The Dream Weavers Read online

  As soon as they were alone Eadburh turned on her mother. ‘So, is it true? Am I to marry the Prince of Powys?’

  Cynefryth was pushing up her sleeves as she reached into the baskets to sort out the leaves she had already gathered. Betony, meadowsweet, hemp and cinquefoil. The study of plants and leechcraft was one of the queen’s passions and wherever she and the king went as they toured the kingdom it was made clear that the herb rooms of the various palaces they stayed in on their royal progress were her special territory. Her boxes with their stock of bottles and pots were already arranged on the tables, their lids thrown back.

  Cynefryth did not bother to turn to look at her daughter. ‘No, you are not. What would be the point of building the great dyke between our countries if we could buy a secure border with your virginity?’

  ‘But Papa does plan to marry us all off?’

  Her mother sighed. ‘Of course. And soon. But your marriages will be the results of much thought and negotiation. I can promise you that a younger son of one of the British kingdoms would not be worth the trouble. Why would your father want to build his influence over there in a land of mountains and mists and very little else? You are a valuable asset to us. Your brother and your eldest sister will in all probability go to the court of the Franks. You and Alfrida will have glorious matches in kingdoms in Britain your father wants tied in firm alliance.’

  ‘So that much at least is decided?’ Eadburh felt oddly deflated. Was she not valuable enough to have had her destiny chosen yet?

  ‘Nothing is decided,’ her mother gave a tolerant smile, ‘but it won’t be long, child. Your turn will come. And in the meantime, I will teach you all I can of my herbal arts. Neither of your sisters has the application to learn or the interest and my plants have their uses in ways you cannot even dream of.’

  Behind them the door opened and Nesta came back in, a woven willow basket over her arm. She paused as she saw the queen and her daughter standing by the table, her expression inscrutable.

  ‘Come in, woman.’ Cynefryth beckoned her towards them. ‘The sisters of Wyrd must have sent you back at this moment. You can start my daughter’s lessons in the craft this very day.’

  Bea stared at the Saxon worktable, spotlit by a ray of sunlight that streamed in through the doorway onto the wilting herbs and the pile of baskets. In the distance, behind the glare of the sun, she could see the outline of a long low hill rising out of the trees, and in front of it the soaring roof of a vast barnlike building, the mead hall of the king. The stillroom itself appeared to be a simple structure, but built of sturdy beams, the walls of wattle and daub, with tables and shelves stocked with bottles and dishes and jars. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters. There was a fire at one end of the room, over which hung a bronze cauldron. She could smell the exotic scent of the herbs, mixed with the familiar warm aroma of sawn wood and thatch, and she could hear voices shouting in the background, cows bellowing, horses neighing and the sound of hooves, the rattle and bang of hammers, people shouting, dogs baying.

  As she grew more aware of the surroundings and the smells and the warmth of the sunlight, she realised the noises, the voices of women had grown distant, fading as she strained to hear them. Soon there was nothing to hear except the song of a robin from the fruit trees in the orchard. She blinked several times. The bird wasn’t there in the past, it was here, in their own garden, its evening song echoing in through her window. The scene of the royal palace and its inhabitants had gone.

  Gently putting the stone down on the floor in front of her, Bea sat for a long time without moving, deep in thought. She had hoped that, if it worked at all, her meditation with the stone would take her to the past of the cottage on the ridge, to see its origins, the people who had lived there, the scenes of anguish that had led to the loss of Elise, but it had taken her straight back to the story of Offa’s daughters. It had continued where her dream had left off.

  Elise?

  Not a lost pet, not a woman, a man. The puppy from Powys. Eleezeth, they had called him. The name came back to her with sudden clarity, as did the strong angry faces of Offa the king, and Eadburh, his daughter, their eyes locked, their body language combative. Is that what this was all about? A Celtic prince, an Anglo-Saxon princess and a modern day historian who had inadvertently conjured up the past? Hardly able to breathe as the full realisation of what she had seen dawned on her, Bea scrambled to her feet and reached for her notebook. Never trust your memory; memory is the most fallible part of what you do. First impressions and recall are vital. Always write things down. She remembered the words she had learned at her first lecture on psychometry, what her teacher had referred to as time travel. Meditation with the stone she had picked up from Simon’s front garden had taken her to a royal palace on the flatlands near a river, in the shadow of a long low hill. The stone had taken her back to the presence of Offa and his family, into the heart of the nest of vipers.

  7

  ‘So, what happened up at the cottage?’ Mark had joined her in the kitchen. He was looking utterly exhausted, sitting down at the table as she pulled the carton of leftover stew out of the freezer. As she reached for a bowl to put in the microwave, he said, ‘Sorry, love. I’m not really hungry. Do you mind if I just have coffee? I’ve got some figures I must sort out in the study. I’ll get something to eat later.’

  He watched while she made the coffee, took the mug with a grateful smile and carried it out of the room. She hadn’t had to answer his question, to lie or prevaricate. Her secret was still her own for now. With a sigh of relief, she put the stew back into the freezer and waited until she heard the door of his study close.

  Of course it couldn’t be Simon’s book alone. The stone proved that. Somehow the scene she had witnessed must have been connected to the cottage on Offa’s Ridge, a place named perhaps not because it was so near to Offa’s Dyke, but for another and altogether more personal reason.

  She reached over to the stack of books on the dresser and found the local road map.

  The Iron Age hill fort at Sutton Walls, one of the places Simon had mentioned, was five and a half miles to the north of Hereford. She stared at the page for several seconds then dropped the book and reached for her iPad. There were several mentions on line of Offa’s missing Herefordshire palace and its possible location. She smiled to herself as she swiped her way slowly through the various entries. That long hill she had seen through the door of the herb room was the right shape for a hill fort. The palace, busy and fortified as it was, had been on the flat land below it, where she had seen Eadburh and her Welsh prince riding through lush meadowland in the bend of a gently meandering river towards the line of higher ground. She traced the line of the River Lugg with her finger on the map, then found the dotted line of Offa’s Dyke, following it as it veered westwards across the contour lines towards the trig point on Offa’s Ridge, and realised her hands were shaking. It was at least twenty miles away, but do-able on a horse, surely?

  Twenty minutes later she was back in the attic, sitting in candlelight, nervously holding the stone once more between her hands. Performing her protective rituals, surrounding herself with light and love and muttering her prayer, she emptied her mind to connect with the story again.

  She awoke much later as the candle flickered and burned out, leaving her huddled on her cushion in the dark. The cathedral clock was striking midnight. It hadn’t worked. There had been no dream, no vision of the past. Nothing but deep exhausted sleep.

  ‘I wanted to thank you. You seem to have fixed my ghost.’ Simon rang shortly after nine the next morning, minutes after Mark had left the house with a folder of notes for his finance committee. Bea was standing in her attic, staring out of the window as she held the phone to her ear. ‘I’m not sure what you did, but I haven’t had a peep out of her since you were here.’ He sounded cheery. ‘She seems to have decided to leave me in peace. I wanted to catch you before you left to let you know and save you a wasted journey. I got a lot of wor
k done last night, thanks to you.’

  His words took her aback. It had never occurred to her that Simon might not want to continue the hunt for the voice.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ she said, a reflexive polite response, her voice flat. ‘But to be honest, I didn’t do anything.’

  He laughed. ‘Perhaps she realised she had met her match. Or perhaps you showed her there was nothing here for her. Next time I’m in Hereford, let me buy you a coffee to say thank you.’

  Bea gave a rueful smile. ‘I would like that. And do contact me if she does return.’

  As she switched off the phone and tossed it down onto the windowsill she felt completely deflated.

  The stone was lying where she had left it the night before on the sill, next to the phone. Picking it up, she held it thoughtfully, feeling it grow warm between her palms. ‘So, have you really gone away?’ she murmured. She felt a prickle of excitement as her vivid memory of the women gossiping came back to her, the sorting of herbs, the strong smells of plants, and sawn wood and something else, something indefinable, in the room where they were standing.

  Were they haunting the cottage? She realised she wanted to know the answer to that question incredibly badly.

  Deep in thought, she walked away from the window. There could be no harm in trying again, surely. She didn’t need Simon’s permission, after all, to pursue her enquiry. If it worked, she could at least identify the place. The people. Find out if this was more than a dream, and if so, why the owner of the voice was anchored in this world. Mark need never know. She would tell him later that Simon had called off the investigation, which would be true, but meanwhile, the house was quiet, no one was going to disturb her; she had to try one more time to find out what happened next.

  The direction the great dyke was to follow was marked out with stakes. To the north the line it followed was clear, near completion, the earth still raw, the deep groove across the land topped to the eastern side by a high bank. Behind them the vast encampments of the workers sprawled through the fields and woods, the neater offices and tents of the supervisors and the king’s surveyors in a cluster a short way beyond. Here and there as far as the southern horizon smoke still rose from the systematic burning off of brushwood to clear each section as the next area of work began.

  ‘So, does it meet with your approval?’ Eadburh turned to the prince, who was standing near her, his eyes narrowed as he gazed at the massive earthwork.

  ‘It hardly matters if I approve,’ he commented quietly. ‘As long as it follows the planned route. My father’s surveyors and yours have agreed the detail.’

  ‘And it allows your people some rich areas of good border land,’ she reminded him.

  He nodded. ‘It seems the great Offa is tired of being defeated by the armies of Powys.’

  ‘Or that the armies of Powys are defeated, once and for all,’ she retorted.

  They were both squinting into the setting sun. Glancing across at him when he didn’t reply to her barb, she saw he was smiling. Months earlier a raiding army had ridden out of the night to burn some farmsteads near Hereford, threatening yet again its monastery and its minster, and a furious Offa had come south in person with his war band to consolidate this most vulnerable of borders. Even now, Offa’s warrior guard, there to protect their princess, were watching this young man’s every move, hands on their sword hilts. It occurred to her how brave the prince was, to come alone but for a small group of attendants, relying on Offa’s promise of safe conduct. She herself, she realised ruefully, would not trust her father’s word further than the far corner of the table, so was Elisedd naïve or stupid or part of some greater plot? She looked back into the dazzle of the sunset. A huge army could be hidden out there in the folds of these hills and they would never know until it was too late.

  The kingdoms of the west intrigued her. Britons. The original people of this island. Foreigners, Welsh, as her people called them, speaking a different language, following different laws, living in remote hidden valleys or on mountains with their peaks in the clouds, a land with different legends and myths and stories, tribes who had inhabited the island of Albion long before her own ancestors had settled there, incomprehensible to the Saxon race and frightening. Very frightening. And yet this man, with his handsome features and his quiet ways, did not seem so very scary or so very different, and he spoke her language fluently.

  Catching his eye, she felt herself blush. ‘We should return to the camp. It will soon be dark.’

  He inclined his head. Turning his horse, he set off slowly back towards the encampment, allowing her to follow or not as she pleased. She scowled, savagely holding her own mount back. Was even her horse beguiled by this soft-spoken foreigner, automatically trying to follow him into the shadows of the night.

  ‘We should go too, Princess,’ the voice at her elbow came from Burgred, one of the warriors pulled from her father’s war band to be her personal guard. He squinted back towards the crimson clouds gathering in the western sky. Any moment the sun would slip below the hills.

  ‘You think the prince would trick us?’ She stared after the receding figure as it disappeared into the darkness, his men already gone ahead of him.

  Burgred was a tall man, uncomfortable on horseback, his helmet framing a handsome, weathered face, his armour sitting easily on his broad frame, one hand on his reins, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘I trust no one, Princess. A hostage, snatched away into the hills yonder, would be a powerful weapon to use against your father.’

  Eadburh hid the bitter smile that threatened to betray her opinion of just how little her father would value her. A hostage might prove a bargaining piece, but no more. Offa had other daughters he clearly held of greater worth.

  Her horse moved restlessly beneath her and she realised that Burgred had leaned across to put his hand to its bridle, intent on leading her back towards the camp. ‘No!’ she snapped. She smacked his hand away. ‘We go when I say so.’

  His face darkened but he bowed his head in acquiescence and reined back a few paces. Eadburh watched in silence as the sun sank into the bed of cloud and the crimson of the sky darkened to the colour of dried blood. On cue, an owl hooted near them. Then, with a sigh, she kicked her horse into a trot. The men of her escort looked at each other knowingly and fell into place. Only Burgred drew his sword as he glanced over his shoulder towards the west.

  As the gates closed behind them and her escort peeled away towards the stables, Eadburh headed towards the queen’s hall and their bedchambers. One served the king and queen, and one was for their daughters, the three framed beds furnished with linen sheets and with furs and tapestries. Alfrida was already sitting there in front of her dressing table as one of her women unplaited her hair and began to comb it out. There was no sign of Ethelfled.

  Throwing herself down on her bed, Eadburh watched in silence.

  Alfrida glanced at her. ‘So, how did it go with your handsome prince?’ She gestured the girl with the comb to leave her and swung round on her stool to face her sister. ‘Do you think he will make a good husband?’ She suppressed a giggle.

  Eadburh kicked off her leather shoes and pulled her feet up, tucking them under her skirts. She was still wearing her heavy riding cloak against the chill of the evening, which permeated the room even though there was a fire burning in the central hearth. ‘He’s handsome enough,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘But not to my taste. Too thin and,’ she hesitated over the word, ‘too delicate.’

  Alfrida snorted. ‘You would prefer a hunk like Burgred? We have all noticed how he dances attendance on you. He has eyes for no other. His hands trail near yours—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Eadburh stood up furiously. ‘If he touched me, I would tell Papa to have him killed!’

  ‘Oh, whoa, no!’ Alfrida raised both her hands in mock horror. ‘You can’t afford to lose such a good fighter.’

  ‘We can if he dares to think—’

  ‘He doesn’t dare to think anything,’ h
er sister said. ‘Can’t you take a joke? The man would die for you, but that is his job.’

  ‘Indeed it is.’ Eadburh tightened her lips. Looking round for her own maid, she realised they were alone. She stood up and bent to pull off her stockings. She dropped them where they lay and climbed back onto her bed, hugging her knees thoughtfully. ‘Mama said Papa would not contemplate a Welsh husband for any of us.’

  ‘I know she did. I was only teasing. So, would you be happy to go to marry a Frankish prince instead?’ Alfrida’s question was an afterthought.

  Eadburh shrugged her shoulders. ‘If he was destined to be the greatest king in Christendom I would. But if any of us are offered, it will be Ethelfled, as she’s the eldest.’ She scowled, then sat forward, reaching across to take her sister’s hand. Suddenly she was smiling with excitement. ‘Let’s make a list of all the eligible men in neighbouring kingdoms we know are seeking wives, then we can choose one each and we can begin to work on Papa.’

  ‘And no one from the British kingdoms of the west,’ Eadburh said firmly.

  ‘No, no one from the kingdoms of the west.’

  Later that night Eadburh lay awake for a long time, unable to sleep. Alfrida had recruited Ethelfled to help them with their list, and the piece of parchment lay on the table in the centre of the chamber with the inkpot and quill. There were several names on it now, and would be more. The girls had giggled long and delightedly as each new name was produced. The men were familiar to them from the discussions and meetings of their father, though not all had been viewed personally. It didn’t matter. What they were evaluating was wealth and power. No one could compete with the son of King Charles of the Franks for Ethelfled, but there were other kings and princes to consider, all of whom, they laughed confidently, would be more than delighted to claim a daughter of the great Offa as bride.