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

richer clothes, gifts from the generosity of the abbey treasure chests, and at last dared to allow herself to enjoy life a little. When she dreamed of Elisedd it was to wake with tears in her eyes, but tears could not touch her heart. That had been sealed away with some deep inner core of her soul, together with the memories of their nights of love in the privacy of the abbess’s rooms in a Frankish convent, and the horror of their violent parting. Sealed there too were her dreams of the misty hills of the Welsh kingdom he would never see again and the wasted, empty years in Wessex when she could have been at his side in Powys.

The day of Emma’s first exam, the school rang Val to ask if Emma was ill. ‘She’s not here. I’m so sorry, but I’m afraid she’s missed her first English paper.’

The headmistress had seen it all before. ‘Nerves,’ she said. ‘Please don’t be too anxious. She can resit.’

Neither Felix nor Simon had any idea where she was. For the last few days she had seemed to be working hard, had made no complaint and, Simon assured Val, had not been in touch with him. He rang Bea at once, guessing Emma would have been heading for Hereford, but she had heard nothing either.

When Emma had not returned by that evening, Val rang the police.

Had Sandra managed to worm her way into Emma’s head? Bea sat thinking hard after Simon’s frantic call. Or was it Eadburh? Always Eadburh. Had Emma remembered to protect herself or had she allowed her dreams back in? Cautiously, carefully, she put out feelers, trying to find some trace of the girl out there, but there was nothing. All she could do was try to protect Emma from afar, surround her with light and send prayers.

Eadburh had been seen in Pavia. That much Bea knew from Asser. But she didn’t know by whom she had been seen or what had happened next. Perhaps now, in search of Emma, she had more reason than ever to follow the story on from there. It was with a feeling of sick dread that she made her way upstairs to the attic and picked up her stone.

It had been bad luck beyond measure. After all the time Eadburh had spent in Pavia as the friend and protégée of the abbess, one day in late spring the following year, as she walked towards the river with Theo in attendance, she was seen by a party of pilgrims heading towards the bridge on their way to Rome. Their party had originated in Winchester and two amongst them had spent time at the court of Beorhtric and seen his queen. One of them was a woman who had moved on to work as a maid in the abbey in Frankia. Her look of incredulity, followed by a shout of recognition and then her jeers of mockery and disgust, were eagerly taken up by the mob. People did not bother to ask questions; they threw stones, they swore at Eadburh and spat, they cornered her and tore at her clothes until she feared for her life.

As her dream darkened and faded and Bea began to wake she saw, for one confused instant, the figure of Sandra Bedford standing on the covered bridge over the River Ticino. She was at the forefront of the mob, a stone in her hand, a look of smug enjoyment on her face. As Bea watched she hurled the stone towards Eadburh, then stood back, leaning with her elbow on the balustrade to watch the fun. It was a moment later that, slowly, as though feeling Bea’s horrified gaze, she looked round and the women eyed one another in astonished recognition.

*

Bea opened her eyes and looked round frantically. Her heart was pounding with fright. She scrambled to her feet, visualising herself surrounded by light, alone, calm, quiet and she reached for her cross, once more back around her neck. ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me …’ She had seen Sandra, on a bridge in the centre of Pavia. How she knew it was Pavia she wasn’t sure, she had never to her knowledge been there, but that was where Sandra had been standing.

Running downstairs, Bea found her iPad. It took only seconds to find the place. The Ponte Coperto, in the centre of the historic city, on the road from Pavia to Genoa, a bridge built on Roman foundations. She took a deep breath. This wasn’t someone who occasionally dabbled in crystals and Tarot cards. This was a woman who could worm her way inside other people’s minds. And if she could attack Bea like this, she would be more than capable of finding her way into Emma’s head.

What would Meryn do? Filled with resolve, Bea wrapped up her stone and went over to her jars of dried herbs. He had told her she was strong enough to cope with this. She didn’t know where Emma was, but she could deal with Sandra. And she would start by cleansing the house.

The smoke of ancient incense, rowan and juniper, mugwort, vervain, nettle, chamomile and lavender circled gently up to the highest corners of the ceilings, cleansing, raising the vibrations so no lower entities could thrive – and Sandra was possessed by a lower entity if ever there was one.

She knew Mark would wrinkle his nose when he came in – saining was a step too far in his book, nearer to magic than some of the other things she did – but sometimes the old ways were best. In any case, the Church still used frankincense. Not Mark perhaps, but some High Church clergy did, and she always thought how lovely it was, a nod to ancient beliefs, cleansing, carrying prayer up to heaven on its fragrant, protective smoke.

The house felt cleansed and safe after she had carried her little bowl of smoking herbs – and, yes, she had added a grain