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

the rest of his life. Both were strong and had been sweetened with extra honey and special magical charms to make them irresistible. Eadburh’s household was packed and ready to leave. As was her right, she was taking her dowry and her morning gift with her, to be loaded onto the sumpter horses and ox carts that would take her belongings along the winding dusty roads into Mercia and then on into the Kingdom of Powys. These were enormous riches by any standards. No king or prince was going to turn her away.

The litter was waiting for her with the outriders already assembled when she gave the order for the manner in which the drinks were to be presented to the king, who had not emerged to see her off. ‘A farewell gift,’ she said, smiling, to the serf who took the tray, complete with two jewelled golden goblets. She was careful to instruct him that the king’s was the larger and more splendid. The smaller, with its lethal dose, the one destined for his lover, was to be offered second. The serf was instructed to wait until the dust from her leaving had settled in the distance before he took her farewell gift to her husband’s chamber. And with that she turned to climb into her litter. Behind her came a second litter with her daughter and the child’s nurse, followed by her daughter’s attendants and then the long train of wagons and pack animals strung out around the courtyard, with the escort, grudgingly lent by Beorhtric to see her safe across the border, drawn up outside the gates.

She had calculated that the king’s potion would, before its more permanent incapacitating effects took hold, make him sleepy. He wouldn’t notice when his lover, after drinking, slipped from the world. That shock would come later. She would like to have made the young man suffer agonies in his moment of death but it would be expedient to be well on her way before the unexplained death of yet another favourite was discovered.

As she turned to give one last backward glance at the king’s hall, she smiled. Then she gave the order for the procession to start.

It was as the lead horse began to move off that she saw the tall figure of Wigfrith stride out of the doorway. There was a drawn sword in his hand.

‘Stop!’ he bellowed. ‘Murder! The king has been murdered by that woman!’

Her shock was genuine; she wanted the boy to die, not her husband. His punishment was to have been far more subtle, more long-lasting.

She countermanded his order, shouting at the captain of the escort, insisting the cavalcade move off, but it was no use. Wigfrith’s barked commands were obeyed. Eadburh’s litter was surrounded by the armed guard. She could do nothing but wait.

The serf who served the wine was sentenced to death. He had obeyed her instructions, he screamed, as the guard set on him, he had positioned himself outside the king’s chamber, waiting for the dust to settle, but the king had seen him and, sniffing the delicious mulled wine, had snatched the nearest goblet and quaffed half of it before handing it on to his lover.

The serf was dragged away and immediately executed.

And Eadburh was still sitting in her litter, waiting, under guard. Wigfrith, standing implacably nearby, arms folded, holding the baying mob from the king’s hall back with just the ferocious look in his eyes until they had calmed. At last he turned to the queen.

‘That boy must have added poison to my husband’s drink,’ she said coldly. ‘Why would I have wanted him dead? I’m leaving. He was nothing to me.’

No liquid remained from the poisoned goblet for them to test. The larger cup had fallen to the ground. Tasters were forced to drink the last dregs, left as it had rolled away but they did not die. Eadburh smiled. Their fate would be slow and probably unnoticed.

And still she waited. The summary court of her husband’s ealdormen could find no proof. Wigfrith raised his hands at last in furious frustration and pronounced their verdict.

‘As no proof of her culpability can be found, it is our decision that the queen,’ the word was heavy with sarcasm, ‘shall continue on her journey out of Wessex forthwith. You will never return, madam. But the Witan of Wessex decrees that you be escorted not to Mercia, whose king is our friend and ally, and who will never countenance a murderer at his court. To ensure you are kept at a safe distance I am commanding your escort to take you to our coast where you will board a ship at Hamwic and make sail for the kingdom of the Franks. No doubt they will know what to do with you. The king’s child,’ he turned to the escort that had clustered round the litter containing Eadburh’s daughter and her nurse, ‘will remain in Wessex.’

‘No!’ Eadburh screamed. ‘No, you cannot take her away from me.’

‘Why, madam? She belongs here with her father’s loyal kin.’ He did not wait to hear any more protests. Already the little girl’s litter had been taken out of the procession and the leader of the queen’s escort had spurred his horse forward.

The travellers were no longer heading north towards Mercia and Powys, they were on the road south towards the sea.

Bea was with her in the confines of the litter, feeling the thick fur of the rugs tucked around her, the bumpy motion of what was little more than a large chair inside a wooden frame, cushioned by coarsely stuffed bolsters. She watched Eadburh’s face. Were those tears for her child genuine? She had never seemed to pay her much attention, seeing too much of her father in the child’s features. In turn the little girl’s affection had all been for her nurses and her playmates and already Eadburh’s tears had dried and were replaced by a calculated narrowing of the eyes. Her royal fortune was still there in