‘I saw her.’
It was a full second before his words sank in. ‘What do you mean you saw her?’
‘While I was talking to Simon, we both heard the voice calling. I prayed and she appeared. She was an elderly nun.’
‘You saw her?’
‘I saw her.’
‘That doesn’t make sense,’ she said at last. She sat down opposite him. ‘She’s a young woman. A girl. She wasn’t a nun.’
‘I thought you said you hadn’t seen her.’
‘I didn’t. At least,’ she added quickly, ‘only a shadow in the garden. And the voice is a young woman’s voice.’
‘No. Not the voice I heard.’
‘Then we didn’t hear the same person.’
They stared at each other in silence.
‘The main thing is,’ Mark said at last, ‘I saw her and spoke to her, and I prayed with her and she’s gone, Bea. She seemed at peace.’ His tone had changed.
She nodded.
‘And Simon can get on with his book.’
‘He’ll be relieved.’
‘And thank God, you won’t have to go up there again.’ He took a deep breath, swallowing his anger. ‘Bea, I had no right to ask you not to do this, but please, in future, if there is another case, at least be discreet. And don’t whatever you do say anything again that could be misconstrued by Sandra Bedford.’
There was a long pause. ‘Why did you go up there?’ she asked. She was not ready to let this go yet. ‘Were you spying on me?’
‘No! When I couldn’t find you, I was worried. I guessed that was where you were.’
‘And now you’ve seen a real ghost you’re probably even more worried.’
He nodded slowly. ‘My first ghost. But she wasn’t scary. She was …’ he hesitated, trying to find the right word, ‘not quite real, but more than a shadow. I thought she was very sad.’
‘And you think she was a nun?’
‘She certainly looked like one.’
‘Are you sure she wasn’t just wearing medieval costume?’ She was thinking back to Eadburh and her prince. If the ghost was an elderly nun, it wasn’t Eadburh. The thought was half comforting, half disappointing. There was a long silence. ‘I know we joked about it,’ she went on at last, ‘but I wonder if Simon’s book really has stirred up something from the past.’ She glanced across at him. She knew that expression, carefully schooled, mildly interested, the face, she always teased him, that he would reserve for hearing really shocking confessions if he ever did such a thing. ‘He’s writing about Anglo-Saxon Mercia. King Offa. She – your nun – wouldn’t fit, would she? I don’t suppose they were even Christian at that period.’
‘Offa was a Christian, Bea.’ He sighed. ‘The minster here in Hereford had already been going a couple of hundred years by the time he became king.’
‘How do you know?’
He laughed. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, Bea, I work in a cathedral dedicated to St Mary the Virgin and to St Ethelbert the King, the latter having been foully done to death by none other than your King Offa.’
‘Really?’ That caught her attention. For a moment she forgot her anger. It occurred to her that she had never once wondered who St Ethelbert was, let alone connected him to King Offa. ‘Offa can’t have been a very good Christian if he was a murderer.’
‘Possibly not. The original cathedral is said to have been built over Ethelbert’s tomb.’
‘You would think that would hold him down all right,’ she said drily. ‘When you say original cathedral, do you mean this one isn’t original? What happened to the first one?’
‘I’ll give you three guesses.’
‘The Reformation? Cromwell?’
He shook his head. ‘Long before Cromwell. No, the Welsh.’ He smiled tolerantly. ‘I gather they were always popping across the border to burn Hereford.’
That was what Simon had said. ‘But wasn’t that why Offa built his dyke?’
‘Indeed. But it didn’t work. If your guy Simon is writing a book about it, he must know.’ He stood up. Technically it was her turn to cook, but one look at her exhausted face made him realise that was probably not going to happen. He went over to the freezer and after some rummaging triumphantly produced a pizza. It was his way of apologising. He hated it when they quarrelled. Time to forget about ghosts, at least for now.
When she looked up at him again it was with another question. ‘Mark,’ she hesitated. ‘Have you ever heard of there being ghosts in the cathedral?’
He groaned. ‘Not as far as I know. That’s your department, darling. I’m not sure I’m qualified to comment.’ He switched on the oven.
‘But you’re a priest! You of all people should believe in ghosts. We’ve talked about this before. But now you’ve seen one.’ Now that they had broached it she wasn’t going to let the subject drop.
‘Officially I don’t believe in them. You know what we believe officially. It’s all in the Creed.’
‘But unofficially?’
‘I keep an open mind. I don’t believe they wander round causing trouble. At least,’ he hesitated, ‘I didn’t until you were attacked by a poltergeist.’
‘Forget the poltergeist,’ she snapped. ‘After all these years with me, you must realise—’
‘Yes. Yes, I do believe some spirits wander the earth, inconsolable, and I do believe you can help them, Bea. I also believe they can be dangerous – demonic, even – as you found out in that old house. And if we’re talking about the ghost of Offa of Mercia, who had the most awful reputation as a murdering thug, I would very much rather you never get close enough to find out. If Simon is some kind of a link to him, then I’m begging you, I’m begging you, Bea, to have nothing more to do with this.’
‘But Simon’s ghost is a woman,’ she said softly. ‘A nun. You said so yourself. She would not be demonic.’
She hadn’t been thinking of Simon’s ghost. She had been thinking of the gentle old priest who sat in the side chapel and who had told her not to go to the cottage on the ridge because there was danger there.
Bea lay for a long time that night, aware that Mark was still awake beside her. It wasn’t until at last she felt him relax into sleep that she slid out of bed. Staring at him in the dim light thrown through the bedroom door by the lamp on the table on the landing, she felt a wave of affection. Sleep had wiped the care lines from his face; his hair was tousled by the pillow, making him look young again. They had come very near to having a major row this evening. She sighed. She knew how difficult it was for him, but she was not going to stop her enquiries.
Climbing up to her attic, holding her breath as the stairs creaked under her cautious footsteps, she paused in the doorway. She sensed at once that Mark had been up there. She didn’t really mind – she knew now that he had been searching for her, but still, he had left a raw anxiety in the air. Normally she would light some incense, waft it quickly round the space to soothe it, but she couldn’t do that now. The smell might drift down the stairs and wake him up. Tightly wrapped in her dressing gown, she lit the candle and sat down on the cushion. She had returned the stone. She had decided not to follow up on Eadburh’s story. The priest in the cathedral had warned her against it. Mark had warned her against it. She must turn her back on the three sisters and their dreams of the future. That door was closed. The past was in the past where it belonged. All she could do now was pray that Mark had laid the unhappy spirit to rest and that the cottage was at peace.
*
As the flame of her candle flickered and died, she found herself nodding off to sleep. Waking up in the small hours, stiff and cramped, she crept back downstairs to bed. If she dreamt about Eadburh she didn’t remember it. Her sleep was deep and undisturbed.
The next thing she knew was that it was morning and Mark was calling to her from the bottom of the stairs. He had returned from morning prayer. ‘We’ve got to go to collect your car, remember? I have wall-to-wall meetings later.’
He waved her
goodbye outside Chris and Ray’s house before heading down the road back to Hereford. She stood and watched his car disappear, deep in thought. Was it all over? Had it really been that easy?
By the time she had shared a quick coffee with Chris, collected her keys and climbed into her own car, Bea knew what she was going to do. She couldn’t leave it there. She had to go and check out the cottage. She would know at once if Mark’s prayers had worked. If so, then well and good. She could drive away and forget about it. But what if the ghost was still there? Who was this nun who had so meekly vanished after a few priestly prayers? There was only one way to discover the answer to that. She would have to find the stone again. Without it, she was not going to be able to go back to Offa’s court, and she realised, she had to know what happened next to the three sisters. Only then could she put the poor woman’s soul to rest and find out what if anything she had had to do with Eadburh and her prince.
It was a relief when she saw no sign of Simon’s car at the cottage. Wondering briefly where he had gone so early in the morning, she stood by the gate for a while looking round, surrounding herself with protective light. It was very cold up here, high on the hillside, the morning still with that new-minted feel. Birds were singing and a lamb somewhere on the hillside was bleating for its mother.
Slowly climbing the front steps she stood for several minutes on the terrace, putting out cautious feelers, but there was nothing there. No voice, no shadows, no nun. Mark was right. She had gone, whoever she was. She felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, and, if she was honest, a tiny bit of resentment. Mark’s prayers had worked when her own methods had failed.
She stood looking thoughtfully out across the valley.
She didn’t sense the shadowed figure standing by the hedgerow. It wasn’t a nun, nor was it a blue-eyed Saxon princess. The woman was tall, her figure concealed by a dark, roughly woven cloak, her hair stirring in a gentle breeze that had nothing to do with this mountainside, in her hand a spray of fern leaves, her gaze fixed on Bea.
Bea spent a long time surveying the flower bed. Squatting down she allowed her fingers to trail through the daffodils, sure she would feel the stone when it was close, half concentrating, half listening to a thrush singing from the tall birch tree that overhung the terrace. Looking up towards the bird at last, her eye was caught by several stones that lay on the low wall that bounded the lane. There it was. ‘So, someone moved it?’ she breathed. And maybe, in the strange way of things, the bird was showing her where it was. She stood staring down, not touching anything, trying to feel her way, wanting to be sure. But she was sure. She recognised the flecks of crystal on the surface of the pebble, the strange burnished colour, the streaks of dull red, the slight polish from the warmth of her own hands.
The bird was still singing. She looked up and smiled, mouthing a quiet thank you before picking up the stone and slipping it into her coat pocket. She hesitated as her gaze strayed towards the hedge, her attention caught by something she couldn’t quite see, then giving a slight shake of her head she turned away.
There was still no sign of Simon when she pulled out of the lay-by and set off down the hill.
She was very tense as she sat down on her cushion and took the stone into her hands, breathing in the sweet smell of lavender wafting round the room from the incense stick. She had once again surrounded herself with the protective shield of light and was confident in her own strength and yet she was nervous. Whoever it was Mark had banished from the cottage, it was not her blue-eyed princess, of that she was sure. The job was done, the cottage freed of its troubling presence, but she hadn’t been able to get the picture of the young woman’s face out of her mind, the intense reality of her vision, and the heart-stopping moment when Eadburh had looked in her direction. That connection had been too intense to ignore. She had to go back. Just once. After all, Mark had more or less said he knew she would. He had acknowledged that he had no right to stop her doing it; all he had said was, be discreet.
She sat for a long time, the stone between her palms, her protection in place, her mind a receptive blank. Nothing happened. In its holder the incense stick turned to ash and the smoke gently dissipated round her. The room grew cold as outside the sky clouded over and a soft drizzle began to streak the window panes. A sharp cramp in one of her legs brought her back to herself and she scrambled to her feet, bitterly disappointed. Leaving the stone on the table, she went downstairs. Her phone was lying on the kitchen table. She had missed calls from Mark and Chris and Simon.
‘Simon?’
He picked up almost at once. ‘Good morning.’ He sounded cheerful. She had been afraid he might have seen her when she came up to the cottage, but he made no mention of her visit. ‘Did Mark tell you he came up to see me yesterday?’
‘He did. And he told me he managed to persuade your lost soul to leave you alone.’
‘He did indeed. Or at least, so far so good. You make quite a team between you.’
Team? Is that what Mark had told him? ‘Good. I’m glad you can get on with your writing now.’
‘It’s going well. But I hadn’t forgotten that I’ve promised you a coffee next time I’m in town. I wondered whether tomorrow might be a good time? I have arranged to meet one of the archivists from the cathedral library. Perhaps we could get together afterwards?’
*
Bea arrived at the café at four, as they’d agreed, but Simon was late. She had almost given up when he appeared at last. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I was talking to the most fascinating woman. Quite an expert on Mercia in her own right, as it happens. I think I’m going to have to rewrite a huge chunk of the middle of my book.’
‘And that pleases you?’ She would have thought he’d be upset.
‘Oh yes. It’s exciting. I know it’s extra work, but she pointed me in the direction of material I had completely missed. I could have got it all so wrong. Coffee and cake, please.’ He looked up as the waitress hovered alongside them. ‘And for you?’ He threw a glance at Bea as he levered some notebooks out of his bag. ‘Please. Join me in cake. This is a celebration.’
She found his excitement infectious. ‘OK. Thank you. So, what is it you’ve discovered?’
‘Archaeology for this period is rare in this part of the world and written documentation even rarer. So far. I knew there were Early English books in the cathedral library that I wanted to see, and that in itself is wonderful, but Jane was telling me about a house out in the sticks with a newly discovered collection of ancient books and documents with, she thinks, a very exciting provenance. She said she can get me in to have a look, and she can arrange for me to have access to the documents provided I don’t tell anyone where I’ve seen them as their existence is all very hush-hush at present.’
‘That sounds marvellous. Is this Jane Luxton you’re talking about? I know her. She’s very knowledgeable.’
He grinned happily.
‘I suppose I might have guessed you’d know her. If you both live in Hereford, you would run into each other at some point.’
‘Well, the cathedral is certainly a tight community.’ She saw his puzzled expression. ‘Did Mark not mention that he works there?’
‘Oh, I saw the dog collar, but I didn’t like to ask him where he was vicar of.’
‘He’s a canon in the cathedral.’
‘Is he indeed.’ He seemed impressed.
‘So, Jane has found out about these documents?’ She steered him away from the subject of Mark.
‘The owners of the house were given an introduction to her and she went to see them. She thinks one book in particular would interest me. It’s written in Old English and there are references to Mercia. She showed me some photos she’s taken of one or two pages and they are exquisite. They had the most beautiful handwriting in those days. Have you seen reproductions of Bede’s History, or the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle? Then you can guess what I’m talking about.’
‘And it couldn’
t be a forgery?’
His face clouded and she felt sorry she had suggested such a thing, but already he was turning the pages of his notebook. ‘It could. I’m not sure I am knowledgeable enough to be able to tell, but I read Old English – the language of the Anglo-Saxons – and I’ve seen a great many genuine documents in my time. I’m prepared to suspend disbelief for now.’
‘What are the documents about? Could she tell you?’ The waitress had brought their coffee and two slices of lemon drizzle cake.
‘History, she said. And there are entries about Offa and his family. Oh, bad luck. Don’t worry. I’ll get you another one.’ She had dropped her fork on the floor. Her hand was shaking.
‘Offa’s family?’ she echoed.
He nodded. ‘He had at least four children. Three daughters that we know about, and one son. All well documented.’
‘And a wife called Cynefryth.’
‘That’s right.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Did you see her mentioned in the draft of my book? Thank you.’ The waitress had seen Bea’s mishap and brought her another fork.
‘The nest of vipers,’ Bea whispered thoughtfully.
Simon stared at her doubtfully. ‘Ah, that sounds more like historical novel territory.’
‘It does, doesn’t it.’
Was that what had happened? What she had seen wasn’t a moment out of time, a shiver in the matrix after all. It had merely been a rehash of some historical bodice-ripper she had read as a teenager and completely forgotten. Crestfallen, she stared down at her plate, lost in thought.
If only there was someone she could talk to about all this. If only Meryn was here. She had first met Meryn Jones, the man she called her Druid guru, after she realised she wanted to pursue her esoteric studies and take them to a more serious level and she had gone to a centre in Scotland where he was a teacher. She had fallen in love with his Celtic spirituality, and he had encouraged her to trust herself. She had even come, one summer holiday, to the Black Mountains in Wales, to work with him. If he had been around, she would have referred Simon and his ghost to him in the first place, and not tried to sort the situation out herself. But Meryn steered a path between his career as a psychic Druid at home in Wales and another as a visiting professor of esoteric studies at a college in the States, and that was where he was at the moment, far away. He would have known at once whether she could have faith in her story. He would have told her to listen to her instincts.
The Dream Weavers Page 8