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

the stone. She had decided not to follow up on Eadburh’s story. The priest in the cathedral had warned her against it. Mark had warned her against it. She must turn her back on the three sisters and their dreams of the future. That door was closed. The past was in the past where it belonged. All she could do now was pray that Mark had laid the unhappy spirit to rest and that the cottage was at peace.

*

As the flame of her candle flickered and died, she found herself nodding off to sleep. Waking up in the small hours, stiff and cramped, she crept back downstairs to bed. If she dreamt about Eadburh she didn’t remember it. Her sleep was deep and undisturbed.

The next thing she knew was that it was morning and Mark was calling to her from the bottom of the stairs. He had returned from morning prayer. ‘We’ve got to go to collect your car, remember? I have wall-to-wall meetings later.’

He waved her goodbye outside Chris and Ray’s house before heading down the road back to Hereford. She stood and watched his car disappear, deep in thought. Was it all over? Had it really been that easy?

By the time she had shared a quick coffee with Chris, collected her keys and climbed into her own car, Bea knew what she was going to do. She couldn’t leave it there. She had to go and check out the cottage. She would know at once if Mark’s prayers had worked. If so, then well and good. She could drive away and forget about it. But what if the ghost was still there? Who was this nun who had so meekly vanished after a few priestly prayers? There was only one way to discover the answer to that. She would have to find the stone again. Without it, she was not going to be able to go back to Offa’s court, and she realised, she had to know what happened next to the three sisters. Only then could she put the poor woman’s soul to rest and find out what if anything she had had to do with Eadburh and her prince.

It was a relief when she saw no sign of Simon’s car at the cottage. Wondering briefly where he had gone so early in the morning, she stood by the gate for a while looking round, surrounding herself with protective light. It was very cold up here, high on the hillside, the morning still with that new-minted feel. Birds were singing and a lamb somewhere on the hillside was bleating for its mother.

Slowly climbing the front steps she stood for several minutes on the terrace, putting out cautious feelers, but there was nothing there. No voice, no shadows, no nun. Mark was right. She had gone, whoever she was. She felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, and, if she was honest, a tiny bit of resentment. Mark’s prayers had worked when her own methods had failed.

She stood looking thoughtfully out across the valley.

She didn’t sense the shadowed figure standing by the hedgerow. It wasn’t a nun, nor was it a blue-eyed Saxon princess. The woman was tall, her figure concealed by a dark, roughly woven cloak, her hair stirring in a gentle breeze that had nothing to do with this mountainside, in her hand a spray of fern leaves, her gaze fixed on Bea.

Bea spent a long time surveying the flower bed. Squatting down she allowed her fingers to trail through the daffodils, sure she would feel the stone when it was close, half concentrating, half listening to a thrush singing from the tall birch tree that overhung the terrace. Looking up towards the bird at last, her eye was caught by several stones that lay on the low wall that bounded the lane. There it was. ‘So, someone moved it?’ she breathed. And maybe, in the strange way of things, the bird was showing her where it was. She stood staring down, not touching anything, trying to feel her way, wanting to be sure. But she was sure. She recognised the flecks of crystal on the surface of the pebble, the strange burnished colour, the streaks of dull red, the slight polish from the warmth of her own hands.

The bird was still singing. She looked up and smiled, mouthing a quiet thank you before picking up the stone and slipping it into her coat pocket. She hesitated as her gaze strayed towards the hedge, her attention caught by something she couldn’t quite see, then giving a slight shake of her head she turned away.

There was still no sign of Simon when she pulled out of the lay-by and set off down the hill.

She was very tense as she sat down on her cushion and took the stone into her hands, breathing in the sweet smell of lavender wafting round the room from the incense stick. She had once again surrounded herself with the protective shield of light and was confident in her own strength and yet she was nervous. Whoever it was Mark had banished from the cottage, it was not her blue-eyed princess, of that she was sure. The job was done, the cottage freed of its troubling presence, but she hadn’t been able to get the picture of the young woman’s face out of her mind, the intense reality of her vision, and the heart-stopping moment when Eadburh had looked in her direction. That connection had been too intense to ignore. She had to go back. Just once. After all, Mark had more or less said he knew she would. He had acknowledged that he had no right to stop her doing it; all he had said was, be discreet.

She sat for a long time, the stone between her palms, her protection in place, her mind a receptive blank. Nothing happened. In its holder the incense stick turned to ash and the smoke gently dissipated round her. The room grew cold as outside the sky