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

towards the door, and out into the sunlight, leaving the men crossing themselves in horror.

‘So, are you still watching?’ Eadburh was looking straight at Bea. ‘You who haunt me and follow me half across the world with your evil eye. A pox on you as well. And you!’ She was looking at someone behind Bea. Someone who was wearing modern clothes. Someone who was smiling in utter triumph. Sandra. Bea let out a cry of fear. Her wall of protection wasn’t working. She could see no way out. She could feel the mud of the track beneath her feet, smell the dung of the cows in the byre, see the men and women approaching across the cloister garth, one of two of them clutching pitchforks to threaten the intruders.

Slowly Eadburh began to laugh. The sound was chillingly bitter.

Bea groped for her cross. ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ The sun had disappeared and the sky was growing black. She could hear the wind in the trees on the hillside. And now another man, the reeve from the abbey farm, was approaching them with a sword in his hand. ‘Get you gone!’ He was shouting at Eadburh. ‘We offered hospitality. We offered you food and rest and you reply with curses. You are truly Offa of Mercia’s daughter.’ The man’s words were laden with scorn and hatred. ‘I remember the story well. You flouted God’s law; you are a murderer and a witch. How dare you come here to this peaceful sacred house of God and sully it with your curses. You and your women.’ His angry gaze took in Bea and then behind her, Sandra.

Bea froze. Desperately she was trying to break the trance that was holding her there, but she was trapped, unable to move.

She could hear Sandra laughing. ‘So, I have you where I wanted you,’ she crowed, ignoring Eadburh. ‘Beatrice, your powers are nothing compared to mine!’ Bea felt a band of pain tightening round her head. Why was this woman turning everything into some weird competition between them? Throughout her training she had been taught that revenge was out of the question. She must not fight back. She must call on her protectors. Call on the name of Jesus. And where in God’s name was Nesta?

More men were appearing out of the barn. The pitchforks were pointing directly at them and they were coming closer.

‘You wouldn’t dare touch me,’ Eadburh screamed. ‘I am Queen of Wessex. The king of your country would dismantle this place stone by stone if you laid a finger on a royal head, and the armies of my kinsman King Ceonwulf would destroy you all without a second thought.’

They hesitated, looking at each other. Bea could feel the first drops of rain. The wind was cold, from the north. ‘In the name of Jesus Christ!’ she called out. ‘Please, stop.’

They didn’t hear her. They were no longer looking at her. They were coming closer to Eadburh. Then the abbot was there beside the reeve. ‘Hold back!’ He called. ‘Don’t harm the queen, nor her followers.’

So he too could see Bea and Sandra.

‘Open the gates. Let them depart in peace.’ His was the voice of authority. The men lowered their pitchforks and the man with the sword stood still. Eadburh turned towards the gate. Her face was stony, her eyes like flint. She walked past the two women from another time without glancing at either of them and set off up the track towards the woods.

The scene changed. Bea and Sandra were outside on the track as well. The gates had closed and the night was all around them. Bea turned towards Sandra, who was close to her now, her eyes slits of malice, and suddenly she knew what to do. A mirror. She needed a mirror. She had a mirror. In her bag. In her hand. Somehow she managed to hold it up, let Sandra see her own face as with a final shaft of light the sun set behind the hill.

Sandra let out a scream. And then she was gone.

Mark’s mobile was ringing again. He picked it up eagerly, desperate to hear from Bea, but it was Heather. With a sigh he rejected the call. He would call her back later.

The phone rang again. This time it was Simon. ‘Mark? We’re in trouble. I’m driving Bea home. She’s been taken ill. I’m heading back to Hereford now.’

46

Emma knew she should not take lifts from strangers. Every girl in the world must know that by now; she had had it drummed into her since she was about four, but the old man with two huge black-wrapped rolls of hay in the back of his ancient pickup had a kind face. He drew up a few yards in front of her, his indicator blinking. ‘Are you going up to the farm?’ he asked as he leaned across and wound down the window.

The first part of her journey had been easy. She had bought her train ticket online several days before leaving, using the details from her mother’s credit card, memorised one evening when Val had gone up to bed with a headache, leaving her handbag on the table in the kitchen. By the time the school had rung Val, Emma had been well on her way to Wales. She had carefully planned every stage of her journey and knew she would have to walk once she got to the station the other end, but that didn’t matter. That way, her journey would feel more like a pilgrimage. She would start at Eliseg’s Pillar.

Ringing her father had been part of her plan. From her study of the map it had seemed a good place to meet. Iconic. Central. Near the royal palace at Dinas Bran. Then he could take her home to the cottage. She hadn’t thought it through. She was in the wrong place. The distances were far greater than she had expected. And there was no