Читать книгу: «The Dream Weavers», страница 2

‘I’m not going back in.’ Daisy was genuinely traumatised.

‘Nor me.’ Ken had shaken his head violently. ‘You go in. First door on your left down the hall. In the library. God help you! We’ll be in the garden when you’ve finished.’

For a moment Bea stared after them before turning back towards the house. She had never felt more alone.

‘Christ be with me, Christ within me.’ She had repeated the age-old words of the breastplate of St Patrick as she headed towards the front door. The safety net, the all-encompassing, wraparound armour of the prayer, would keep her safe; surround her with light.

The hall was shadowy, with oak floors and panelled walls. Old blistered paintings hung on the walls, and there was a worn Persian rug on the floor. The house had smelt damp, she remembered vividly, and cold, and yes, there was an atmosphere of evil so intense it seemed to drip from the beams. Grasping her pocket-sized Bible and her small carved wooden cross, picturing herself as safe and strong in her protective shield, she took a deep breath and opened the door of the library.

Something huge and black flew at her head. It landed at her feet with a crash and she saw it was a book, its pages torn and splayed. Within seconds several other books were hurtling round the room, a chair toppled over in front of her, a candlestick rolled across the table, the room was filled with a sound like the roaring of the wind and she felt a powerful thrust between her shoulder blades. It sent her reeling.

She had no time to think. Her reactions were automatic. She held out the cross in front of her and addressed the entity as though it were a naughty child. ‘Stop it! Now! You can’t frighten me.’

The response was a hiss and a demonic shriek from somewhere on the far side of the room. Clutching the cross more tightly, she had ploughed on resolutely. ‘I can help you. I can give you a road out of here and guide you towards peace and light.’ She dodged again as another book fell at her feet. The room’s temperature had fallen several degrees and in the corner she had seen the sudden flicker of flames. It had been a battle of wills. Her opponent was a man, an elderly man, deeply unhappy and beleaguered; at his wits’ end. Almost as soon as she sensed his identity, he was there, in the shadows. ‘Let me help you.’ She didn’t plead. She was in control and reassuring. She paused, waiting for the next book to fly at her. Silence. The atmosphere had changed. The flames in the corner died down, leaving the smell of charred wood. He listened to her.

Bea had been able to see him more clearly at the end, stooped with pain, agonising physical pain, lonely, wrapped in a shabby woollen garment like a dressing gown, trimmed with fur. The room had smelt musty, airless. It was so cold that Bea’s breath was condensing in front of her as she moved towards him. ‘I’m here to help you. I want you to look upwards, towards the light. She was visualising a large double door, opening onto a beautiful landscape. ‘It’s open, can you see? It leads to somewhere warm and full of sunshine. It’s safe there. Step towards it. That’s right.’ She saw him hesitate, glance round. There was a heavy leather-bound book in his hand and after a moment he leaned forward and put it on the table. She heard him groan as if the slightest movement was painful. ‘That’s right,’ she encouraged. ‘Only a few steps more. There is no more pain in the next life. It is bright and full of sunlight. There are friends there. Leave this dark place behind.’

He took a step towards the corner of the room where she pictured the door. Then another. He was almost through when it all went wrong.

‘Has it gone?’ The voice in the doorway had made her jump. Ken Hutton was staring in, his knuckles white on the doorframe.

Irritated, Bea had tried to ignore the interruption. ‘It’s beautiful through there. And safe. Angels are waiting for you; can you see them? You are not alone now. Go with God, my friend. Be at peace.’

In her mind’s eye, she had reached out to close the door behind him and as she did so a flash had cut across the room. ‘Got it!’ Ken had been triumphant.

Bea had turned to see the camera in his hand. It was pointing straight at her. ‘Don’t!’ she shouted. ‘I do not want photographs. I explained to you, this visit must remain totally private and confidential. You agreed.’

He had lowered the camera reluctantly and she remembered his words clearly. ‘It was so incredible. Impressive. I wonder if I got the ghost. Did you see him? I could hear you talking as if he was an ordinary bloke. It was a bloke? He won’t come back, will he? Oh bloody hell! Look at the mess. All these old books. I’ll clear it up if it’s safe now. Chuck them all on the fire.’

The visit to that house had shaken her more than she liked to admit. Still in shock, she hadn’t mentioned it to Mark. Then, four days later, there was a headline on the front page of the local paper:

LOCAL GHOSTHUNTER EXORCISES POLTERGEIST, photos on pp 3, 6 and 7

Mark had been beside himself. ‘Have you any idea of the harm this will do? I asked you, I begged you, to be discreet. You’re on the front page for heaven’s sake!’ He had shaken the paper at her.

‘Let me see!’ She had finally managed to snatch it off him. ‘Look. It’s all blurry, Mark. No one would recognise me.’ The large leather volume, balanced on the edge of the table, was in centre focus. It was actually rather a good picture. She could see herself there in the background, a white face, an arm raised with the cross in her hand. Oh God, that was dramatic, like the poster for a film, but her face was in shadow. Dodging away from Mark, she scrabbled in the paper, looking for the inside pages. There were half a dozen more photos, none of them recognisable, she was pretty sure, and none of the ghostly figure. There was a long article with the pictures. She scanned it quickly, praying her name was not mentioned. It wasn’t. The journalist had made a big thing of the absolute anonymity demanded by the exorcist, describing her, rather flatteringly, as an attractive woman with phenomenal powers. Bea dropped the paper, relieved. ‘The chances are no one will see it, Mark. It’s gutter journalism. And if they do read it, they won’t know it’s me.’

He had looked at her, his face white. ‘It says there that the creature, the ghost, tried to kill you, Bea. It says you wrestled with it, that there was furniture flying round the room and you exorcised it with bell book and candle and flashing lights.’

‘That’s complete nonsense,’ she had retorted, flustered. ‘The flashing lights were from Ken Hutton’s own camera. And the poor soul wasn’t a creature, Mark. You of all people should know that. He was the shadow of an old man. He was more frightened of me than I was of him. An earthbound spirit who was sick and frightened and lonely. He threw the books at me because there was nothing else there to defend himself with. I prayed with him, Mark. I did not perform any kind of exorcism – how I hate that word – and he left.’

‘It says there in the paper that he tried to kill you!’

‘That is somebody’s imagination.’ She had reached out for Mark’s hand. ‘I knew what to do, darling. I was safe. And I did tell Mr Hutton before I went there that everything I did had to be confidential. He agreed.’ She sighed. ‘He broke his word. It won’t happen again.’

Had she promised not to do it again, something that was as much a part of herself as breathing? No, not as such, but perhaps she had let Mark believe that was what she meant.

But a visit to a holiday cottage on Offa’s Ridge was hardly comparable; a ghostly voice, at best a woman hunting for a lost pet, at worst a restless spirit, perhaps, nothing more. She would be able to sense at once what if anything was wrong, deal with it and be home before Mark had returned from evensong.

As though reading her mind, Mark paused from his cooking to take a sip from his glass. ‘This problem,’ he said casually as he reached for the last onion and picked up the knife again. ‘Does it involve ghosts?’

She sighed. A straight question deserved a straight answer. ‘I don’t know. I think it’s unlikely. This chap, Simon, is an author. He’s been disturbed by some noises. A voice, he said. He complained to Chris and she gave him my name. She didn’t realise I haven’t done any house clearances lately.’ She dropped her gaze, aware she was being disingenuous. ‘Obviously she’s anxious. She doesn’t want to lose him as a tenant. She wants me to set his mind at rest, nothing more. I won’t spend long up there. I need to get a feel of the place, that’s all. I suspect I shall find a tapping creeper on the wall or, as he suspects, a lady looking for her lost dog.’ She glanced at him and caught the anxiety that showed on his face. ‘Don’t worry, Mark. If I think it’s dangerous, I will leave at once.’

He sighed. ‘If he’s an author, perhaps his characters are haunting him.’ His expression was carefully neutral now. He turned to scrape his chopped vegetables into the sizzling pan on the stove.

Bea laughed uncomfortably. ‘We thought of that.’ She reached for her wine. ‘It’s probably more that he’s not used to living on his own in the country where owls hoot and foxes scream. Do you remember how spooky that sounded when we were in our first rectory? I promise I won’t get involved in anything dangerous. I’ll just go and see. I know you’ll hold me in your prayers, darling. It will all be OK.’

3

There was something here.

It was a presentiment, nothing more, that whisper of cold air at the back of her neck. She recognised the feeling and paused by the gate. Should she stop now? Go home? Forget it? No. Of course not. This was for Chris, and for Simon and his peace of mind. There was nothing here but an unexplained voice. She began her routine of safeguarding herself against whatever might be lurking in the fabric of this pretty place, visualising herself and the cottage and its garden surrounded with light and love, murmuring the prayer of protection. Then, with an almost imperceptible shiver of apprehension, she began to climb the steps towards the front door.

There was only the one main room downstairs at the cottage; Simon had pulled the table over towards the large stone fireplace and there were several books on it, neatly arranged, with a mug holding pencils and half a dozen ballpoints, a stack of A4 paper, presumably a printout of his manuscript, more books – quite a lot of them, she realised, as she looked around – piled on the floor in the corner. She could see his printer sitting on a side table. The hearth was swept clean, the log basket full. There was no sign of a laptop. Presumably he had taken that with him when he went out.

She paused in the doorway, feeling for an unseen intruder, but there was nothing there. Reassured, she walked slowly across the room and went through into the pretty modern kitchen, built as a lean-to on the back of the building. Breakfast dishes had been rinsed and left to dry on the draining board. There was fruit and a cereal box on the worktop, presumably more food in the fridge. Nothing untoward there, either. When she made her way back into the main room and up the narrow, dark, corner staircase, she found the two bedrooms, one double and one with two narrow single beds, with their matching bedspreads and elegant lamps, were equally tidy. It was barely possible to see which one he had selected as his own. She resisted the temptation to look in the cupboard or chest of drawers. The ghost – if there was a ghost – was hardly likely to be lurking there. What interested her was the atmosphere. Or lack of it. The cottage felt empty. Not only because there was no one there; it was empty of echoes, almost sterile in its silence.

Frowning, she went back downstairs to the front door.

On the terrace outside there was a small wrought-iron table and chairs; beyond the low stone wall the view opened out across a broad valley towards the distant hills. It was breathtakingly beautiful.

The fear hit her suddenly and completely. One moment she was relaxed, lost in the beauty of the hazy distances, the next her stomach had turned over, her heart rate had tripled and she found herself staggering across the terrace to lean against the house wall, barely able to stand.

Hide. She had to hide.

Her instinct was to bolt back into the house, slam the door, and then, what? The car. She had to get back to her car, but she couldn’t move.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. She had been stupid, caught unawares by the stillness of the cottage, the glorious countryside. The world had spun for a second out of time into that weird unnatural silence. But the world was back now. She could hear the song of a skylark, high above the ridge, see the sheep grazing peacefully on the far side of the lane, hear them calling to their lambs.

Elise!

The voice came from the garden behind the cottage.

Elise!

Bea felt the hairs standing up on her arms. It was a woman’s voice, but muffled, strange, exactly as Simon had described, coming from far away. Steadying herself, reinforcing her shield of protection, she tiptoed to the corner of the terrace and peered round.

The back garden was small, beyond its wall the open pastureland of the hillside. She could see no one there, although someone could hide with ease amongst the bushes and trees. Bea took a couple of steps onto the grass. Around her the scent of daphne and viburnum and daffodils filled the air.

‘Please, don’t be afraid. I only want to talk to you.’ Recovering her composure, she spoke out loud, her voice low and steady, unthreatening. ‘Where are you? Can you show yourself?’ The voice most certainly did not belong to someone from a farm or a campsite, this was someone from another world.

At first the figure didn’t register. There was a woman standing there, near the wall, no more than a hazy shape, but already she had gone, if indeed she had ever been more than a shadow amongst the many wind-tossed shadows of the garden.

From the depths of the shrubbery a blackbird let out a cascade of alarm notes as it dived out of the greenery and flew up into the trees. Bea swallowed hard, steadying herself sternly. This was the first time she had confronted something from the other worlds since her experiences in the old house, and she was shocked to find herself trembling.

She took a few steps forward. ‘I want to help you,’ she called. But the voice and the shadow had gone.

She made herself walk back inside the cottage. There was nothing in there either. No sound. Still no echoes. It was empty. Safe. Wandering over to the table by the window she glanced again at the typescript sitting there. Kingdoms of the Heptarchy. Volume 3: Mercia. This was Simon’s book. He had wondered, if only jokingly, if he had written his ghost. In the absence of any other signs, did this perhaps contain a clue to what had just happened?

With a final glance round the room to ensure she was alone, she dropped into the chair by the empty fireplace and pulled the manuscript onto her knee. Amongst all the different-coloured sticky markers that bristled from every page she saw one larger than the rest. It was labelled ‘Chapter 12: The Offa’s Dyke Years’, and belatedly she wondered if he had left it there for her to see. She reached over to the lamp, switched it on, and, still wearing her coat, began to read.

We will probably never know whose idea it was to construct a dyke between Mercia and the neighbouring kingdoms of the wild, mountainous country that later came to be called Wales. Modern thinking is that it was the result of discussion and agreement rather than the imposition of a constructed border and that, if only because it has been so definitively named after him, it was the inspiration of King Offa of Mercia (AD 757–796) a man with the ambition, manpower and administrative organisation to achieve such a large and consistent enterprise.

The dyke as it survives today does not stretch the full length of the border between the two countries and only in a few places does it coincide exactly with the modern national boundary. Much of the dyke has been destroyed or lost, but from what remains within the landscape it appears to have been roughly 70 miles in length, though Bishop Asser, in his Life of King Alfred, written some 100 years after Offa’s death, describes it as stretching north–south, ‘from sea to sea’, that is, it is assumed, from somewhere on the north-facing coast near Prestatyn, overlooking the Irish Sea, down to the cliffs at Sedbury on the Severn Estuary, incorporating ditches and banks from earlier periods, some possibly Roman, implying the idea of an imposed border may not have been quite such an original concept as assumed. The kings of Powys in particular had over the centuries shown considerable interest in invading their eastern neighbour with its rich and fertile landscape – they attacked Hereford no less than four times during Offa’s reign alone, the last major attack in his reign, as far as we know, in the year 760.

In pencil, Simon had noted here, also 778?? 784?? 796? Bloody hell!

Bea smiled and read on:

Offa had far more ambitious things to do than protect this leaky western edge of his kingdom. His main interests faced north, south and east. He had the kingdoms of East Anglia, and Wessex, Kent and even Northumbria in his sights; he would be pleased to ensure peace on his western borders with the peoples the Anglo-Saxons called the waelisc, meaning foreigner, a word that eventually segued into the word ‘Welsh’. The protection was to be achieved by the simple process of digging a ditch, which would, as part of the construction process, automatically raise a defensive bank immediately beyond it. Forts and watchtowers have not survived, if they ever existed. Even the possible presence of a palisade of some kind on top of the bank is in contention. There is much still to be discovered about this famous landmark.

At some point a meeting must have been convened between Offa or his representatives and King Cadell ap Brochfael of Powys, the grandson of the man who had beaten him so resoundingly in the Battle of Hereford in the year of Our Lord, 760 …

Drawn into the story, Bea turned the page and settled back more comfortably into her chair. Without realising it, she allowed her circle of protection to waver and grow thin.

4

The lofty wooden Saxon hall with its carved roof timbers and luxurious hangings was full of people. The feasting done, Offa had beckoned a group of his followers and guests into a side chamber where the plans for the great dyke had been spread on the long trestle table. The spokesmen for the King of Powys were standing together at the head of the table, looking down at the long roll of parchment. At their head, Prince Elisedd, the King of Powys’s youngest son, was looking quizzical. Around them were gathered Offa’s scribes and advisers, members of his family, his surveyors, the local shire-reeves and the ealdormen and thanes.

‘My youngest daughter, the Princess Eadburh, will represent me on your journey to the site,’ Offa announced abruptly. He nodded towards one of the two young women who had seated themselves at the far side of the table. ‘She knows my mind on this matter as she and I have ridden the boundary together.’

If he meant it as an insult to select the youngest of his daughters for the job, there was no visible reaction from the men opposite him. He sat down and reached for a horn of mead. He was speaking directly to the prince, scrutinising the young man’s face. ‘Why did your father, King Cadell, not come? Or one of your brothers?’ This lad was still wet behind the ears. He didn’t look as if he could lift a sword, never mind negotiate a truce with the man who considered himself the most powerful king on the island of Britain.

Elisedd met his gaze squarely. ‘My father has business at our palace at Mathrafal and my brothers have gone with him. I assured him I was more than able to supervise the route of your ditch.’ He spoke with confidence, his grasp of the Saxon language fluent.

Offa narrowed his eyes. ‘The route has been agreed by both parties.’ His voice was harsh.

‘And as long as both parties keep to the designated plan, all will be well,’ the young man countered. He turned to address the girl. ‘I am sure you and I, Princess, young though we both may be, will be able to oversee this stretch of the work without conflict.’

She was watching him with the same narrow-eyed concentration as her father. Her hair, bound into a single heavy plait beneath her headrail, was the colour of sundried hay, he noted, the same as so many of these Saxons, and just like her sister. His gaze shifted to the second girl. Older, he guessed, by a year or two, but softer. There was a third sister as well, or so he had been told, his informant adding that with their mother they formed a nest of vipers, best avoided. He covered his smile with his hand as he realised that Eadburh was still watching him, and judging from her icy expression could read his every thought. He reached for his mead horn and concentrated on the honeyed richness of the local brew, refusing to look at her again. All trace of humour had vanished. That frigid blue-eyed stare had left him frozen to the marrow.

The emissaries from Powys had been accommodated in one the royal guest houses within the palisade. The huge enclosure, on a bluff above the River Lugg, held the great hall of Sutton Palace plus a dozen or so other halls of varying magnificence, together with kitchens, bakeries, workshops, weaving sheds, stables, plus a multitude of smaller buildings, forming what amounted to a small village. Taking two men with him, Elisedd rode out through the heavily guarded gateway, heading along the narrow winding river with its damp meadows and rich carpets of flowers. As the gates swung shut behind them, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had no reason to suspect anyone of treachery, but King Offa’s bodyguard, armed at all times, seasoned warriors to a man, filled him with unease. The concept of a recognised boundary between their two nations, putting an end at last to the centuries of invasion and counter-invasion, made sense. Whether or not their neighbour would stick to his own rules was not a matter for him. His father and Offa had drawn up the master plan a decade before, and slowly the digging of the ditch and the erection of its earthen rampart had happened, each local district providing the men and money to undertake the huge enterprise, in some places working with earlier earthworks, in others incorporating natural barriers, hills and rivers, into a boundary that would at least stall any potential infringement of the truce. In the distance the reassuring hills of his homeland rose in a misty barrier against the western horizon.

‘So, do I assume we have to remain here?’ One of his companions, Morgan ap Cadog, rode up beside him. Elisedd deduced he felt as uncomfortable in the lair of their neighbour as he did himself. He nodded ruefully. ‘Once the marker stakes are in place, we can go home. Then all that needs to happen is to send men to keep an occasional check that all is as it should be. There is no reason to assume he will cheat us of land at this stage.’

‘And in the meantime you have to ride the planned route with the she-devil daughter,’ Morgan responded. ‘He chose the youngest for the job, but by the gods, he chose the most feisty!’

Elisedd laughed without humour. ‘I would have preferred one of those old warriors, if I’m honest, but I’m sure we can ride side by side without clawing one another’s eyes out.’

‘And you can write a poem dedicated to those periwinkle eyes!’ Roaring with laughter, Morgan leaned forward to rub his horse’s neck.

Elisedd smiled. He was used to the ribbing of his followers. It was his experienced soldier brothers who earned the respect and obedience of his father’s men. He was the dreamer, the poet – a much-respected calling in his own country, but he knew this mission as a diplomat was his father’s way of testing his resolve.

The sound of hooves behind them caused him to rein in and turn to face their pursuers. It was Princess Eadburh with four heavily-armed warriors. She came to a halt beside him, making her horse rear and cavort under the sharp bit. ‘If you are riding out to survey the site of the ditch you should have waited for me.’

‘I was merely riding out to clear my head after your father’s generous feasting, Princess. It’s nearly sunset; to ride up to the site tonight will take us too long. We won’t see anything in the dark. We’ll go tomorrow.’ He watched as her horse circled again, tossing its head up and down. He considered telling her to loosen the rein so the poor animal could stand still, but thought better of it. She did not look like someone who would appreciate criticism, real or implied.

As though reading his thoughts, she dropped the reins on the animal’s neck. It stopped immediately and she laughed.

Elisedd schooled his face. That was the second time he felt she had read his thoughts. ‘I shall look forward to our ride tomorrow then.’ His words were studiedly neutral in tone.

She gave him a dazzling smile and without a word turned the horse to gallop back the way she had come, her escort in her wake.

‘Phew!’ Morgan gave a theatrical wipe of his brow as they watched the riders disappear across the meadow and into the woods. ‘I hope you aren’t expecting me to ride with you tomorrow.’

‘Indeed I am. I expect you all to come.’ Elisedd was watching the wind ruffle the long grasses, whisking away the trail left by the princess and her attendants. ‘I don’t wish to be eaten alive.’ And with a shout of laughter he set his own horse at a gallop in the opposite direction.