Czytaj książkę: «The Dream Weavers»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

A note on Anglo-Saxon names

Glossary

The Story Starts

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Author Note

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Barbara Erskine

About the Publisher

Map

A note on Anglo-Saxon names

These have been transcribed in so many ways from the original script which contained letters unfamiliar to us that there are almost as many variations in spelling as there are authors who write about them. I have selected what I personally consider to be the simplest choice.

The main Anglo-Saxon characters in this book are:

Offa (King of Mercia from AD 757–796)

Cynefryth, Offa’s wife, Queen of Mercia

The daughters of Offa:

Ethelfled, in my story is the eldest

Alfrida is the middle daughter

Eadburh (pronounced Edber) is the youngest

Other historical characters in the story:

King Charles of the Franks, who in AD 800 was crowned as Emperor by the Pope and is better known to us as Charlemagne

Beorhtric, King of Wessex AD 786–802

Ethelbert, King of East Anglia d. AD 794

Ethelred I, King of Northumbria, d. AD 796

Nesta, the herb woman, is fictional

Elisedd, Prince of Powys (pronounced Eleezeth) is also fictional, depicted here as the youngest son of the real King of Powys, Cadell ap Brochfael (c. AD 773–808)

Offa also had a son and heir, Ecgfrith, (d. AD 796) who is only mentioned off stage in the story. In a few sources Offa is shown to have had a fourth daughter, Ethelburh. There is little mention of her and some sources suggest she has been conflated or confused with another woman of the same name, who became an abbess at that period. I have not included her in the story.

For more about the real history behind this story see the Author’s Note at the end.

Glossary

The Story Starts

‘Elise!’

There she was again. Wretched woman! Calling. Endlessly calling.

With a sigh, Simon Armstrong slammed down the lid of his laptop and stood up. His train of thought had vanished. He walked across the room and dragged open the front door. He didn’t expect to see her. So far he hadn’t caught even a glimpse of her, but he had to try. The first time he heard her, he thought it was someone calling their dog out there in the dark, but the more he listened, the more desolate and desperate the cry sounded. He could hardly sit there and ignore it.

The isolated holiday cottage was situated below a high ridge on the border between England and Wales, near part of the overgrown ditch which was all that remained in this part of the world of the famous Offa’s Dyke. The house was small and picturesque, stone-built, with roses climbing over the porch, blessed with every modern convenience, everything he had hoped for when he had booked it online. With its huge, solid but slightly crooked stone chimney, the main front windows, two up and two down, and the blue door with its wooden porch, it resembled a child’s picture of a little house in a fairy story. Outside, an uneven flagged terrace was bounded by a low stone wall and beyond that a lane led up to what must be one of the most stunning views in Britain. From there he could see the Mid Wales hills of the Radnor Forest, the distinctive outline of the Brecon Beacons, the Black Mountains, and behind him, on the English side of the border, the Malvern Hills and eastwards towards the Shropshire Hills.

But no sign of Elise. Whoever, whatever, she was.

He went back indoors, closed the door and with a shiver walked over to the fireplace. Bending to put a match to the kindling piled in the hearth, he stood and watched as the flames raced across the dry twigs and he felt the first warmth. It was springtime at its most beautiful, glorious during the day, but at night a chill descended on the house, reflecting the fact that it was over a thousand feet up on this lonely, wild hillside. But it wasn’t just that making him shiver.

He made it clear to Christine, the cottage’s owner, that he had come here to find the peace and seclusion he needed to finish writing his book, ever conscious of his impending deadline, but since the first day he had opened his laptop and, coincidentally, begun work on the chapter about Offa’s Dyke, the voice had been there, calling.

That night she came again. He woke with a start, conscious only of the sound of her voice so close outside and of the absolute emptiness of the cottage. Sitting up, he stared round the bedroom in the dark as downstairs she began to bang on the front door. She was sobbing bitterly.

Turning on the lights as he went, he ran down the stairs and dragged the door open. No one. Stepping onto the terrace, he shouted into the cold mist, trying to see her, but there was no sign of anyone there; nothing but the empty swirling whiteness.

He waited until morning to ring his landlady. It wasn’t only the physical chill of the place. It was that the cold went right through his bones to his very soul. This had to be sorted.

1

Bea arranged to meet Simon in one of her favourite coffee shops in Church Street, almost in the shadow of the cathedral, round the corner from her home. They had never met before, but she spotted him at once, hesitating in the doorway, looking round. His glance swept over her, moved on, then came back. She wondered what sort of person he was looking for. The one he saw was a woman of middle height, her hair wavy, mid brown, no make-up, but undeniably attractive, with clear skin and large grey-green eyes. She raised a hand and he nodded, threading his way between the tables towards her.

She half expected him to be embarrassed. People usually were when they talked about ghosts; embarrassed or dismissive or scared, but he seemed calm and humorously resigned.

‘Mrs Dalloway?’

‘Beatrice, please. Or better still, Bea.’

He smiled. ‘I’m Simon.’

The waitress brought their coffee and Bea studied him surreptitiously as the girl set out their cups. He was tall – he had had to bend his head beneath the low beams as he crossed the room – with a hearty outdoor complexion, a sturdy tweed jacket, tousled blond hair and hazel eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would have had him down as a local farmer, certainly not the London academic Chris had described. Age: indeterminate. Probably much the same as her.

‘I expect Christine has filled you in on my problem,’ he said when the waitress had gone. ‘When I rented the cottage, she never mentioned a ghost.’

Bea found herself grimacing. ‘I don’t think, to be fair, she knew there was one.’

Chris, one of Bea’s staunchest and best friends, had bought the small tumbledown building several years ago. With the help of her husband, Ray, she had done it up to be the most perfect retreat.

‘I have heard a great deal about her tenants over the years, and as far as I can see if they find anything at all to gripe about in what must be one of the loveliest holiday lets in the country, a ghost has never been one of them. So, what makes you think there is one?’

He pushed the milk jug towards her. ‘I don’t. That was her idea.’ He gave a sudden grin. It lit up his hitherto rather solemn face. ‘When she couldn’t think of any logical explanation for the voice I’ve been hearing, it was the only thing she could suggest. Being the perfect landlady, she knew at once who to turn to. I could hardly offend her by telling her it was a ludicrous idea. I take it you know the cottage?’

Bea nodded. ‘I’ve been there a few times.’ She was trying to suppress her sense of excitement. She was intrigued.

‘And you didn’t ever feel anything amiss when you were there?’

‘No, but then I wouldn’t necessarily have done so. I wasn’t looking for a problem.’ She thought for a minute. ‘I’m not sure if you know anything about my rather unusual job, Simon, but presumably Chris filled you in, or you wouldn’t be here. I don’t walk around the town seeing ghosts wherever I look, all touchy-feely and other-worldly. Nor do I do exorcisms. There is a very competent deliverance team here in the cathedral who will help you if that is what you require. Or there is a psychic Druid who lives over in the Black Mountains beyond Hay who can perform an equally good service if you choose to take that route. I trained with him myself a few years back. I myself work as a freelance practitioner.’

For a moment he looked dumbfounded. ‘So, what do you do exactly?’ he asked at last.

The touch of amused scepticism in his voice brought her up short. Taking a deep breath, she reined in her enthusiasm. ‘I deal with situations that other people consider frightening: the darkest corners of old houses, the sudden banging of doors, the creak of floorboards, the shadows thrown on a wall from an unseen presence. I go to houses that are uncomfortable, find out why and remove the irritant. It may indeed be a ghost,’ she glanced up at him with a rueful smile, ‘but often it’s no more than a draughty corner, or it may be something in the underlying geology of the land; it may be something simply sorted by what people call feng shui; it may be underground water or an unhappy tree or an unfortunate choice of wallpaper, or sometimes merely a difficult neighbour.’

She had spent years training to deal with whatever arose, to rule out the obvious, to produce a screwdriver, to ring a plumber and, occasionally – very occasionally – to speak to lost souls, to reassure the newly departed and guide them gently on their way, to work with shadows and echoes and re-enactments from a past not as long gone as it should be.

He rubbed his face with his hands and stared at her in mock despair. ‘Wow! Well, it isn’t the wallpaper, I can tell you that much. And I checked with the neighbouring farm this morning and they have no animal, lost or otherwise, of any description, called Elise or indeed anything else. But a ghost?’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Rational people don’t actually believe in ghosts, surely?’

So, why on earth had he bothered to come to meet her? This wasn’t the first time she found herself regretting the day she had confided her interest in the paranormal to Christine.

‘OK.’ She paused. ‘Well, we’ll leave it as something to consider once all the other explanations for your visitor have been ruled out. But I would ask you to be open-minded if you can. Sadly, the response of most people to supernatural happenings they can’t or won’t accept, or situations they find frightening, is to mock.’ She was watching his face, so far studiedly neutral, and was pleased to see him wince as she used the word. ‘Let’s say, for me these things are real. I am lucky enough to be one of those people who are able to access that world and discern what is causing the imbalance that is making a place uncomfortable, or if something is wrong, contact the beings involved and help them find peace.’ She gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘Well, that’s me told! And I thought you looked quite normal.’ He reached for his coffee. There was a brief pause. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t meant to be as rude as it sounded. OK. Here’s what’s happening. Let’s see what you make of it. I rented the cottage to give myself a few months’ peace. As I expect Christine told you, I’m an author.’

She nodded. Several would-be authors had found their way to Chris’s cottage over the years. Presumably they thought the isolated position, the uncertain internet connection, the dark skies and stunning views would inspire them.

‘I am writing a history of the Anglo-Saxons,’ he went on. ‘The Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia to be exact. I have already written about the kingdoms of East Anglia and Wessex. This is volume three of seven. I have formed a habit of renting a cottage on-site, as it were, when I am on my final draft, to make sure I have an authentic feel of the area I’m writing about and be near local museums and suchlike. I live in London and I have two teenage kids. Peace is at a premium, so that idea works for me. My last two writing retreats were in Suffolk and the New Forest. I saw this cottage online and it seemed ideal. Right on the border between England and Wales – or in my book, between Mercia and Powys – and I was beguiled by the place’s charm in the pictures.’

She was studying his face closely and he looked away, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

‘At first I assumed the voice belonged to a real person, obviously,’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘I still do, to be honest. I assumed Elise was her lost dog, or perhaps a child. But not again and again. If it was a child missing there would be people looking, police, search parties, helicopters, … but now,’ his voice trailed away. ‘But now, OK, I admit it, I’m not so sure she, the voice, is real. If it was, I would at least have caught a glimpse of the woman by now. I’ve tried hard enough. But Christine assures me it isn’t the wind or the water pipes or any of your other candidates for weird noises. I rush outside when I hear her, and I call out to her.’ He raised his eyes from his cup and held her gaze. ‘And,’ he hesitated, ‘I acknowledge I do feel uncomfortable when I hear her. Cold. And her voice is odd. It comes from far away.’ He looked down into his cup again. ‘Once or twice she’s banged on the door in the night. When I open it, there’s no one there.’

There was a short silence, broken only by the sound of soft, murmured conversation at the other tables.

‘I’m a rational man,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘I do not believe in ghosts, but for the last day or so I have been querying my own sanity. That was why I rang Christine. I asked her if it was possible a previous tenant had lost something, because she kept coming round, calling, and I told her I was finding it distracting. I need her to go away! That’s when Christine made this ludicrous suggestion that it might be a ghost. I thought she was joking.’ He grinned. ‘And then,’ he sighed, ‘after I ended the call I found myself, only for a nanosecond, you understand, wondering if it actually was a ghost. Or something to do with my writing – perhaps I had somehow conjured her out of my text.’

She saw a touch of embarrassment in his self-deprecating smile as she pondered his words. ‘If you have, this would be a first for me. Someone who writes themselves a ghost. I take it this didn’t happen in Suffolk or the New Forest?’

‘No. It didn’t. So, as Christine has brought you in as the cavalry, can you do something?’

This was the time to make her apologies, to say she was no longer doing house cleansing, tell him she was too busy doing other things. Perhaps tell him the truth: that she had virtually promised her husband Mark she would no longer dabble in the supernatural. Anything but arrange to visit the cottage. But already she had felt that faint prickle at the back of her neck, the slight frisson of excitement. There was something here to be followed up, she could sense it already.

2

‘He’s such a sweetie. Didn’t you think?’ Chris said later on the phone. She didn’t wait for Bea to answer. ‘Perhaps it’s someone camping locally having a laugh, or someone from the farm. I know you told me never to mention the subject of ghosts in front of Ray or Mark, and that you aren’t going to do it any more, but there wouldn’t be any harm in looking, would there? He’s obviously a bit pissed off, and I’d hate to lose him as a tenant. I’ve never had a long let like this before.’

In spite of herself, Bea was smiling when she put down her phone. Chris and her husband Ray were darlings. She could visualise the conversation so easily. Chris’s remit was sheets and towels and groceries. Ghosts. No. For ghosts, ring Bea. Box ticked.

Mark was in the kitchen preparing supper when Bea finished the call. Behind the elegance of its late Georgian frontage and main rooms their house, the one that came with his job, still clung to medieval roots and the high-ceilinged kitchen came from that much older age. It was large, with ancient flagstones on the floor. The dresser and larder and the huge scrubbed oak table may have come from another century; the cooker, fridge and dishwasher were, thank heaven, modern.

Mark looked up when she walked in and pushed a glass of wine across the table in her direction. ‘Was that Chris on the phone? How is she?’

Sitting down, she picked up the glass. ‘She’s fine.’ She hesitated. Should she keep silent or tell him about the ghost? She hated the thought of lying. Hated the thought of being put in this position at all. Better perhaps to prevaricate for now. ‘She was telling me that there’s a problem with her holiday let. You remember the cottage up on Offa’s Ridge? She’s rented it to an author for several months, so she’s a bit twitchy about everything being perfect for him. I said I would go up there with her tomorrow to take a look.’

He turned back to the chopping board. ‘Did she say what kind of problem?’

She shook her head. ‘I expect we’ll turn it into an excuse for a girls’ lunch.’

Simon had slipped the spare key off his key ring and given it to her before they parted. It appeared he was planning to go out next day. ‘Better if I’m not there. Go and have a poke around on your own. See if you can sort it.’

On her own.

It had been too late to say no. And after all, how difficult could it be – a wailing voice and a knocking at the door in the night? She had dealt with worse, much worse, before.

Bea loved her husband unreservedly, had done ever since the first time she had laid eyes on him when they were both going to the same sixth form college. Standing in their kitchen, chopping vegetables in his Snoopy T-shirt, a present from their daughter Petra, it was easy to forget that he now gloried in the title of Canon Treasurer at one of England’s great cathedrals. Without the dog collar, he was himself.

They had first met going backwards and forwards to college. He was the best-looking boy she had ever seen. Tall, dark hair, scruffy, but not overly so, and with the most charming smile, he had made a beeline for her on the bus on the first day of term and sat down beside her. She only realised how much of a catch he was when she saw the other girls scowling. Their friendship became close and they started to go out together at weekends and sometimes in the evenings to local dances or the pub. No one else had ever had a look in. They confided in each other and told each other their hopes and dreams – and her dreams of the future included Mark. There was only one thing she had kept from him. Her secret life.

When she was a child, it had been her grandmother who listened to her half-excited, half-frightened stories of another world, and told her they were normal. Her grandmother understood, saw as she did, and warned her that not everyone saw these things and that people would tell her that it was all her imagination. In an over-rational, hypercritical world it was easier to keep quiet about her gift than talk about it. Her Nan had also warned her that some people would be afraid of her.

Bea and Mark went on to university together, she to read English, he to do business studies with a view to joining his father’s firm in the City. In her secret heart of hearts, she’d imagined that one day they would marry. For two years, life continued according to her plan, but then came his sudden announcement and her world fell apart.

He was going to give up his business course and become a priest. They would still be there at uni together, he assured her, still travel up and down on the same train at the beginning and end of term. But, perhaps inevitably, she realised almost at once that he was becoming a stranger. When her parents moved to London, she went with them. His original plan to join her there was abandoned. After graduation he took a curacy far away in the North of England. They lost touch. She applied for a post as an English teacher close enough to her parents to stay with them until she found her feet.

She had lost Mark, but she had not lost her interests. She began to attend workshops and seminars, meeting people with the same abilities as herself. She studied healing and spiritual development. She studied ghosts. That was when she realised she had found her true calling.

Boyfriends came and went. No one serious. No one who could ever take Mark’s place. And then, out of the blue, they met again quite by accident and that had been that. She’d put aside her reservations, swept into the giddy passion that carried them into marriage and through his first two parishes, where she had proved herself remarkably good at being a vicar’s wife with two children and a respectable job in a local school.

But her gift never left her, nor did her wish to help the people who needed her services as a healer and a medium. That was a part of her, and she’d told Mark about it before they married. At first he was shocked and incredulous. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that this is all in your head? That you’re imagining it?’

And she had said, yes, of course it had occurred to her, and perhaps he was right, that was all it was. ‘But it is very real to me, Mark. And it works.’ They left it at that.

She knew he was uncomfortable with it, but he had reluctantly accepted his wife’s strange gifts in the end, what else could he do? She had helped him by keeping that side of her life to herself as far as possible. People came to her through quiet recommendations and mostly she worked alone. She was discreet. She never charged. Her grandmother’s advice, to keep schtum, stayed with her; it was the unspoken rule she and Mark both lived by. Most of the time.

Everything changed after it was suggested that his career, his popularity in his parishes, his calm competence and his background in business, had been noticed and that the Dean and Chapter at Hereford Cathedral might view his application for the vacant position as Canon Treasurer with interest. She hadn’t been at all sure what it would mean to give up their sprawling rural parish and move into the Cathedral Close; the idea worried her, but Mark had been so certain this was God’s calling. These days, clergy partners follow their own lives, he assured her. She could still be a teacher.

She could still be a healer of houses.

As long as no one knew about it.

He accepted the job.

Their daughters, Petra and Anna, viewed the change with tolerant good humour. They were both bright, serious, and remarkably level-headed, as they used to point out, considering their father was a vicar and their mother a psychic. Neither had inherited Bea’s gifts, though secretly she saw her own skills as a healer in Petra, who had from a small child wanted to become a vet. It was from Mark that Anna inherited her love of music which led her to want to make it her career. They had settled easily into their new bedrooms, loving the creaky floorboards and the beautiful little cast iron fireplaces and the views, one to the front and one to the back of the house. Both were at university now, Petra studying to be a vet in Edinburgh, Anna in her first year at the Royal Academy of Music in London.

The household had become suddenly very quiet.

Bea gave up her full-time job when they moved. She became a supply teacher instead. The spasmodic routine suited her second job perfectly. As promised, she pursued it with discretion.

Their lives settled down until that day when, a year ago, in an old house deep in the remote countryside of the Welsh Marches, she had encountered her first poltergeist and she and Mark had had their first major row.

The drive had been long and winding, the house at the end of it ancient, hung with creepers, and almost at once Bea felt a twinge of doubt. On the phone the problem had seemed textbook. Ghostly noises. Knocking. Items being moved about in the night.

As she parked her car and climbed out, she had realised at once that she shouldn’t have come alone. One of the rules was, if it looks in any way complicated, take someone with you; make sure there is someone there to cover your back There was something here and it was something bad. But it was too late to turn back. The front door had opened and the couple who had contacted her emerged. Mr and Mrs Hutton were elderly – perhaps late middle age – and they were clinging to one another, their fear and anxiety obvious.

‘Are you the ghost hunter?’ Ken Hutton had wrenched his arm out of the clutches of the woman at his side and ran down the steps. ‘Thank the lord you’re here! Go in. Quickly. It’s happening now!’

Bea had a routine. Protect herself; surround herself with light. Stay very calm. A quick prayer. Do not show fear. Never show fear. Project unthreatening love and reassurance.

‘It’s started throwing things.’ Daisy Hutton had been visibly shaking. ‘I wish we’d never come to this wretched place!’

‘We should have known there was a reason the rent was so low,’ Ken had muttered. ‘We’re leaving, I’ll tell you that much. We’re leaving as soon as we can, and we’ll want our deposit back!’