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

clouded over and a soft drizzle began to streak the window panes. A sharp cramp in one of her legs brought her back to herself and she scrambled to her feet, bitterly disappointed. Leaving the stone on the table, she went downstairs. Her phone was lying on the kitchen table. She had missed calls from Mark and Chris and Simon.

‘Simon?’

He picked up almost at once. ‘Good morning.’ He sounded cheerful. She had been afraid he might have seen her when she came up to the cottage, but he made no mention of her visit. ‘Did Mark tell you he came up to see me yesterday?’

‘He did. And he told me he managed to persuade your lost soul to leave you alone.’

‘He did indeed. Or at least, so far so good. You make quite a team between you.’

Team? Is that what Mark had told him? ‘Good. I’m glad you can get on with your writing now.’

‘It’s going well. But I hadn’t forgotten that I’ve promised you a coffee next time I’m in town. I wondered whether tomorrow might be a good time? I have arranged to meet one of the archivists from the cathedral library. Perhaps we could get together afterwards?’

*

Bea arrived at the café at four, as they’d agreed, but Simon was late. She had almost given up when he appeared at last. He was looking very pleased with himself. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I was talking to the most fascinating woman. Quite an expert on Mercia in her own right, as it happens. I think I’m going to have to rewrite a huge chunk of the middle of my book.’

‘And that pleases you?’ She would have thought he’d be upset.

‘Oh yes. It’s exciting. I know it’s extra work, but she pointed me in the direction of material I had completely missed. I could have got it all so wrong. Coffee and cake, please.’ He looked up as the waitress hovered alongside them. ‘And for you?’ He threw a glance at Bea as he levered some notebooks out of his bag. ‘Please. Join me in cake. This is a celebration.’

She found his excitement infectious. ‘OK. Thank you. So, what is it you’ve discovered?’

‘Archaeology for this period is rare in this part of the world and written documentation even rarer. So far. I knew there were Early English books in the cathedral library that I wanted to see, and that in itself is wonderful, but Jane was telling me about a house out in the sticks with a newly discovered collection of ancient books and documents with, she thinks, a very exciting provenance. She said she can get me in to have a look, and she can arrange for me to have access to the documents provided I don’t tell anyone where I’ve seen them as their existence is all very hush-hush at present.’

‘That sounds marvellous. Is this Jane Luxton you’re talking about? I know her. She’s very knowledgeable.’

He grinned happily.

‘I suppose I might have guessed you’d know her. If you both live in Hereford, you would run into each other at some point.’

‘Well, the cathedral is certainly a tight community.’ She saw his puzzled expression. ‘Did Mark not mention that he works there?’

‘Oh, I saw the dog collar, but I didn’t like to ask him where he was vicar of.’

‘He’s a canon in the cathedral.’

‘Is he indeed.’ He seemed impressed.

‘So, Jane has found out about these documents?’ She steered him away from the subject of Mark.

‘The owners of the house were given an introduction to her and she went to see them. She thinks one book in particular would interest me. It’s written in Old English and there are references to Mercia. She showed me some photos she’s taken of one or two pages and they are exquisite. They had the most beautiful handwriting in those days. Have you seen reproductions of Bede’s History, or the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle? Then you can guess what I’m talking about.’

‘And it couldn’t be a forgery?’

His face clouded and she felt sorry she had suggested such a thing, but already he was turning the pages of his notebook. ‘It could. I’m not sure I am knowledgeable enough to be able to tell, but I read Old English – the language of the Anglo-Saxons – and I’ve seen a great many genuine documents in my time. I’m prepared to suspend disbelief for now.’

‘What are the documents about? Could she tell you?’ The waitress had brought their coffee and two slices of lemon drizzle cake.

‘History, she said. And there are entries about Offa and his family. Oh, bad luck. Don’t worry. I’ll get you another one.’ She had dropped her fork on the floor. Her hand was shaking.

‘Offa’s family?’ she echoed.

He nodded. ‘He had at least four children. Three daughters that we know about, and one son. All well documented.’

‘And a wife called Cynefryth.’

‘That’s right.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Did you see her mentioned in the draft of my book? Thank you.’ The waitress had seen Bea’s mishap and brought her another fork.

‘The nest of vipers,’ Bea whispered thoughtfully.

Simon stared at her doubtfully. ‘Ah, that sounds more like historical novel territory.’

‘It does, doesn’t it.’

Was that what had happened? What she had seen wasn’t a moment out of time, a shiver in the matrix after all. It had merely been a rehash of some historical bodice-ripper she had read as a teenager and completely forgotten. Crestfallen, she stared down at her plate, lost in thought.

If only there was someone she could talk to about all this. If only Meryn was here. She had first met Meryn Jones, the man she called her Druid guru, after she realised she wanted to pursue her esoteric studies and take them to a more serious level and she had gone to a centre in Scotland where he was a teacher. She had fallen in love with his Celtic spirituality, and he had encouraged her to trust herself. She had even come, one summer holiday, to the Black Mountains in Wales, to work