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

what will follow. The silence of that woman afterwards must be ensured.’ She held Eadburh’s gaze. ‘You understand me?’

Eadburh understood only too well. ‘I will not kill one of my maidens for sharing my secret,’ she retorted. ‘I will choose someone I can trust.’

‘Indeed you will.’ Cynefryth stood up, pulling her cloak around her tightly. ‘Go to your bed now and let it be known that you are unwell.’

Eadburh watched her mother walk across the garden, her skirts trailing against the edges of the herb beds. As her ladies fell in step behind her, Cynefryth beckoned Nesta to her. The two women talked briefly, then moved on, pausing here and there to pick a sprig of this and a few leaves of that, dropping them into Nesta’s basket.

Eadburh shivered miserably as a cold breeze blew across the garden. She knew what her mother would use. Pennyroyal and rue, mugwort, marjoram … There would be other ingredients, too, to make sure, and spells, of that she was certain. But maybe, just maybe, even now Burgred might return with a letter for her, offering her a route out of her dilemma, a way to certain happiness.

Burgred did not come.

The drink when it arrived was bitter and made her gag. Her mother stood over her while she drank it, then summoned her ladies to pull screens around her bed before leaving the chamber. She beckoned one woman to remain with her daughter. Brona, the eldest of the group, who generally served food to her young mistress. ‘Do not leave the princess, do you hear me? This medicine will clear away the evil spirits that have made her ill, but anything she passes must be thrown on a fire outside. You will fetch no one else and care for my daughter yourself, alone.’ The queen glared at the woman. ‘Have I made myself clear?’ Brona bobbed a curtsy. ‘Very clear, lady.’ She pursed her lips. Eadburh’s women were a close group and observant. They knew what was wrong with their young mistress, though none would have dared comment. As soon as the queen had appeared with her jug in her hand, they had guessed what was going to occur. None of them wanted to be there when it did.

Cynefryth left a second goblet of the drink on the table beside the bed. ‘If nothing happens before the candle burns down, give her this second dose,’ she said, then she swept out of the chamber without a backward glance.

Eadburh groaned. ‘It’s disgusting. The taste of it makes me want to vomit.’ She lay back on the pillow. She was very scared.

The candle had only half burned down when the first cramps began. The pain grew worse and worse. She was drenched in sweat, doubled up with pain and had vomited twice when at last the blood came. It was a long time before Brona scuttled out of the chamber, carrying a bowl covered with a cloth, leaving Eadburh, white as a sheet and exhausted, lying on the bed. ‘Come straight back,’ she gasped as the woman disappeared through the screens. ‘Please, don’t leave me.’

She slept at last, awoke and slept again. There was no one there to answer her calls and when, as it grew dark, her mother came, it was to remove the unneeded second dose, pull her covers straight, and briefly put her hand on her daughter’s hot, damp forehead.

When Eadburh awoke next morning the screens had been removed, the fire was burning cheerfully and her ladies were chatting in subdued tones as they went about their business as usual. She never saw Brona again.

14

Bea sat at the kitchen table shivering. She couldn’t get the scenes she had witnessed out of her head, or the smell of blood and vomit. She took several deep breaths and stood up, going to switch on the kettle. She had been there, watching a man die swiftly and silently on the lonely track amongst the hills, and she had been there in the shadowy candlelit chamber, watching the girl writhe, sobbing, on the bed. Whatever had been in the mixture her mother had administered had been pretty near lethal. And the woman, Brona. What had happened to her? It was obvious she had not come out of the situation well. Bea dropped her head into her hands, rubbing her face hard to dispel the picture of the servant hurrying through the screens and out of the building into the night, carrying the cloth-covered bowl before her. Thankfully Eadburh had shown no signs this time of realising she was being watched from a distant time and place. She had been far too preoccupied with her own troubles, and when at last someone had come to look after her it was one of her other attendants who, grim-faced, had sponged her face and hands and brought her a bowl of what looked like bread and milk. She had taken only a couple of sips from the horn spoon and then lain back on the pillow, her eyes closed.

Bea reached up and clutched the gold cross hidden under her sweater. It was a long time before she staggered to her feet and headed across the kitchen to retrieve the jar of instant coffee from the cupboard. The strong-and-black, that was what Mark called it when there was no time to make the real thing. It was their private code. It meant something truly awful or stressful or complicated had happened at work and he was trying to contain his exhaustion or frustration or both. As she drew the mug towards her and took a sip, she found herself longing to confide in him about what she had seen, but she knew she couldn’t. Not about this. He wouldn’t understand why she had deliberately gone back to the cottage again and he would be distraught and furious when he realised she had once more deliberately put herself in danger. But was it danger? Or was she