The Dream Weavers Page 9

  Bea realised that Simon was staring at her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said. He dug into his piece of cake.

  ‘I was thinking how exciting it must be to hear about a never before discovered source of material.’

  ‘I can’t wait.’ He nodded vigorously.

  ‘Will you tell me if there’s anything—’ she stopped in mid-sentence as he frowned.

  ‘I can’t tell you where it is. I don’t know myself. And you must not breathe a word about this to anyone.’

  And that was that. She could not ask him anything further. He had no idea about her sudden interest in the family of Offa of Mercia, and she didn’t want to tell him why she wanted to know, not when it might be no more than memories of a novel she had read years ago, or of a film she had seen on TV or at the cinema, or even some remnant of a history lesson from her school days, rehashed in her imagination. She could imagine his reaction if she did. Her street cred, what there was of it, would be gone forever so far as he was concerned. If she ever convinced herself her experience was real, then she would tell him, ask him to confirm things, but not yet. Not now.

  His admonition to keep the discovery quiet reminded her of something Mark had said. ‘By the way, please, Simon, can you make sure you don’t say a word to anyone about the reason for Mark’s and my visits to the cottage? Protocol, you know.’

  He grinned. ‘I remember. You said. Confidentiality clause.’

  She laughed. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  Twenty minutes later they said goodbye and she stood watching him walk away to retrieve his car. ‘I’ll let you know next time I’m in town,’ he said as he left. ‘Perhaps we can have coffee again, and I may be able to tell you something about my adventure. It’s good to have someone to talk to from time to time when I’m on my own all day.’

  I’m on my own all day too, she thought as she made her way home. For once the thought didn’t depress her.

  The house was deserted as she expected, silent but for the occasional tapping sounds of chisel on stone, which carried across the grass from the masons’ yard tucked against the cathedral wall on the far side of the Close. When she checked her phone she found a message from Mark saying he had been coerced into standing in for the dean at a local event and would be home late.

  With a smile, she headed for the stairs.

  The sun was setting and the attic room was full of shadows. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air and she found herself wondering suddenly if that was what had blocked her vision? It was the standard cleansing herb today, but in Eadburh’s time what would they have used?

  She turned to her bookshelf for inspiration. There were books here she almost knew by heart, and some she needed to read again. The Leechbook of Bald, The Nine Herb Charm, The Physicians of Myddfai, Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Magic … her books, collected over the years, waiting to be used. There was information here about Celtic and Anglo-Saxon herbs and charms and runes. She thought back to what she knew of the Anglo-Saxon world. Their gods, their magic, their belief in Wyrd, the working of destiny. Her eyes strayed to her jars of crushed herbs, passed over the labels, stopped. Came back. Mugwort. Of course. She had picked some last summer on the banks of the River Wye, dried it and put it there in one of her pretty pottery jars ready to be used as incense. The herb of dreams and divination. She dried her own burning herbs, following the ancient Scots and Welsh traditions that her grandmother and then Meryn had taught her. Cynefryth’s herb-wife would have known what to use, done the same. What was her name? Nesta.

  As she lit a piece of charcoal and sprinkled on a pinch of dried leaves, Bea didn’t notice she was no longer alone in the room. The shadow of a woman was standing behind her.

  Bea stood for a while looking out of the window at the clustered medieval roofs of the city beyond their garden until she could smell the pungent fragrance of the herb spiralling around her. She turned at last to light her candle, then, sitting down, she picked up the stone.

  This time it worked.

  11

  The first time his hand had touched hers it had been an accident. A quick brush of the fingers as they both reached for the bridle of the nervous horse, but the touch had been like the spark of summer lightning. Their eyes met and Eadburh felt a jolt in her chest that left her breathless. Elisedd felt it too. She could see from the shock on his face. His gaze lingered just that bit too long, as though he were seeing her for the first time, before he bowed and stepped away as she soothed the horse and passed the rein to one of her bodyguards. The next time they met they were standing on the edge of the great ditch watching the serfs pass the baskets of soil hand to hand up the slope to build the rampart ever higher. By some unspoken signal they had turned their horses to walk slowly north along the line of the ditch, both concentrating on the work going on around them. The third time they were alone together they turned south towards the sun, drawing further away from their escort, talking of inconsequential things, once or twice laughing at nothing at all. The next time, heading alone towards the site, she told him it was almost time to say goodbye.

  ‘My father plans to move the household north after Easter. We are to spend a few days at our palace at Lichfield while he holds meetings with his archbishop, then we go on to Tamworth.’ She had meant it as a way of breaking the almost tangible silence between them but her voice carried a desperation she had not intended. This strange foreign prince with his silver eyes and his dark wild hair had become fixed in her thoughts in the day and in her dreams at night. Without realising it, she found ways of talking about him to her sisters and to her mother as they worked with the herb-wife in the stillroom, enjoying the sound of his name, wanting to hear them say how handsome he was, how charming. Her mother had begun to frown at the all too frequent mention of the young man’s name. Eadburh had flown off into a rage when her sisters had teased her that he might be a potential husband. Perhaps she had protested too much. Cynefryth glanced across at Nesta, the herb-wife, and saw she too was watching the girl with a speculative frown between her eyes as if seeing danger there. Thoughtfully she turned back to the parchment on which she had copied a charm she wished to use to bring a favourite mare into season. Next time she saw the king she would mention her suspicion. This youngest child of theirs was a strong-minded young woman given to outbursts of temper when she didn’t get her own way. He needed to have a stern word with her.

  ‘Why did your father choose you and not one of your elder brothers to come to see this stage of the work through?’ Eadburh pulled her horse alongside the prince’s mount and turned to face him at last. Behind them their attendants huddled back out of the wind as another shower of rain rattled out of the west.

  ‘I’m the only one who speaks your language.’ He had strong white teeth, she realised. His smile was warm in the handsome face, a contrast to the grim expressions of the men who followed him everywhere. Like her own escort, they were constantly watchful and suspicious.

  ‘Is your father’s kingdom large?’ It had not occurred to her to be interested up until now in the land he came from. All she knew was that Powys stretched out beyond the hills to the west and north into the misty distances.

  He nodded. ‘I can show you.’ There was mischief in his eyes now. ‘Ride with me to the top of that ridge.’ He pointed across the ditch that was forming at their feet. ‘In a few days we won’t be able to cross this any more. We would have to travel to one of the guarded crossing points. From the top of the ridge we can see for miles.’

  ‘You’ve been up there?’ She looked at him curiously.

  ‘Of course. I need to see that all is well at home.’

  ‘And you can see that all is well from there?’ She didn’t hide her disbelief.

  ‘Come, and I’ll show you.’

  It was too exciting a thought to resist. ‘We have secret matters to discuss as emissaries of our respective fathers,’ she bade Burgred sternly. She saw the suspicion and even rebellion in his face as he realised she was or
dering him to stay behind, but already she was on her horse and following the prince down the steep, slippery side of the ditch and up its western flank.

  It was further than it looked. As the two horses galloped through the woodland, she felt a moment of fear. They were on the far side of the ditch now, in the kingdom of Powys, where the people spoke the strange language they called Cymraeg, still believed in fearsome ancient gods, and fought like demons, swooping down from their mountains and disappearing again as suddenly, wrapped in mist. She gave a delicious shiver of excitement as she looked round. But there were no people here. The woods appeared deserted and already the trees were thinning as the track began to climb.

  The open hillside rose high above the surrounding country. As they pulled the horses up, blowing heavily, Eadburh looked round. She could see in every direction, back the way they had come down into the flatlands of Mercia with the Malvern Hills in the far distance. In front she could see mile upon mile of mountains, stretching as far as she could see. As the clouds raced across the land from the west she saw dark shadows skimming the hillsides, and then the sunlight illuminating first one spot then another. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘But very wild. Where are your cities?’

  He laughed. ‘We have no cities. You are looking at the land of dragons. Over there,’ he pointed northwest, ‘the dragons sleep, guarded by the saints. And over here,’ he pointed away towards the southwest, ‘you can see the peaks of the snowy beacons and the land of eagles.’ He slipped from his horse and looped its rein over his arm, then he came over to help her dismount. ‘So, what do you think of my father’s kingdom?’

  ‘I can see why he would want to raid the rich lands of Mercia!’ she commented crisply. She was trying to ignore the wild beating of her heart as he stood so close beside her. She had never felt this way about a man before. The power of the attraction was overwhelming her.

  He laughed. ‘I suspect there is truth in that. But we have rich lands too, verdant valleys, rivers full of salmon, forests teeming with game.’

  ‘You know my father plans for you and me to marry,’ she said suddenly. She hadn’t meant to say it; it wasn’t true, she knew that.

  He was barely taller than she and slender, but she could see the ridged muscles of his arms. He wore gold bracelets and a circular decorated brooch of gold held his cloak in place.

  She saw the shock of surprise in his face at her words.

  ‘No mention has been made of that to me,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘It is a secret, between your father and mine.’

  ‘And does the idea please you?’ The wind was tearing at his hair; his eyes were on hers now, amused, teasing.

  She looked away hastily. ‘I’ll consider it, certainly, as I will consider the other princes my father is offering for my consideration.’

  ‘Oh, there are other princes?’

  ‘Naturally. The son of the King of the Franks.’

  ‘I had heard he was to marry your sister.’

  ‘Possibly.’ Her eyes flashed. She had been caught out. She stepped away from him sharply.

  He reached out and grabbed her wrist. ‘I would hope that, given the choice, you would prefer me.’

  She looked down at his hand, strong and muscular, weathered against her pale skin and she felt a strange stab of excitement. ‘I think I might,’ she whispered. She took a step closer to him and caught her breath as his arm went round her shoulders.

  They kissed for only a second and then he pulled back. ‘We can see the world from here, Princess, but don’t forget that means the world can see us. I doubt but that your escort are somewhere close behind in the fold of the hills over there, guarding their princess for their king, and my men too, if they are doing their job, will not be far away. We must go back.’

  ‘Not yet.’ She held his gaze. ‘It’s too soon. We must find somewhere they can’t see us.’ She turned away to scan the hillsides around them. ‘There, where the ground dips down into the valley.’

  They led the horses down the hillside into the lea of the slope and there they found a summer shelter, built for shepherds, a roofless enclosure of stones, sufficient to keep the weather at bay. And the wolves. Elisedd tied the horses to a stunted thorn tree near the entrance and taking her hand he led her inside the walls out of the wind. He unfastened his cloak and spread it on the ground so they could sit down. ‘So, when did your father tell you we were to marry?’

  She bit her lip. It was too late to withdraw her rash words. She couldn’t admit it was a lie. And she wanted him to kiss her again. Her blood was on fire. Besides, she thought wildly, perhaps she could persuade her father that the marriage made sense. It did, after all. This ditch would never be enough to prevent raids across the border and a marriage alliance would seal the peace once and for all. Her hand was in his, lying on the warm wool of the cloak, and her blood was racing and they were alone. As she leaned towards him, all her common sense and training had long since flown out of her head.

  ‘No,’ it was Elisedd who drew back. ‘We mustn’t. Not without the blessing of the Church.’

  ‘We are blessed here by your dragons and your old gods of the mountains.’ She threw herself against him, scarcely able to breathe. ‘What can it matter if we test ourselves to make sure we are suited. Your blood runs as hot as mine. I can feel it.’ She put her hand over his heart, feeling its steady beat under her palm through his tunic. She pressed her lips against his, and then she was in his arms.

  When they pulled apart at last, exhausted, the sun had slipped round in the sky and the shadows were lengthening. Sitting up, peering out over the drystone wall they could see overhead two birds tumbling in the clear air, black silhouettes high in the sunlight. Elisedd laughed. ‘Look. Ravens. The messengers of Branwen, daughter of Llyr. She was our ancient goddess of love.’

  Eadburh caught her breath. ‘Then she has witnessed our exchanged vows and we are already married in her eyes. We will go before the bishop later. Look, there are hares out there too. All nature is making love.’

  They sat for a while, watching the two hares leaping round the clearing, oblivious to their audience. ‘We in Powys have a patron saint of hares,’ Elisedd murmured. ‘She’s called Melangell. Many centuries ago one of my ancestors was hunting a hare, and the hare saw a beautiful woman watching the hunt and it fled to hide from the dogs in her skirts. She pleaded for the hare’s life, and because she was so beautiful the king granted her wish. He fell in love with her on the spot and wanted to marry her, but she refused, saying she had come to Powys to live the life of a holy virgin, so he gave her land to build a convent there.’

  ‘That’s a lovely story.’ Eadburh gave a wistful smile.

  ‘One day I promise I will take you to her shrine. But now we must go back! It grows late.’ He reached for his tunic, then he helped her to her feet. The two horses were grazing quietly outside, and there was no sign of anyone around, but suddenly he sensed danger. ‘Get dressed. Quickly. We’ve been up here much too long. Our guards will long ago have grown suspicious.’

  She pulled on her gown and quickly began to rebraid her hair. ‘They wouldn’t dare come up here.’

  ‘They would if they were worried. Come, let me help you mount. If we ride back openly, there is nothing they can do. If they followed us, they will have disobeyed our orders, if they admitted they didn’t follow us, they would have disobeyed your father. So long as we get back before dark, all will be well.’ He vaulted onto his pony. ‘Follow me.’

  From his hiding place in the edge of the wood, Burgred watched the two figures emerge from the sheepfold, retrieve their horses from the shelter of the old thorn and ride towards him eastwards down the spine of the ridge. He waited a while for them to disappear over the edge of the hill then he ducked back through the trees to where he had left his own horse grazing. Behind him the ravens cried out their warning unheeded.

  *

  The sound echoed through the attic room and died away. As Bea opened her eyes she
saw the candle flame flicker and die. Only a trail of smoke was left to remind her of what she had seen. And now she knew where they had been. Elisedd, Prince of Powys and Eadburh, daughter of Offa, had been making love on the ridge where Simon was writing his book. That original tumbled stone wall had been part of what in Wales they call a hafod, a place of refuge for the beasts up on the mountain for the summer grazing. Until the beginning of May, the ancient time of Calan Mai, it would have been deserted.

  She sat staring into space for a long time. There was only the faintest ray of light in the sky now above the rooftops and she watched as it faded. Outside in the town the street lights came on one by one and she could hear the swish of tyres on the wet road in the distance. It must have rained while she was there on the open hill in the early spring sunshine. Was she riding too? She had no sense of how she had seen everything, how she had watched the events unfold. She looked down. The stone had fallen from her fingers and lay on the carpet. She reached forward and picked it up. Had Eadburh held it at some point, left her emotions and her dreams imprinted on the surface of this small smooth lump of rock?

  She felt a sudden wave of excitement. What she had seen was amazing; unbelievable. She had been privileged and blessed by her experience. She pictured the two young people in one another’s arms. Was she being voyeuristic, watching two young people make love? But she had been unable to look away. Thank goodness Eadburh had not noticed her watching. She did not think the girl would have been pleased to see a stranger hovering in the shadows of the shepherds’ summer retreat. The thought of those cold angry eyes made her shiver. Better to think instead about the hares boxing in the grasses, the sound of the wind in the thorn tree, and the ravens calling a desperate warning.