The Dream Weavers Page 28

  The two kings were thought to have negotiated over the dyke. Even that wasn’t certain. If Eadburh’s Elisedd had gone to oversee the building of the part of the dyke that ran near what was still called Offa’s Ridge, as a negotiator and ambassador, there was no known record of that either. And if, as a younger son who had suddenly become a threat to Offa’s plans of domination, he was regarded as expendable, his murder, made to look like an accident, never made it into the historical record.

  When Mark tiptoed downstairs an hour later, he found Bea asleep on the sofa, the iPad in her lap. He stood for a few minutes looking down at her fondly. ‘So, where are you, my love?’ he whispered. She didn’t move. He leaned down and removed the iPad. He reached for the rug on the back of the chair and tucked it around her, gently, so as not to wake her, then he turned out all the lights and left her to sleep.

  She was in the mead hall at Corfe and King Beorhtric was crying. His favourite had been found dead out in the latrines, lying awkwardly on the boards over the shit hole, his face contorted in agony, his leggings around his ankles. He had vomited copiously before he died. If he called out, no one had heard him, no one had missed him until the king himself had shouted for him to come and take his accustomed place beside him at the feast. The queen had been about to join her husband from the women’s bower, with her ladies all round her and her little daughter who had been playing with her companions. As the king’s scream of anguished denial echoed from the hall the women had looked at one another in consternation and Eadburh sent the wife of one of her husband’s senior warriors to find out what had happened, herself waiting calmly by the fire, stooping to pick up her daughter’s dolls.

  There was nothing to be done. The man had obviously died of poisoning. Queen Eadburh summoned the cooks; a search of the kitchens discovered rancid, rat-infested piles of food in the larders and the serf in charge of scrubbing the vessels was summarily executed by being buried head first in a vat of his own stale cooking fat.

  Beorhtric was distraught at the loss of his closest friend, but Eadburh suggested they move on to spend Christmas at their favourite hall at Cheddar and he allowed himself to be distracted with plans for a spring offensive against the heathen Vikings should they choose to invade the southern shores of his kingdom again. She knew he would find another lover soon, and she knew that lover too would meet an unpleasant end. Three of them had died now. She saw people looking at her, she knew her husband’s thanes whispered amongst themselves and glanced at her sideways, crossing themselves as she swept past them, but no one would ever know what had truly happened.

  This time, Nesta had remained at Cheddar where her beloved herb gardens thrived in the gentle climate of the Summer Lands. After Christmas the court would make its way to Wareham and then to Wantage and then when spring came Eadburh would dictate that once again they wind their way back towards Cheddar. As Beorhtric amused himself hunting with his favourites, she supervised the treasury, planning to strike coins in her own name, oversaw the signing of charters and was present at the gatherings of the Witan, seemingly unaware of the looks of hatred cast in her direction. That her father had died did not seem to affect her influence. Her brother ruled now in his stead and when the devastating news came that her brother too was dead after only five months’ reign, smitten by a wasting sickness, or as some said, in God’s revenge for the sins of his father, she did not go to his funeral, nor did she acknowledge the new King of Mercia, a distant cousin of her father’s, who meant nothing to her. She was far too busy watching with narrowed eyes as her husband lavished gold rings and silk shirts and embroidered tunics on the subject of his latest crush.

  It was summer when, with Nesta beside her, she walked again through the gardens in the Summer Lands and they stopped near the lavender hedges to watch a mother cat suckling her kittens in the sun. ‘I need more herbs,’ Eadburh’s order was peremptory as she reeled off her list. ‘Bring them to me this evening.’ She did not notice Nesta’s arched eyebrow or the way the woman’s shoulders squared.

  ‘It is not the right time of the moon,’ Nesta said, peaceably enough. ‘As you know, the charms will not work if the plants are gathered in the wrong season.’

  ‘Of course they will work. They always work,’ Eadburh snapped. ‘They are poison, are they not?’

  Nesta took a few steps away from her and stood, her arms folded, gazing into the distance across the marshy levels towards the south. ‘So, you plan another death?’ she said after a moment.

  ‘The king mocks me at his peril,’ Eadburh replied.

  ‘And you mock the sisters of Wyrd at yours, oh queen,’ Nesta retorted.

  ‘The priests teach us to despise the sisters of Wyrd and all their superstitious nonsense. God is not fooled by such children’s stories.’ Eadburh’s eyes were glittering dangerously. ‘You will do as I say.’

  Nesta inclined her head graciously. ‘As you wish.’ She began to walk away towards the little herb house where she kept her baskets and her shears.

  ‘Have I dismissed you?’ Eadburh’s voice behind her was like acid.

  Nesta froze. She turned. ‘You asked me to pick your herbs without delay. I was about to do so. Have you another request?’

  ‘Yes. You will give me a potent herb to suppress the king’s lust.’

  Nesta appeared to consider the request for a few seconds then she bowed her head again. This time Eadburh did not call her back as she departed but she remained there, watching the woman’s retreating back, a speculative look in her eyes.

  ‘She will be sorry she questioned me.’

  Bea looked round. She had seen no one else nearby.

  ‘I was speaking to you, ghost of shadow and sunlight, rain and storm.’ Eadburh was looking straight at her. ‘Do you still imagine I cannot see you?’ The woman did not seem afraid or angry at the sight of her, rather this time she was calculated; thoughtful.

  Bea shrank back. She had intended to stay hidden, to peer round corners, to hide in the shadows, but her intention hadn’t worked. Obviously she was there in plain view. She backed away, aware that she could feel the sunlight on her skin, the touch of the wind on her face; she could smell the beds of lavender and the dog roses and honeysuckle that scrambled over the hedges. Nesta was the other side of the garden now, a basket on her arm, cutting a sprig of flowers here, a branch of a shrub there, keeping her back resolutely towards her queen.

  ‘I could banish you to Hell,’ Eadburh went on conversationally, ‘or I could use you, send you through the hall at night to my husband’s side. And I could watch while you pour poison into his slack dribbling mouth as he paws his latest sodomite, and see you disappear as his warrior bodyguard flock round him to save his worthless life.’

  ‘No.’

  Bea found it a huge effort to speak out loud. The air would not enter her lungs, the wind, so gentle on her face, would not allow her to breathe. ‘What you plan is evil.’

  She saw Nesta straighten and turn to face them, she saw the basket dropping from her grasp to lie in the flower bed, the plants scattered, she heard Eadburh gasp. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, its shadow racing across the garden bringing darkness. In seconds the scene had disappeared. She could see nothing. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t move.

  ‘Bea! Bea, darling, it’s all right! I’m here!’

  Mark’s arms were round her and he was holding her tightly. The light was on, and she was there, in the snug, on the sofa, gasping for air. She looked round frantically, expecting to see Eadburh there in the room, but everything was normal.

  Almost everything.

  On the rug near the fire lay a scattering of herbs.

  28

  ‘Don’t touch them!’ As Bea scrambled off the sofa, she saw Mark bending to pick up the discarded plants.

  Mark straightened. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because,’ she hesitated. ‘I think they’re poisonous.’

  He looked back down at the wilted greenery lying at his feet. ‘I’m not goi
ng to eat them.’

  ‘No, Of course you’re not. But even so. Please. Leave them. I’ll get some gloves from the kitchen.’

  ‘Bea.’ Mark sat down on the armchair near the fire. ‘What is going on?’ he looked defeated. ‘Where did they come from?’

  She went back to the sofa and threw herself down, her legs curled under her like a child, pulling the rug around her shoulders with a shiver. ‘I dreamt I was in a herb garden. I was watching a woman tell the herb-wife to gather poisonous herbs so she could kill her husband’s lover.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘Then you woke me up and there are the herbs, scattered from Nesta’s basket.’

  Mark closed his eyes and an expression of something like despair crossed his face. ‘That can’t happen.’

  ‘It can, Mark. Things can travel between existences. I’ve seen it before. I’m going to find my herb book and see what they are. There is rue in there, I recognise that, it has such a distinctive smell.’

  ‘But surely rue isn’t poisonous.’

  She looked down at the scatter of wilting leaves uncertainly. ‘Perhaps I’m wrong. You go to bed, Mark. Leave this to me.’ Suddenly she was determined. ‘I will bag them up and leave them to check in the morning, then I will come up too.’

  ‘You’d better take photos of them.’ Mark stood up with a groan. He looked exhausted. ‘In case they vanish back down the wormhole.’ He walked over to the door, then he stopped and looked back. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re involved in, Bea?’

  She grimaced. ‘If I don’t, nobody will. This is my area of expertise, Mark.’ She wished she felt as confident as she sounded. ‘I tried ringing Meryn a couple of evenings back. He’s still lecturing in the States, and he hasn’t returned my call. So,’ she took a deep breath, ‘I’m on my own. As long as,’ she gave him a sad little smile, ‘you’ve got my back, darling. You and Jesus.’

  It had been Meryn who had taught her to use herbs as incense and for saining, the old Scots word for what the Native Americans called smudging. He had shown her how to look for the local plants and meditate with them, to study the traditions of the people with whom she was working. He had given her books on the Celtic lore of Wales, and he had talked of the Druids and their learning and the Physicians of Myddfai, but then he had moved on to the Anglo-Saxon leechbooks and the Nine Herb charm and the folklore of Herefordshire and the Marches and encouraged her to gather plants and dry them so she was ready for any emergency. And this was an emergency. She was strong. She could do this.

  Labelled and sorted, the herbs gathered by Nesta fell into two distinct groups. Rue. Hops. Agrimony. All used by celibate medieval monks, according to her books, as remedies for lust. Perhaps something Saxon wives traditionally put in their unfaithful husbands’ pottage. Then there were the poisons. Aconite and deadly nightshade and white bryony. Considering she had had only a few minutes to gather them, Nesta had known exactly where in her herb beds to find the plants she needed. In the case of the bryony she had snatched at it as it trailed with the honeysuckle over the hedge. No doubt, had there been time, she would have gathered more, dried, from her store of pots and jars. Bea sat at the kitchen table staring thoughtfully down at the collection. Those poisonous herbs had other names, according to her book. Wolfsbane, monkshood, mandrake. The words were resonant with threat. Nesta had picked them. The woman was a powerful … Bea found herself groping for the right word. A witch? An enchantress? A spaewife? What was the Anglo-Saxon equivalent? A plant-charmer? A cunning woman? Herbs and charms and amulets had been Nesta’s business, just as they were Bea’s, but the woman had had no time to empower these plants. Bea shivered. She should burn them, but still she sat unable to tear her eyes away from the wilting leaves.

  Emma waited, holding her breath. Felix’s gentle snore went on uninterrupted as she tiptoed across the living room. She looked back over her shoulder. His sleeping figure was a hump under the bedclothes in the corner of the shadowy room. Taking her jacket from the coat hooks behind the front door she slipped it on and then, holding her breath, she eased the door open. It was bitterly cold outside, for all it would soon be May, and still dark, though there was a faint light in the eastern sky. Under her hand she felt the hard ripple of ice on the gate as she pushed it open and headed up the lane towards the hill.

  Climbing into bed the night before she had visualised the bubble of protection around herself exactly as Bea had taught her, then she had lain there, waiting. She wasn’t sure what she had expected – figures battering the outside of her bubble perhaps, but nothing had happened. The bedroom had grown cold as she lay there, rigid, staring up at the ceiling. She didn’t dare shut her eyes. She heard her father and Felix chatting quietly downstairs, then the sounds of them pulling out the bed for Felix and making it up. She distinctly heard her brother laughing quietly as Dad said something, then Simon’s footsteps coming upstairs. The crack of light under the door disappeared as he switched off the landing light and she heard his bedroom door close, then the creak of floorboards as he wandered around the room getting ready for bed. In minutes the house was silent. It was too dark. She wanted to turn on her bedside light and she turned her head cautiously to look towards it. If she put out her arm, would it pierce her bubble of protection? What would Bea tell her to do? But she couldn’t lie there in the total darkness, it was too scary. Cautiously she reached over and groped for the switch. As the fire downstairs died the house became colder. There were heaters in each room but they didn’t seem to make any difference. She pulled the covers up even more tightly under her chin and very cautiously she closed her eyes.

  In her dream it was nearly dawn. As she tiptoed downstairs all she could think about was the need to get out onto the ridge.

  He was waiting for her on the edge of the wood, his horse tethered to a tree. Behind him the dawn was flooding across the sky, slowly spreading across the landscape far below, leaving a pattern of intense shadow and bright sunlit peaks. In the distance far away in the valley under the hill she could make out the outline of a tiny stone chapel hidden amongst the trees, spotlit by a sunbeam. Its very presence seemed to bless their meeting. Around them the air was loud with the songs of birds. She paused, looking at him, then she held out her arms. She saw the smile in his eyes as she ran towards him and heard the whicker of his horse as if it too recognised her, and then she was there, in his embrace, pressed against his chest and her lips were raised, seeking his. For a long moment they stood together looking out towards the distances. ‘There, do you see that little church?’ Elise was pointing into the distance with its pinpoints of sunlight striking a squat stone tower. ‘One day you and I will go there together and we will find the priest and we will ask him to make us man and wife.’ Gently he pulled her towards him and he kissed her again.

  He led her through the edge of the wood towards the sheepfold and there he pulled her down onto the bed of bracken. Swathed in his cloak they made love as the sunlight warmed the land and slowly the frost melted on the grass, unaware of the wandering sheep that peered through the entrance at them with mild astonishment before turning away to crop the grass on the hillside, or of the croaking of the raven as it flew high towards the west.

  ‘Emma! Breakfast!’ The voice from downstairs was an intrusion, an unwelcome interruption like the stone on the ground under her hip. ‘I have to go,’ she murmured, but already she was alone. As her eyes opened she saw that she was in her little bedroom at the cottage. She looked round, lost and confused. Her body felt strange. It felt warm and heavy and aroused. Her breasts were tingling and her lips felt sore and bitten. Her bedside light was on though outside the curtains it was daylight and she was, she realised, fully dressed. She sat up, running her hands through her hair and saw her thick padded jacket lying on the end of the bed. Reaching out towards it she drew her hand away sharply. It was wet with melted ice.

  ‘She looked a bit odd at breakfast. Strained. Tired, but otherwise OK.’ Simon’s voice message had been left at 10.04. Bea listened again. ‘She d
idn’t say anything to worry me. We were planning to drive over to Ludlow for the day. Then when I called her about half an hour ago there was no reply. I went up to her bedroom and there was this note saying she had gone out for a walk and we shouldn’t worry. Not worry! Do you know where she might have gone?’

  When Bea rang Emma’s phone it went straight to messages.

  Simon was waiting on the cottage steps when Bea drew in next to his car.

  ‘You don’t think she has gone out for an ordinary stroll?’

  He shook his head. ‘She knew we were all going out for the day together.’

  ‘The important thing is she left you a message.’

  ‘That’s what Felix said.’

  She could see the boy through the door, hunched over the computer, every inch of his body trying to convey the fact that he didn’t care and wasn’t upset.

  ‘Can I see her note?’ Bea could see Simon’s hand shaking as he reached into his pocket and brought out the crumpled sheet of paper. She took it and turned away from him, staring out across the hills, holding it tightly, trying to connect.

  Behind her Simon sighed and threw himself down on one of the wrought-iron chairs by the little terrace table. He said nothing as Felix came outside and pulled out the chair opposite him. They sat there in silence, waiting.

  Bea could feel the panic and the anger that was all Simon’s. She was trying to probe further, feel Emma in the untidy pencil scrawl. The girl had responded to blind impulse, to some kind of imperative she didn’t understand herself. Bea closed her eyes, concentrating. Waves of emotion were coming off the piece of paper: love and longing, loneliness, fear, regret, and over it all a deep enduring sense of loss. None of these were Emma’s emotions. They belonged to someone else.

  And then, suddenly, hope. Emma. Emma was back and she had thought of something, seen something, that had filled her with excitement and longing, something out there in the countryside below the ridge. It was something important, fateful. Not too far away. Something to do with the person whose emotions she had been feeling so intensely. The Emma who had walked out of the gate had been responsible enough to write a note, but powerless to ignore the longing that had filled her whole being.