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

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