Born in Deception (Brides of Northumbria #1) - Cate Melville Page 0,1

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.

She gave a violent shudder as she recalled his veiled threat of having such heinous labels attached to her. She remembered her body convulsing as his hands closed around her waist and traveled up to her breasts. Instead of allowing the unspeakable to happen, she had lashed out, screaming, biting, and kicking. Flea had come to her defense, only to be viciously kicked by her attacker. His yelps of pain had tormented her for weeks. Afterwards, she had hidden herself behind a carefully erected mask of meek obedience, not letting anyone close for fear her courage would falter. Now the riders had come. She wasn’t stupid enough to truly believe they were not connected.

She couldn’t bear going back to her small stillroom empty-handed, so she pulled on her hose, and fastened them with frayed linen ties above her knees. Then she squeezed her feet into shabby, scuffed shoes, and fastened her unruly hair with a leather thong, and set about collecting medicinal herbs that