The Dream Weavers Read online

  ‘Don’t be too long.’

  She waited until he had closed the door and she heard the sound of his footsteps running down the stairs, then she slipped the cross into the pocket of her jeans and turned to the shelf to retrieve what she needed.

  Behind her the shape of a woman had coalesced out of the shadows. It was watching her, a faint smile on the drifting amorphous shape that was her face. Before Bea turned back with a dried bundle of rowan leaves and mugwort and a box of matches, the figure had gone.

  32

  Sandra was wandering round the aisles in Marks & Spencer, deep in thought. She had been there some time now, flicking through coat hangers, pushing at racks of jackets and skirts, feeling soft jumpers and trousers, going round and round in a half daze. She did not notice the figure some distance behind her keeping a suspicious watch on her activities. Pulling out a dress she held it against herself for a few moments, then shoved it back amongst the others. She hadn’t even noticed that it was at least four sizes too big for her. When at last she gave up on her endless, pointless quest and headed for the doors, the store detective stood watching until she was out of sight in the crowded street outside. The woman was a troubled soul, no question about that. Exactly the sort of unhappy middle-aged loser who would find herself up before a magistrate for shoplifting without ever quite knowing why. She knew if the woman had shoved something into her bag it would have been without even realising what she had done. For once she was glad it hadn’t happened. It would have been so needless a humiliation. She turned back into the shop and spotted a group of giggling teenagers. These were far more likely prey. They were the kind who thought nicking something was normal and easy and a laugh. Well, she was about to prove them wrong on every count.

  Sandra wandered on down between the stalls of the street market, her empty shopping bag over her arm. Overhead she heard the ringing call of a gull as it flew low over the street, scanning the crowds below. She gave a rueful smile. Once that noise would have filled her with joy, reminding her of happy seaside holidays with her parents; nowadays, as a rueful neighbour had explained, all gulls needed to target a town was word to get out in the bird community that people were walking around eating chips. She stood lost in thought, studying a stall laden with joss sticks and candles, incense cones and statues of the laughing Buddha, until a woman laden with carrier bags in the jostling crowd pushed her out of the way.

  By the time she turned back towards the cathedral, her mind was made up. There was only one thing she could do.

  ‘She resigned?’ Bea looked at Heather in astonishment. ‘Why?’

  ‘No idea. She loved her job. But we both know she has been very odd lately. On a bit of a quest. I told her she could come back any time and she would be very welcome. No,’ she raised a hand as Bea opened her mouth to protest, ‘I know this must be huge relief to you, but I wondered if perhaps she’s not well. Maybe that’s behind her weird behaviour. She has been looking very stressed and tired. It can’t all be because she’s witch-hunting you.’ She gave a tight little smile. ‘You didn’t cast a spell on her, did you?’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t!’ Bea’s reply was sharper than she intended.

  Heather looked at her thoughtfully. ‘She has a flat in St James. As far as I know, she lives there alone. She’s a widow or divorced, I’m not sure which, and I don’t think she has any children. I always thought the cathedral was pretty much her whole life. I can’t understand her going, especially now in the run-up to Easter and with her quest to thwart your evil plans in full swing. I’ll look in on her in a day or two or so to make sure she’s OK.’

  Bea said nothing, pushing away her lurking feeling of guilt. She was surprised though. She would have thought Sandra’s quest would have led her to stay where she was, hiding behind the great Norman pillars, tiptoeing round the Chapter House garden, spying. Her guilt was followed swiftly by a huge wave of relief. She turned to Heather. ‘Why don’t I shout you a cup of tea? Are you in a hurry?’ They had met by accident both doing last-minute shopping.

  Heather smiled. ‘Why not? I have serious questions to ask you.’

  She waited until they were seated in a quiet backstreet café.

  ‘So, you looked a bit guilty when I told you Sandra had left.’

  ‘And you know why. But I won’t deny it’s a weight off my mind to think she won’t be tracking me round Herefordshire any more.’

  ‘And you believe that, do you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bea stared at her.

  ‘You don’t think she’s left so she can pursue you full-time?’

  Bea was speechless with horror. ‘But what does she think she’s going to see?’ she retorted at last.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Only me in a chapel praying. And working with a vulnerable child, which is something I shan’t do again, or not in the cathedral anyway. That was a mistake, though I could be forgiven for thinking it was a safe space.’

  ‘True.’ There was a pause. ‘Do be careful, Bea,’ Heather said at last. ‘I have an uncomfortable feeling about this. If I extrapolate from some passing remarks she made, I had begun to wonder if she fancied Mark; she definitely thinks she has a special rapport with him and she might, just might, be under the impression that he likes her.’

  Bea’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘I know. I know,’ Heather went on. ‘It’s not very credible, but I’ve met cases a bit like this before. You know yourself that gentlemen clergy, especially handsome gentlemen clergy, hold an irresistible fascination for the unmarried ladies in their congregations. Women have been known to come to blows over the honour of making them a sandwich. And this strikes me as being of a similar ilk. Only different in that it’s infinitely more sinister.’

  Bea was silent. Heather waited.

  ‘You’re serious, aren’t you,’ Bea said at last.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You think I should be scared?’

  ‘Be on the qui vive at the very least. Mark knows what’s going on. He is an experienced clergyman who knows these things happen.’ She smiled sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’

  ‘You haven’t!’

  But that wasn’t true. The malice she had seen in Sandra’s eyes had shocked her deeply. The relief she had felt when Heather told her that the woman had resigned had shown her how worried she was. Something else struck her. Nesta knew about Sandra; the fact that Sandra thought her a witch. She shivered. Nesta was the one who really scared her. She was a powerful entity, far more skilled than Bea. And Bea didn’t know whether she was friend or foe.

  ‘Bea? You OK?’

  Heather had noticed her abstraction.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Bea stood up. ‘I must get on. I’m going with Mark to a Tenebrae service tonight.’ She smiled. ‘Pity Sandra won’t be there to note the fact that I do go to church.’

  They came home late after the service. It had been magical. Bea loved the theatricality of it, the silent meditation, the deep spirituality. As they drove back to Hereford neither spoke much, still immersed in the drama. The Close was silent, empty of people, the statue of Elgar with his bicycle in the corner of the grass a lonely presence in the shadows, the Precentor’s House and the Chancellor’s House, both in darkness, their own lit only by the half-moon of glass above the front door showing they had left the hall light on to welcome them home. Closing the door behind them, Mark kissed her on the cheek and whispered that he would see her later, before letting himself into his study. He was going to pray, she knew. He would probably sleep in there, stretching out on the sofa in the corner.

  She lit a candle without turning on the light and sat down on her cushion in the flickering shadows. Her head was still full of the beauty of the Christian story, the drama and the tragedy that was all part of Easter; and she was exhausted. It was very late.

  Without realising it was happening, she allowed her eyes to close.

  But there was still no sign of Elisedd in her drea
m. Instead she found herself once more following in Eadburh’s footsteps.

  The Emperor Charlemagne’s palace at Aachen was enormous. It was richly built and larger by far than any of the palaces in Mercia or Wessex, the clusters of buildings, linked by covered walkways, bewildering in their grandeur. Eadburh found herself lodged in one of the royal guest houses, ladies provided to wait on her, her vast treasures unloaded and stored in a warehouse nearby.

  She had not enjoyed the voyage from Southampton even though the weather had been kind; the wind was from the northwest, gentle and steady, the long swell rolling in from the distant ocean. The ship that had brought her to the kingdom of the Franks, rowed by fifteen pairs of oarsmen, had been large enough to accommodate her and her baggage. Once unloaded on the dunes at Wissant her riches were reloaded onto wagons and her long journey continued north and east across the flat plains of northern Europe.

  On the first night after her arrival at this, the emperor’s favourite residence, she was invited to his mead hall, greeted as an honoured guest and, once the feasting was over, she found herself seated beside him. So, this was the man who had negotiated with her father for her sister’s hand for his son, and who had toyed with the idea of marrying one of his daughters to her brother. She felt his keen gaze on her face as servants brought ewer and basin for the ceremonial hand wash and knelt with a soft towel as she dabbled her fingers in the scented water. She felt his eyes on her hands and was glad that she had worn her most beautiful rings and was adorned in the royal jewels of Wessex and Mercia. The king had provided a guard for the riches of her marriage portions and her dowry and she knew she came to his court as a wealthy and desirable widow. She did not know or care much whether he knew why she was a widow; the scandal of her life with Beorhtric was over.

  She studied him surreptitiously. He was a tall man, powerful of build, wearing a golden coronet on his greying hair. Two large hairy dogs lounged at his feet, both watching her with lazy interest, and she felt his eyes too boring into hers. This was the most powerful ruler in the western world, crowned Emperor of the Romans by Pope Leo only two years before, after conquering all the German tribes, the man with whom her father had negotiated diplomatic treaties and alliances and who she now planned to ask for protection. She smiled and lowered her eyelids flirtatiously, waiting for him to speak. He leaned back in his chair with a smile. ‘So, why has the Queen of Wessex come to see me?’

  ‘I am newly widowed, sire.’ She lowered her voice seductively. She had heard that this man could not resist a beautiful, powerful woman, and his wife of many years had died. His last wife, for he had had several, so she had heard, as well as countless mistresses.

  ‘I came to you for protection, sire. I was surrounded by threats and dangers in my own country.’

  ‘And your father and brother are dead.’

  She tensed. ‘Indeed, leaving me alone in the world but for a little daughter who has been taken from me.’

  ‘But you have brought your marriage portion, I hear.’

  She lowered her eyes again. ‘I was allowed to take away what was my due when I told them I was coming to seek your help,’ she said softly.

  ‘Strange. I heard you were deported.’ His gaze was steady. ‘For unspeakable crimes.’

  She tightened her jaw. ‘The unspeakable crimes were not mine, sire.’

  She dropped the pretence of coquettish weakness and met his eyes directly.

  Behind them the hall was full of noise; the emperor’s household had finished eating and the house slaves were clearing the tables away. A band of musicians were tuning their instruments. Fresh wine and ale and mead was brought in; the glass beaker at her elbow was refreshed with wine though she hadn’t yet touched it. The roar of voices was growing louder and she wished she could speak to him somewhere quiet and private, but he made no move to end their public confrontation. Eyes were watching them and she became aware of several women, richly attired, who were standing nearby, ostensibly talking close to the great central hearth, taking enormous interest in what was going on on the dais nearby. The emperor held out a gold-rimmed drinking horn to a passing house servant and it was immediately refilled. He smiled thoughtfully. ‘I like women of spirit; I admired your father greatly.’

  ‘My father was a great king,’ she replied with dignity.

  ‘As was Beorhtric.’ His voice grew sharp.

  She nodded less enthusiastically.

  ‘And you say your daughter has been kept from you by his successor, King Egbert.’

  She bit her lip. ‘Indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Egbert who spent his days in exile under my protection.’

  She tensed again. ‘He is a fair man and a good king,’ she conceded cautiously, ‘but cruel to remove a child from her mother.’

  ‘A child who could be married to a rival and carries with her the blood of her father.’

  ‘If she came to me, sire, I could ensure that she made a suitable marriage with your approval,’ she said carefully. ‘Or she could enter a convent and give her life to God. I would trust you to ensure she was safe.’

  She hoped her face showed all the love and desperation of a loving mother. She was beginning to tire of the endless scrutiny of those sharp eyes fixed so acutely on her face. They held a cold intelligence that chilled her.

  ‘If she is indeed the daughter of her father,’ his voice was suddenly harsh.

  She looked down, genuinely stunned. ‘Of course she’s her father’s daughter,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Even though her father did not care for women?’

  ‘He cared enough to come to my bed as a husband, sire.’ She was blazing with anger. ‘Why do you think I—’ She caught the words back in time. ‘I can assure you that I was his true and loyal wife!’

  To her amazement she saw his face light with amusement. ‘I believe you, madam!’ He quaffed the last of his wine with one swallow. ‘And we will talk of this again soon. If I am to give you my protection, I will have to give some thought to your future position. Until then I trust you will be comfortable in the queen’s guest hall.’ He looked towards the gathered women by the hearth at last and beckoned. Two of them stepped forward. ‘The lady Trude and the lady Waldrada served my late queen well. They will attend you.’ Standing up, he stepped to the edge of the dais and gestured towards the musicians. At once they began to play. She was forgotten.

  Eadburh dropped a dignified curtsy towards the emperor but he was striding away towards a group of his thanes. His dogs had risen with him, one on each side, huge animals with dark, intelligent eyes, half hidden by fringes of silky hair, and she felt their gaze follow her thoughtfully as she moved towards door. First one and then the other looked beyond her and she saw their focus sharpen. One growled in its throat. She turned and followed their gaze.

  Bea shrank back but there was nowhere to hide. The noise of the great hall, the richly clothed and armoured men and women swathed in silks and velvets, the swirling shadows of a thousand candles, the smell of food, the smoke from the fires and the steady threatening gaze of the great dogs, one black and one fawn, pinned her where she was. Eadburh raised her right hand, pointing at Bea and she feared the woman was commanding the dogs to attack, but as one they seemed to consider and then dismiss her as of no importance and they turned away to follow the emperor across the hall. The women were approaching, but the sound was fading. The music lingered for a few seconds as an echo in the air and then all was silence.

  Bea took a deep breath. She could taste the lingering smoke from the roasting meat on her lips, smell the reek of the hall. Her ears were ringing with the noise of lute and rebec, horn and trumpet. And now in her room all was silence broken only as the cathedral clock struck the quarter.

  With a sigh, Simon stood up from the table and walked across to the door. He could hear Felix snoring softly in the corner, hunched in his sleeping bag with his back to the single lamp on Simon’s desk. He had been asleep for hours. Simon glanced at his wristwatch. It was we
ll after midnight. He eased the front door open, anxious not to disturb the boy, and slid outside into the cold night.

  The clouds had drifted away to the north and the sky was ablaze with stars. He stood looking up, aware yet again that the view he was used to in London, the planets, a few of the brightest constellations at best, was outshone a thousand times over by the sheer number he could see here. The Milky Way was clearly visible, a great shawl sprawled overhead. It confused him. His usual signposts were harder to pick out. And this was the sky which the men and women of history had seen routinely. This was the vast storyboard with which they grew up as children and lived and beneath which they died before heading off into some vision of heaven above their heads. Unless they knew they were bound for hell.

  He shivered. He ought to go back indoors to retrieve his jacket before he set off on a stroll up on the hill. His head was full of Welsh history and it seemed somehow appropriate that he walk beneath Welsh stars. Something was impelling him to turn westward, towards the vast distances lost in the darkness of the night. Forgetting the jacket, he made his way down to the gate and let himself out into the lane.

  He had looked up Elisedd. It was a name that appeared several times in the story of the royal house of Powys, over several generations. The first to appear was Elisedd ap Gwylog who had reigned from about 725 for about twenty-five years. There was a famous monument known as Eliseg’s Pillar at Valle Crucis near Llangollen which he promised himself he would visit. The pillar, all that was left of the great cross after which the valley and the abbey nearby took their name, had been inscribed with the family pedigree going back to Vortigern and Magnus Maximus. Quite a pedigree. It had been erected by his great-grandson Cyngen, who reigned from about 808 – too late to have been the king during Offa’s time. Between Eliseg – a ‘miscarving’ of the name Elisedd, apparently – came two other kings, either of whom would have fought Offa – Brochfael ap Elisedd and Cadell ap Brochfael. Ap, he had already established, meant ‘son of’. Both of those kings would have had sons and daughters, and both could and likely would have had a son called Elisedd after their illustrious ancestor. Eadburh’s Elisedd, Emma’s Elisedd, was obviously a younger son and as there seemed to be no record of him that Simon could discover in his first cursory scan of the internet, he had not inherited the kingdom or merited a mention in history. All that remained of this handsome young man was an echo on the lips of a lost woman wandering the hills for twelve hundred years.