The Dream Weavers

by Barbara Erskine

  The fire had died low and the lamp in the corner was flickering when Eadburh climbed out of her bed and, snatching a rug to wind round her shoulders, tiptoed to the hearth to throw on more logs. Sitting on a stool close beside it, she watched the flames flare and the shadows race across the walls. From the shadows, the breathing of her sisters and the women on the truckle beds along the far wall formed a gentle backdrop to the crackle of the logs. Her gaze lingered on the parchment on the table. Alfrida had painstakingly copied out the names in her neatest hand, one name beneath the other down the page. All three girls had attended convent schools attached to one or other of her father’s palaces. They read and wrote fluently in their own language and in Latin, and were as well read as any. The King of the Franks was insistent, so they had heard, on the women of his family being literate and educated and capable of ruling any province in which they found themselves, should the need arise, and Offa wanted no less for his daughters. His own wife had learned to read and write from her mother and from an abbess of her mother’s kin.

  Leaning across to the table, Eadburh reached for the parchment, staring at the list of names in the firelight. There were kings and princes there of East Anglia and Northumberland, of Sussex and Wessex and Kent, two were scions of kingdoms far north beyond the great wall of the Roman Emperor Hadrian, but there were none from the west of her father’s dyke. Rerolling the parchment, she stared into the fire for a long time before letting it slip through her fingers into the ashes. She watched it crumble and slowly disappear, then, straightening her back and pulling her rug more closely round her shoulders, she turned to face the doorway. She was, Bea realised, looking straight at her.

  8

  With a cry of fear, Bea dropped the stone. She scrambled to her feet. She had been there in the palace of the king, in the bedchamber with his daughters, an invisible eavesdropper, blatantly watching, as though this was some kind of a film, there but not there. It had never occurred to her that Eadburh or her sisters might be able to see her. With the rattle of the stone on the floor it had all gone, vanished, leaving her disorientated and reeling with shock.

  For a while she stood still, deep in thought. Slowly her heartbeat steadied and her fear subsided. Of course it couldn’t have been a two-way contact. She may have thought Eadburh was looking straight at her, but nothing had happened. The girl hadn’t reacted. Her gaze had been dreamy, preoccupied, thinking about her future and what lay there.

  Nevertheless, this had been a warning. Simon had told her the quest was over. She had settled whatever restless spirit there had been in the cottage. She knew better than to persist in an enquiry that was finished. The door was closed. She must leave it at that.

  She picked the stone up off the floor and put it on the top of the bookcase, then ran down the two flights of stairs, grabbed her jacket from the pegs in the hall and, opening the front door, let herself out of the gate in the low wrought-iron railings that bordered their narrow strip of front garden and walked out into the Close. It was busy with mid-morning crowds strolling the paths and sitting in the sun on the benches under the trees. It was nice out there. Normal.

  She had grown very fond of the cathedral, with its walls and great tower of mottled pinky-brown sandstone. Unlike its soaring Gothic cousins elsewhere in England, it had kept its smaller and more compact shape as an echo of its early Norman origins, reflected inside by the vast squat Norman pillars in the nave. It was crowded today. There were two parties of tourists making their way round, one standing at the back near the modern memorial window to the SAS, staring up at the stunning area of blue glass, and the other between the choir stalls, looking up at the vaulted roof.

  ‘Beatrice!’ One of the volunteers who worked there as a part-time guide was standing by the donation box near the north entrance and spotted her at once. There was little that went on in the cathedral that Sandra Bedford missed. ‘Have you come to find Mark?’ The woman was tall and stick-thin with neat hair and clear brown eyes behind her wire-framed spectacles. Wearing her identifying lanyard and the blue cassock of an official guide, she peered at Bea intently, her smile eager. ‘Are you joining us for the tour?’ There were several people standing round them now, waiting for it to begin.

  ‘Not today, Sandra.’ Bea did not want to engage in conversation with anyone at this moment. With a wave of her hand she turned away from the door, heading towards the north transept. There was a special place in this great building that she thought of as her own. A place where she had found a friend and an adviser.

  When they had first moved into the Treasurer’s House it had had its own ghosts, terrible, violent memories of a long-past battle, the shouts of men fighting, the clash of iron swords, the scream of horses. Horrified, she had prayed for their souls; she had carried a bowl of burning herbs into every room and she had placed powerful protective crystals, discreetly, so Mark and the girls wouldn’t notice. They had heard nothing. She hadn’t known then what had caused such mayhem here in the peaceful Cathedral Close, but then she had learnt of the ancient skeletons archaeologists had found working nearby. Whoever those poor men had been, Saxons, Viking, Welsh or English, they had been ghosts from an ancient past, long before the houses round the Close had been built, probably before the cathedral itself was there, and they were at rest now. She had told Mark when it was all over and he had brought her here to the little chantry chapel off the north quire aisle to pray together. And it was here, when she later returned alone, that she had seen for the first time the shade of the wise old man she had come to think of as her mentor.

  Finding the chapel empty, she sat down, pulled back the hood of her coat and began cautiously to try to find the silence.

  For a long time nothing happened. Away from the crowds, no one had switched on the lights and it was dark in the chapel, scarcely any murky light filtering through the elaborate stained-glass windows, but someone had lit a votive candle and placed it on a stone shelf near the altar. The flame was steady, illuminating a small patch of the delicate vaulted roof, throwing the graceful lines of stone into stark relief.

  It was only slowly that Bea became aware that the old priest was in the chapel with her. She gave a half glance under her eyelids and saw the reassuring shape sitting against the wall by the altar, the shadow of his robe barely there in the flickering light, his sparse circle of hair white beneath his cowl, his face indistinct, always indistinct.

  He never spoke. Once or twice she had tried to link with him; she knew he could hear her, but his was a vow of silence. And peace.

  ‘What should I do?’ she whispered. ‘Please tell me.’

  A swirl of draught entered the chapel as down in the nave someone opened the main door into the north porch. As the candle smoked the chapel filled with the smell of beeswax and surely, just a little of incense.

  ‘Don’t go back, my child.’ The voice was soft, barely audible. ‘Don’t go. There is danger there.’

  Her eyes flew open. The old man had vanished but, for a short few seconds, the sound of his words echoed in her head. Her heart thudding uncomfortably, she stared round the chapel. Danger. He had warned her of danger.

  The sound of footsteps outside the doorway distracted her momentarily. ‘And this,’ she heard Sandra’s voice clearly above the shuffling of feet, ‘is our loveliest chantry chapel. These were specially endowed when they were built as sacred places where a priest would sing masses and say prayers for the soul of the donor and his family. Sadly, during the Reformation they were dismantled and the priests chased away. Nowadays it’s reserved for private prayer.’

  It took a moment for her to register that Bea was there, sitting in the corner on the furthest of the short row of chairs, and she backed out again, trying to usher the group away, but they didn’t want to be ushered. One or two pushed past her, staring eagerly round the tiny space. Bea leaned forward, her hand over her eyes. She could feel them looking at her, curious. Perhaps prayer was something they did not expect. They were tourists, and touri
sts tended to be, as Mark had once remarked with enormous sadness, unaware of what a cathedral was for.

  Silence descended again as the sound of feet finally died away and she closed her eyes, trying to forget the interruption, concentrating on why she had come, trying to calm the shock and apprehension that had flooded through her at the old man’s words, silently begging him to come back. To explain.

  But he had gone, chased away by the Reformation and by the needs of a secular age. There was no shadow now near the altar.

  And already she knew what she must do. He was right. She must leave the cottage to its dreams. She must not get pulled in. There was danger there.

  But first she must take back the stone.

  To her relief, Simon’s car was nowhere in sight. She pulled into the cottage’s parking space and picked her handbag off the passenger seat. In it was the stone, wrapped in a silk scarf. She had not allowed herself to touch it again with her bare hands and even now, as she turned towards the gate, she held the strap of the bag at arm’s length. She had originally picked up the stone seemingly at random on the steps inside the gate and she stood for a few moments allowing herself to sense the right place to put it back. The flower bed beside the steps seemed best. No one would trip on it there. She thanked it for its communications and allowed it to slide out of the silk wrapping onto the cold damp earth amongst the daffodils without coming into contact with it again. With relief she stepped back, stuffing the silk into the bag and slinging the bag on her shoulder. The sunlight was illuminating the valley below, sucking up the low-lying mist. It was a beautiful spot. She glanced back towards the stone, feeling a stab of regret. The intensity of her visions had been so immediate, so real, she had been intrigued and captivated and entranced. Don’t go back. There is danger there. The old priest’s words echoed for a moment in her head. He was right, the job was done. The voice had gone; to pursue the quest would risk … What? Risk contacting the past in a way that was far too intimate and seductive. At the end of a successful delivery from a ghostly manifestation she had been taught to visualise those two great wooden doors closing slowly behind the figures as they walked towards the light. Those doors must never be reopened. She must close the doors on the past and let it go.

  She was jolted out of her reverie by the distant sound of a car climbing the hill. It grew closer, the engine straining. Simon pulled in beside her, bringing with him the unedifying smell of burning clutch, and emerged carrying two bags of groceries. He grinned at her. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know when you rang this morning you said there was no need for me to come up again but I needed to return –’ She paused abruptly. She had been about to mention the stone. ‘Your key,’ she improvised hastily. It was after all still in her pocket.

  He nodded. ‘You needn’t have bothered. There was no hurry. Come and grab a cup of coffee while you’re here. As you can see, I’ve been stocking up.’ He led the way up the path and opened the door.

  ‘So, no more signs of your unwelcome visitor?’ Following him through into the kitchen, she dropped his key on the table.

  ‘Not a peep.’

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ She followed him back into the living room and perched on the edge of one of the two chairs, clutching her mug as he dropped some kindling into the hearth and bent to light the fire. ‘Is there any possibility that this cottage was once part of a much more ancient building?’

  He glanced at her as he reached into his pocket for his matches. ‘You’re still on the quest then?’

  ‘I’m still intrigued. I don’t want to stir anything up, especially as the problem seems to have gone, but I was wondering – following an idea, no more than that.’

  This was not what she had planned to do. She did not want to pursue the story, and yet somehow she could not stop herself asking.

  ‘I suppose Christine might know about this place’s antecedents. I’m no architectural historian, but the walls do look older in some places than in others,’ he replied as he found a slightly larger log to balance on top of the flames. ‘I vaguely assumed it might have started life as a farm building. I think it’s been a dwelling of some sort for a hundred years or so. Victorian maybe? I can’t quite remember what she said.’ He threw himself down opposite her. Like her, he had kept his coat on; the spring sunshine had not yet managed to find its way inside the thick stone walls.

  ‘Not Anglo-Saxon then?’

  He shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But to be honest, it would be very hard to establish anything for sure. As I said, probably a byre, later converted to a cottage, maybe incorporating some ancient walls. Who knows how old they might be. An archaeologist would probably be able to tell you more.’

  ‘But it wasn’t a palace.’

  ‘Oh, good lord, no.’ He laughed. ‘The footprint of the building is tiny.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I thought I might go and see what’s left of Offa’s stronghold at Sutton Walls,’ she said. ‘It’s so odd that I live near it and yet I never even knew it existed.’

  ‘That’s because it doesn’t.’ He grinned. ‘As far as I can ascertain, there is no sign of a stronghold up there from his dates. They have more or less ruled out anything at the Iron Age fort itself, and although archaeological digs have produced Anglo-Saxon stuff in quite a few places around the area, and they did find a couple of Saxon water mills down near the River Lugg, there is nothing to see now.’

  ‘Oh.’ She felt let down.

  ‘Sorry.’ He glanced at her in some amusement. ‘There are lots of places round here you can still see the dyke though.’

  Oh yes. The distant hills, the sunset, the tell-tale line of smoke, the armed men on their impatient horses as Elisedd and Eadburh exchanged chippy remarks. Bea could picture them so clearly, she with her red, woven cloak, the hood pulled up over her braided blond hair, he, also cloaked but in a dark checked heavy wool, fastened on the shoulder by a round brooch, sword at his side, hanging down next to his saddle, his horse with its decorated bridle. His head was bare. No hood, no helmet, no restraining circlet as a king or a prince might wear, just wild dark hair, the same colour, she remembered now, as his horse’s mane.

  And she had been there. The wind had been blowing, snatching her hair too, feeling cold, roaring through the stand of trees behind them in the valley beyond the ridge.

  No, that couldn’t be right. She hadn’t been there. It was a dream.

  ‘Bea?’ Simon’s voice was sharp. ‘Did you hear me? Are you OK?’

  She swallowed. ‘Sorry, I was remembering something. A picture.’ Almost without realising it, she pushed her hair back out of her eyes. ‘It must have been some history book from my childhood.’

  ‘Ah. Children’s books so often hold evocative memories.’ He reached for his coffee and took a gulp. ‘I asked if you’d been to the Offa’s Dyke Centre. That’s the place to go if you want to know what life was like in the time of Offa.’

  But I do know!

  She managed not to say the words out loud. Hastily swallowing her coffee, she stood up. ‘I’ll keep that in mind. But I must go now, and you’ll be wanting to get back to work. I hope all remains peaceful.’

  She hoped her departure had not been too abrupt as she drove down the hill and turned onto the winding road that led back towards civilisation. As she had run down the cottage steps she had glanced towards the flower bed for a last glimpse of the stone. There was nothing to be seen but the tossing heads of the daffodils.

  Chris and Ray lived in a lovely old house in the centre of Eardisley, one of the villages on what was known as the Black-and-White Trail, a group of little towns famous for their timber-framed buildings. It was only twenty minutes or so from the cottage.

  Bea followed her through into the kitchen.

  ‘So, has the ghost gone?’ Chris was sorting laundry and in the next-door utility room, the washing machine and dryer were going full tilt. She was a plump, motherly woman, some twenty years older
than Bea. ‘Sorry about this. It’s change-over day for our B & B guests in the house. What with Easter coming up, we’re run off our feet. You have no idea what a relief it is not to have to change the sheets every couple of days in the cottage as well. That’s why I couldn’t bear the thought of losing my first and only long-term tenant.’ She glanced over at Bea. ‘The ghost has gone?’

  Bea had an irresistible vision of her catching a ghost in a butterfly net and putting it out of the window. ‘As far as we can tell. It has only been one day.’

  ‘But you think so, right?’

  Bea nodded slowly.

  ‘And it was a real ghost?’

  Bea smiled. ‘Oh yes, it was a real ghost.’

  She watched as Chris sorted through another load of sheets and stacked them on the ironing board. ‘I thought you had someone to help you with all that.’

  Chris nodded. ‘But even ladies who help go on holiday. Usually at the most inconvenient times.’ She sat down and ran her fingers through her hair. ‘God, I’m knackered. Let’s have a glass of wine. Then I’ll make us something to eat. Ray has swanned off for the day to play golf.’ She slid off the stool to retrieve a couple of glasses from the draining board. She reached for the half-empty bottle of red wine on the worktop and unscrewed the top. ‘So, we own a haunted cottage. What a turn-up for the books. I wonder if I need to declare it when I describe the place for the next visitor. Perhaps not. I wouldn’t like to see it on TripAdvisor. It’s a bit lonely, and not everyone likes a haunted house. You’re sure it’s gone?’

  ‘I’m almost sure.’ Bea grinned.

  ‘But I can see you’re not happy about something. Has Mark been beating you again?’ She loved teasing Bea’s gentle, serious husband.