Now he needed to turn his mind to the next problem. Abbess Hild.
Chapter Four
The village sat at the foot of a slight hillock. Atop it was the abbey. St. Leonard’s had been gifted to the abbess in King David’s time. Hild was a cousin of the king, and a supporter of Empress Matilda. The years under Stephen hadn’t been kind to the abbey, but the abbess had managed to tread a delicate line between the warring factions. Despite the difficulties, the village of Haythorpe thrived.
A straight road sliced the village in two. There was no chapel, as the villagers would worship in the abbey’s church. Neat rows of small wattle and daub huts lay to the eastern side of the road. Each roof was covered with new thatch. Nowhere was the wealth of the village more in evidence than in the large tithe barn, which sat to the west of the road. Surrounding the barn was a large fallow field, then the common. Further west was a community vegetable field. No one went hungry here.
Ranulf noticed a river ran to the southwest of the village and cut through the forest. He decided he would look at building a mill there. That is, if his meeting went well.
A rather large dwelling attached to the smith’s forge sat to the east, along the road that led to the abbey. In the distance the fields were showing signs of being recently planted. Ranulf was grateful Cessford’s hungry eye hadn’t fallen on this village.
Rather than enter the abbey by the main road, Ranulf decided to take to the woods. He didn’t want to announce his arrival before he was ready. The king had been clear he wanted to secure the border. Haythorpe would be key if he was to guarantee the main road between the two countries remained open. And profitable. The revenue from the abbey was eye-watering. The new king wanted his share.
The abbey was surrounded by a high stone wall. The only entrance was through the main gate at the road’s end. As far as abbeys went St. Leonard’s was small. Only ten nuns lived within its walls. But there was a community of lay people who maintained accommodation for those traveling the road between north and south. Lords, ladies, merchants, and pilgrims paid good coin for the comforts of a clean bed, and food rumored to be much better than any inn’s.
Yes, St. Leonard’s would be in d’Argentan hands by the end of the day. Ranulf allowed himself a moment to sit and consider his good fortune. It had been hard won. His family had lost it years ago when Stephen gave it to the Scottish king David. Now it was time to take back what was his. He would not allow anyone to snatch it from him.
Not even a little old nun, with impeccable bloodlines, was a match for his superior skills.
The pungent, damp smell of freshly turned soil filled Isabeau’s nostrils. She had a sense of connection with the soil, and its primal aroma. Although the sun had lost its ferocity, cooling sweat trickled down between her breasts, leaving a damp patch on her shabby kirtle. It wasn’t unusual for her to spend all afternoon in the garden, tending to the plants and edible flowers that would be used in her remedies. Like the ash tree in the orchard, this too was a place of quiet; she remembered her delight the first time she’d seen the fruit of her labors. Years ago now, but still the pleasure lasted.
Shaking herself free from her reverie, she rose to stretch out her tired, cramped limbs. The late afternoon sun had cast its long shadowy fingers over the walled herb garden, yet Isabeau was reluctant to leave her sanctuary.
She looked about for Flea; he was usually sprawled out in a patch of sun. Today he was nowhere to be found. That’s funny, he’s never far away. It was then she heard the faintest of sounds. An anguished howl.
“Flea!” It took her less than the beat of her racing heart to decide she must act. Running to the gate that separated the abbey’s herb garden from the fields that marked the boundary between the village and the abbey, she swung it open and darted across the fields closest to the small wood.
The howls had given way to whimpering by the time she reached the wood. Breathless, she waited to ensure she was going in the right direction. Pausing for a moment, never considering there might be danger, her legs kicked into action, and she was off.
The trees at the edge of the wood grew more sparsely, although the ground was strewn with fallen branches and a carpet of bracken. Her clothes were torn, and her face streaked with mud and green dye from the bracken, when she arrived on a scene that had her seething with anger, an emotion she rarely experienced.
The great beast of a dog was baying and springing up to try and dislodge Hild’s pride and joy, Aristotle the cat. The exceedingly fat lump of feline indignation was perched on a branch just out of reach of the frenzied dog. She wasn’t surprised to see that he didn’t seem at all concerned; in fact, he was perched on a low-lying branch swiping at the dog’s snout, as Flea tried to scare him out of the tree. Isabeau marched up to the dog, and using her most forceful tone, ordered it to cease its nonsense. “No! Bad dog! Stop that at once.”
The dog obeyed immediately. With a dramatic sigh, he lay on the ground, his great head lying lazily on his front paws at the foot of the tree. Grateful the dog was so biddable, she needed a moment to decide her next move. Mother Hild had warned her that Flea was in peril of being ousted from the abbey if he continued to torment the cat—a cat her aunt cherished. Isabeau couldn’t understand the woman’s affection for the ill-tempered creature.
The cat was a plague to everything that breathed at the abbey, except rodents. Instead of chasing the ghastly little creatures, the cat spent its days stalking about the place, hissing and spitting at anything that dared to look upon him. She suspected it was the cat who had initiated this latest spat. Unblinking green eyes surveyed her with a haughtiness that sent a shiver up her spine. The cat was pure evil.
“Well, you can stay there, you ill-tempered creature.” Isabeau used her most imperious tone. “Hopefully the wolves will get you before the day’s end.”
Feeling peeved, and out of sorts, she turned her attention back to the dog. “And you, you miscreant, I’m of a mind to leave you here to suffer the same fate.”
The dog seemed impervious to the reprimand, and merely wagged his tail. One thing was for sure; she needed to get Flea away before he was found out.
“Do you require some assistance, my lady?” A voice behind her made her jump. “Such a fierce creature, I declare it’s Cerberus himself,” humor evident in the stranger’s tone.
Spinning around, she almost lost her balance. A huge black horse stood close enough for her to reach out and touch its muzzle. She hadn’t heard horse and rider approach, and felt a growing sense of exasperation that they had crept up on her while she was chastising the dog.
“I think, sir, the hound, who thankfully has only one head, is indeed a demon of Hades.” She didn’t need help restraining Flea, but the cat was another matter. She still bore the scars from their last encounter. It was essential the cat be back at the abbey before her aunt found him missing. Help was necessary, but she was loath to ask. An unexpected urge to wipe the smirk off his face, his very attractive face, caught Isabeau by surprise.
Holy Jude, what am I thinking?
“Restrain the dog while I coax Aristotle out of the tree.” She hadn’t meant to sound so churlish, but her discomfort mounted under the man’s scrutiny. Refusing to cower like some milkmaid, Isabeau set her chin at a haughty angle and glared at him. The angle of her head meant to convey she would wait all night, if necessary, for him to do her bidding.