Her story begins

Author's Note & Chapter 1 | Hild's Tale | A Serialised Historical Fiction Novel

Author’s Note

A summary of Hild’s life is preserved in a whole chapter of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History (written c. A.D. 731). To dedicate a whole chapter to her elevated Hild to a similar position that Bede afforded her contemporary Christian holy men. Only the greatest were given such a prominent place in his history: he clearly thought highly of her.

Bede’s account is invaluable, but does not flesh out her life beyond the value it held for his History. I’m left with so many unanswered questions. What was she like as a person? How did her experience as a woman in a man’s world affect her mental wellbeing? Did she even want to become a holy woman, or was this a choice forced on her by the powerful men who controlled her early life?

We will, in all likelihood, never be able to answer these questions: the written record for this time in English history is so scant and though archaeological evidence can build a pretty good picture of the social and cultural milieux in which she existed, it cannot take us directly to her.

Hild’s Tale, as ‘history-based-on-fact’, is a creative retelling of Bede’s account that seeks to answer these questions with a heavy dose of imagination. It draws on over a decade of academic study of seventh-century English elite and monastic life to reconstruct what her life might have been like, filling out the skeleton tale provided by Bede.

It will be serialised exclusively on Substack and published in twice-monthly instalments for paid subscribers, though the first two instalments (this one and the next one) will be available for everyone to read, free of charge, as a taster.

I’d love for you to join us as we journey through the life of this woman who defied the social expectations of her time to become not only one of the most powerful women in seventh-century England, but one of the most powerful people in what was rapidly becoming a man’s world.

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Chapter 1

By the time he reached the vast wooden gates guarding the abbey’s entrance, Bede had been travelling for almost a week.

A dull ache lingered near the base of his spine, the unwelcome companion of any long journey, and his legs burned with the effort of taming the beast who had been his faithful servant these past days. The monk was grateful for the abbot’s insistence that he ride rather than walk the sixty miles, the drowned coastal road threatening to engulf his lower limbs had he journeyed on foot. Obedient as the horse had been though, Bede would not be sad when they parted ways, at least until their return, the monotonous thump of his hooves sending a jarring pain through his body with each step.

I am not a man made for venturing far beyond his own monastery’s walls, he thought.

Slipping from the horse to bid admission to the abbey, Bede hugged his rain-sodden cloak tighter about him, trying in vain to keep out the biting wind that betrayed the community’s isolated clifftop perch. He was forced to wait some minutes while one guard left to check that the abbess was indeed expecting him; as he stood there he thought he could smell the distinct tang of roasting meat.

Could it be…? he thought to himself. He shook his head, rubbing his brow. No, it’s not. It’s because I’ve existed on stale bread and cheese these past days. I’m dreaming. He chuckled to himself, drawing an odd glance from the two remaining guards.

Bede smiled, awkwardly. He was cold, wet-through, and desperate to retreat beneath furs and blankets on a soft bed beside a fire. He knew these desires were unbecoming of a monk: he had learnt since childhood that hardship would bring him closer to the Lord than comfort ever could. But travelling across the kingdom of the Northumbrians on the threshold of winter would make even the most ardent of holy men long for worldly comforts. And Bede knew that the abbey at Whitby was not one that eschew worldly comforts, unlike his own at Jarrow.

The guard returned, waving to catch Bede’s attention.

“The abbess is expecting you, as you said. Come with me. We’ll go to the stables first; they’ll care for your horse while you stay. Then I’ll take to you her, though you’ll need to change your boots and cloak.”

Bede looked down at his feet. They were caked in mud, as was the hem of his cloak. He looked nervously up at the guard and spread his hands.

“I don’t have any other clothes.”

The guard glanced at his colleague, clearly frustrated.

“We’ll stop at the laundry before meeting the abbess. You can’t traipse all that dirt through the abbey; you’ll make it filthy.”

“Thank you,” Bede replied sheepishly, taking hold of his horse to lead him through the gates.

The guard guided him with the confidence and speed of someone familiar with his surroundings and offended by the autumnal weather. Bede had to walk fast to keep up with him.

Within the timber-topped rampart, the abbey was a vast network of cobbled streets, timber buildings, and stone churches, all laid out along a regular pattern akin to the ancient forts that littered the great wall that stretched across the kingdom, finding its terminus only a few miles from Jarrow.

They left Bede’s horse munching oats in the stable, his coat being dried and brushed, before dipping into the laundry to swap his cloak and boots. His cloak had, mercifully, kept the worst of the rain off his clothes and though the fresh outerwear wasn’t quite a bed by the fire, Bede felt himself beginning to revitalise.

The guard gestured towards one of the rectangular wooden buildings across the yard and, waiting momentarily for a break in the rain, they made a dash for it.

What Bede saw as his eyes adjusted to the candlelit space was something that he would never forget.

Row upon row of women were bent over richly decorated manuscripts that sparkled in the light of the dancing flames. There must have been fifteen, maybe twenty, of them, each working slowly and deliberately, some carefully copying text onto regularly-spaced lines while others filled the outlines of complex illustrations with vibrant coloured ink.

It was astonishing.

Bede had never seen such work done by the hands of women, yet when he stopped to think about it he thought that they were, perhaps, particularly well suited to the task, so small and delicate were their hands compared to those of his male colleagues.

A tall woman, adorned with a glittering gold and garnet cross pendant, wove her way between the desks to greet the visitor. She extended her hand in welcome.

“You must be brother Bede.” He nodded in assent. “We are so grateful to welcome you here for the task of writing the life of our beloved founder Abbess Hild. The service you are undertaking for our community is immense.”

“I am grateful for your hospitality, Abbess Æthelhild. But I must correct you: this work I’m doing is for our lord King Coelwulf, not the community here. He has asked me to write a history of the English Church and people, in which the life of Abbess Hild will feature.”

She nodded her head almost imperceptibly, and smiled softly.

“Even so, brother, we commend the work you are doing to celebrate the life of our founder. Please consider our community your home over these winter months as you study and write. Feel free to consult with any of the nuns; many of them remember Abbess Hild and have firsthand accounts of her life and death. Their testimonies will be invaluable to you, as will the archives housed in our library. My only request, dear brother, is that you respect their vows of holiness and chastity: allow me to chaperone your meetings.”

Bede felt his skin prickle as an embarrassed warmth flooded his body and flushed his cheeks. A monk since the age of seven, he had spent almost no time amongst women.

“Of course, abbess. I wouldn’t dream of…”

She placed a hand on his arm, comfortingly. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, brother.” She looked across to a young girl stood beside the door. “Sister Ælfflæd will show you to the room we have prepared for you. Please, take the afternoon to rest there and recover from your journey. Ælfflæd will arrange for any food or drink you require, and then this evening I will introduce you and your task to the nuns at dinner.” She gripped his arm once more, eyes sparkling. “This is such an exciting time for our community, Brother Bede.”

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You’ve been reading Hild’s Tale, a serialised historical fiction novel by Holly Brown.

The next instalment will be available on Thursday 28th November, exclusively on Substack. Like this first instalment, it will be free for everyone to read, but all future instalments will be for paid members only.

Not sure yet if you want to join our membership community? Here’s what you’ll unlock when you upgrade:

✅ Access monthly history-focus book club videos and discussion (we’re currently reading Storyland by Amy Jeffs over four months)

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