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

her baggage train; Wigfrith had not dared confiscate her dowry and marriage portion. She was a rich woman, bound for the court of the Emperor Charlemagne, the most powerful ruler in the known world. The child would be safe, well cared for in Wessex, as the king’s daughter. Almost at once, as she tried to make herself comfortable in the dusty confines of the royal litter, she had resigned herself to leaving the little girl behind. Once she had established herself at the emperor’s court, she would persuade him to send for Eathswith. Until then the child would be perfectly happy where she was. She lay back against the cushions. All in all, it had not worked out badly.

But what happened to Nesta?

Bea put down the stone with calm deliberation and sat for a while in the peaceful candlelight. Eadburh had not seen her watching this time; her protective circle had kept her safe and invisible. No one in that terrifying horde of angry men had noticed her. She shivered in spite of herself, remembering the barely restrained hatred of the pressing crowds, the noise, the nervousness of the horses, the placid indifference of the oxen harnessed to the baggage carts, Wigfrith’s strength and authority. Did he become king next, she wondered. Simon would know. And through it all Eadburh had sat there with an expression of haughty indifference. Was she scared, under it all? Was she genuinely shocked that her plan had misfired so badly, too stunned by the sudden reversal of events to react? Bea thought not, but the scene had gone, closed down, once more locked in the distant past. She scrambled to her feet and went to stand at the window, looking out into the night. As the carts rumbled down the winding roads towards the port of Southampton only one heart-rending cry had escaped Eadburh’s lips as the full realisation of where she was going finally dawned on her.

‘Elise!’

30

The chantry priest was there in the corner of the chapel. It was early, morning prayer not long finished, and the cathedral was quiet, the great windows dimmed by the blanket of sullen cloud and veils of rain that hung over the city, the aisles and rows of wooden pews shadowy, only a few lights on as yet.

At the far end of the nave someone coughed, the sound echoing up into the vaults of the roof.

Bea was wearing a thick jacket against the early chill of the morning. She sat in her usual place, hidden in the corner of the chapel. There were no candles today and a thick rope had been hooked in place, dividing the altar from the body of the chapel, separating her from the old man on his chair. ‘Should I tell them to take Emma away, back to London?’ she whispered. ‘Would that be best for her?’

His head was bent in prayer and he did not respond.

‘Please, tell me what to do!’ She spoke more loudly than she intended and was shocked to hear her words echo slightly off the stone walls and back down from the fan tracery above her head.

‘That is your decision to make.’

‘I need advice. Please.’

But he had gone.

Outside the chapel footsteps approached, echoing off the stone flags. They drew near and stopped.

‘Please. I need you.’

But his corner was empty.

She sat for several minutes more, deep in thought, then she stood up and headed towards the entrance with a sigh.

Sandra had been attending morning prayer. When she saw Bea entering the chantry chapel she had felt a shiver of unease. Creeping close to the entrance she listened, holding her breath. There was someone in there with her. She could hear Bea’s whispered voice echoing in the confined space. Stepping back she waited in the shadows for Bea to leave the chapel, reach the main door and disappear out into the cold morning then she tiptoed forward, stood in the chapel doorway, peering in. It was empty and cold. There was no one there. So who had Beatrice been talking to? Who was she addressing when she had begged to be told what to do? It hadn’t sounded like a prayer. It had been far too peremptory. She had been giving orders.

Sandra shuddered and stepped back. The atmosphere in the tiny chapel had turned suddenly sour. It was scary; evil. She tried to steady her breathing. Beatrice had taken something nasty in there with her; a demon. An evil spirit. She was sure of it.

What should she do? Who could she go to for help? She had spoken to the dean, she had spoken to Mark, but neither of them had seemed to take her seriously enough to do anything about it. There was only the bishop left and if he failed her it would be up to her.

She had to wait for a lull in visitors much later before she managed to speak to Heather Fawcett, who had been run off her feet in the cathedral shop. They carried their cups of coffee to the far side of the Chapter House garden and sat down out of the wind on one of the benches. The rain had stopped and sunlight was warming the garden.

‘What do you think I should do?’ Sandra leant forward anxiously after she had told Heather her story. Though she didn’t know Heather well, she regarded her as a friend.

Heather took a thoughtful sip from her cup. ‘Do you have to do anything?’ she enquired mildly.

‘Of course I do.’

‘You said you had been to see the dean.’

‘Yes.’

‘Sandra, dear, what else can you do? You have to leave it up to him. He probably knows Beatrice far better than you do and if he isn’t worried, I don’t think you should be either.’

‘But she was talking to an evil spirit! Here in the cathedral!’ Sandra picked up her cup, gestured randomly with it, slopping coffee on the grass, and dropped it back down on the saucer. ‘I can’t stand by and