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

her Tarot cards. According to Heather, the woman had completely lost it and virtually threw her out. After Heather left, they assumed, Sandra had returned to her cards and travelled, not to Pavia this time, but to Meifod. How had she done that? Where had she learnt all this vicious stuff, the Dark Arts? Bea shivered. Sandra was more than a professional psychic. She was the real thing. Whatever that meant. She had obviously seen the danger at some point in her past and sought refuge in the cathedral, but even that had failed to save her.

Bea lay back against the pillows. If only she didn’t feel so tired. She had depleted her reserves these last few days; psychic work uses a lot of energy at the best of times and she had been using hers constantly. Add to that the driving and the stress and the worry, and she was almost at the end of her tether. But somehow she had to find enough energy to go back into the fight. She wasn’t sure now who she was fighting against, Eadburh or Sandra, but what she was doing, above all else, was trying to save Emma.

She needed help, she realised that now. She had been stupid to try and handle all this alone. She sighed as she climbed out of bed. However stupid it might appear, she couldn’t lie here, doing nothing, she had to see if she could find Nesta in her wanderings across the universe. Nesta would know what to do. She had spotted the problem long ago. Surely she would at least dispense some of her enigmatic advice.

At the top of the attic stairs she paused and listened. The house was very silent. Pulling her dressing gown around her more tightly she went into her room. It smelled faintly of herbs and beeswax candles. She could see the light from the street lamps behind the rooftops reflected on the ceiling and in the distance she heard the chime of the cathedral clock, echoed faintly a few seconds later by the clock from the Buttermarket in High Town. The sounds reassured her. Time was where it should be.

Lighting a new candle, she sat down on her cushion and, out of habit, reached for her touchstone. It felt warm and receptive, reassuring. Closing her eyes she centred herself, careful with her circle of protection. Sandra was not going to sneak under her guard again. Here, in her study, surrounded by all she held sacred, she was doubly protected and this time she was expecting trouble. Slowly she sank into the silence, waiting.

Theo and Ava had been hiding in the shelter of the woods until Eadburh returned. Alerted by the quiet growl in Ava’s throat, they spotted the young monk as he crept out of the gate and set off hesitatingly towards them, along the track. He was carrying a horn lantern and a staff, much like Eadburh’s own, but he was not striding out confidently, he was obviously nervous, looking round, peering into the shadows. They had heard the bell ringing for vespers some time ago. Soon it would be full dark. Eadburh had hoped so desperately to be ensconced, if not in the arms of her beloved, then at least in the small guest hall by now; had not God himself taught holy men and women to entertain the weary traveller without question? As it was, she and Theo were still there, huddled together with the dog under the trees. Her resolve had gone. She was tired and miserable and, for the first time, without hope.

‘Hello!’ he was calling quietly. ‘Are you there, my lady?’

She stepped out of the shadows of the undergrowth. ‘I’m here.’

He turned towards her with obvious relief, then immediately ushered her back into the cover of the bushes. ‘Father Abbot and his sons in Christ did not tell you the truth, my lady. They did what they thought best, but I know Tywysog Elisedd would have wanted you to know what happened to him.’ He broke off, suddenly realising she was no longer alone. There behind her was a young man and a large tawny dog. He stepped back, afraid.

‘They won’t hurt you!’ she said wearily. ‘This is my servant and my dog. So, you know where Elisedd is? He is still alive?’ Her whisper floated through the trees of the coppice around them. She felt a rush of hope.

‘He came back to Meifod, but he was greatly troubled. He would not take up his place here again for all he was so much loved by all the brothers. He held many private talks with the Father Abbot.’

‘And how do you know this?’

‘Because the prince told me himself.’ She saw the young man’s cheeks colour slightly in the dim light from the lantern. ‘I looked after his needs when he went into retreat in a private cell in the woods near here. I brought him food every day and sometimes he would sit and talk to me. It was not a confession – for that he went to Father Abbot – but he needed to talk, I think, to understand himself what had happened. He believed you dead, and he told me he blamed himself for your death. He could never be easy in his conscience for causing you so much distress. He told me what they did to him.’ There was a long pause.

‘What who did to him?’ She felt herself grow tense.

‘The emperor’s men.’ He looked at her, his eyes troubled. ‘They spared his life, on the direct orders of the emperor of the Franks, but …’ The young man fell silent, unable to go on. He blushed even more deeply.

‘I know what they did.’ Eadburh bit back a sob. She had prayed it wasn’t true.

‘They spared his life so he could dedicate it to God,’ he went on eventually, ‘and, after much thought and prayer here, he told me he was going to walk up into the Berwyn Mountains to