What was it like to journey across the sea?

Bertha's Tale: A Novel - episode 11

These twice-monthly instalments of my serialised historical fiction novel are just for my members only. The beauty of early Anglo-Saxon history, for fiction writers, is that the surviving written record is so tiny that we can create these stories suggesting what their lives might have been like. To access this content, you can subscribe below and join our wonderful community of like-minded souls. We’d love to have you!

Bertha’s voice 
Canterbury, Kent 
c. A.D. 580

Our first few weeks together had been idyllic. It was everything I’d dreamed of.

We woke early each morning, with the rising of the sun, to the sound of birdsong, light streaming through the palace windows, dappled by the trees outside. A chill still hung in the air - spring had only just sprung - so we huddled up in bed together under layers of blankets and furs, using one another’s body heat to keep warm.

It felt as if nothing - and no one - could ever get between us.

“Tell me about your homeland,” he’d asked me once, and I’d told him all about it. I’d laughed and cried as I’d remembered what it had been like to feel the warmth of the sun on my face, to smell the lavender that adorned my palace home, to hear the mighty river rush past on its journey to the sea. I’d shared our sudden, dramatic change in fortunes when my father had died. No longer the daughter of a king, I’d been whisked away to a small chateau outside of the city of Paris, outside of the bustle of court life, away from the centre of politics. Although I’d mourned my father’s loss, I had welcomed the move: I had always dreamed of a quiet life.

“My grandmother was Frankish,” Æthelberht had told me. I was stunned; this meant we had shared ancestry and made sense of the rumours I’d heard before leaving Paris. “She was beautiful, just like you.” He touched my cheek tenderly, smiled as his hand traced the contours of my face. “Are all Frankish women beautiful? If so, we really must visit!” He has a cheeky, mischievous streak, the prince.

I blushed. “Not all of us…”

“It was my grandmother that taught me the Frankish language. She would refuse to speak to me in the Kentish tongue, pretending not to hear or understand. I knew she did understand; it was our game.” He paused and looked deep into my eyes. This was something he did often, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was so different to how he’d treated me before our wedding; he had been so cold. He’d told me since that this was because he didn’t know what to do with the way he’d felt about me, that he’d been confused by attraction and affection for a woman he’d expected to loathe, the physical embodiment of a forced marriage. It was hard to believe that had been just a few days ago.