Chapter One
St. Leonard’s Abbey
Haythorpe, Northumbria
Late Spring, 1155
The dog heard it first. She felt him tense; a heartbeat later he lifted his head from her thigh, listening.
Concentrating, she could just make out the distant sound of hooves striking the ground. A small group of riders were making their way along the track that led from the abbey to the village. They’d arrived just before Terce and demanded to speak directly with Mother Hild. Now they were going back from whence they came.
It was only a matter of time before she would be summoned to Mother Hild’s solar; she was sure of it. Resigned, aware her precious solitude was at an end, she thought to leave.
The resentment surged as she began to stir; it was a constant companion these days. Unwilling to examine her feelings, she cast her eyes about. The tree’s ancient branches created a hidden arbor that offered sanctuary, especially when she needed seclusion. She sat on a bed of grass, dried by the long hot spring days. The last rays of sun peeked through the canopy of leaves, caressing the grass and flowers that lay beneath the old ash tree. The tree had stood in the orchard for hundreds of years. Its ancient branches grew so low and dense that they swept the ground.
This was her sanctuary. She’d come for some much needed peace. A sense of foreboding had hung about her since the bishop’s aborted assault. His threats. His malice. He would make her pay, and it terrified her.
Fear left a metallic taste in her mouth, but she would not succumb to his threats. This was her home, and here she would stay. She had clung to the small hope that she might be free of his torment. Then the dreams had come, stripping her of sleep. As always, they left behind a sense of foreboding she couldn’t escape.
It was no coincidence that this morning the riders had arrived. They were surely harbingers of danger. She retained only a vague memory of her dream, enough to know the bishop would have his way. Cloaked in shadow and darkness, the sense of malevolence lurked. Hiding in the dark corners of her mind.
Stalking.
Waiting.
Enough of this. She schooled her mind to refrain from its proclivity to think the worst. To gain control over her frantic, and quite possibly foolish thoughts, she turned her attention to the dog resting its great black head on her thigh.
“Come, Flea, it’s time we were gone.” The dog turned his head, his yellow eyes regarding her with indignation. She ran her hand through the coarse hair around his neck, then gave him a playful shove. He didn’t move, but his tail beat the grass with such violence the air exploded with the heady fragrance of pungent herbs and flowers growing among the grass. Playfully she shoved again, but still the dog wouldn’t budge.
Smiling, she stretched her arms to catch the sunlight streaming through the leaves and branches of her tree. Her bare feet peeked out from under her well-worn linen shift. Leather shoes and coarse woolen hose lay discarded by the empty basket. She had intended to pick some of the flowers and herbs that grew among the grass, but the white goosefoot, and St. John’s wort still remained where God had planted them.
“What indolence, spending the best part of the afternoon lolling about under the ash tree.” Then to add emphasis, she chided herself. “What slothful creatures we are, Flea.” The dog merely wagged his tail. It seemed he had no qualms about taking his rest. Laughing, she bent and kissed his head. Inactivity always made her feel agitated. Sunday afternoons were a time of rest, where the occupants of the abbey were allowed free time for any activity they chose. As usual, she balked at doing nothing. Not so the great black lump of a dog lying next to her.
Blades of grass and lavender were caught in her hair. She pushed a stray wisp out of her eyes, the movement impatient. She was often told her hair was her most striking feature, but she gave it little thought.
She was so deep in her musings she didn’t notice Flea had moved, or hear Tillie’s approach until the little girl giggled. Turning, Isabeau saw Flea bound out of the bower and run full tilt into Tillie.
“Flea, no!”
It was too late. Dog and girl were now sprawled on the grass. Tillie laughed as the dog licked her face as though it were a bowl of water. The little girl had been foraging for hedge garlic and sorrel. The wild plants grew in the spring, on the far side of the orchard walls, and were a welcome addition to the otherwise bland flavors of winter.
She couldn’t help it; she laughed before she could stop herself. She wanted to growl, but seeing the unrestrained joy of the little girl as she played with the dog stilled her tongue. Growling was not what either she or Tillie needed.
“You are sure to break your head one of these days.” Her voice had a playful edge that the little girl recognized.
“Flea would never hurt me, m’lady.” She elbowed the dog’s great bulk, trying to dislodge him. When he wouldn’t budge, Isabeau made to remove him from Tillie. She was sure he would injure her.
Solemn eyes beseeched Isabeau. “I like that he trusts me enough to be a little wicked.”
Isabeau arched her eyebrow at Tillie. “You both deserve a beating.”
“You are more as like to fly as you are to beat either of us.” Tillie’s laughter, and pert response, wrung Isabeau’s heart. The inference was not lost on her. Tillie’s conviction was based on the two years of unstinting love she had received since being rescued. The child knew Isabeau could never beat her, or Flea.
Her fears lightened when in the company of such playful exuberance. Tillie had not always been so happy and carefree. A little kindness, a little care, and a great lump of a dog had brought out the hidden side of the little girl’s nature. Although sadly, Tillie was still apt to become anxious when she heard sudden noises, or loud voices.
Feigning a great sigh, Isabeau gave up her pretense at chagrin, and instead sat down next to the two delinquents, basking in the joy of being in the company of those she loved. Flea wasn’t a person, she knew that, but in truth she always considered him more child than beast.
It was sometime after None when Tillie fetched her basket and hurried to the kitchen. Isabeau watched the girl and dog disappear behind the stone wall that divided the orchard from the kitchens at the side of the refectory.
She reached out to touch the weathered trunk, thankful its comfort soothed the unseen fears that prowled at the far reaches of her mind. Now that Tillie was gone, she was once again left to ponder whether the disturbing dream and the visitors were in some way connected. Hand lingering on the gnarled knot in the ancient trunk, worn smooth by countless caresses, she offered a silent prayer.
God seemed closer somehow when she was under the protection of the tree. She was ashamed she never felt that close to God when she prayed in the chapel. Cold and dark, its large cavernous space didn’t speak of God and the glories of heaven. He was out here in the woods, and under the endless sky. Watching the birds and small forest animals gather food, or their young, was when she was kissed by the divine. She knew she should not, but as she detested any form of falsehood, especially in herself, she admitted she loathed the chapel.
Such sin.
She was indeed a fallen creature. In a world where superstition, rather than logic, often governed people’s thinking, she fretted that her ability to discern what often lay in other’s hearts could be construed as evil. To be branded a heretic meant death. The bishop had voiced words like “lamia,” “witch,” and “succubus,” in an attempt to make her do his bidding.