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

or two of frankincense – round every room. She had a shower, then walked across the Close to the cathedral to pray. Her chantry priest wasn’t there, but she sensed he was listening. Like Meryn, he expected her to be strong.

Sandra had been sitting at home beside the open window that looked out onto her small untidy garden. The bridge over the river had puzzled her. That sudden split-second memory of herself there in a strange world, part of the mob, filled with anger and vicious enjoyment, watching a woman dressed as a nun and a boy in ragged trousers and a loose woollen shirt, being pelted with rocks, shouted at, threatened with death, was visceral, a moment of intense enjoyment. The woman had been a queen. She had seen her before. She had been at her court and seen her kill her husband. Then she had seen her with her lover. And now she was watching the woman face retribution.

It was then, feeling herself watched in turn, she had swung round to find herself face to face with Beatrice. And then everything was gone. In a flash. The river, the bridge, the people on the bridge all stationary, frozen in time, then vanished, switched off, a glimpse into another world visible for a split second, then extinguished.

On the table in front of her was her pack of Tarot cards. She had a list of names in her hand and had been gazing thoughtfully at them, waiting for one name to jump out at her.

Beatrice. Emma. Eadburh.

Eadburh. Princess of Mercia. Queen of Wessex. How did she even know that name? But somehow she was part of this.

Beatrice was a genuine opponent. A challenge. Someone to fight, to defeat; to grind beneath her heel. This Eadburh was dangerous, greedy for energy, a soul prowling the darker corners of the universe in search of unfulfilled desires. And Emma. It was Emma who was truly interesting. Ostensibly a victim in need of rescue and reassurance, there was something ambivalent about Emma. Emma was all over the place and completely inconsistent. She had two sides to her, two distinct personalities. One was a schoolgirl on the verge of adulthood, and the other was a scheming, vicious woman.

Eadburh.

Cutting the pack, Sandra lifted the top card and, leaning back in her chair, turned it to face her. She smiled. So, Emma could wait; she would think some more about the conundrum that was Emma and her alter ego, Eadburh. The card was clear. Beatrice was her immediate concern. An enemy worthy of her complete attention. An enemy who needed to be dealt with now.

She returned the card to the pack, cut once again and began to deal out the top three.

She looked at the line of cards in front of her.

A powerful woman; false hope; the end of a journey.

She gathered the cards back into the pack and wrapped them up thoughtfully.

The woman on the bridge was Eadburh, she realised. Perhaps it was better to assume that she was her main opponent. She shivered as she felt the air around her growing cold and suddenly she could no longer visualise the river. Everything around her had blurred. Someone was spying on her, interfering with her sight. She stood up and pushed the cards into the drawer of the table. She was an old hand at this. She knew what she had to do. Surround herself with protection and then from a position of strength attack with every ounce of power she possessed. First she should put running water between herself and her enemy until she was ready to strike. Was that what the bridge had signified? She had been standing on another bridge over another river. She didn’t know where that one had been, but there was a river, here in town.

Leaning over the stone balustrade she stood looking down into the Wye, staring at the water as it flowed beneath her then slowly she began to walk across, putting the great sweep of the river between herself and the cathedral with its Close. Immediately she felt better. Safer. To launch an attack on Beatrice she would have to cross back, hurl a curse then retreat across the water again. She was good at curses. She’d had a stock of them once and she could remember every one.

She stood still for a while, running through the options. She should have thought of grabbing something when she visited Beatrice’s house, a link, but she had felt too intimidated by the surroundings, the large house, the railings, the elegant front door, its position so near the cathedral, the power of the Church echoing off every brick. Still, this was good practice for her. Making her mind up, she recrossed the bridge, walking quickly and, picturing Beatrice standing in front of her open door, she closed her eyes and sent a vicious thought form in her direction, a thought form to match the occasion, a thought form that fitted the era of Offa and Ethelbert. It was a flaming spear, dipped in poison, humming with evil. Her message on its way, she stood waiting, as if expecting to hear the woman scream. Then, satisfied it would find its mark, she turned and hastened back across the water towards the safety of the far bank.

On her windy hillside, Nesta smiled. Just this once she would interfere. She would deflect the curse. Beatrice was open. Vulnerable. She had to be warned.

At the snap of Nesta’s fingers the spear veered then turned and sped back whence it had come.

‘Make up your mind, woman!’ a furious voice shouted as a car slammed on its brakes in front of her. Her heart thudding with fright, Sandra stepped out of its way onto the pavement and clung to the parapet, her head spinning. Something was terribly wrong. Her ears were drumming and she could feel herself bathed in sweat.

‘Are you all right, my love?’ A woman passer-by stopped beside her. ‘He had no business shouting