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

but as he zoomed in, enhancing the image until they could see the pores on the calfskin, faint shadows of writing began to appear. Again it was cramped. ‘This is difficult.’ Felix muttered. ‘You might have to go somewhere that specialises in this sort of thing. Universities have much more powerful systems.’

‘You’re not doing badly, considering,’ his father encouraged. ‘I can’t make out anything, but maybe you can if you relax your eyes. See if you can guess the shapes.’

The screen was wavering, growing darker then lighter as Felix fiddled with the settings, the faint strokes of the quill growing thicker then thinner as he made minute adjustments. Three words suddenly floated up off the page, the queen’s lover … the Old English script clear to Simon. ‘My God!’ he whispered.

Both children leaned forward, Felix almost afraid to touch the keyboard in case he lost the words again. He stood up and moved back. ‘Sit here, Dad, see if you can read it. Don’t alter anything. I think this is as good as we’re going to get it.’

Simon slid into his chair. ‘The queen’s lover died from the sting of a bee, in his … in his ear … sent by God, to avenge the holy saint,’ he read slowly. ‘All men knew the murderer had at last been taken to Hell to pay the price of his deed.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘He was killed by a bee sting.’

There was a moment of intense silence in the room, then, ‘So God revenged him,’ Emma whispered.

‘Looks like it.’ Felix.

‘I’d love to know who our chronicler was,’ Simon said after a bit. ‘I can picture him, sitting there at his high desk with his quills and his little pots of ink, silence all around him, scribbling down the local gossip, then realising he should not have included it in the priory’s official chronicle and scrubbing furiously at the page to rub it out, not daring to cut out any more pages perhaps because vellum is costly.’ He pushed back his chair and stretched his arms above his head. Outside the windows the garden was growing dark. ‘Perhaps his interest in the murder of the saint waned after the murderer died. Other things happened. The Vikings came back. But much further north this time. They raided Iona, which was far away, but word of such a terrible thing must have spread very fast. Their attacks became more frequent and more and more terrifying, with new incursions each year. Then the following year it all kicked off again locally when the Welsh raided Herefordshire and sacked Leominster and Hereford.’

‘So Offa’s Dyke wasn’t working,’ Emma put in.

‘Maybe it was never finished. The records, as far as they go, put the year as 796 when work on it stopped, presumably with Offa’s death. Hopefully archaeology will tell us one day what actually happened—’ He was interrupted by a sound outside the door.

Simon felt his stomach lurch. Not now. Not with Emma here.

‘What about a coffee break?’ he said firmly.

‘Who’s that?’ Felix was already heading across the room.

‘Leave it!’ Simon said sharply, but it was too late. Felix had grabbed the door handle and dragged it open. It was nearly dark outside, the creepers on the cottage wall thrashing against the windows as the wind rose from the west. ‘Hello?’ He stepped outside. ‘Who’s there?’

Elise!

The voice was far away, lonely, despairing.

Simon noticed Emma’s expression. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

‘Take no notice, Em. Come in, Felix. She’ll go away.’

‘Who is it?’ said Felix, looking over his shoulder at them. ‘Not that woman from the cathedral? She sounds weird. She sounds lost.’

‘She is lost.’ Emma stood up. ‘It’s not the woman from the cathedral. Who is it, Dad? She sounds frightened and sad.’ She headed towards the doorway and peered outside over Felix’s shoulder.

‘Emma! No!’ Simon said sharply.

‘But she needs help.’

‘If she needs anyone I will ring Bea and Mark. But you do not go out there, do you hear me?’

‘You can’t stop me.’

‘Actually, we can, Em.’ With a glance back at his father, Felix pushed Emma away and stepping back indoors closed the door behind him. He stood with his back to it and glared at her defiantly. ‘Is this your ghost, Dad? Presumably she will go away by herself.’ He sniggered. ‘If she’s there at all. I think it’s more likely it’s the wind. It howls. It seems to blow all the time up here and it’s spooky and it does sound a bit like a human voice, but it isn’t.’

‘You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself,’ Emma retorted.

‘No, I’m being rational.’

She looked at her father and then back at her brother before subsiding into her chair. There were tears trickling down her cheeks. ‘She sounds so unhappy.’

‘I know.’ Simon went over to her and crouched down at her side. ‘Try not to take any notice, Em. I think Felix might be right. It could be the wind. It does sound eerie sometimes. I tell you what.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s go and make ourselves some supper. What about one of Dad’s curries?’

Mark’s message on Bea’s phone, which was as usual lying forgotten on the kitchen table, had been brief.

Been trying to ring you. Forgot to tell you, have to be late this evening. Sorry. CU later xxx

Bea read it twice, then she put down the phone. She turned off the downstairs lights, all except the lamp on the table by the front door, then climbed once more the two flights to the attic.

Nesta’s words had been a shock. They were so immediate; so personal. None of this was chance. Once she had followed Simon to the cottage she had been chosen. But why? Why did Nesta want her to hear this story? She shivered. Whatever the reason, Nesta had recognised her as a kindred spirit and was watching over her.

Lighting her candle, Bea sat for a long moment, thinking. Eadburh was a dangerous, calculating woman,