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

remembered from the general translation in his own much-thumbed Everyman edition, which was up at the cottage. But there were extra bits, bits he didn’t recognise, bits that referred only to Mercia. This was definitely a local version. He ran through a list of possibilities in his head. Priories which would have had a scriptorium. Leominster, perhaps – although the final entry seemed to contradict that. Or St Guthlac’s in Hereford. Or perhaps Hereford minster– the earliest version of which probably dated, if he remembered right, from the mid seventh century. Most copies of the chronicle that still existed had been saved during the Reformation by local antiquarians and scholars when the monasteries and their precious scriptoria and libraries had been so cruelly and viciously dismantled. This house was easily Tudor, probably earlier. Perhaps this book had languished here, lost, but safe since the sixteenth century. Simon reined in his imagination sternly. The experts would find out. Guesswork had no place in serious history. And yet …

‘Will studying the book help with your work?’ Kate was alone in the kitchen when later that evening he put his head round the door to say goodbye.

‘I’m not sure whether there is any new information. As Phil suggested, I have taken pictures of the pages that refer to Mercia and I will read them more carefully when I have them on my computer screen at home.’ He paused. She was peeling potatoes, rhythmically dropping them one by one into a bowl on the table. ‘I can’t thank you enough for letting me see this treasure. The feeling of actually touching something so very special is beyond words. I felt as though I was in the same room as the guy writing that document, a thousand years ago. I could picture him, with his pen and inks. Almost hear the silence; perhaps the echo of plainsong around him as he worked.’

She nodded. ‘I sometimes feel that here, in this house. When Phil is out, like now. The echoes of the past come back. He’s too practical to feel it, which is probably just as well, as someone needs to be hands-on here, but there is something very special about an old building.’ She shivered. ‘My great aunt left me the house. For her last few years she was in a home and it was rented out to various people. They didn’t always look after it very well, but at least they didn’t steal anything. Those books were still there and her jewellery was still in the drawer in her bedroom.’ She smiled. ‘Nothing all that valuable, sadly, but still I was amazed no one had taken it. Some time before she died, I gather there was a bit of an incident with one couple. They said the house was haunted and made a huge fuss about it. They seem to have left very suddenly, but I never heard any more about it. It was empty at the time she died, and I’ve never sensed a ghost here, but there are all sorts of legends about the place.’

‘Do you know when it was built?’

She shook her head. ‘I expect there are records in the library. We do have a bit of Offa’s Dyke in the garden. Do you want to see?’ She put down her knife and dried her hands on a dishcloth. ‘More hands-on history.’

He followed her out and across the back lawn towards the shrubbery.

‘Wales’s answer to Hadrian’s Wall,’ he said ruefully as they stood together looking down into the brambles.

She laughed. ‘This is one of the lesser known bits. I’ll show you on the map.’

Back in the kitchen, they pored over a much folded and refolded Ordnance Survey map. The house was circled in red. ‘Otherwise we can’t find it ourselves! It’s here. See. There are other bits of the dyke marked on the map. We’ve traced its route through the fields here, but they were ploughed up during the war and it’s mostly been lost.’ Kate stared down at the map in silence. ‘It’s sad, isn’t it. But there is still a bit of it left.’ She sighed. ‘Jane phoned, by the way, to say she is bringing someone over to look through the books. I hate the idea of selling anything, but if we are going to save the house we need the money, and I suspect it would be better for them to be somewhere safe, away from the damp and spiders.’

‘That’s true.’

‘If you would like to come back and have another look before the guy comes, you would be welcome.’ A twinge of pain crossed her face and he saw her hand go to the bump under her shirt.

‘When is it due?’

‘Not long now. Have you got children?’

He nodded. ‘That’s why I need a retreat to do my writing. The patter of tiny feet all over the house can be a tad distracting. But in a big place like this it will be wonderful. Exactly what it needs.’

He smiled to himself as he climbed into his car. Tiny feet indeed! Two teenagers and a wife who heartily detested the Anglo-Saxons and everything to do with them.

The house was empty when Chris dropped Bea off outside the cathedral gates in Broad Street. She couldn’t remember where Mark had said he was going that afternoon, but she remembered him saying it was his turn to take evensong so he wouldn’t be back until after the service. She shivered. She wished he was there. Solid dependable Mark. He would keep her safe. Stop her being tempted by something she knew she must resist.

Wandering through into the sitting room she stopped in front of the piano, lifted the lid and played a note. She was missing the girls more than she could say. The sound of Anna’s music had filled the house, as had their voices, their arguments. Their laughter. Their noisy presence was everywhere when they were at home. If they were there, she wouldn’t need to go upstairs. She struck