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

to pace back and forth in her cottage, gnawing at her fingers, her stomach tied in knots. What should they do? Flee? Deny everything? Rescue Allan? Bribe Kennett? Should she go to Kennett and reason with him, offer herself to him in exchange for Allan’s freedom? Would Kennett’s word be enough to clear them of all charges?

This was where her knowledge failed her. She knew little of the process of law, only that much of it seemed to be at the whim of individual magistrates and that, generally, it worked in favor of those who had the most coin.

Allan’s arrest was too catastrophic an event for her to deal with alone. She must seek counsel from her uncles—surely, they had grown to like and respect Allan enough not to want him to see him rot in jail? If only they could help him without endangering themselves!

Her search for Anselm, Benedict, and Martin in the village proved fruitless, adding to her burgeoning feeling of panic. Eventually, not knowing what else to do, she donned her cloak and set off for the commandery. She kept a wary eye out for Kennett, and continually checked the presence of the knife at her belt, making sure it was easily to hand should it be needed.

As she approached the manor, she could hear the sound of maul and chisel on stone and was greatly surprised to discover all three men methodically removing ashlars from the back of the chapel.

“Merciful heaven—what are you doing?” She ran forward, horrified to see the building that had once meant so much to them with a great hole in its roof, and a massive breach in the wall.

Benedict straightened and brushed his gloved hands on his leather apron. “It had to be done, Child—it had to be done. We talked about it long into the night and decided it was best to brazen it out and confound Master Kennett’s accusations by continuing to work as normal as if we had nothing to hide.”

“But the chapel, where we used to worship? Could you not have finished demolishing the guesthouse instead?”

“Nay, Daughter.” Benedict’s face was solemn. “I found an irregularity in the wall of the chapel some moons ago. I fully suspect the Templars’ cache will be hidden within it, behind a shallow facing stone. But I’ll not risk bringing the whole structure down upon us by chiseling away at the footings. We must take down the wall from the top, stone by stone, and speedily.”

She could understand the need for haste. “But what if Master Clark catches you? He’ll claim the treasure for himself, now that Allan’s in prison.”

“Allan, is it? Not ‘Master Smythe’ any longer?” Benedict’s eyes twinkled. “I thought as much. You’ve grown fond of him, have you not? Nay, I’ll not chastise you for it—despite being a Protestant, he’s a noble, hard-working man and would suit you well.”

She flushed. “Never mind that now. What can I do to help you?” She couldn’t bear the thought of Kennett stealing the fruits of all their labors. Speed was of the essence.

“I doubt Master Clark will be back for a while. He thinks himself safe now that Master Smythe is incarcerated and will doubtless be quaffing ale at some inn or other. If I’m right, we’ll have the Templars’ hoard in our hands by nightfall. Then, we must make our plans. They could include flight to France.” He held Cecily’s gaze. “Could you endure to leave this place and begin anew?”

She didn’t know the answer to that question. Was there any point in staying if Master Clark took over the commandery, with Allan either dead or brought to his knees?

Nay—she’d not allow that to happen. Allan must be saved at all costs. Partly because he could not, then, be forced to denounce them, and partly because—well, because she couldn’t bear the burden of guilt, knowing she was partly responsible for his fall.

“I’ll go to Allan. I’ll see what can be done.”

“I wouldn’t advise it. You know naught of such places as prisons, Cecily. And what can you hope to achieve?”

“I can take him succor at the very least. Mayhap, discover if he means to give us away and if so, persuade him not to.” She didn’t really know what she could do. All she knew was that she couldn’t stand idle when a crisis of such monumental proportions threatened her family.

“If I forbade you to go, would you listen?” Benedict held her gaze.

She looked back, praying he wouldn’t see the fear in her eyes. She was used to being strong for the brethren—she mustn’t let her courage fail her now.

He shrugged. “As you are determined to go, might I suggest taking Master Smythe’s horse? You’re less likely to be molested if you ride into Bulforde with your head up and looking confident. And if you’re waylaid, just dig your heels in and flee. Take Simpkin with you—he could sit up behind you.”

She wasn’t confident about riding, and Baldur was a spirited stallion. She also knew the steed did not enjoy being taken out in inclement weather. It was a risk. But she’d controlled plow horses before now and ridden on their backs. For the sake of everyone, she must try her best.

Fortunately, Simpkin appeared almost as soon as she left the men to their demolition and headed toward the stable. He wasted no time in saddling Baldur and, soon, she was perched awkwardly atop the beast on a saddle not designed for ladies. Simpkin elected to sit astride the horse’s neck and control the reins.

“He knows me, Mistress, and will be guided by me. Have no fear. I’ve fed him enough apples to keep him sweet-tempered for as long as it takes to get to town.”

He did an admirable job of getting both them and the animal safely as far as the lock-up in Bulforde. Cecily slid from the saddle and hurried toward the tiny building. No one seemed to be about, so she stood on tiptoe and peered through the