The foundations have collapsed; everything is gone.

Bertha's Tale: A Novel - episode 12.

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

I think I knew, deep down, that it would happen at some point.

I had just been really hoping that it wouldn’t.

The cold air is soothing, the dark comforting. It’s like I need the freshness to escape from my panic-stricken mind.

I am alone out here, and that feels good.

I need to be alone to sort out what I’ve just seen and what to do about it.

My breathing is slow and deep, trying to regulate. I can’t stop the repetitive movements that seem somewhat instinctive, innate, my knees shaking back and forth over and over again.

The tree trunk I am sitting on is rough under my hands, painful enough to keep me grounded in the world and steady my swirling thoughts. This tree was here long before I was, standing proud for centuries before it fell, and its moss-covered body will remain long after I’m gone.

An owl cries out somewhere, calling its feathered friends. I wonder, do owls have to deal with romance, with heartbreak, with infidelity? Are their lives marked by the same complexity as ours? Or are they free to roam, mating as they please before moving on with no emotional baggage left behind?

I want to move on. I want to fly away. I want to be far, far away, carried by the wings of the wind as it swirls high above. I want to be free from this tangled mess I’ve found myself in, the bonds holding me so tightly in this nightmare.