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

‘Perhaps I am a sorceress. Or perhaps I am merely a wife who has been publicly insulted by the man who is supposed to honour her, the man who flouts the teaching of the Church.’

‘Whatever you are, Wigfrith and the rest of my advisers have told me to be rid of you. Your father and your brother have gone to whatever hell is reserved for Offa and his family, and you will join him there if you do not leave my court.’ His voice had grown louder until he was shouting. ‘I will give you two choices. You may return to Mercia and beg its new king to protect you, or you may enter a convent and dedicate what is left of your worthless evil life to asking God’s forgiveness for your crimes.’ He sat up and swung his legs to the ground, standing up and turning to bend over her. ‘Your choice, my queen. The third option is death.’

Flinging back the curtains, he grabbed his cloak and strode across the chamber to the door. The women who had been standing round the fire, listening in horror to every word, shrank back as he passed. As he disappeared into the night, they all turned as one to stare at the royal bed, exposed by the open curtains. After a moment, one of the queen’s ladies tiptoed towards it and gently pulled them closed.

Eadburh sat up, drawing her bed gown around her. Her initial shock at his words had receded and she was thinking hard. Wigfrith, the senior royal thane at court and her husband’s praefectus, had always been her enemy. He would never wish her anything other than death, but maybe this was her chance to escape from the life she had begun to think of as a prison. If she went back to Mercia she would find the new king. Coenwulf was a distant cousin, a strong ruler by all accounts, but unlikely to look favourably on Offa’s daughter, especially if she had been banished from her husband’s kingdom. He would still want to count Wessex an ally and friend. She had no desire whatsoever to enter a convent like her sister. Such a fate was unthinkable. But if she made it clear she was passing through, not planning to settle, then surely she would be safe. From Mercia she could travel on. To Powys.

Her thoughts, as so often when she was restless and unhappy, had flown back to Elisedd. Hilde had disappeared on her mission to find him; her next messenger had returned but with no information about Hilde or about the royal family of Powys.

No one seemed able to answer her question as to whether the youngest son lived or died. Surely, if he was dead someone somewhere would have known it. Someone would have told her. Someone would have demanded retribution.

But supposing her father had lied? Supposing he had told her Elisedd was dead to fool her, to force her to give up all hopes of the man she loved so passionately. Murder was second nature to him and to Cynefryth. One or other of them could have arranged to have him killed as easily as slaughtering an animal, but supposing her father had held back, worried about the construction of his precious dyke and the alliance it relied on. Supposing all this time Elisedd had been alive.

Alive. Was it possible? In her dreams he was too vivid and loving and real to be dead. And in her dreams he still loved her. In her dreams he was still here, waiting for her somewhere in the misty hills of his home.

She smiled to herself and lay back against the pillows, hugging the thought to her. That was what she would do. She would go to Powys and she would find him. But before she left she would have her revenge.

Beorhtric made no immediate move to carry out his threats, though he avoided her presence whenever he could. She was aware that she was being watched, that the court seethed with rumour and dislike and that the Witan were to a man against her, but no one dared to make a move. Not yet. So, ostensibly, neither did she. She was planning her journey with meticulous care. She had considerable wealth as queen and she was intent on making sure every penny of it went with her: money, jewels, furnishings, her daughter’s small entourage of nurses and attendants, horses and mules. She felt sure Wigfrith guessed what she was up to. His intense, thoughtful gaze followed her whenever she was in the mead hall near him and she smiled to herself, sometimes catching his eye with deliberate hostility. She didn’t care. Even Wigfrith must from time to time have felt a shiver of fear as that cold hard stare rested on his face.

It was not until a new young man arrived in court that matters came to a head. Worr was the son of one of the king’s most senior ealdormen. The queen was performing her ceremonial role at a major feast, carrying the great auroch’s horn with its decorated gold rim to the high table, presenting the drink to the king and then to Wigfrith, who met her gaze with defiant challenge, and then to Beorhtric’s most senior guests in order of precedence. When she came to Worr, who sat beside the king in the seat of honour, closer even than the visiting dignitaries, she came to a halt, fixing him with her ice-cold gaze, then moved on without presenting the horn for him to sip. There was a sharp intake of breath from the watching crowd in the hall behind her.

Next day she was told that the king had commanded her removal from his court and from his kingdom. She was to leave before the next full moon.

The flagons of mead were carefully separated. One held poison for Worr, the other held a potion that would render the king impotent for