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

was different. These favourites she was not prepared to tolerate. She watched and waited.

He came back to her side at last when he returned to the court with his war band, and the shocking news he brought with him put all other matters out of her head. Her eldest sister’s husband, the King of Northumbria, had been murdered by a group of his own nobles.

‘And Ethelfled?’ she cried. ‘My sister? What of her?’

Beorhtric gave a shrug. ‘I was given no news of her.’

Eadburh stamped her foot. ‘You must send to ask my father! I have to know if she still lives.’

‘We will hear in good time,’ Beorhtric said with a sigh. Nevertheless, he sent messengers into Mercia to consult Offa and another to ride north and seek out news of the Queen of Northumbria.

The royal court was at Winchester again, the great wooden hall with its soaring beams and carved dragons rearing to meet one another over the doorway, built in the ruins of the Roman city. The Wessex people did not like the ruins; they lived in fear of ghosts. But the place was a centre with a great stone-built minster and it was here that Beorhtric had chosen to spend the summer. When no word came from the north, Eadburh commanded her own scribe to write to her sister and sent copies of the letter by two separate messengers and, while she waited for news, Eadburh spent her time hunting in the forest, flying her hawks and wondering, ever wondering, why she had not heard from Hilde. Beorhtric had not once mentioned his wife’s lost baby, nor did he come to her bed. She was left in peace to worry about her sister’s fate and to dream her dreams of lost love.

Bea followed her as she wandered in the gardens and the orchards; she saw her ride away on her milk-white mare and she watched as she dismounted and handed the animal to a groom. Bea walked slowly after her through the trees, somehow drifting in her wake on silent feet.

‘Why do you still follow me?’

Bea shrank back as Eadburh swung round, her eyes blazing. Bea had not seen her so close before. Her face was hard, framed in her headrail, strings of garnets set in gold hanging from the brooches that held her gown in place on her shoulders, her fists clenched. The woman was near enough for her to feel the heat coming off her body, to smell the musky scent of amber on her skin and to see her reach for the small knife that hung at her belt and pull it from its leather sheath. Her gown was soft, light, crimson silk. Bea stepped back, reaching with one hand for her cross and with the other instinctively warding the woman off, pushing her away, but her fingers brushed through air without contacting anything solid. Her heart was thudding with fright. The woman’s body shimmered and faded as if it was a mirage.

At that moment someone else appeared. A man, solid-looking and heavily built, with a leather jerkin. Bea could smell his sweat as he approached and bowed to the shadowy figure, his heavy features tense. ‘Come quickly, oh queen,’ he called. ‘The king has royal messengers with him in the hall. The king your father is dead.’

The word reverberated through the distances. ‘Dead! Dead, dead …’

Bea heard Eadburh repeat the word as she turned to run after him. As she disappeared from sight, the scene faded into wisps of smoke and darkness closed in.

Bea clutched at a cushion and hugged it tightly, burying her face in it. The room was dark but faint light leaked through the door from the kitchen. There was no one there. She was in the quiet snug with its comfy sofa and the two old armchairs that had belonged to her father, the pictures and the coffee table, all were familiar and reassuring. Her gaze went to the picture of Jesus surrounded by children. Her husband was a clergyman, she had to expect some signs of his calling in the room and it was a beautiful oil painting they had found in a trawl through one of the antique shops in Leominster. Over the fireplace there was a large mirror. A house-warming gift from Mark’s uncle. Climbing to her feet, she went over and stared at herself. How on earth did she appear to Eadburh? She was dressed in navy linen trousers with a loose turquoise sweater, decorated with a string of lapis beads, her cross tucked out of sight below the neckline. Her hair was tousled. She gave a weak smile at the word, but it was the perfect word. Tousled. She saw her face lighten as she smiled, the pain and fright lifting a little. She had not wanted that vision; she had had no touchstone at hand to take her into the past. It was a dream, a genuine dream. She had drifted off to sleep as the room grew dark, and that was dangerous. She could not let this happen again. She walked over to the window that looked out to the side of the house with its narrow strip of garden, aware suddenly that anyone out there in the dark could be looking in. She reached up to draw the curtains. Sitting down again she reached for a book and leaned back against the cushions. Somehow she had to distract herself.

Within seconds the book had slipped from her hand and she was asleep once more.

24

‘I will attend the meeting with your ealdormen and thanes as usual.’ Eadburh stood up as the men made to withdraw to the council chamber. She saw them glance at one another uneasily but no one argued, least of all Beorhtric himself.

It was as if, with her father gone and her brother now on the throne of Mercia, Eadburh felt the need to re-emphasise her position of power as queen. Her health restored, she had