The Dream Weavers

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘Not very effectively, sadly.’ Mark sat down opposite her at the table. ‘Strictly speaking, the Church doesn’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘What about the Holy Ghost?’ Emma knew that much at least.

  He nodded. ‘I’m always asked that, and the answer is complex. I’ll tell you what we do believe in, and that is demons.’

  ‘Really?’ Her eyes widened.

  Bea turned to glare at him. ‘Mark, I think poor Emma has enough to deal with right now without an added layer of mystical obfuscation.’ She searched for the soup bowls.

  ‘What is a demon then?’ Emma persisted. ‘The actual definition.’

  Mark threw Bea a quick apologetic look. ‘From the Christian’s point of view, it’s a fallen angel who has chosen to serve Satan.’

  ‘Is Dad’s ghost a demon then?’

  ‘No!’ Mark responded sharply. ‘I personally think she’s a lost soul. If she returns, either Bea or I will speak to her and comfort her and send her on her way to God and thus give her, and your father, peace.’

  ‘And can you teach me to do that?’ Emma turned back to Bea.

  ‘I can certainly give you some pointers,’ Bea said guardedly. ‘It takes a long time, Em, to learn all about this, and a lot of experience, but I will give you a list of books you can read and give you some starting points. Enough to deal with your own stuff, at least. It’s like studying psychology. You have to analyse yourself before you can start on other people. Later, if you’re still interested in taking this further, we can talk some more.’

  As Bea began to dish up, Mark caught her eye. ‘I think tonight we might have a quick blessing before we eat. To clear the air.’

  ‘Because you think there are demons here?’ Emma caught on at once. ‘Round me?’

  ‘Because it will give us peace.’

  It was very late when they finally went to bed. Bea lay still a long time before she was sure that Mark was asleep, then she slid out of bed and, grabbing her dressing gown, she climbed up to her attic room. Mark had been right. There was something – someone – clinging to Emma and it had to be sorted without frightening the girl. It had gone for now, but she had seen the shadow, wound tightly around the girl’s torso, covering her heart and her solar plexus. They had given her Anna’s room next to their own and Mark had prayed for her outside the door after she had disappeared inside.

  And now it was Bea’s turn to pray. ‘Please don’t let it be Eadburh.’ Her prayer was fervent. ‘Or Cynefryth, Eadburh’s mother.’ Emma was obsessed with Ethelbert’s murder, but she doubted if Cynefryth had ever been to Offa’s Ridge, whereas Eadburh was still there, obsessed, yearning, unshriven and vengeful. Neither woman appeared to balk at killing anyone who got in their way; presumably neither would hesitate to possess an unguarded spirit now.

  Bea could feel the residues all around her in the attic. She searched her jars of dried herbs for mugwort and vervain and added some dried rowan berries. With the protective herbs smoking in the small dish, she walked slowly round the room, blowing the smoke into each corner and murmuring a blessing, and suddenly she wondered if she would need Mark up here too. Whoever was here was evil and she – for it was a she – was powerful and she was a dealer in death.

  And intuitively she knew for certain now. It was Eadburh.

  She left the dish of burning herbs on the table and went out, making a sign of the cross on the door as she closed it to seal whatever it was inside. She was confident that it, she, could be contained and that Emma would be safe at least for now.

  Mark was still asleep and she hadn’t the heart to wake him. He was so tired even the gently drifting smoke from the burning herbs hadn’t reached him. Bea tiptoed downstairs and silently she opened the back door.

  Letting herself out she went to stand by their little fountain, listening to the gentle trickle of the water. Contained within the high stone walls, the smell of spring flowers and grass was all around her. She let it seep into her bones, comforting, gentle. This garden, she was sure, in the shadow of the cathedral as it was, had been used before as a place for prayer and her prayer would be heard. ‘Please, help me to be strong enough to deal with this and please help me to keep Emma safe.’ She almost expected to see her chantry priest out here, praying in the dark, but if he was here she couldn’t see him. It was a long time before, shivering, she went back indoors, bolted the back door and climbed the stairs then crawled into bed.

  In his sleep, Mark shifted and groaned as she brought the chill of the garden with her under the duvet.

  Hilde knelt before the priest on the cold floor of the stone church in the valley and confessed to him and through him to God that she had killed a man. The penance was harsh. She was ordered to give up the rest of her life to God and to serve for the rest of her days here in this small community as a sister under the rule of the abbess. She bowed her head and accepted the judgement without complaint, and when she asked that Eadburh’s letter be delivered to King Cadell by someone else, gave it trustingly into the hands of the priest. The small packet in her hem she took out into the gardens at dead of night and buried deep in the ground. The priest took the letter and gave it to the abbess. She threw it on the fire in the kitchen without reading it. It was never mentioned again.

  ‘I must warn her.’ In her sleep, Bea stirred anxiously. Eadburh would never know that her letter was lost. She was still there in Wessex, alone in so many ways, immersed in her own misery and fury and disgust at what she had seen, and she was holding on to that one slender thread. That Hilde would return with the news that Elisedd’s death had been avenged. And now that would never happen. Bea, and Bea alone, knew it. Unless Nesta –’ Before the question was fully formed Bea had slipped once more back into her dreams.

  Eadburh had fled from the king’s chamber, through the mead hall, across the courtyard and into the queen’s bower and threw herself full length upon her bed, wracked with angry sobs. Her women clustered round anxiously and like fire through dried summer grass the word spread of what had happened. They had known, the women had all known, of the king’s preferences. They could not believe that the queen did not know too. But no one had told her.

  Slowly Bea crept towards the bed. Without knowing why they did it, the women moved aside to let her pass and without seeing her, closed ranks again behind her. She was there now, standing beside the sobbing queen, looking down at the disordered coverlets, the woven blankets, the sheet torn to shreds between the queen’s clutching fingers. And as she watched, Bea saw the first stains of blood seeping from beneath the woman’s hips.

  The queen’s attendants noticed at last as her first cramps began and sent for Nesta. The herb-wife immediately sent servants scurrying to boil water for tisanes, to remove the queen’s gown and change the sheets, and did her best to soothe the distraught woman. And all the time the women scurrying to and fro across the room and around the queen’s bed avoided the space where Bea stood, frozen with horror, watching. Only when Nesta glanced her way did Bea realise that the woman knew she was there.

  At dawn when it was clear that nothing could be done to save the baby, the midwife came. Issuing reassurances that there would soon be another to replace it, she delivered the child, a tiny boy. He never breathed.

  Eadburh slept at last and Bea still stood by the bed, looking down at her exhausted, pale face, at peace for now, as one by one the women crept away to their own beds. At last only Nesta remained. ‘So, you are full of pity now for the woman who orchestrated the murder of her mother’s lover.’

  Bea put her hand up to the cross around her neck. ‘I suppose she believed it was justice,’ she whispered. ‘He was a murderer.’

  Nesta inclined her head. ‘Then so am I. We were both obeying the orders of a queen.’

  ‘Will she recover from this?’ Bea looked back at the sleeping woman.

  Nesta stepped away from the bed. ‘The answer to that is written in the annals of time.’ Her voice had grown distant. ‘She will not see the king agai
n for many months. As his son was being born I am told Beorhtric rode out with his war band, heading for the coast where once more heathen warships with their dragon prows are sailing down the Channel. He did not ask about his wife and does not know that she has miscarried. When he is told, I expect he will be sad. A man needs a son.’

  The shadows were closing round the bed. Nesta stooped and pulled the bedcover straight then she turned away. Bea stared after her, but the scene was dissolving into cold white mist as the palace shrugged back into an icy dawn.

  Bea stirred uncomfortably, pulling the duvet round her, and again Mark groaned. Outside in the garden wisps of mist were drifting through the branches of the mulberry tree by the wall as the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.

  ‘Bea? Bea, didn’t you hear the alarm? It’s time to get up.’ Mark put a mug of tea down beside the bed. He was fully dressed. ‘I’m off to morning prayer. I’ll be back for breakfast.’

  Confused and befuddled with sleep, it took Bea a moment to remember they had a guest. ‘Any sign of Emma?’

  ‘I imagine she’s still asleep. It’s early yet.’

  And then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.

  It was Emma’s turn to dream.

  Eadburh was inside her head and the woman, in a haze of pain and delirium, was dreaming in turn that she was a girl again at Sutton in her father’s hall. The evening was in full swing, with music and dancing and drink as she snatched up a cloak to cover her finery, evaded her father’s guards and rode out alone across the meadows and through the woods towards the west. Drawing rein at last, she paused, staring into the distance, waiting. He was there, she knew he was there somewhere. Urging the tired horse onwards she set off up the winding track towards the summit of the ridge where the prince was waiting for her, his handsome profile catching the rays of the rising sun, the planes of his face accentuated, half in shadow as he turned towards her and held out his arms.

  Emma smiled and stretched out willingly towards him, welcoming him into her arms, smelling the scent of sweat and horse and heather on him as he kissed her, feeling his strong hands pulling at her gown, losing herself in the strength and heat of his body.

  Bea was making some toast for breakfast when Emma appeared downstairs at last. She sat down at the table and reached for the coffee pot. The girl looked rested. Perhaps a little flushed.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Bea put butter and marmalade on the table in front of her.

  ‘Tired.’ Emma blushed scarlet. ‘I dreamed about a man and a woman. There were horses and we, they, were up on the top of a hill and it was sunrise.’ Her voice faded. Bea turned away to rescue the toast and put it in the rack. She took her time turning back and by the time she did, Emma had recovered. ‘It was all very vivid and real.’

  Bea smiled. ‘He made love to her?’

  She had noted the hasty change of pronoun. She had been there too. At the start of her dreams, she had seen Elisedd and Eadburh and the tenderness and passion between them as they made love, but this was different. She bit her lip, worried, trying to see if the dark shadow was still there clinging to Emma, but she could see nothing.

  Emma nodded. ‘It was me. He made love to me. In my dream.’ She darted a quick embarrassed glance at Bea and giggled. ‘What am I like!’

  Bea hid her anxiety. ‘Like a teenage girl. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. All I can say is, lucky you.’ She topped up her own coffee mug and gave Emma few seconds to compose herself.

  Emma was about to speak when her phone pinged. ‘It’s Dad. He’s coming to collect me later.’

  23

  As she handed leaflets about the cathedral to a group of visiting tourists, Sandra saw Bea walking through the nave with the girl from yesterday. She had her arm around the girl’s shoulders and as Sandra watched she guided her out of sight towards the north aisle. They were going to the chantry chapel.

  Another group of visitors were heading her way. Sandra turned away from them, pulling her identity tag over her head and slipping it into her pocket, then she hurried after Bea and the girl. Close to the chapel entrance she slowed up, checking behind her to make sure there was no one in sight. She tiptoed close to the doorway and peered in. They were sitting in the shadows and Bea still had her arm around the girl’s shoulders. Sandra took a step closer.

  ‘Can you see him, there by the altar?’ Bea said quietly. ‘He was a chantry priest here when the chapel was first built. He is my mentor.’

  Sandra crept closer. She could hear footsteps approaching; a couple were walking towards her from the transept, heading for the nearby exquisitely carved alabaster monument to Bishop Stanbury, with cameras slung round their necks. She moved slightly to block the entrance to the chapel and when she saw them frown, groped in her pocket for her lanyard and name tag. It obviously gave her a semblance of authority because they immediately veered away, walking on towards the Lady Chapel. Turning back, Sandra was in time to hear Bea’s voice, quiet but clearly audible: ‘Please tell us what to do, Father. I should have listened to you, but I’m involved now and Emma needs you.’

  Sandra froze. She could actually feel the hairs on the back of her neck moving. Almost too scared to look, she scanned the tiny chapel to see who Bea was talking to. There were only the four chairs in there in front of the prayer desk. The floor was covered in matting, the altar bare. No cross. No candles. There was no one else there. Emma had her eyes tightly shut and Sandra could see the girl’s hands shaking as she clasped them on her knee.

  Bea was quiet now. Her eyes were open, fixed on the altar – slightly to the left of the altar – which was bathed in coloured light filtering through the stained-glass windows. She nodded, as if she was listening, then Emma’s eyes flew open. ‘No!’ she cried loudly. ‘I won’t do that!’

  ‘Em, darling. If he thinks it best—’

  ‘No! Never! Dad will be here by now. I want to go and find him. Take me out of this horrible place!’ Emma jumped to her feet and Sandra turned away hastily. She hurried down the aisle and round the corner into the transept as the girl appeared in the doorway.

  Bea and Emma had headed for the café and Sandra followed at a discreet distance. Simon was indeed there, sitting at a table in the far corner. Seeing him, Emma broke into a run and threw herself down opposite him. She looked distraught. Bea followed more slowly and slipped into the seat next to her. ‘Give us a moment to calm down,’ she said. She sounded completely in control.

  Sandra turned to the counter and ordered herself a cup of tea, then, cup in hand, she walked quietly to the table behind them and sat down. She was just within earshot and no one at the table noticed her; Bea had her back to her and in any case the two adults were concentrating on Emma.

  ‘It was creepy. This old man was sitting there, as real as you or me, and he looked at me and he had such a kind face.’ Tears spilled over and ran down Emma’s face. ‘But what he said—’

  ‘What he said was that there was a demon clinging to her and that Emma must pray and that Our Lady and all the angels would keep her safe.’ Bea’s words, though very quiet, were clearly audible.

  ‘A demon?’ Simon echoed the word out loud, and several people turned to look. Bea glanced over her shoulder nervously and to her horror saw Sandra sitting only feet away from her.

  Sandra smiled. ‘Tea break,’ she said weakly.

  Bea stood up. ‘Simon, I think we should leave. We need to talk. In private.’

  Sandra watched as the three of them walked out of the door. She didn’t follow. She was too shocked.

  Mark was sitting in the snug, deep in thought, when Bea got home. ‘Darling, can we have a chat?’

  She threw herself down onto the sofa. ‘I’m exhausted. But I think we’re through the worst with Emma.’ She sat forward again and looked at him, worried by his expression. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Sandra went to the dean.’

  Bea felt herself grow cold. ‘She was there this morning, in the ca
fé. She was listening.’

  Mark gave a slow nod. ‘He said she’s been watching you, following you. For your own good, naturally, and she felt she could no longer keep quiet. Also for your own good. And mine.’

  ‘And what could she not keep quiet about?’

  ‘I think you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t! What business is it of hers where I go and what I do? Or of the dean, for that matter. She has never seen me at work. She has never seen me gazing into crystal balls or invoking the spirits of the dead, or whatever it is she thinks I do! And what your wife does as a hobby or as a job is absolutely her own affair and nothing to do with the cathedral!’ She stood up, furious. ‘That bloody woman!’

  ‘She saw the article in the paper.’

  There was a long moment of horrified silence. ‘But that was months ago,’ Bea said at last.

  ‘Apparently she has a file of cuttings.’ Mark sighed. ‘She showed the dean. And she told him she saw you conjuring spirits.’

  Bea opened her mouth to retort, then she subsided back onto the sofa again. ‘She was there, outside the chantry?’

  A look of genuine pain crossed her husband’s face. ‘I don’t know where all this happened exactly. What did you do in the chantry?’

  ‘The old priest is there sometimes. I don’t conjure him!’ she almost spat out the word. ‘He sits by the altar and he prays for the souls of the dead, as he was charged to do hundreds of years ago. I go there sometimes to pray quietly on my own and sometimes he’s there and sometimes he isn’t.’

  ‘And Sandra saw him?’

  ‘I’ve no idea what she thinks she saw.’

  ‘You took Emma there.’

  ‘You know I did! It was a quiet place for her to pray for the soul of the murdered king. Oh, come on, Mark. This is what the church is for! Sandra is so busy and bossy with her self-importance and her tourists, she’s forgotten that people come here to pray!’

  He sighed. ‘The dean is no fool. He recognises that she’s obviously got some kind of an agenda with you, and yes, he knows it’s the cathedral’s policy to allow partners their own life completely outside the place if they so choose, but he has warned me to ask you to be discreet. You know what a lovely man he is, but he said that she had the light of zeal in her eyes. He has told her he expects her discretion in anything that worries her and that, if anything does, she is to go to him or someone in the deliverance team. And, Bea, you and I know that she will. She will be on the lookout every second to try and catch you out.’