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

but poor Felix had not been given the chance to have some breakfast. No doubt he would persuade his mother to stop at the first motorway services they came to for a hearty fry-up. He had put the kettle on and was spooning coffee grounds into a jug when Bea picked up.

‘I switched off my phone last night. I had things to do.’ She sounded exhausted. ‘Oh dear. I’m so sorry, Simon. But I can’t say I’m surprised Emma didn’t want to go. Do you want me to come over?’

‘Wait till she shows up. I’ll get her to ring you.’

Mark was reading the paper. He put it down as she ended the call. ‘Trouble?’

She nodded. ‘Simon’s wife announced last night that she’d be taking the kids back to London this morning. Felix has gone with her, but Emma was absent when Val arrived, so she’s gone without her. All does not seem to be well with the Armstrong family.’

Mark grimaced. He reached for the muesli and poured a large helping into his bowl. ‘Hasn’t Emma got exams coming up?’

‘A levels. And Felix is sitting his GCSEs.’

‘Stress all round then.’

‘But not as much as one might have expected, at least as far as the exams are concerned. I was a bit worried, to be honest,’ she paused thoughtfully. ‘Well, I did wonder if Emma was going to cry off. She’s been so disturbed by everything that’s happened. Apparently she tried to ring me last night.’ She reached for her phone again: three missed calls.

Mark poured out some muesli for her and added milk. ‘Eat that, or you’ll collapse.’

She gave him a fond smile. ‘Thank you. Don’t know what I’d do without you.’

He smiled. ‘Do remember, Emma is not our daughter.’

‘Oh Mark.’ Bea gave him a fond smile. It wasn’t the first time she had thought this man was telepathic. ‘I know she’s not ours. Of course I do. If there is anything personal in this at all, it’s because I see myself in her when I was her age. One feels everything so acutely. One is so open. Vulnerable.’ She leaned across and took his hand. ‘I am being careful. I promise.’

Mark had a Chapter meeting and then he had calls to make on the far side of town, so she would have the whole day to herself.

She sat for a long time in silence, not climbing up to her study, but going into the bedroom and sitting down on the end of their bed. Not trying to contact Nesta. Not trying to eavesdrop on Eadburh. Just waiting to see what would happen. The clock in the tower struck the quarter, then the half hour and the sun shrugged itself behind a cloud. Rain drifted across the Close, soaking the walls of the cathedral, turning the stone dark. Outside, people had raised their umbrellas and were hurrying towards the lights of the shops.

The great Charlemagne was a generous man. She had her own guest house next to the hall of the princesses and the hot springs and she had servants to wait on her every whim. The king had given her gifts each time he had seen her. She smiled to herself, but this time it was one of his sons who bowed before her. A handsome man, far more her own age than his father, he had pressed a small book into her hand. It was a beautifully copied book of psalms, illustrated with coloured illuminations and capitalised in gold, the fine vellum of the pages stitched and bound in white silk.

She was enjoying the attention from the two men enormously, well aware that they were vying for her admiration. They had given her jewellery and silks, books, her own musician, a puppy sired by one of the king’s two great dogs, and now this man, this the eldest son of the king, even more charming than his wily father, was suddenly paying her far more attention than before. She liked him. A lot. By her calculations he would make a good match and he obviously liked her. She was thoughtful as he raised her hand and brushed it with his lips. The question was, would the great Charlemagne see her as a good match for his son? He had held back when Offa suggested her brother as husband for his daughter, Bertha, and her sister, poor Ethelfled, had waited in vain to be betrothed to his son, Charles the Younger. He was notorious for dangling his offspring before prospective suitors and then snatching them away, keeping them waiting, keeping them always at a distance but still allowing them to hope for the ultimate prize. Of his three legitimate sons, Louis, Peppin and Charles, Louis was by far the best looking, the most important and now, here sitting at her hearth, the most charming, the most desirable and the most eligible. Now her father was dead she had to handle this situation herself. She had to play this cleverly, match the king move for move, but this man she could like. If she was clever, she could outsmart even the great emperor of the Franks at his own game and win the prize she sought.

The women’s hall was warmed by the fire, and in the corner two young men, brothers from somewhere in the southern lands of Aquitaine, were singing together, their hands moving in unison over the strings of their instruments. It was a love song they sang. Sad and beautiful. She threw a quick look across at her suitor. They sat opposite one another, the gaming board between them, the pieces carved from stone, one set red agate, the other black tourmaline. She was winning. Her eyes sparkled as she saw his hand hover over the king. Perhaps it would be better to let him win. Behind them several of the ladies stood together watching them. It was the first time in a long while, she realised, that she was actually thinking about Hilde and Nesta. What had