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

she said when he finished. Her voice was husky. Surely it could not be coincidence that the story should emerge now. ‘But why did he admit blame when your chronicle says it was his wife who did the murder?’

Alfrida herself had said it was her mother, consumed with jealousy, in her letter to Eadburh, a source about which Simon knew nothing.

‘Offa was scared of the ghost,’ Emma put in. ‘Imagine murdering a saint; even if it was his wife who actually did it. He would’ve had to take the blame – he couldn’t let people think she would do something like that without his knowledge. And on his own doorstep. They think his palace was right there, you know, across the river from the church.’

‘But Ethelbert wasn’t a saint then, Em,’ her father pointed out. ‘It was the murder, or martyrdom, that led to him being created a saint.’

‘It was the miracles he performed, Dad,’ his daughter corrected. ‘I’ve googled him.’ She had cheered up with a plate of food in front of her. ‘The pope told Offa to build the cathedral or be damned.’

‘It wasn’t quite like that. He told him to build the church at Marden first, and then yes, a great cathedral where the saint could finally rest.’

Bea listened quietly. She could feel her heart beating unsteadily as they skirted round the story, the story she already knew. ‘So, what happened to Offa’s daughter, widowed before she was even married,’ she asked Simon at last. ‘Do you know?’

He nodded. ‘I mention all this in my book on East Anglia, but I felt it deserved at least a footnote in the present volume as well. It was all so dramatic. She fled to Ethelbert’s kingdom of East Anglia and made her way to Crowland Abbey in the Lincolnshire Fens, which was dedicated, interestingly, to the same St Guthlac as the minster here, where our chronicle was written. The story goes that she had herself walled up in a cell as an anchorite, or anchoress – that is someone who devotes their life to God and is declared dead to the world. She spent the rest of her life there.’

‘Grim.’ Felix licked his lips ghoulishly.

‘And how long did she live?’ Bea whispered.

‘I don’t suppose anyone knows for sure, but one version says she might have lived another forty years or so. Can you imagine!’ Simon gave a theatrical shudder. ‘It’s generally assumed her tomb was lost when the Vikings attacked the abbey. She too was made a saint.’

Bea was tempted to tell them about the letter, about Alfrida’s angry and heartbroken vow to her sister, but how could she? If she ever told Simon about her secret peephole into the past it would be in private, without his children or Mark there. And if she told him any more about her visit to Coedmawr, that too would be very private and on condition he never told Kate and Phil. There must be no mention of poltergeists unless they mentioned them first.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by the sound of her name. ‘Bea, dear!’ Sandra Bedford had made her way through the crowds unnoticed and was hovering over their table, a mug of tea in her hand. She interrupted Felix’s next question, which was about the practicalities of being walled up; food, and sanitation. Her gaze swept over Emma and Felix to Simon, and rested on him speculatively. ‘I saw the dear canon leaving you just now. How nice to be able to sit here in the sun with your friends.’

Bea’s heart sank. ‘Sandra. Simon, this is one of our invaluable volunteers. They run the cathedral for us.’

Simon stood up and held out his hand. ‘How nice to meet you. This is a wonderful place.’

‘May I join you?’ Sandra was already sitting down. ‘I saw you earlier at the shrine of St Ethelbert. Such a sad story, but such an inspiration.’

‘I saw his ghost,’ Emma put in. Bea looked away. This was the last direction she wanted the conversation to go.

‘Indeed?’ Sandra smiled, reaching forward to put her hand over Emma’s. ‘Then you were indeed blessed, my dear. Was that here, in the cathedral?’

Felix took a swig of juice from his bottle. ‘Dad took us to see the church where the murder happened.’

‘Indeed. That is interesting. You are teaching your children to love history,’ she smiled at Simon again. ‘I’m sure I know your face. You’ve been here before, I think? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Bea saw the sideways glance, the eager way she sat forward.

‘I’m Simon Armstrong. I’m a historian specialising in the Anglo-Saxon period, so we are spending some of the Easter holidays doing some research on the hoof, as it were.’

Please, don’t mention the ghost in the cottage. Bea’s fervent plea was so loud in her head she was sure that the others must have heard it. Hurry up! Drink your drinks and let’s get out of here. But it was too late.

‘So, how do you come to know Mark and Bea?’ Sandra’s attention was directed at Simon with what Bea was beginning to think of as her gimlet smile.

Simon hesitated. ‘We have a mutual friend in the owner of the holiday cottage I’m staying in.’

‘Bea is helping Dad with the ghost in the cottage,’ Felix stepped in with both feet. His self-mocking grin, designed to show he wasn’t entirely serious, escaped Sandra completely.

She swivelled on her seat to face Bea, her gaze avid. ‘You help with ghosts? Surely that’s the canon’s job, dear.’

‘And Mark sorted it for them,’ Bea said firmly. ‘He went up to the cottage and prayed.’

‘But you’re the actual ghostbuster, right?’ Felix persisted. ‘I wanted to ask you about that. That’s the coolest job!’

For a moment Bea was speechless and Simon must have seen her panic for he stood up suddenly. ‘Listen, I’m so sorry, but we are going to have to go. Come on, kids. I’ll ring you, Bea.’

Emma was glaring at her brother as she stood