The Dream Weavers Read online

  ‘Do you want to talk about Eadburh?’ Mark sat down at the table. Under the bright strip light she could see the strain and exhaustion in his eyes.

  ‘Not now. She’s waited twelve hundred years to tell her story. She can wait a little longer.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. He took a sip from his glass. ‘I think I might go up to bed. We’ll talk about it all tomorrow, I promise.’

  When Bea tiptoed into their bedroom twenty minutes later, he was fast asleep. She stood looking down at him then she dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead and crept out of the room. She would sleep in Anna’s room. If she had more nightmares, she didn’t want to wake him.

  41

  The cottage was incredibly quiet without the children or Val. Simon had waved the car off down the lane the next morning. To his astonishment, Emma had in the end made no fuss about going back to London. She said she had slept well and, though pale and strained, had collected her gear and climbed into the car beside her mother with barely a word.

  Val had stayed the night in the end after sharing supper with her husband and her daughter, and after Emma had gone up to bed she and Simon had talked long and late over a bottle of wine. As always with Val’s tempestuous rages, her fury had exhausted itself, and in the end she had conceded the cottage was rather nice, that he was doing his best with Em and that she was very proud of him. The Fords, she said, had copies of all his books. When Simon had tentatively offered to sleep in the blow-up bed downstairs so she could have his room, she had told him not to bother, then had snuggled in beside him. Result! He smiled at the memory.

  He walked back indoors and stood looking down at his worktable. Almost on cue, his phone rang. It was Jane Luxton. ‘I’ve news about the chronicle,’ she said. ‘I’ve arranged to take some of the photos the experts have sent me over to give to Kate and Phil, and it occurred to me you might like to meet me there.’

  He didn’t need asking twice. By midday he was bumping slowly up the hidden drive and parking beside Jane’s car in front of the main door to the house. Jane had brought a folder of beautiful high-definition photos which she spread out on Kate and Phil’s kitchen table. ‘Look at this, Simon. We sent the chronicle to the Bodleian Library where they have all sorts of specialist infra-red cameras and things that can show up old inks.’

  ‘There is masses more than we could see before.’ Simon marvelled at the detail; Felix’s efforts, brilliant as they’d been with the resources available, could not compare with this. He leaned closer. ‘I wish Felix was here. He would love to see this.’

  ‘He can see them when he comes back next holidays,’ Kate said comfortably. ‘Poor old Felix. When do the dreaded exams start?’

  ‘May thirteenth.’ Simon leaned closer to the table. Blown up this large, he could see the characters easily. ‘This is fascinating. This shows the details about that last Welsh raid in 1055. So, they did know who it was who was on their way to attack Hereford. Gruffydd, the King of Gwynedd and Powys was accompanied by the outlawed King of East Anglia,’ he leaned closer. ‘With an army of Vikings from Ireland, for goodness’ sake, coming to attack the Earl of Hereford. What a mixture!’ The next photo showed the last page of the chronicle, the final, panicked scratch of the pen and then nothing more. ‘It did not end well for the minster or the priory. We can almost see it before our eyes. Those poor guys. It must have been so utterly terrifying. Monks had no way of defending themselves presumably, no way of knowing exactly when the end of the world, in the form of that army of men with swords and spears, was going to appear over the horizon.’

  They gazed at the photos in silence for a while. Simon was thinking how pleased he was that Emma wasn’t there. With her imagination she would have been poleaxed by the words of the ancient monk, sitting scribbling at his desk, clinging to his pen as the only thing he knew how to do, the only thing he could know what to do.

  ‘Simon?’ Kate had leaned across and put her hand over his. ‘Are you OK?’

  He grimaced. ‘I was thinking about my kids. We are made so vulnerable through them.’ He nodded ruefully towards her protruding stomach. ‘Until they come along, we only have ourselves to look out for, but once they’re there, we are hostage to our love for them.’

  ‘But this man was a monk, Simon,’ Jane reminded him briskly. ‘No kids.’

  ‘His community would have been his family and as dear to him perhaps as children,’ Kate retorted. Her hand strayed to her bump. Her baby was due any day now. ‘I know it might have been quite different. Perhaps they all bickered and fought and hated each other, like a real family, but I don’t see it somehow. Not if he stayed at his desk to the last. And how do we know he was ancient?’

  ‘Perhaps because of his skill,’ Simon said. He had shrugged off the moment of weakness and was back in didactic mode. ‘It takes years of practice.’

  ‘And perhaps because the younger monks and lay brothers, if they had any sense at all, would have gathered up the monastery treasure and headed for the hills at high speed. No one in their right mind would have stayed there, writing their diary and waiting to be massacred, unless they were incapable of moving,’ Phil put in. ‘Either way, we will never know. Apart from those scribbles there is no way of finding out what happened.’

  Simon caught Kate’s eye and realised she was thinking exactly what he was thinking: unless, like Emma, they had the gift of seeing the past in graphic recall, with all its love and longing, its horror and squalor and hatred and, who knew, at the end, the terror and pain of its death.

  ‘That’s enough winding ourselves up for now,’ Kate said firmly. ‘The past is the past and must stay there. I’m going to make us all some good twenty-first-century coffee.’

  *

  That morning Bea had stirred when Mark put his head round the door to check where she was before he went out. She was fast asleep, her face serene. He hesitated and then quietly closed the door again without waking her.

  Staggering to her feet, Eadburh dragged herself back across the field to the convent entrance gates and beat on the high oak doors with her fists. No one came and there was no sound from inside. Slowly the sound of her frantic calls grew more feeble and at last she subsided onto her knees, too exhausted to move. She heard the chapel bell ring out for lauds. Snow began to fall again; the only sound was the sighing of the wind in the trees across the fields and the soft patter of its flakes. She could no longer feel her fingers or her toes. No one was coming to her aid. Somehow she managed to climb to her feet. Looking round now that it was growing light, she saw buildings in the distance and remembered the byres and barns of the abbey farm where she would at least find shelter from the snow and perhaps warmth from the huddled beasts. Somehow she managed to shuffle one foot in front of the other and grope her way along the wall and it was there in the cowshed that the dairymaid found her as she brought in her pail and her stool as the first cocks crowed and the convent bell rang out in the distance, for the daybreak office of prime.

  When she regained consciousness, Eadburh was in the farmhouse, wrapped in blankets. She had friends, it appeared, amongst the farmworkers. The king’s men were searching for her, she was told. The convent was in uproar, the sub prioress had assumed command, forbidden anyone to mention her name and threatened her with death, as ordered by the emperor, should she be found on the home estates. It was only a matter of time before they came here. She had been lucky. A second brief fall of spring snow had covered the footsteps that led from her desperate flight from the gates to the barn and those of the men who had come to carry her back to the warmth of the fire. They gave her a gown and a rough woollen cloak with a pair of worn shoes; they fed her some potage. Her desperate questions about the man who had been with her were met with shrugs and shaken heads.

  It was full daylight when the boy who had collected the milk for the convent kitchens returned with the empty pitchers. He squatted before the fire and with a quick worried look at Eadburh as she sat huddled on a stool nearby, he told them wh
at had happened.

  The abbess’s friend, he cast another fearful glance in her direction as he stammered over the word, had been dragged out to the shambles behind the cookhouse and there he had been tied down and the slaughterer had castrated him like a hog before his body was thrown out into the pig pens.

  Eadburh’s screams were so loud that the farmer’s wife ran to her and put her hand over the abbess’s mouth. ‘No, no, no. Please, you will have us all killed.’ She clutched Eadburh’s head to her bosom, trying to stifle her cries. ‘Please, Mother Abbess, please, be quiet! You are not supposed to be here. You can’t be found or you will be killed as well.’

  Eadburh was shaking all over, her grief and rage overwhelming. ‘No, no, no!’ She cried again and again, rocking backwards and forwards. ‘No, no. no. This can’t happen. It can’t. I won’t let it. Elise, my love!’ She wrapped her arms around herself and her rocking grew more frantic. ‘I can’t lose you now. Elise! Elise!’

  One by one the men crept away, dragging the milk boy with them. They would not betray her, but this was women’s business. If they were shocked at what had happened, they kept their faces impassive. Best to go out to tend the beasts.

  It was a long time before Eadburh stopped sobbing, too exhausted by her grief to do more than cradle her head in her arms as the firelight died. The farmer’s wife crept to the door and looked out. Her husband and the other men were nowhere to be seen. The convent farm was deserted and quiet. With a sigh she looked back at her uninvited guest, no more than a humped shadow in the flickering light of the dying fire. She didn’t know what to do. ‘You have to go,’ she whispered at last. ‘I can’t hide you here. They will find you. Is there no one who can help you?’

  Eadburh had few friends within the convent walls. She shook her head. ‘Better I die here.’

  ‘Not for me,’ the woman replied tartly. ‘If you are found here, we will all die!’

  In the end they sent one of the farm boys with a message for Sister Ermintrude, the nun who had charge of Ava.

  It was much later that one of the slave girls from the dairy crept back across the yard with a secret message. The mother abbess must leave. The slave girl, Cwen, would go with her and guide her up into the forests where she would be safe. Her only chance was to leave Francia as soon as possible. If she was caught by the emperor’s men she could expect no mercy. His rage at the betrayal of his trust knew no bounds. From the bundle in her arms Cwen produced a grey shawl from Sister Ermintrude’s own cell and a few silver pennies, stolen no doubt from convent treasury, all the nun could extract without being seen. There would be ructions when the shortfall was discovered when the chamberlain did her accounts at the end of the month. Eadburh took the bundle from the girl, and then let it fall to the floor, still shaken by sobs. She had no desire to run anywhere, no will to live. If Elisedd was dead, then so was she.

  Cwen bent to retrieve the bundled cloak and the pouch of coins. ‘Please, lady, we must go now,’ she murmured timidly. She looked desperately across at the farmer’s wife who was standing uncomfortably by the fire, watching. ‘If they are searching the estates, they will find you.’

  ‘Go!’ the older woman sprang into life. If the lady abbess was found under her roof now after all this, her family would pay dearly. She seized Eadburh by the arm and pushed her towards the doorway, where she checked to see no one was around before giving her unwelcome visitor a final shove to send her on her way.

  Outside the day was grey and the wind was bitterly cold. As the door slammed behind Eadburh and the girl with her they heard the bar fall into place. They were locked out.

  For a moment neither woman moved. The girl Cwen stared round, still clutching the bundle. She was panting with fear. Seeing the abbess’s indecision, she grabbed her by the hand and began to drag her towards the woods that bordered the farm. Eadburh followed, barely aware of what was happening or where she was, only slowly realising as she ran how cold it was out there and that the hand that clutched hers so desperately was as cold as her own. Her head was bare to the elements. She had no coif, no veil, no hood. The farmer’s wife’s gown was hugely too big for her, and she tripped as it slipped from the knotted belt that was holding it in place. The woollen shawl she had been given was already wet through. Her hair was wild and tangled. The shoes she had been given leaked and within minutes she was shuddering with cold all over.

  When at last they were in the shelter of the trees she staggered to a stop and leaned against the trunk of one of the tall beeches that marked the border of the abbey’s land. She was gasping for breath and it took her several seconds to see her young companion was doubled over, clutching her side. ‘You have a stitch?’ she asked, for the first time seeming to be aware of what was happening or that there was someone with her. ‘Breathe slowly; it will pass.’ She looked back across the field. Already the snow was melting from the strips and furrows, leaving lines of puddles that reflected the cold light of day.

  It took them a while to get their breath back. All the time Cwen was staring nervously around them. ‘We must go on. They will won’t stop searching until they are sure you’ve gone.’

  ‘No.’ Eadburh was still looking back towards the dark silhouette of the church with its community of huddled buildings against the night sky. ‘I have to go back for him. I can’t leave him there.’

  ‘You cannot go back, lady.’ The girl’s eyes widened with horror. ‘They will kill you!’

  ‘I have to find him. Supposing he’s still alive!’ Eadburh stepped away from the trees, her arms outstretched, her shawl falling to the icy ground.

  ‘No!’ Dropping the bundle, the girl grabbed her wrist again. ‘Did you not hear the boy? The man is dead! His body was thrown into the midden!’

  Eadburh closed her eyes. Hot tears began to stream once more down her ice-cold cheeks. Slowly she sank to her knees beneath the tree and she gave herself once more over to her grief.

  ‘Please!’ Cwen watched her for a while, not sure what to do in the face of such overwhelming sorrow, before retrieving the abbess’s sodden shawl and wrapping it around the woman’s shoulders. ‘Please. We have to go. We can’t stay here. They will find us.’ The girl’s teeth were chattering; her fingers brushed Eadburh’s cheek as she pulled the shawl closer with sudden tenderness.

  Eadburh sighed heavily and looked up. The girl, dressed only in a tunic and thin ragged overdress was shivering violently. The bundle she had carried was lying at her feet. ‘Unwrap that cloak and wrap it round you. It will be easier than carrying it,’ she said at last.

  Cwen’s eyes widened. ‘But the cloak was for you, lady.’

  ‘And I give it to you.’ Eadburh gave a bitter smile. ‘I have a warm gown and a woollen shawl. I have no need of it.’ Was it altruism or the miserable longing for death that overwhelmed her? She did not give the matter any thought as she watched the girl shake out the heavy cloak and wrap it round herself with a look of amazed joy.

  In the distance they heard the tolling of the abbey bell, barely audible now above the quiet whisper of the fir trees.

  Cwen turned towards the field where pale evening sunlight was reflecting off the mud and her face filled with horror. ‘They’re coming!’ In the distance three men had appeared, on foot, standing near them at the edge of the field. ‘If they have dogs, we are lost.’

  Eadburh took a deep breath at the mention of dogs with a sudden desperate yearning for her beloved Ava. She offered up a silent prayer that Ermintrude would look after her. Surely the emperor would not act vindictively against one of his own beloved animals. There was no movement from the men. They appeared to be scanning the fields. And there was no sound of barking, so they didn’t have hunting dogs with them. The shock of the sight of them spurred Eadburh into action. Climbing stiffly to her feet she nodded. ‘We must go.’

  Holding hands, they began to run, heading deeper into the trees, following a steep narrow path that wound into the dark heart of the forest.

  They had thoug
ht themselves well clear of pursuit as it grew dark, when the sound of barking far behind them brought them to a halt. Terrified, Eadburh looked round desperately for somewhere to hide.

  ‘We need to cross water, to break the scent,’ Cwen whispered. Her already pale face was white. ‘I can hear it nearby.’ They scrambled up the path and over some rocks to gaze down at a cascading waterfall, the water a white streak against the black rocks of the valley that opened up below them.

  Somehow they scrambled across and threaded their way once more into the undergrowth.

  Still the barking grew closer. Eadburh glanced behind her, waiting to hear the shouts of the men, but the forest fell quiet again, as though the hounds had paused to pick up the scent anew. Hardly daring to breathe, she and Cwen huddled together in the shelter of a covert of thorn, waiting. They could hear the crashing of broken branches and the rustle of leaves as the pursuit drew nearer, and then it was upon them, a tawny animal, bursting into the glade with a yelp of joy. It was Ava, her fur smeared with blood, her ears torn, and tangled with brambles. She flew to her mistress and threw herself at her feet, too exhausted even to wag her tail. Eadburh sank to her knees in tears and put her arms round the dog’s neck. It was a moment before she looked up anxiously. ‘Has she been followed? Has she led them to us?’

  They listened, but the forest was quiet. Eadburh kissed the animal’s silky head. ‘She was calling to us to stop and wait for her.’

  They found a hollow in the rocks out of the wind, huddling together to rest with the dog between them for warmth as at last night fell. There was nothing to do, nowhere to go in the long cold hours of darkness until daylight began to show once again in the east.

  Somewhere deep in her dream, Bea had heard the bedroom door close. Slowly she opened her eyes and looked round. It was daylight and she was in her daughter’s bedroom. The dog in her arms was an old stuffed toy that Anna had left on her bed when she went off to college and which Bea was too soft-hearted to put away. She sat up, looking at the worn, much-loved creature in her arms and felt tears trickling down her cheeks. Tears for Elisedd, brutally killed on the orders of Charlemagne, and the woman he loved thrown out into the snow to die, finding true love from a loyal dog. She shivered. The reality of that dream, the cold and hunger and fear as the two women had made their way up through the dense fir forests was still with her, even as she made her way to the bathroom and turned on the shower to thaw the cold from her own bones.