Page 43 of Lord of the Manor

“It’s not deep. A barrel-vaulted roof, just a small one, is about a foot above my head. Some tree roots have worked their way in amongst the stones, which is why the roof has partially collapsed. The stonework is rough, not shaped, or faced. I’m certain this is just a storage cellar—something practical and workaday.”

“What is practical and workaday?”

The new voice had Cecily spinning around, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Standing right behind her, his hands resting casually on his hips, stood Master Kennett Clark.

The very last person any of them wanted to see.

Chapter Twenty

Cecily had built up the fire in her cottage and now sat huddled by it. Charlemagne dozed on his perch, from which hung the new hood and jesses that Allan had given her at Christmas. That time felt dim and distant, though it was but a few weeks past. So much had happened, what with Allan being cast into prison, the discovery of the forgotten cellar, and the inopportune arrival of Master Clark. Several months’ worth of excitement had occurred in just a few weeks.

She eyed her cottage door, which was locked, with the key on the inside. Darkness had fallen, and the room was even gloomier than usual, with the shutters drawn over the window holes to protect against prying eyes. But tonight, Cecily wasn’t tensely waiting for the men to arrive for a covert celebration of Mass—she was waiting for Allan.

Her gaze slid to the heap of sheep’s fleeces that hid the trapdoor to her underground hiding place. Would Master Clark think to look beneath the fleeces, should he chance to visit? Could she even risk allowing him over the threshold?

It had been a nightmare getting rid of the man on the day when they’d found the Templars’ cellar. Fortunately, Allan had been the quickest thinking of all of them, immediately demanding that Martin start handing him blocks of stone so he could shore up the sides of the hole. He’d greeted his brother-in-law with a studied politeness that did him credit, and, when pressed, had informed Master Clark that they were sinking a new well and were just completing the first few tiers of stonework.

Allan’s new laborers had gathered around the hole, holding the rope, hefting stones, passing tools down, but keeping as far back from the edge as they could. They had repulsed every effort on Master Clark’s part to come closer and look into the hole, claiming that the edges were not safe. They’d pretended, as she was later informed, that Allan was precariously perched on the top of a long ladder going deep into the ground, instead of on a packed earth floor only eight feet below the turf. Fortunately, Master Clark could find no vantage point that revealed the actual situation.

Eventually, the unwelcome visitor had received enough apparently accidental elbows shoved into his ribs, stones dropped close to his feet, and warnings shouted in his ear that he realized he was in the midst of a hive of dangerous activity and should retreat before he got hurt.

Cecily hadn’t enjoyed the leer Clark had sent her before he departed, however. There was too much cunning, too much determination in his expression. She was reminded by that look that he still wanted her and was ready to seize her the moment she let down her guard.

She shuddered at the memory, then glanced again at the locked door and the shuttered windows. Clark would not gain access easily. And she had pots, pans, and knives aplenty with which to protect herself should he decide to attempt an invasion.

It was not just herself she was protecting—it was the knowledge she held. For the Templars’ gold had, indeed, been found. The rotting sacks in the cellar had proved to contain coin and several sacred vessels in silver and gold. Fortunately, everything had been carefully packaged up by the Templars before deposition, which made it easier to retrieve. The men hadn’t attempted this until after dark on the day of the discovery, to conceal the find from greedy, curious eyes—particularly those of the omnipresent Master Clark.

Cecily had had no idea what the cache was worth, nor what was to be done with it, but Allan had immediately insisted that the find belonged to the brethren and not to himself. After considerable argument, it had been decided the hoard should be divided between all five of them and hidden in different locations around the village to make it harder for anyone else to find.

Cecily became aware of a rumbling sound, followed by a soft scratching at the front door. She leaped to her feet, pressing her cheek against the wood.

“Are you come to bid me goodnight?” she whispered into the gap by the door frame.

“Aye. Bene darkmans, Mistress Neville.”

It was the correct response. Besides which, she’d recognize Allan’s voice anywhere. She rapidly unlocked and unbolted the door, and he entered, rolling a small wooden cask along the ground in front of him. As she secured the door in his wake, he maneuvered the cask upright, then straightened and brushed his hands clean on his thighs.

“That is the last of it. Two shares—yours and mine.” He gazed at her a moment, then spread his hands out to warm them at the fire. “I’m glad you’ve kept a goodly blaze going—it is colder than the grave out there.”

“I’ll mull some ale.”

“That would be most welcome. But I’ll not rest until this cask is hidden from view. Into your hole in the floor, as planned?”

She nodded, and he drew the fleeces aside, opened the trapdoor, and descended into the hole.

“Can you tip and roll the thing toward me? I want to lower it down, rather than risk breaking it by dropping it in.”

She did as he asked, enjoying the faint clink emitted by the barrel as she rolled it into his hands. There must surely be enough coin in there to buy her safe passage. Only—it was no longer coin of the realm, so it might have to be melted down into ingots which could be sold. Which would take time, planning, and a considerable degree of cunning if the hoard’s discovery was to remain secret.

She hoped that meant she could remain in Temple Roding a little longer and spend more time in Allan’s company. The idea of joining the men in escaping to France—thus leaving Allan behind—was so painful that she refused to think about it. There was so much she didn’t yet know about him, so much to explore. And she wanted to see him put Master Clark in his place. She yearned to see Allan triumph and turn his farming venture into a success. But most of all, she wanted to see the great house built. He had described his plans to her with such enthusiasm and clarity, she could easily visualize the building. The boyish joy she’d seen on his face quite melted her heart.

The trapdoor snapped shut, and Allan moved the fleeces across, then seated himself atop the pile. Cecily busied herself heating the poker so she could mull the ale—he mustn’t know she’d been watching his every movement, thinking about him, feverishly imagining wicked things to which she couldn’t even give a name.

As he took the cup of ale from her, his fingers brushed hers, and she felt that pounding jolt of awareness that his touch always produced.

“You look cold, Cecily. Come sit by the fire with me for a moment or two. I’ll be gone as soon as I’ve warmed myself.”

She didn’t want him to go. Now that the gold was physically inside the cottage, she felt more vulnerable than before, as if it were a lodestone invisibly attracting the attention of bandits and thieves. And the dangerous Master Kennet Clark.