New Faith, Old Foes, and a Deadly Obsession

Bertha's Tale: A Novel | Episode 19

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Bertha’s Voice. 
c. A.D. 597. 
Canterbury, Kent.

Bishop Liudhard died the winter following Æthelberht’s conversion. My confidante, closest ally, friend even at times, I’d come to depend on him more than anyone else during my separation from Æthelberht. He’d been an old man already when we’d crossed the Channel almost two decades prior, so I guess it should have come as no surprise that he would die at some point. But, like my father-in-law had been, he had come to be such a sure and constant presence in my life that I couldn’t ever have imagined him not being there.

Until he wasn’t.

He’d slipped away in his sleep, apparently, as is often the way of the elderly in the cold. Even in the depths of this winter, he hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of furs or a hot stone at the end of his bed. I guess he’d always been the same, as long as I’d known him, though it pained me to imagine him shivering away in the middle of the night, thinking he was drifting off to sleep only to awaken with the Lord.

At least he was now with the Lord, freed from the burden of his earthly travails. I spent much of that first week after hearing the news on my knees in the chapel he’d made his own, pleading with God to have mercy on his soul and grant him eternal rest. He’d earned it, surely; he’d brought Christianity to this kingdom that had long forgotten the faith of its ancestors.

Daily prayers, though, became weekly prayers, and even those eventually became monthly as we moved on with the journey of our own lives. Such is the way, isn’t it? We grieve, we mourn; our hearts burn for those we have lost; and then slowly, but surely, we find we are able to pick ourselves up again, engage in those things we had once found such joy in. Even with the hole left by our loved one’s absence.

And then, eventually, though the pain of the loss never entirely goes away, our lives start up once more.

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Æthelberht looked up from the papers spread across the table, a hint of frustration in his eyes. He rubbed his brow, swigged a mouthful of wine, and forced a smile. As much as his conversion had brought about my own restoration to the throne, and to his bed, Æthelberht’s newfound passion for theology and ecclesiology meant I almost spent more time alone than I had when we’d been estranged. He and Augustine spent hours locked in discussions about the future of his mission in these islands, often at night, so I invariably ended each day alone.

“Come to bed, my love.” I stood in the doorway, leaning against the heavy wooden frame. Though I’d wanted to approach him seductively only in my linen shift, sure to tempt him away from his plans, the cold’s bite had forced me to wrap a heavy woollen blanket about my shoulders. I pulled it tighter around me, arms crossed beneath. I doubted the baggy knitted socks added much allure to my look.

Æthelberht rested heavily on his hands, leaning over the table. Eyes darting from page to page, he seemed lost, frightened almost. Like a deer the moment it sees the archer, and knows it is caught before the arrow is released.

“I can’t, Bertha. There’s too much to do.”

I walked across to him, reaching across the table to place a hand on his. “It can wait.”

He pulled his hand away roughly. “It won’t wait. You don’t understand. It’s too big a problem, too much. I can’t work it out.”

“I do understand.” My arms retreated under my blanket. “I just want the company of my husband in my bed this evening.”