The Dream Weavers Barbara Erskine (e ink ebook reader txt) 📖

Prince Cyngen, when he came to find her, was a much older version of his brother, tall, weathered, his hair already greying. He was followed by several older men, some were armed, some wearing loose long gowns trimmed with fur. He bowed gravely to Eadburh and asked her who she was. She told him the truth, straightening her back, squaring her shoulders, meeting him eye to eye.

He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Elisedd told us about the girl he met when King Offa called a conference about the building of the dyke. He spoke of her often.’ Unlike the woman standing nearby, watching, he did not seem to see the disparity between their ages. He was a man in his forties, she a slip of a girl.

She tried to keep her gaze steady. ‘Is he alive?’

Prince Cyngen hesitated then he nodded. ‘He is alive.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Not far from here. He retired from the world. He is one of the canons at the clas of St Tysilio at Meifod.’ He gave her a look of gentle sympathy. ‘He gave his life to God many years ago. He will not wish to see you, Princess.’

She stood as if struck by a stone, unable to breathe, unable to think.

‘He’s a monk!’ When the words exploded out of her mouth at last she had forgotten where she was. She felt the hot tears well up. ‘No! No, it can’t be. It can’t!’

She was aware that the prince bowed to her again. He beckoned forward the blacksmith’s wife and with a gesture ordered her to take the girl to the guest house, then turning, led his followers away. His last words to her were, ‘Mae’n ddrwg gen i, I’m sorry.’

All round her the crowds went on as if nothing had happened. If they had cast a curious look towards the stranger talking to their prince, they soon lost interest. Only the harpist played quietly on, the words of her song weaving through the noise, fading to echoes that blended with the wind.

*

In her little cottage bedroom, Emma stirred and moaned in her sleep. Her pillow was soaked with tears, her dream within a dream a cruel nightmare of love and loss.

As the echoes of the harp faded, Eadburh awoke with a start. She had never gone to look for Elisedd, not as a girl and not as a grown woman. Her plan had been thwarted from the start, and now she realised bitterly that even if her dream was true and he was still alive, Elisedd would have rejected her. An older man, a man of God, what use had he for that slip of a girl who didn’t even look like the princess of his dreams, never mind the reality of the older woman who lay here now in her convent bed. She grimaced as she tried to straighten her legs, stiff and cramped from the cold in spite of her covers. As abbess, she was entitled to a comfortable suite of rooms near the nuns’ dormitory with her own fire, but even so, as the cold winds howled around the convent walls she huddled down again under the coverings. She had had the dream before and probably she would have it again.

Outside her narrow window she could hear the bell calling the sisters to matins. She had excused herself from getting up for this service. She was ill. Her throat was raw. In her dream it had been summer. The people had been kind to her. Had she gone to find him? She didn’t think so. And yet she had come so close.

She closed her eyes and another tear trickled out from beneath her lids. If she called one of the lay sisters they would bring her a honey tincture for her throat and another blanket, and even a hot stone to put by her feet.

Her thoughts drifted back to her daughter. Was the little girl happy in her new home? She would have her nurses and her playmates with her, she would live in comfort in a convent at Wareham and God-willing, she would be safe there and her life would be contented. Would she ever think about her mother? Eadburh doubted it. As queen she had had little input in the child’s life beyond giving her birth. That, she realised with sudden brutal honesty, was probably lucky for the little girl.

The soreness in her throat was growing worse. If only Nesta were here. The herb-wife was skilled in concocting remedies for every ailment; she would have administered some potion to soothe the pain. It was a long time since she had thought about her. Nesta had been the one who brought about her downfall. If she hadn’t made that poisoned drink, everything would have been different. Had she been caught and killed by the king’s guard? Eadburh nestled deeper into her pillows and in a rare moment of compassion she found herself hoping that Nesta had somehow survived.

A log fell from the firedogs into the hearth and the sudden flame lit the carved stone corbels supporting the ceiling above her bed. The sound had made her open her eyes and she saw a woman standing near her, not Nesta, but the witch woman from another time. How was it she could find her way even here over the sea and into the holy house of God? Sitting up and pushing off her covers, she made the sign of the cross.

But the woman had already gone.

Bea was cold and stiff and she was clutching her little cross at her throat. With a groan she reached across for the switch on the lamp on the side table. The candle had gone out a long time ago, leaving not even a trace of the smell of wax in the air. She had dreamed Eadburh’s dream with her of the girl in the scarlet silk dress who had had Emma’s face and then awoken with Eadburh