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

This was pretty much a faithful copy of other versions of the chronicle, and as far as he could see contained nothing particularly new. The beautiful script was neat and careful, the occasional red capital letter at the head of a page, exquisite. He could imagine the monk who had copied it sitting in his candlelit cell working tirelessly day in, day out, copying out his version, only the later parts varying from the original as history became actual reportage. He turned the page and skimmed down the lines of script. The copyist had changed here, the new scribe not quite so neat. There were several places where mistakes had been made and scraped off, leaving the vellum rough, and once or twice an empty leaf had been left in between the others presumably to be filled in later. Perhaps by now the author was sitting in a scriptorium, other men around him, all working intently at their tasks. Simon leaned closer, screwing up his eyes, cursing the fact that he didn’t have a magnifying glass. Were the pages actually empty or had they been erased? He stood up abruptly and went to the door.

Kate and Phil were downstairs in the kitchen. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a magnifying glass here. You could try my aunt’s desk in the library,’ Kate said in answer to his request.

He followed her directions along the main hall, letting himself into the large book-lined room. So, this was the library Jane had mentioned. It was shadowy, the shutters closed, and very cold. He looked round, shivering, at hundreds, probably thousands of books, innumerable treasures spanning centuries lining the walls, library steps, a small table, several carved chairs and more books, everywhere he looked. How on earth had she managed to filter out the few she thought the most valuable? He walked over to the large roll-top desk which sat by the window and, pulling open one of the shutters to give himself some light, he gazed down at the dusty papers and pens lying on the blotter in front of him. There were cubbyholes filled with old ink bottles, seals, little boxes of rusty paperclips, papers, envelopes, what looked like old bills, but no magnifying glass. No. All this felt too much like spying. He would rather get hold of one in Hereford next time he was there, and that would give him an excuse to come back. Leaving the desk untouched, he pushed the shutters closed as he had found them and went back to the door. There was something about this room he didn’t like.

It was a relief to be seated again at the table upstairs. Leaning forward, his phone in his hand to photograph the text, he turned another page, and there it was, the extract Jane must have been thinking of when she said there was a section all about Offa’s family. Reaching for his notebook, he picked up his pencil and copied down the words, transcribing them into modern English as he read.

784 Offa the king defeated the men of Powys and took the lands of Pengwern and began to build his great ditch between Mercia and the tribes of the west. In the following year Egbert, son of Eahmund fled from Wessex, then to exile in the court of King Charlemagne.

787 The son of Offa, Ecgfrith was consecrated king by Archbishop Hygeberht of Lichfield while his father still lived. At his consecration was the king’s wife Cynefryth and his daughters, Ethelfled, Alfrida and Eadburh. In that same year the heathen raided the coast of Wessex.

The next two pages were blank.

His heart thudding with excitement, Simon picked up his phone and took careful photos of each page, the empty leaves as well as those covered in writing. In one place a whole page had been cut out, leaving the smallest ragged traces that it had ever been there.

He read on. The story progressed haphazardly. Again this was stuff he knew. And then it stopped. Abruptly, halfway down a page. He screwed up his eyes. There was more, but the writing had been erased. He turned over two pages. The next entry was for the year 806.

And also in this same year, on 4 June, the sign of the holy cross appeared on the moon one Wednesday at dawn; and again this year on 30 August, a marvellous ring appeared around the sun.

He continued photographing every page, concentrating hard, making sure nothing was omitted. There was no time to read it all, but he could do that later once the pictures were safely on his laptop. He turned to the last page. The entry was scribbled. No neat lines pricked here. It was the final entry and it was for the year 1055.

King Gruffydd is harrying Herefordshire. He has laid waste to Leominster and the convent of the nuns there. We fear he may turn next towards us. Only by the Grace of God can we be saved. We pray for our own Blessed Saint Cuthbert whose festival we celebrate in two days’ time, to be with us here and protect this holy——

And that was it. A dash as though the scribe had stopped mid-sentence, a blot of ink and then – nothing.

He shivered. Had King Gruffydd arrived? He would have to see if he could check from other sources. In his imagination he pictured the scribe throwing down his quill pen and the little knife he used to sharpen his pens and erase his mistakes, pushing away his inkhorn and standing up, moving away from his writing slope and, for whatever reason, never coming back. From his name, Gruffydd was Welsh. Obviously he was Welsh. And what had happened in those missing years? He bent closer. Why go to the trouble of scraping them away, why not just cut them out?

He looked down at his scribbled notes. Most of the chronicle was as he