The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (books you have to read txt) 📕

‘Better. Much more self-possessed. But she’s exhausted. I think the whole thing has been a huge drain.’

She put her hand gently on his arm. ‘Emma will be all right, Simon. This all takes a bit of getting used to, but now she has me to confide in I think it will be better. Up to now she has been hiding her experiences from everyone, but she’s a strong young woman. She will learn to manage it.’

He gently removed his arm from her hand; she hadn’t realised she was still holding it and felt herself colour with embarrassment. ‘Sorry. I needed something solid to hold onto.’ She stepped away from him and, staring off into the distance, she folded her arms. Then she turned to face him again. ‘One of the reasons for coming up here this morning was that I want to distance myself from the cathedral. It makes sense to come here to the centre of the activities but for all sorts of other reasons I want to avoid taking Emma there; Ethelbert is an extra character in our lives we can do without at the moment.’

‘His is a gruesome story.’ He gave her a strangely intense look. ‘And that dreadful woman who is following you around doesn’t help matters.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘You should know that the kids and I are going over to Worcester to spend Easter Day with Val and her friends. I think it would be good to get away from here for a bit. If they want, I’ll leave them there. They will be going back to school and exams soon anyway and by then Emma needs to have regained a bit of equilibrium.’

‘Point taken. I’m sure she has all the tools she needs. After that it will be up to her.’ She shivered. ‘Perhaps we should turn back. If she doesn’t want to talk to me today, I may as well go home.’

*

‘Did you take the herbs from my room?’ Bea had finally cornered Mark in his study.

He looked up from his desk, perplexed. ‘What herbs?’

‘The ones I had put into paper bags.’

‘The ones you said were poisonous? No, I haven’t touched them.’

She caught her breath. ‘Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve mislaid them. I must have thrown them away. I meant to check what they were first.’

He gave her a long, studied look. He didn’t believe that any more than she did. He gave a troubled sigh. ‘Would you consider coming to church over Easter,’ he said after a moment. ‘You like the Tenebrae service, don’t you, and it wouldn’t be in the cathedral.’

Bea returned his gaze. ‘Are you wheedling?’

He smiled boyishly. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

‘Then shouldn’t you be asking me to come to the Easter Day service here, in front of the dean and the bishop and the whole congregation, so Sandra can see me and witness that I am not struck down by a bolt of lightning?’

‘Yes, I suppose I should.’

‘I will come to both of them. I’ll make a point of it.’ She saw the relief in his face and felt guilty. ‘I’m so sorry I’ve been putting you into such an awkward position. I enjoy going to services, Mark. You know I do.’

That was the truth. Later, back in her own space upstairs, Bea stood looking out of her window down into the garden thinking about their conversation as she watched a blackbird perched on the edge of their little fountain, splashing happily in the spray. Her feelings about the Church of England were complex; she loved the beauty of the services, the music and the liturgy, the 1662 prayer book for its tradition and spirituality, the modern forms for their simplicity and modernity. And she appreciated other forms of worship too. Catholics and Methodists; synagogues and mosques and gurdwara. Each had its own truth and intense sincerity. But her own beliefs were tied up inextricably with her own experience, her inner knowledge that there was far more in heaven and earth than was addressed in an orthodox service of any belief. Her prayers were addressed to a non-denominational god and mediated through the spirit of a long-departed priest who sat in a tiny chapel in a Christian cathedral. Tricky.

She turned back towards the table in the centre of the room and picked up the small silk-wrapped bundle that contained her stone. Prince Elisedd. What had happened to him after he left Mercia? She was not going to ask Nesta, who was obviously inclined to play power games; she was going to go and find out for herself.

Cloud hung low over the mountains; the rocks were slick with rain and the grass tangled wet across her path. Bea looked round in panic, not recognising anything. Where was she? She could hear nothing but water. Rain poured down round her and the angry thundering of a river in spate was a background to the low rumble of thunder echoing around the countryside. A sudden fork of lightning lit up the endless emptiness of the scene.

‘So, you think you don’t need me?’ The woman’s voice in her ear was very close; she could feel breath on her neck. She froze, not daring to move. ‘Who is that?’

‘Do you have to ask?’ Another shaft of lightning cracked like a whiplash amongst the rocks and for that split second she saw the face near her, staring past her into the distance. The rain on the woman’s face turned the skin to the semblance of alabaster.

‘Nesta?’ she whispered. The word was lost in the cacophony of the elements.

‘Welcome to the kingdom of the sons of Vortigern,’ Nesta’s voice was as harsh as the cry of the raven that seemed to follow her.

‘Is this where Elisedd lives?’ Bea struggled to make herself heard, her voice almost inaudible as she cried out into the rain. ‘Where?’ She didn’t dare move. She felt she was perched on the edge of a precipice and a step would pitch her