The Dream Weavers

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.

5
The banging on the front door jerked Bea awake. She looked round, her heart thudding, the pages of the manuscript sliding off her knee and scattering around her feet. The room was ice-cold. She stood up and went cautiously towards the door and put her ear against it, listening. ‘Who is it?’ She hadn’t bolted it when she came in, she realised.
There was no reply.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled it open. There was no one there. Wisps of cloud were drifting up the valley and the sheep on the far side of the fields were calling calmly to one another. Overhead, a red kite circled ever higher in the sunlight until it was out of sight in the glare far above the shadowy fields.
Whoever had knocked with such desperate force was gone.
Turning back, she looked around the room. She had been asleep, dreaming, and her protection, she realised with horror, was no longer in place. The knocking had left the energies around her fractured and the echoes had become jagged, her dream still with her with vivid clarity. She played back the scene in her head: the noisy hall with its smells of cooking and woodsmoke and crowded humanity, the ride across the meadows, the confrontation of the Saxon girl and the Welsh prince. All of it so sharply focused, so intense, it had been almost more than real. And every part of it had been somehow relevant to this house. But it was gone. With a sigh she set about gathering the scattered pages of Simon’s manuscript off the floor, the manuscript that held the clues she sought. The strange jump from intense noisy emotion to numb emptiness was a new experience, as was that moment of fear she had felt outside on the terrace. Even when she had confronted the violent poltergeist she hadn’t been gripped by fear like that.
Setting the pile of paper down on the table, she was acutely aware that part of her wanted to go back into the dream to find out what happened next. She glanced round the room. It was growing more shadowy now that the sun had moved round. She ought to go home, but if she did, what was she going to say to Simon, or to Chris for that matter? She hadn’t been able to interact with the woman in the garden, much less ask her to move on, and they expected answers. And she wanted answers. What, if anything, had Offa’s feast and the young handsome prince to do with this cottage? Beyond the name.
This was Offa’s Ridge. He must have been here at some point. Or perhaps not. She had never really thought about it. Offa was famous. Perhaps because his name was so easy to remember compared with some of the Welsh names of the villages roundabout, he was everywhere. There were Offa’s cafés, Offa’s giftshops selling Offa’s fudge in the villages round about. And of course the Offa’s Dyke footpath that wandered backwards and forwards more or less following the length of the actual dyke and then on from sea to sea, as described by Asser and quoted in Simon’s manuscript, the footpath that ran almost past the door of this cottage.
Did the answer lie in the dream world? She glanced back at the manuscript. Was that the woman in the garden’s way of communicating her story? Was it Simon’s imagination that had triggered this sudden ghostly visitation, as they had joked. This hadn’t happened to her before, but then every case she had dealt with had been different. She pictured the young and beautiful princess with