The Dream Weavers

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘The ghost of the dead king’ – he screwed up his eyes as Emma picked up her notebook and scribbled the words down as he spoke them out loud – ‘was not laid by prayer but by revenge. Offa did not sleep again, nor did his queen.’ He turned to Emma. ‘There is a theory that the murder was instigated by Queen Cynefryth out of jealousy that her daughter was to marry such a handsome and gifted young man, and that seems to be the version our chronicler subscribes to.’

  ‘She was obviously a cow,’ Emma put in.

  ‘That I think is an understatement. But we will never know for sure.’

  ‘Unless our friend here has written it down,’ Felix put in. ‘There is lots of stuff here. Go on, Dad, what does it say next?’

  ‘Our King Offa made many gifts of land and money to the Holy Church and built a shrine to the saint, in a church dedicated to the Holy Virgin that he set up by the river near his palace.’

  ‘Like you did, Em,’ Felix put in.

  ‘I only put two quid in the box. It was all I had.’

  ‘I meant you prayed. But the fact that you saw the ghost means he was not laid at all, he is still not a happy bunny. Go on, Dad.’

  ‘The sword that took off the head of the saint was found in the river and was brought to the minster to be blessed with the saint’s holy blood still hardened upon the blade.’ He frowned and looked up again. ‘Unlikely, I would say. Surely the river water would have washed it off.’

  ‘Not if it was magic blood. He was a saint, don’t forget.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for might be sanctified, not magic.’ Simon went back to studying the page. ‘Our King Offa would not believe that the queen had wielded that sword, though many thought hers was the hand that guided it. There you are! It was gossip even then.’

  ‘Will this be useful for your book, Dad?’ Felix was looking extremely pleased with himself.

  ‘It will indeed. Let’s see what else it says.’ There was a long pause as Simon studied the band of calligraphy that had grown ever smaller and more compacted as it reached the edge of the page.

  ‘Many thought the queen should die for her actions, but none dared a … a …’ he hesitated. ‘I think this word must be accost – accuse? – her. I should think not. She sounds as vicious as her husband. And still the ghost of the king walked the March.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Emma shivered. ‘And still does today. So he was never revenged.’

  ‘Avenged.’ Her father corrected her automatically. ‘But our friend the chronicler says he was.’

  ‘Isn’t there anything else?’ Felix was staring at the page on the computer. ‘Let’s see if there are any other bits written in.’ He moved to the next page of text. This one was blank 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 phon
e. 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, capable of cold-bloodedly planning murder. Life had not been kind to her; she had lost the man she loved, she had been forced to abort his baby, she had found herself in a land of strangers with a man she could never love as a husband, and given birth to his child who, though she played with her now and then with what appeared to be an offhand sense of duty, was being brought up by nurses, as had happened presumably in royal households everywhere for generation after generation. Her relationship with her own parents had veered from distant to outright hostility, and now she was planning to murder her mother’s lover, a mother who had orchestrated the slaying of her daughter’s intended. Her life had been a Shakespearean tragedy. She was impossible to like, and yet Bea found she could not look away. Was this obsession? Maybe. But she had it under control and she needed to know what happened next. And she wanted to talk to Nesta again.

  Slowly and carefully she picked up her stone and closed her eyes.

  Eadburh sent Hilde with the king’s messenger back to her father’s court at Sutton. The messenger carried letters for Offa and for Cynefryth, respectful greetings from their dutiful daughter in Wessex with no comments or questions about Alfrida’s fate. And for her sister herself Hilde carried a private, more impassioned missive, begging her not to go, though Eadburh knew deep in her heart as she was writing it that it was probably too late. By the time Hilde arrived Alfrida would be long gone. Hilde carried something else as well. Sewn into the hem of her gown were two tiny hidden packets, and these were secret.

  Bea settled back on her cushion, watching Hilde riding through the summer countryside with a small escort of warriors from Beorhtric’s personal bodyguard, staying at night in the guest houses of monasteries and convents as she rode steadily northwards over the Wessex border into the kingdom of Mercia and back to the court of the king at Sutton.

  She delivered the letter to the queen at last, and greeted the women who had been her friends in the household of the princesses and who now served their mother, and she settled in to gossip and exchange news. The second letter, to Alfrida, she burned as instructed when she learned that Alfrida had left the court at dead of night, only three days after her betrothed had been killed. Her tears and anger had swept through the king’s hall like a raging fire, according to the women who had witnessed her grief. They made no mention of accusations or blame, and only spoke of unknown outlaws who had attacked in the night and who had never been caught. They all knew where Alfrida had gone – to the heart of the kingdom of which she should have been queen, to the lonely abbey at a place called Crowland, on a fearsome lonely marsh deep in the reeds, under a huge unrelenting sky amongst the birds and otters and beavers, and there she had dedicated her life to God. Her father had not dared send after her.

  As Hilde sat with her companions by the fire in the great hall of the king late in the evening, her gaze passed thoughtfully over the assembled company. Queen Cynefryth was seated a little apart, a man at her side, a tall good-looking man, richly attired with gold buckles and armlets, a man some fifteen years or more younger than the king. The man was leaning towards her, his eyes fixed on her face, a little too close beside her for propriety.

  ‘Who is that with the queen?’ she whispered to the woman seated next to her, who was lost in thought, toying with her spindle. The woman raised her eyes briefly and Hilde saw her eyebrow rise, merely a flicker. ‘Grimbert. He is the queen’s adviser. He oversees the lands and rents of the convents of which she is benefactor.’ The woman bent back to her spindle, wrenching a hank of soft sheep’s wool from her distaff, her fingers tightening momentarily on the frail thread until it broke.

  ‘And the king allows this?’ Hilde’s murmur was barely audible.

  ‘The king is preoccupied with his penance from the pope. He pores over plans to build a new church over the holy well that sprang from the ground where the body of the boy was first hidden. He sees nothing and says nothing.’

  Hilde watched the queen in silence, surprised that her companion dared speak out so frankly. Her eyes strayed to the king, a strong man still, though in his sixties now, his grizzled hair and weathered skin belying the intense force of his eyes. ‘And the king’s son?’

  ‘Ecgfrith is seldom here. He keeps his own household at Tamworth, so we hear. He does not frequent his mother’s presence.’

  Hilde stared at her, again startled to hear such frank speech. Cautiously she turned back to the couple sitting there so brazenly near the king. Cynefryth was still very beautiful. Her hair, long and heavy, streaked now with silver, was only partially covered by her headrail which was held in place by a coronet of enamelled gold set with amethysts. Her face was unlined, her eyes fixed on the face of the man next to her, but the hardness was still there. Hilde remembered how the queen had treated Eadburh, how she had had Brona killed – the women all guessed it, though nothing had ever been proved or even hinted at. She was a vicious, dangerous woman and nothing and no one, not even her husband, could ever control her. Hilde smiled a little to herself. Only, perhaps, another equally dangerous woman. She could feel the slight weight of the two little pouches in her hem dragging on the rushes of the floor, and she turned away from the queen and Grimbert. She had been told to wait for the bees.

  20

  Mark missed being a parish priest more than he had expected. The promotion to canon in the cathedral had been a temptation he could not resist. He knew there were other equally good candidates for the vacancy and it surprised him how much he wanted the job once his application had gone in. It was the perfect position, with his family background in the world of finance and an aptitude he had firmly turned his back on but which he still possessed. It had not occurred to him that Bea would be uncomfortable with his decision. He discussed it with her, of course, again and again before he had accepted the position, but they agreed they would be happy with whatever God decided and as Mark proceeded through the interviews and discussions that preceded his appointment they hardly spoke about it at all. He had perhaps assumed an enthusiasm in his wife which was not actually there.

  The house in the Close with its Georgian façade and secluded walled garden was a huge bonus and they both loved it, but neither of them had quite realised how much of their privacy would be sacrificed, how close to the job it was, how easily they could be watched. Not all the partners of the clergy were involved with the Church. Some kept their distance completely and their decision was respected. Mark had promised her that that was the case. Bea thought it should apply to her as well. It appeared not.

  ‘I am so sorry to insist on this meeting, Canon, but I felt it was my duty to tell you what is being said.’ Sandra had cornered Mark as he was leaving the cathedral office. The cathedral itself was closing to the public for the night and they made their way slowly back along St John’s Walk and out into the Close. ‘It’s just that people talk and, as you know, gossip can do such damage. In a tightly knit community like ours there is bound to be speculation.’ She sat down on a bench beneath one of the lime trees and patted the seat beside her.

  Mark knew Bea would laugh if she could see him. He was conscious of his attentive face and the tightly controlled calm it displayed. She would not be laughing after Sandra’s next words.

  ‘It’s about Beatrice. People are asking questions. I thought it important you know.’

  ‘Questions?’

  ‘Her job. I take it she is actually a teacher?’ Sandra’s smile reminded him of a cat, watching a bird hop closer, obl
ivious to the hidden threat.

  He looked at her with concern, his irritation carefully masked. ‘You know she is. And if she is at home at present, that’s because it’s the school holidays. I’m sorry, Sandra, but I really don’t see what business it is of other people what Bea does. It’s fully understood within the Chapter that the life of the partners of our clergy are their own affair. Who is it who’s asking these questions?’

  ‘Ah, that’s not for me to say. I respect their confidence.’ She looked smug.

  ‘Then please respect mine. If people ask you, you now know what to tell them.’

  Fury and frustration flashed across her face. She was not nearly so good at dissembling as him. ‘They need to know something more than that.’

  ‘No, they don’t.’ He gave her a benign smile. ‘And I know I can rely on you to remind them of the discretion we all give one another. It’s what makes the Chapter run smoothly.’ For a moment he found himself envying Heather Fawcett, who, like Sandra, worked with the volunteers, in her case, helping to run the cathedral shop, her status as a clergy widow recognised and above suspicion. He stood up abruptly. ‘And now, I’m afraid, Sandra, I must get on. Please, don’t concern yourself any more about Bea.’

  There was nothing she could do but stand up too and return his smile. She watched as he walked away from her across the grass, disappearing behind another of the great lime trees that shaded the Close. There was no point in following him. Besides, it was Bea she was interested in. She hadn’t been able to get the boy’s phrase out of her head. Ghostbuster. And the newspaper clippings had given her all the proof she needed.

  Why could the annoying woman not let it go? Mark had agreed to take evensong at a church some miles from Hereford and, climbing into his car, he headed north out of the city, following winding country lanes through tunnels of white blossom. The church he was going to was a favourite of his and he had volunteered to take more than his share of services there while its priest in charge was in hospital. It was a small church, ancient and beautiful, redolent with history. Bea would love it. The thought of Bea reminded him yet again of his encounter with Sandra, and a mile or two before he reached his destination he pulled into a field gateway and reached for his mobile. As usual, Bea’s phone was off. ‘Darling, I thought I should warn you. Sandra is after you in full cry. Wretched woman! I suggest that if you don’t want her to give you the third degree again you lie low and don’t answer the door. I shouldn’t be too late. The service should be over by about eight and I will come straight home after that. Love you.’