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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.
‘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.
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
