The Dream Weavers

to consolidate this most vulnerable of borders. Even now, Offa’s warrior guard, there to protect their princess, were watching this young man’s every move, hands on their sword hilts. It occurred to her how brave the prince was, to come alone but for a small group of attendants, relying on Offa’s promise of safe conduct. She herself, she realised ruefully, would not trust her father’s word further than the far corner of the table, so was Elisedd naïve or stupid or part of some greater plot? She looked back into the dazzle of the sunset. A huge army could be hidden out there in the folds of these hills and they would never know until it was too late.
The kingdoms of the west intrigued her. Britons. The original people of this island. Foreigners, Welsh, as her people called them, speaking a different language, following different laws, living in remote hidden valleys or on mountains with their peaks in the clouds, a land with different legends and myths and stories, tribes who had inhabited the island of Albion long before her own ancestors had settled there, incomprehensible to the Saxon race and frightening. Very frightening. And yet this man, with his handsome features and his quiet ways, did not seem so very scary or so very different, and he spoke her language fluently.
Catching his eye, she felt herself blush. ‘We should return to the camp. It will soon be dark.’
He inclined his head. Turning his horse, he set off slowly back towards the encampment, allowing her to follow or not as she pleased. She scowled, savagely holding her own mount back. Was even her horse beguiled by this soft-spoken foreigner, automatically trying to follow him into the shadows of the night.
‘We should go too, Princess,’ the voice at her elbow came from Burgred, one of the warriors pulled from her father’s war band to be her personal guard. He squinted back towards the crimson clouds gathering in the western sky. Any moment the sun would slip below the hills.
‘You think the prince would trick us?’ She stared after the receding figure as it disappeared into the darkness, his men already gone ahead of him.
Burgred was a tall man, uncomfortable on horseback, his helmet framing a handsome, weathered face, his armour sitting easily on his broad frame, one hand on his reins, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘I trust no one, Princess. A hostage, snatched away into the hills yonder, would be a powerful weapon to use against your father.’
Eadburh hid the bitter smile that threatened to betray her opinion of just how little her father would value her. A hostage might prove a bargaining piece, but no more. Offa had other daughters he clearly held of greater worth.
Her horse moved restlessly beneath her and she realised that Burgred had leaned across to put his hand to its bridle, intent on leading her back towards the camp. ‘No!’ she snapped. She smacked his hand away. ‘We go when I say so.’
His face darkened but he bowed his head in acquiescence and reined back a few paces. Eadburh watched in silence as the sun sank into the bed of cloud and the crimson of the sky darkened to the colour of dried blood. On cue, an owl hooted near them. Then, with a sigh, she kicked her horse into a trot. The men of her escort looked at each other knowingly and fell into place. Only Burgred drew his sword as he glanced over his shoulder towards the west.
As the gates closed behind them and her escort peeled away towards the stables, Eadburh headed towards the queen’s hall and their bedchambers. One served the king and queen, and one was for their daughters, the three framed beds furnished with linen sheets and with furs and tapestries. Alfrida was already sitting there in front of her dressing table as one of her women unplaited her hair and began to comb it out. There was no sign of Ethelfled.
Throwing herself down on her bed, Eadburh watched in silence.
Alfrida glanced at her. ‘So, how did it go with your handsome prince?’ She gestured the girl with the comb to leave her and swung round on her stool to face her sister. ‘Do you think he will make a good husband?’ She suppressed a giggle.
Eadburh kicked off her leather shoes and pulled her feet up, tucking them under her skirts. She was still wearing her heavy riding cloak against the chill of the evening, which permeated the room even though there was a fire burning in the central hearth. ‘He’s handsome enough,’ she agreed grudgingly. ‘But not to my taste. Too thin and,’ she hesitated over the word, ‘too delicate.’
Alfrida snorted. ‘You would prefer a hunk like Burgred? We have all noticed how he dances attendance on you. He has eyes for no other. His hands trail near yours—’
‘Be quiet!’ Eadburh stood up furiously. ‘If he touched me, I would tell Papa to have him killed!’
‘Oh, whoa, no!’ Alfrida raised both her hands in mock horror. ‘You can’t afford to lose such a good fighter.’
‘We can if he dares to think—’
‘He doesn’t dare to think anything,’ her sister said. ‘Can’t you take a joke? The man would die for you, but that is his job.’
‘Indeed it is.’ Eadburh tightened her lips. Looking round for her own maid, she realised they were alone. She stood up and bent to pull off her stockings. She dropped them where they lay and climbed back onto her bed, hugging her knees thoughtfully. ‘Mama said Papa would not contemplate a Welsh husband for any of us.’
‘I know she did. I was only teasing. So, would you be happy to go to marry a Frankish prince instead?’ Alfrida’s question was an afterthought.
Eadburh shrugged her shoulders. ‘If he was destined to be the greatest king in Christendom I would. But if any of us are offered, it will be Ethelfled, as she’s the eldest.’ She scowled, then sat forward, reaching