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.
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
