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

with him. If he had been around, she would have referred Simon and his ghost to him in the first place, and not tried to sort the situation out herself. But Meryn steered a path between his career as a psychic Druid at home in Wales and another as a visiting professor of esoteric studies at a college in the States, and that was where he was at the moment, far away. He would have known at once whether she could have faith in her story. He would have told her to listen to her instincts.

Bea realised that Simon was staring at her. ‘Penny for them,’ he said. He dug into his piece of cake.

‘I was thinking how exciting it must be to hear about a never before discovered source of material.’

‘I can’t wait.’ He nodded vigorously.

‘Will you tell me if there’s anything—’ she stopped in mid-sentence as he frowned.

‘I can’t tell you where it is. I don’t know myself. And you must not breathe a word about this to anyone.’

And that was that. She could not ask him anything further. He had no idea about her sudden interest in the family of Offa of Mercia, and she didn’t want to tell him why she wanted to know, not when it might be no more than memories of a novel she had read years ago, or of a film she had seen on TV or at the cinema, or even some remnant of a history lesson from her school days, rehashed in her imagination. She could imagine his reaction if she did. Her street cred, what there was of it, would be gone forever so far as he was concerned. If she ever convinced herself her experience was real, then she would tell him, ask him to confirm things, but not yet. Not now.

His admonition to keep the discovery quiet reminded her of something Mark had said. ‘By the way, please, Simon, can you make sure you don’t say a word to anyone about the reason for Mark’s and my visits to the cottage? Protocol, you know.’

He grinned. ‘I remember. You said. Confidentiality clause.’

She laughed. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

Twenty minutes later they said goodbye and she stood watching him walk away to retrieve his car. ‘I’ll let you know next time I’m in town,’ he said as he left. ‘Perhaps we can have coffee again, and I may be able to tell you something about my adventure. It’s good to have someone to talk to from time to time when I’m on my own all day.’

I’m on my own all day too, she thought as she made her way home. For once the thought didn’t depress her.

The house was deserted as she expected, silent but for the occasional tapping sounds of chisel on stone, which carried across the grass from the masons’ yard tucked against the cathedral wall on the far side of the Close. When she checked her phone she found a message from Mark saying he had been coerced into standing in for the dean at a local event and would be home late.

With a smile, she headed for the stairs.

The sun was setting and the attic room was full of shadows. There was a faint smell of lavender in the air and she found herself wondering suddenly if that was what had blocked her vision? It was the standard cleansing herb today, but in Eadburh’s time what would they have used?

She turned to her bookshelf for inspiration. There were books here she almost knew by heart, and some she needed to read again. The Leechbook of Bald, The Nine Herb Charm, The Physicians of Myddfai, Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Magic … her books, collected over the years, waiting to be used. There was information here about Celtic and Anglo-Saxon herbs and charms and runes. She thought back to what she knew of the Anglo-Saxon world. Their gods, their magic, their belief in Wyrd, the working of destiny. Her eyes strayed to her jars of crushed herbs, passed over the labels, stopped. Came back. Mugwort. Of course. She had picked some last summer on the banks of the River Wye, dried it and put it there in one of her pretty pottery jars ready to be used as incense. The herb of dreams and divination. She dried her own burning herbs, following the ancient Scots and Welsh traditions that her grandmother and then Meryn had taught her. Cynefryth’s herb-wife would have known what to use, done the same. What was her name? Nesta.

As she lit a piece of charcoal and sprinkled on a pinch of dried leaves, Bea didn’t notice she was no longer alone in the room. The shadow of a woman was standing behind her.

Bea stood for a while looking out of the window at the clustered medieval roofs of the city beyond their garden until she could smell the pungent fragrance of the herb spiralling around her. She turned at last to light her candle, then, sitting down, she picked up the stone.

This time it worked.

11

The first time his hand had touched hers it had been an accident. A quick brush of the fingers as they both reached for the bridle of the nervous horse, but the touch had been like the spark of summer lightning. Their eyes met and Eadburh felt a jolt in her chest that left her breathless. Elisedd felt it too. She could see from the shock on his face. His gaze lingered just that bit too long, as though he were seeing her for the first time, before he bowed and stepped away as she soothed the horse and passed the rein to one of her bodyguards. The next time they met they were standing on the edge of the great ditch watching the serfs pass the baskets of soil hand to hand up the slope to build the rampart ever higher. By some unspoken signal they had turned their horses to walk