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

he found Bea asleep on the sofa, the iPad in her lap. He stood for a few minutes looking down at her fondly. ‘So, where are you, my love?’ he whispered. She didn’t move. He leaned down and removed the iPad. He reached for the rug on the back of the chair and tucked it around her, gently, so as not to wake her, then he turned out all the lights and left her to sleep.

She was in the mead hall at Corfe and King Beorhtric was crying. His favourite had been found dead out in the latrines, lying awkwardly on the boards over the shit hole, his face contorted in agony, his leggings around his ankles. He had vomited copiously before he died. If he called out, no one had heard him, no one had missed him until the king himself had shouted for him to come and take his accustomed place beside him at the feast. The queen had been about to join her husband from the women’s bower, with her ladies all round her and her little daughter who had been playing with her companions. As the king’s scream of anguished denial echoed from the hall the women had looked at one another in consternation and Eadburh sent the wife of one of her husband’s senior warriors to find out what had happened, herself waiting calmly by the fire, stooping to pick up her daughter’s dolls.

There was nothing to be done. The man had obviously died of poisoning. Queen Eadburh summoned the cooks; a search of the kitchens discovered rancid, rat-infested piles of food in the larders and the serf in charge of scrubbing the vessels was summarily executed by being buried head first in a vat of his own stale cooking fat.

Beorhtric was distraught at the loss of his closest friend, but Eadburh suggested they move on to spend Christmas at their favourite hall at Cheddar and he allowed himself to be distracted with plans for a spring offensive against the heathen Vikings should they choose to invade the southern shores of his kingdom again. She knew he would find another lover soon, and she knew that lover too would meet an unpleasant end. Three of them had died now. She saw people looking at her, she knew her husband’s thanes whispered amongst themselves and glanced at her sideways, crossing themselves as she swept past them, but no one would ever know what had truly happened.

This time, Nesta had remained at Cheddar where her beloved herb gardens thrived in the gentle climate of the Summer Lands. After Christmas the court would make its way to Wareham and then to Wantage and then when spring came Eadburh would dictate that once again they wind their way back towards Cheddar. As Beorhtric amused himself hunting with his favourites, she supervised the treasury, planning to strike coins in her own name, oversaw the signing of charters and was present at the gatherings of the Witan, seemingly unaware of the looks of hatred cast in her direction. That her father had died did not seem to affect her influence. Her brother ruled now in his stead and when the devastating news came that her brother too was dead after only five months’ reign, smitten by a wasting sickness, or as some said, in God’s revenge for the sins of his father, she did not go to his funeral, nor did she acknowledge the new King of Mercia, a distant cousin of her father’s, who meant nothing to her. She was far too busy watching with narrowed eyes as her husband lavished gold rings and silk shirts and embroidered tunics on the subject of his latest crush.

It was summer when, with Nesta beside her, she walked again through the gardens in the Summer Lands and they stopped near the lavender hedges to watch a mother cat suckling her kittens in the sun. ‘I need more herbs,’ Eadburh’s order was peremptory as she reeled off her list. ‘Bring them to me this evening.’ She did not notice Nesta’s arched eyebrow or the way the woman’s shoulders squared.

‘It is not the right time of the moon,’ Nesta said, peaceably enough. ‘As you know, the charms will not work if the plants are gathered in the wrong season.’

‘Of course they will work. They always work,’ Eadburh snapped. ‘They are poison, are they not?’

Nesta took a few steps away from her and stood, her arms folded, gazing into the distance across the marshy levels towards the south. ‘So, you plan another death?’ she said after a moment.

‘The king mocks me at his peril,’ Eadburh replied.

‘And you mock the sisters of Wyrd at yours, oh queen,’ Nesta retorted.

‘The priests teach us to despise the sisters of Wyrd and all their superstitious nonsense. God is not fooled by such children’s stories.’ Eadburh’s eyes were glittering dangerously. ‘You will do as I say.’

Nesta inclined her head graciously. ‘As you wish.’ She began to walk away towards the little herb house where she kept her baskets and her shears.

‘Have I dismissed you?’ Eadburh’s voice behind her was like acid.

Nesta froze. She turned. ‘You asked me to pick your herbs without delay. I was about to do so. Have you another request?’

‘Yes. You will give me a potent herb to suppress the king’s lust.’

Nesta appeared to consider the request for a few seconds then she bowed her head again. This time Eadburh did not call her back as she departed but she remained there, watching the woman’s retreating back, a speculative look in her eyes.

‘She will be sorry she questioned me.’

Bea looked round. She had seen no one else nearby.

‘I was speaking to you, ghost of shadow and sunlight, rain and storm.’ Eadburh was looking straight at her. ‘Do you still imagine I cannot see you?’ The woman did not seem afraid or angry at the sight of her, rather this time she was calculated; thoughtful.

Bea shrank back. She had intended to stay hidden, to peer round corners, to hide