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

‘Such a nice family you were talking to in the Chapter House garden. It was so reassuring to see that they were taking an interest in the cathedral.’

‘Indeed.’ Bea turned away to replace the biscuit tin on its shelf.

‘How long have you known them?’

‘Not long. I thought I told you about them. Simon is staying in a holiday cottage belonging to a friend of ours.’ Bea sat down opposite her, braced for the inquisition.

‘I am worried by something that boy said.’

‘Oh?’ Bea took a deep breath, trying to control her anger. Silently she began to count to ten.

‘He mentioned ghosts.’ Sandra raised her eyes from her biscuit and looked Bea directly in the eye.

‘It was a door banging in the cottage, Sandra. Christine had asked me to go with her to deliver some extra blankets and so forth. It’s a tiny place and Simon wasn’t expecting his children to join him for the holidays. Chris wasn’t sure he had everything he needed. Felix must have heard us joking about the creaks and groans of the timbers in an old place like that.’ She saw the woman’s expression veer from relief to disappointment, then doubt. ‘You surely didn’t think he was talking about a real ghost?’

‘But you said the dear canon went up there to pray.’

‘They asked him to bless the cottage.’

‘Because the girl thought she had seen the ghost of St Ethelbert.’

‘Exactly.’ Bea took a deep breath. ‘Teenagers, Sandra. They are very susceptible. Some are over-imaginative, like poor Emma, and some are just a pain, like Felix. I think, and fervently hope that, having had Mark’s reassurance, both of them will settle down now to enjoy the countryside. I promise you there is nothing for you to concern yourself about.’

Sandra took a sip of her tea. ‘People who talk about ghosts have such a lot to answer for. As if any such thing could exist.’ Her voice hardened. ‘I’m amazed the canon would have anything to do with it.’

‘It’s part of his pastoral duty to reassure people and pray with them, Sandra.’

‘I suppose so.’ Sandra heaved a deep sigh. She looked up sharply. ‘So, you didn’t have to go to a meeting this afternoon after all?’

Oh heavens, what had she said to this bloody woman? Bea couldn’t remember. She had been far too distracted. She forced her most charming smile. ‘I had a conference call on the phone earlier and in about half an hour – she looked at her wristwatch – I have to go to see someone in the town. It’s never-ending, isn’t it? I know you understand how busy we all are.’

Sandra nodded. ‘Are your children coming home for Easter? They are both at university, aren’t they?’

She knew they were. Bea distinctly remembered telling her. She stood up, deliberately ignoring the question. ‘It was good of you to call round, Sandra. I appreciate you feeling you had to clear up the truth behind Felix’s remark. I do hope I’ve set your mind at rest.’

Sandra remained seated for several seconds then she drained her cup and set it down. As she walked towards the door, Bea found it very hard not to wish that she could command some Anglo-Saxon binding charm to silence nosy neighbours.

The two women met secretly in the herb-wife’s small stone-built hut. Much like the workshops Nesta had created at every palace they visited with the king’s entourage, it was meticulously neat, with shelves of glass bottles, pottery containers, pouches of herbs and boxes labelled with intricate runes. There was a table in the centre and drying herbs hung from hooks in the rafters above their heads. Outside the night was falling and a huge full moon was rising above the hills, throwing a warm buttery light across the fields and forests, and in through the door of the hut.

Bea held her breath as she crept closer. She was there with them in the moonlight, but she was aware that she cast no shadow against the wall as she tiptoed towards the door and peered in.

‘This is for you to take outside under the moon as it rises on the first night of its waning. We use no fire for this; it is a woman’s charm. You have gathered the worts I specified with your own hand?’

Eadburh nodded. She had a cloth bag with her and she put it on the table. ‘Don’t open it here,’ Nesta ordered peremptorily. ‘This is between you and the angels of death. I have here a powder I have made to add to your mixture and two hollow pins. Do not touch them with your hands.’ She had the tiny silver objects wrapped in leaves. ‘Dedicate them outside to the work you plan, then throw the leaves into the river. Dip the pins into the potion you make, as I told you, seal them with beeswax and wrap them again first in new leaves, then in this piece of parchment. Then only your messenger will ever touch them again.’ She looked up at Eadburh, and held her gaze. ‘I will whisper what he is to do. The words should not be spoken out loud.’

Bea leant forward, but she couldn’t hear anything now but the gentle ripple of water from the river nearby and the rustle of leaves in the night. She saw Eadburh pick up a basket and tiptoe out of the hut, Nesta staying behind, tidying away the scraps of leaf and parchment, throwing a box of something onto the embers of her fire. The moon was rising higher now, the light stronger, turning cold, the scarcely visible bite from its side showing more clearly now as it lifted clear of the hills. Eadburh had disappeared between the willows that lined the riverbank, one moment there in the moonlight, the next vanished. Bea did not dare go after her. She stayed where she was, watching Nesta as she put away the last of her bottles.

The woman turned