The Dream Weavers. Barbara Erskine
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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.
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.