Born in Deception (Brides of Northumbria #1) - Cate Melville

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