Page 38 of Lord of the Manor

“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 bars into the gloom beyond.

“Allan? Allan! Are you there?”

There was a rank smell of damp emanating from the building, like old straw and rats’ droppings. There was no smell or sound of fire—he must be freezing to death in there.

“Cecily?” There was a rustle from within, and she saw a shape move toward her in the gloom. Pulling her head back a little allowed sunlight to filter through, illuminating Allan.

She cringed. “What have they done to you?” His face was a mess of dried blood and bruises.

“I took a lot of subduing,” he replied. “And was rewarded with a blackened eye and a bloodied nose. But it’s not broken, so my good looks may yet be restored.”

He grimaced then, and she saw his lip was split, in addition to his other injuries. Her heart swelled within her.

“You should not have come, sweeting. It appears that Kennett will go to any lengths to wrest either my livelihood or the manor from me. And we both know he wants you. You and your family must leave the village immediately. I have foolishly let my guard down and must reap the consequences. You are still free. But every second counts if you are to remain so. Get you gone, and take your so-called uncles with you.”

“Not while you languish here. What can I do? What can I bring for you? How are you to be freed?”

“That’s not your problem. As soon as Master Swaffham learns what has occurred, he will launch a countersuit against Kennett for theft and fraud. That should enable me to be released while the case is investigated. You must concentrate on saving your own skin. Don’t worry about mine.”

It was magnanimous of him to be concerned for her safety after she’d deceived him so cruelly. Or had he tired of her, and now wanted her gone?

“I’m going nowhere,” she replied stoutly. “Not until you’re out of here. I care not what Master Clark may claim—he has used you most ill and must be punished.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A drop of mercy for an unrepentant Protestant like me? I’m honored.”

“Don’t jest. It’s not about faith—it’s about fairness. And justice.”