Mark was waiting in the kitchen, sitting silently at the empty table as she walked in.
‘What? What’s happened?’ She stopped abruptly.
‘Mrs Armstrong rang me.’
‘Mrs?’
‘Emma’s mother.’
‘Oh God!’ Bea sat down. She was exhausted and this was the last thing she needed.
‘And Sandra came over earlier,’ he went on. ‘She was looking for you. If you ask me, she’s completely lost it!’
‘Mark!’
‘She was ranting on about needing to save your soul by destroying your powers and she was the only person capable of rendering you harmless.’
Bea closed her eyes.
‘And docile.’
Her eyes flew open. ‘Docile!’
Mark grinned. ‘If it wasn’t all so serious, I would be laughing. She is not, you will be glad to hear, going to have to confront you to perform this miracle, but she seems to be convinced that such things are possible from a distance.’ His smile faded. ‘I’ve got a very bad feeling about it. I hope you have the skills to save yourself from this scale of psychic onslaught, my darling. She assured me that she respects me and wants to save me from the witchcraft that enfolds me. She can do this by taking action against you. Oh, and she’s fixed her sights on Emma as well, as your sorcerer’s apprentice.’
Bea shivered. ‘Oh Mark.’
‘And on top of that Val Armstrong is threatening us with the police, social services, the bishop and the Daily Mail.’ He sighed. ‘She rang me from her car. So, how was your day?’
A smile hovered for a second on her lips. It didn’t last. ‘You obviously know about Emma refusing to go home, which means that she is, at least for now, still part of my problem, the more so if these threats are real.’
‘Well, don’t go chucking any psychic slings and arrows about yet. Perhaps a nice cup of tea first?’ He managed a weary grin. Standing up, he bent and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m going to pray.’
She sat without moving for a long time after she heard his study door close, then she headed for the stairs.
‘I need your help.’
Nesta was there, still in the shadow of the woods, her hair drifting free of her hood in the summer breeze.
Bea realised she hadn’t ever seen her wearing anything on her head, unlike every other woman of her period, apart from the hood of her cloak. The wild locks, deep copper, streaked with white, seemed to be a symbol of her freedom.
‘You were right about me being considered a witch. It seems I have enemies on every side.’
She was turning her stone over and over in her hands as she sat before her candle. ‘I have been threatened with what my husband calls a psychic onslaught.’
Nesta gave a snort of derision.
‘What should I do?’
‘You know what to do. And your priestly husband has surrounded you with the power of his prayers. I can see the love of God all around you.’
Bea found she was smiling. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘He is a powerful man. Don’t be afraid to ask him for help.’
‘And does his love mean I’m safe from this person?’
Nesta was less distinct now, her shape almost invisible as darkness fell round her. ‘We shall see.’
Was that what she had said? Bea leaned forward, clutching the stone more tightly. ‘Nesta? Wait!’
But the candle flame was flickering. Bea leaned forward anxiously. Already it had gone out. The room was dark and very faintly she smelt the autumnal aroma of woodsmoke. Nesta had vanished.
37
Emma lay listening to the sound of her father snoring in the room next door. He had been asleep for at least an hour and still she didn’t dare try to close her eyes and see what had happened to Eadburh in case somehow he knew that she was deliberately defying him. He had made her promise not to go out, and she wasn’t going out. She was in bed, under the duvet, clutching her pillow tightly as a child would hold on to a teddy bear in order to stay safe. But she wanted to know – she needed to know – what happened next in Eadburh’s dream of her youth. Had it ever really happened, this story of teenage love and loss, or was it wishful thinking by a woman who had been snatched from her lover and sent away in a whirlwind of misery and loss and who, incarcerated in a convent in the kingdom of the Franks, had once again lost everything?
In Emma’s dream, Eadburh’s memories too had turned sour. The scarlet dress was bedraggled now, the hem torn, the silk muddied. A kindly woman had given her a rough woollen cloak and she hugged it round herself as she walked on. She was near the summer seat of the kings of Powys, trudging northwards along the track up a broad fertile valley. Once or twice on her long journey she had seen signs of her father’s great dyke, running across the top of a distant hill, far off to the east, then the woodland would close in and she would lose all sense of direction, following the muddy ruts of farmers’ wagons on their way towards a distant market, until after a long weary climb she would once again find herself on a shoulder of hillside with long views towards distant, higher, ever wilder mountains.
The track was following the river now. The water was broad, with shallow pebble beaches, glittering in the sunlight as it wound through a wide saucer of countryside surrounded by low hills. Over to her left, she saw it, a hill fort on one of the lower hills, surrounded by palisades rising above the surrounding meadows, a gold-and-crimson banner flying from its tallest building. She stood still, her heart thudding in her chest. Was this it at last, the caer of the kings?
They wouldn’t let her in. The guards at the gatehouse stared at her in disdain. They made as if to run at her, clapping their hands, making shooing noises. They laughed, then one of them raised his sword and smacked the blade with the flat of his hand. His meaning was all too clear.
She turned and walked away. Behind her she could hear the noise of a busy community. She could hear the sounds she had grown used to in the royal palaces of her father. Shouts and laughter, music from somewhere in a great hall, the whinny of a horse and the clatter of hooves on stone, the ring of a hammer on iron from a forge somewhere on the far side of the encampment, the clacking sound of shuttles and beams and the rattle of loom weights from the weaving sheds, the singing of a woman and the shouts of children. Wisps of smoke rose from behind the walls and she smelt roasting meat on the wind, torturing her empty stomach.
When she heard the cry of hounds and the beat of hooves behind her, she did not even try to move out of the way. She was too tired. She turned to face the horsemen and as they drew close she felt her legs give way beneath her.
When she woke she was lying on a palette bed, covered by a soft chequered blanket. An old woman was sitting beside her, spinning. When she saw Eadburh’s eyelids flicker she put down her spindle and stood up.
It turned out that it was the blacksmith’s grandmother who had taken her in and tended her. Much later, fed with scraps of roast venison and bread and sheep’s milk, her feet bathed and soothed with ointment, her dress brushed and sponged, Eadburh found herself in the presence of the wife of one of King Cadell’s teulu. It appeared the old woman who had looked after her had recognised the silk of her gown and noticed the gold of her rings as she washed Eadburh’s filthy hands, and seen the gold and garnet necklace hidden beneath the torn shift, and realising this lost young woman was of high birth, had gone in search of one of the queen’s ladies.
Now that she was at last inside the palace of the King of Powys, Eadburh’s courage almost failed her. Her voice was hoarse and her strength seemed to have deserted her, but she managed two words. ‘Prince Elisedd?’
The woman’s smile vanished, to be replaced by an expression of puzzled suspicion. ‘He’s not here.’
‘But, mae’n fyw? He is alive?’ Eadburh felt herself struggle with the words of the Welsh language. ‘Nid yw wedi marw? He isn’t dead?’
The woman seemed confused by the question. She smiled a little sadly. ‘Why do you want to see him?
’
Eadburh nearly replied, nearly said, because I love him, felt herself ready to throw herself on her knees before this woman and beg, but she managed to restrain herself. ‘Because he and I knew each other once, long ago. We were friends and I need to give him greetings.’
Long ago. The woman stared at this child-woman who looked no more than seventeen. ‘Then I will call for his brother to speak with you. Wait here.’
And that was it. She swept away, leaving Eadburh standing there in the middle of the floor. People went on about their business all round her; they were talking, laughing, hurrying here and there. By the fire a young woman began to strum her harp and quietly she began to sing. Her song was of love and loss and irretrievably sad and as she sang Eadburh felt her eyes fill with tears.
Prince Cyngen, when he came to find her, was a much older version of his brother, tall, weathered, his hair already greying. He was followed by several older men, some were armed, some wearing loose long gowns trimmed with fur. He bowed gravely to Eadburh and asked her who she was. She told him the truth, straightening her back, squaring her shoulders, meeting him eye to eye.
He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Elisedd told us about the girl he met when King Offa called a conference about the building of the dyke. He spoke of her often.’ Unlike the woman standing nearby, watching, he did not seem to see the disparity between their ages. He was a man in his forties, she a slip of a girl.
She tried to keep her gaze steady. ‘Is he alive?’
Prince Cyngen hesitated then he nodded. ‘He is alive.’
‘Where is he?’
‘Not far from here. He retired from the world. He is one of the canons at the clas of St Tysilio at Meifod.’ He gave her a look of gentle sympathy. ‘He gave his life to God many years ago. He will not wish to see you, Princess.’
She stood as if struck by a stone, unable to breathe, unable to think.
‘He’s a monk!’ When the words exploded out of her mouth at last she had forgotten where she was. She felt the hot tears well up. ‘No! No, it can’t be. It can’t!’
She was aware that the prince bowed to her again. He beckoned forward the blacksmith’s wife and with a gesture ordered her to take the girl to the guest house, then turning, led his followers away. His last words to her were, ‘Mae’n ddrwg gen i, I’m sorry.’
All round her the crowds went on as if nothing had happened. If they had cast a curious look towards the stranger talking to their prince, they soon lost interest. Only the harpist played quietly on, the words of her song weaving through the noise, fading to echoes that blended with the wind.
*
In her little cottage bedroom, Emma stirred and moaned in her sleep. Her pillow was soaked with tears, her dream within a dream a cruel nightmare of love and loss.
As the echoes of the harp faded, Eadburh awoke with a start. She had never gone to look for Elisedd, not as a girl and not as a grown woman. Her plan had been thwarted from the start, and now she realised bitterly that even if her dream was true and he was still alive, Elisedd would have rejected her. An older man, a man of God, what use had he for that slip of a girl who didn’t even look like the princess of his dreams, never mind the reality of the older woman who lay here now in her convent bed. She grimaced as she tried to straighten her legs, stiff and cramped from the cold in spite of her covers. As abbess, she was entitled to a comfortable suite of rooms near the nuns’ dormitory with her own fire, but even so, as the cold winds howled around the convent walls she huddled down again under the coverings. She had had the dream before and probably she would have it again.
Outside her narrow window she could hear the bell calling the sisters to matins. She had excused herself from getting up for this service. She was ill. Her throat was raw. In her dream it had been summer. The people had been kind to her. Had she gone to find him? She didn’t think so. And yet she had come so close.
She closed her eyes and another tear trickled out from beneath her lids. If she called one of the lay sisters they would bring her a honey tincture for her throat and another blanket, and even a hot stone to put by her feet.
Her thoughts drifted back to her daughter. Was the little girl happy in her new home? She would have her nurses and her playmates with her, she would live in comfort in a convent at Wareham and God-willing, she would be safe there and her life would be contented. Would she ever think about her mother? Eadburh doubted it. As queen she had had little input in the child’s life beyond giving her birth. That, she realised with sudden brutal honesty, was probably lucky for the little girl.
The soreness in her throat was growing worse. If only Nesta were here. The herb-wife was skilled in concocting remedies for every ailment; she would have administered some potion to soothe the pain. It was a long time since she had thought about her. Nesta had been the one who brought about her downfall. If she hadn’t made that poisoned drink, everything would have been different. Had she been caught and killed by the king’s guard? Eadburh nestled deeper into her pillows and in a rare moment of compassion she found herself hoping that Nesta had somehow survived.
A log fell from the firedogs into the hearth and the sudden flame lit the carved stone corbels supporting the ceiling above her bed. The sound had made her open her eyes and she saw a woman standing near her, not Nesta, but the witch woman from another time. How was it she could find her way even here over the sea and into the holy house of God? Sitting up and pushing off her covers, she made the sign of the cross.
But the woman had already gone.
Bea was cold and stiff and she was clutching her little cross at her throat. With a groan she reached across for the switch on the lamp on the side table. The candle had gone out a long time ago, leaving not even a trace of the smell of wax in the air. She had dreamed Eadburh’s dream with her of the girl in the scarlet silk dress who had had Emma’s face and then awoken with Eadburh in the convent cell with its silk-covered pillows, soft rugs and fine linen sheets. ‘Oh God!’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘What’s happening to us?’ She looked at her watch. It was two in the morning. She couldn’t ring Simon to see if Emma was all right at this hour; please God, they would both be asleep.
Climbing to her feet she opened the door and, trying to move as silently as possible so as not to wake Mark, she began to creep downstairs. She passed their bedroom, its door, half open in the dark. There was no reassuring shape in the bed; it was empty. There was a lamp on in his study. She could see the faint line of light round the door. Cautiously she pushed it open. He was kneeling at his little prayer desk in the corner. Looking up, he smiled. ‘What time is it?’
‘Late. Have you been praying all this time?’
He nodded. ‘I had a lot of prayers to say.’ Standing up with a groan, he stretched. ‘Shall we make a hot drink?’ Putting his arm around her shoulders as they made their way into the kitchen, he went over to draw the curtains against the darkness outside in the garden. ‘I hope you haven’t had any interference from the most powerful exorcist in England.’ It was meant to sound like a joke but somehow it didn’t come out that way.
She ducked away from his arm and went over to the kettle. ‘I’m hoping I don’t need exorcising. But I am prepared. I haven’t sensed anybody poking round.’ She had been much too busy watching an abbess in her faraway convent to worry about Sandra and her attempts to interfere. ‘Did she give you any idea how she had come by these amazing powers?’
Mark sat down at the table. He yawned deeply. ‘Nope. I’ve no idea.’
‘And she didn’t tell you how she was going to manage this exorcism?’
‘Absolutely not.’ His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
She sighed. ‘It’s too late for coffee. Do you want a hot chocolate? I think we’ve got enough milk.’ Stooping, she opened the fridge. ‘Oh dear God!’ she slammed the door shut.
‘What? What is it?’ Mark was on his feet in a second. ‘What’s in there?’
Pushing her out of the way, he pulled open t
he door. Staring in, he shook his head. ‘What is it? What did you see?’
She peered over his shoulder. ‘It was on the shelf. A rat.’
‘No. No, there’s nothing here. Sweetheart—’
‘It’s OK. I let my defences down. I’m so tired.’ She turned away, rubbing her arms with a shiver. ‘I know what’s going on. There’s nothing there. She’s testing me. I won’t be caught again.’ She gave a brief, bitter laugh. ‘That’s the way to deal with this sort of thing. Laugh it off.’ Her eyes widened. ‘Oh Mark. If that was Sandra, she knows what she’s doing! What on earth is going on? Who is she?’
Mark closed his eyes. He murmured a short prayer and made the sign of the cross then he reached in for the milk. ‘Whatever fiendish powers she may have acquired, I’m not letting her come between me and my bedtime drink.’
She gave a wobbly smile. ‘I should think not. Quite right.’
Reaching for an empty saucepan, he sighed. ‘I’ve never blessed a fridge before. Do we gather that that was some kind of psychic attack?’ He poured the milk into the pan.
As they sat down at the table he reached across and put his hands over hers. ‘Shall we recite Patrick’s breastplate together?’ It was the special prayer that never failed to wrap her in a feeling of warmth and protection. As Mark closed his eyes and prayed out loud, she felt the words spiralling round the kitchen, sealing them with God’s love. Whoever, whatever, had been prowling the shadows had withdrawn into the dark.
In her bed in the cottage Emma stirred again. She was asleep in the guest house of the king’s hill fort of Caer Mathrafal and tomorrow she would ride to the clas of St Tysilio to find out if the senior canon, the king’s son, Abad Elisedd would see her. She moved back and forth restlessly in her sleep, her tears dry now, a smile on her lips. She was in a dream within a dream, a dream treasured by a man and a woman of their younger days, and a dream in the sleep of a young girl, lost in the past. Twelve hundred years of time spun and twined around her, and the wind and rain and sunlight of a millennium of seasons.
The Dream Weavers Page 37