The façade of genuine love, gone.

Bertha's Tale: A Novel - episode 13

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

It is the worst possible news, ripping me further away from him than I had already drifted; a heart-rending divide between two souls desperately seeking to hold onto their love yet never quite being able to grasp it.

And he hadn’t even had the courage to tell me himself.

I had been the subject of courtly gossip since walking in to see my husband with another woman in our bed. It would seem that Hild had taken this as the cue she needed to tell everyone about their reunion, which she did, voraciously. I’d gotten used to those looks, the ones that comprise pity, scandal, and incredulity. A fitting response to my husband’s infidelity, I think.

But I’d had an inkling, over the past few days, that something else was going on, too. There were simply a few too many awkward incidents to pass over.

It turns out I was right to be suspicious. And things all came to a head this afternoon.

Oh how I wish I could turn back time! I would give anything to return to those heady days of early marriage, filled with romance and inescapable intimacy (yes, we were that couple). When we would drown in each other’s eyes and he would place his hand gently in the small of my back. It had been so unexpected to fall so utterly in love with my arranged husband, let alone find that love to be reciprocated. I guess I had gotten quite carried away by it all.

It’s all come tumbling down now, of course; that façade of genuine love has well and truly disappeared. If the foundations of our marriage collapsed when he slept with her, any remaining stonework was robbed away today.

I’d been walking around the palace gardens. I find that I often need a moment of quiet to myself after the gaudiness of the feasting hall. Even now, approaching midsummer, the hearth roars red-hot, filling the space with heat and smoke. Add to that the stench of cooked meat and unwashed warriors… It’s oppressive and though I do my duty as queen-in-waiting by being there, I am eager to escape and freshen my senses.

I am able to lose myself outside: forget my heavy burdens and simply be. Flowers romp abundantly in the tall grasses, carpets of tiny yellows and pinks hugging the ankles of the larger whites and purples. I’d run my hands through them as I’d walked, feeling their energy seep into my body. The sun had been warm on my face and I’d closed my eyes to allow its total embrace. Nature’s melody filled the air, buzzing and chirping in harmony and dissonance.  

I’d felt myself revitalising, strengthened by the bountiful life surrounding me.

I’d paused to sit awhile in the grass, its tufty heads towering above my own. My knees curled beneath me, I picked a blade and knocked the seed heads off like a child, casting them onto the ground. I could breathe once more; the world was still, calm, quiet.

Until it was interrupted by whispers and giggles.

Three women were walking, arm in arm, away from the palace and towards the river. Their heads were close and eyes bright as they talked in hushed tones, laughter infrequently punctuating their conversation.

I laid down in the grass. They hadn’t seen me, and I didn’t really want them to.

Then I heard my name. I strained, but couldn’t make out anything else. The English tongue is still foreign enough to me that I really have to concentrate to understand it; their voices were too rushed and too whispered for me to glean anything.

Then I heard her name.

On its own this wouldn’t have meant much beyond the gossip I’d come to expect. It’s what happened next that really got my hackles up.