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

‘But Papa does plan to marry us all off?’

Her mother sighed. ‘Of course. And soon. But your marriages will be the results of much thought and negotiation. I can promise you that a younger son of one of the British kingdoms would not be worth the trouble. Why would your father want to build his influence over there in a land of mountains and mists and very little else? You are a valuable asset to us. Your brother and your eldest sister will in all probability go to the court of the Franks. You and Alfrida will have glorious matches in kingdoms in Britain your father wants tied in firm alliance.’

‘So that much at least is decided?’ Eadburh felt oddly deflated. Was she not valuable enough to have had her destiny chosen yet?

‘Nothing is decided,’ her mother gave a tolerant smile, ‘but it won’t be long, child. Your turn will come. And in the meantime, I will teach you all I can of my herbal arts. Neither of your sisters has the application to learn or the interest and my plants have their uses in ways you cannot even dream of.’

Behind them the door opened and Nesta came back in, a woven willow basket over her arm. She paused as she saw the queen and her daughter standing by the table, her expression inscrutable.

‘Come in, woman.’ Cynefryth beckoned her towards them. ‘The sisters of Wyrd must have sent you back at this moment. You can start my daughter’s lessons in the craft this very day.’

Bea stared at the Saxon worktable, spotlit by a ray of sunlight that streamed in through the doorway onto the wilting herbs and the pile of baskets. In the distance, behind the glare of the sun, she could see the outline of a long low hill rising out of the trees, and in front of it the soaring roof of a vast barnlike building, the mead hall of the king. The stillroom itself appeared to be a simple structure, but built of sturdy beams, the walls of wattle and daub, with tables and shelves stocked with bottles and dishes and jars. Bunches of drying herbs hung from the rafters. There was a fire at one end of the room, over which hung a bronze cauldron. She could smell the exotic scent of the herbs, mixed with the familiar warm aroma of sawn wood and thatch, and she could hear voices shouting in the background, cows bellowing, horses neighing and the sound of hooves, the rattle and bang of hammers, people shouting, dogs baying.

As she grew more aware of the surroundings and the smells and the warmth of the sunlight, she realised the noises, the voices of women had grown distant, fading as she strained to hear them. Soon there was nothing to hear except the song of a robin from the fruit trees in the orchard. She blinked several times. The bird wasn’t there in the past, it was here, in their own garden, its evening song echoing in through her window. The scene of the royal palace and its inhabitants had gone.

Gently putting the stone down on the floor in front of her, Bea sat for a long time without moving, deep in thought. She had hoped that, if it worked at all, her meditation with the stone would take her to the past of the cottage on the ridge, to see its origins, the people who had lived there, the scenes of anguish that had led to the loss of Elise, but it had taken her straight back to the story of Offa’s daughters. It had continued where her dream had left off.

Elise?

Not a lost pet, not a woman, a man. The puppy from Powys. Eleezeth, they had called him. The name came back to her with sudden clarity, as did the strong angry faces of Offa the king, and Eadburh, his daughter, their eyes locked, their body language combative. Is that what this was all about? A Celtic prince, an Anglo-Saxon princess and a modern day historian who had inadvertently conjured up the past? Hardly able to breathe as the full realisation of what she had seen dawned on her, Bea scrambled to her feet and reached for her notebook. Never trust your memory; memory is the most fallible part of what you do. First impressions and recall are vital. Always write things down. She remembered the words she had learned at her first lecture on psychometry, what her teacher had referred to as time travel. Meditation with the stone she had picked up from Simon’s front garden had taken her to a royal palace on the flatlands near a river, in the shadow of a long low hill. The stone had taken her back to the presence of Offa and his family, into the heart of the nest of vipers.

7

‘So, what happened up at the cottage?’ Mark had joined her in the kitchen. He was looking utterly exhausted, sitting down at the table as she pulled the carton of leftover stew out of the freezer. As she reached for a bowl to put in the microwave, he said, ‘Sorry, love. I’m not really hungry. Do you mind if I just have coffee? I’ve got some figures I must sort out in the study. I’ll get something to eat later.’

He watched while she made the coffee, took the mug with a grateful smile and carried it out of the room. She hadn’t had to answer his question, to lie or prevaricate. Her secret was still her own for now. With a sigh of relief, she put the stew back into the freezer and waited until she heard the door of his study close.

Of course it couldn’t be Simon’s book alone. The stone proved that. Somehow the scene she had witnessed must have been connected to the cottage on Offa’s Ridge, a place named perhaps not because it was so