healing skills?”

There was the briefest of pauses before he answered, “Oh, here and there. I learned much from the physician at the commandery.”

“Indeed?” Allan supposed he should have expected the Hospitallers to play a large part in the community. Had they, and the Templars before them, truly been guilty of the abuses of which they’d been accused?

“You were quite young, then, I assume?” It was hard to imagine any village boy preferring possets and pills to archery and horse riding.

“Younger, yes. I helped when there was much sickness about, and at harvesttime, when so many injuries abound.”

Allan glanced up at Lettice. The girl looked pale, but her jaw was set. If there were going to be any further tears, she evidently had no intention of releasing them in front of her employer.

Reassured, he continued his questioning. “So, the commandery and the village have long worked hand-in-hand? Or they did so, until the Hospitaller order was dissolved?”

“Aye. The villagers had no complaints about how the Order conducted itself. Not that I can remember.”

“Then you must have been sorely aggrieved when their lands and assets were seized.”

He couldn’t see Martin’s face, because the man was walking on the other side of the horse, but his grunt said it all. However, to openly support a corrupt Catholic organization wasn’t in anyone’s best interests these days. He had better cease that line of questioning.

However, Martin had revealed why he and Cecily—and indeed, Lettice—seemed so at home in the commandery. Those who’d dwelled there had not been the fearsome, crusading knights of legend. They had been ordinary but godly men, working as farmers and administrators to raise funds for the conversion of the Infidel and the good of Christ. They had mingled with the local people, shared their skills, and made use of village labor when the occasion demanded