The Dream Weavers by Barbara Erskine (best ereader for pc TXT) 📗

Slowly Bea began to compose herself as she heard the cathedral clock chime the hour.

A nest of vipers.

The phrase leapt out of nowhere. And then,

But that is not how it was.

6

‘You know Papa intends me to marry the son of the King of the Franks.’ Eadburh’s eldest sister, Ethelfled, looked up suddenly from her sewing. Taller than her sisters, she was a powerful young woman, clever and humourless. Her face wore a smug smile. Her sisters froze. They were all of an age where they knew marriage was their destiny and that their destiny was at present foremost in their ambitious father’s thoughts. Aggressive and relentlessly acquisitive, Offa of Mercia ruled with ruthless ambition what had become the most powerful of the kingdoms of Britain. Girls of marriageable age were valuable assets, and his three daughters perhaps the most valuable of all.

‘Did Mama tell you that?’ Eadburh frowned. ‘I thought Ecgfrith was going to marry one of King Charles’s daughters. He wouldn’t want you both over there, surely.’ Their only brother, a more powerful bargaining chip even than they were, was still in the mead hall across the courtyard with their father and his advisers. She reached into the basket on the centre of the table for a skein of silk. The sound of music drifted across the compound to the women’s bower, together with the rowdy shouts and laughter of the men.

‘Mama thinks King Charles is playing politics. He uses his children like pieces on a gaming board just as Papa does, and has no intention of marrying any of them to anyone at present,’ Alfrida, the middle sister, put in. She was the most thoughtful of the three girls, quieter and perhaps the cleverest.

‘It wasn’t Mama. I overheard two of the thanes’ wives gossiping.’ Ethelfled blushed.

‘Well, you can’t believe anything they say,’ Eadburh retorted. ‘He might have chosen any of us. Me, for instance. I may be the youngest, but I’m the prettiest!’

Her sisters both laughed. ‘I think we can guess who he has in store for you.’ Alfrida fixed Eadburh with a mocking gaze. ‘He’s obviously got the puppy from Powys lined up for you.’

Eadburh stared at her. ‘Who?’

‘Prince Elisedd.’ Alfrida giggled. ‘Why else would he send you off with him to stare at a line of wooden stakes and a thousand men carrying baskets of mud for his wretched rampart when he could have sent one of his surveyors. Marriage is the best way to ensure peace between the kingdoms. He’s told us so often enough.’

‘So, if you know so much about it, who has he got in line for you?’ Ethelfled pushed back her stool and stood up suddenly. ‘Has he told you?’

Alfrida shook her head. ‘He keeps very close counsel, as we all know.’

‘Who keeps close counsel?’ Their mother swept into the room, two of her handmaids trailing after her carrying baskets of newly picked herbs. Cynefryth, unlike her daughters who all took their colouring from their father, had dark hair and sallow skin. Her eyes were hazel, and at this moment narrowed as she sent a sharp glance at each of the girls in turn.

‘Papa.’ Alfrida met her mother’s eye defiantly. ‘We were discussing our marital fate.’ Her voice carried a touch of bitterness. ‘I presume that was why he allowed Eadburh to go riding with King Cadell’s son this afternoon. At least she gets to lay eyes on her intended husband.’

‘I don’t know where you get the idea that Offa intends anyone to marry that young man,’ their mother said curtly. ‘He has mentioned no such thing to me.’

‘Thank the Blessed Virgin for that!’ Eadburh said fervently. ‘Can I help you with your herbs, Mama. Sewing bores me.’ She threw down her work. ‘And no doubt if we are all to be queens like you, we don’t need to excel in that particular skill.’ She glared at Alfrida, who loved embroidery.

Cynefryth suppressed a sigh of exasperation and walked back towards the door. ‘Come along then. These were picked this morning while the moon was still in the sky; I have to see to their steeping while they still hold the life force of the moonlight, and there are salves to make.’ She did not add that there were spells to add and charms to recite, known only to her, which was why she did not leave the task to a local herb-wife.

In the king’s royal residence when he was in this part of Mercia there was a great hall, the huge oak beams resplendent with carved beasts, and a royal bedchamber and all the space and outbuildings that the king’s vast entourage required. The stillroom, a small reed-thatched building behind the infirmary, was overseen by a local woman, Nesta, not merely a herb-wife, but also a powerful sorceress and a force to be reckoned with, if local gossip was to be believed. Oblivious to Nesta’s haughty stare as she and Eadburh walked in, the queen sent her out of the hut as though she were no more than a servant to gather more plants from her list.

As soon as they were alone Eadburh turned on her mother. ‘So, is it true? Am I to marry the Prince of Powys?’

Cynefryth was pushing up her sleeves as she reached into the baskets to sort out the leaves she had already gathered. Betony, meadowsweet, hemp and cinquefoil. The study of plants and leechcraft was one of the queen’s passions and wherever she and the king went as they toured the kingdom it was made clear that the herb rooms of the various palaces they stayed in on their royal progress were her special territory. Her boxes with their stock of bottles and pots were already arranged on the tables, their lids thrown back.

Cynefryth did not bother to turn to look at her daughter. ‘No, you are not. What would be the point of building the great dyke between our countries