The Princess's Rebellion: Her Quest and the Crushing Reality

Bertha's Tale: A Novel - episode 15

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Bertha’s voice 
c. A.D. 581-2 
Canterbury, Kent

Leaping uneasily from one foot to another, I find I have to be careful to avoid flooded potholes and wheel ruts as I rush to meet the bishop. One misstep would render my shoes drenched and my feet frozen; I do not want to become like the men who proudly parade their missing digits in the feasting hall. Ingunda has carefully wrapped layer upon layer of wool and linen inside my leather shoes, so much so that it is a struggle to move my feet freely, but I am grateful for the insulation. My nose pink and fingers even pinker, I arrive at the church adorned with tiny white snowflakes.

I am not the only one here, though the bishop makes a point of greeting me personally. The small congregation huddle together as close as their stools will allow; Ingunda and I are no different as we sit between them and the altar. She has had the sense to bring a blanket, which she wraps around both of our shoulders, and we pull our hands deeper into our sleeves, clenching our fists inside our woollen mittens. Though the hearth stings our extremities, the chill of this winter is like no other.

As the bishop leads us through the liturgy, I wonder if any apart from my friend and I understand his words. It is so quaint and antiquated, the way he speaks in a tongue native to a land far away. His voice skips deftly from song to prose and it is beautiful to listen to – but listen is all that most can do. So much richness is lost in the foreignness of his words; perhaps their grandparents or great-grandparents would have understood something, but not anymore. Not now. I make a mental note to ask the bishop whether something could be done about this.

The time comes to turn to the Lord ourselves, the bishop’s actions making clear to all what we should do. Worn smooth by the praying of countless before me, the flagstones are cold and hard. I lift my mind to my Father in heaven, unburdening myself of the heartache I have suffered these past months. He already knows, of course; I have told him many, many times. And yet he does not seem to be removing this pain, this suffering. It seems pleasing to him that I must endure yet more, as my husband continues to parade his other wife and their children as though I do not exist. I do, of course, exist; and I daresay that he owes much of his family’s elevated status to his marriage with me. I find myself begging God for relief, for wisdom, to be released from these trials.

It is hard to focus through the dull ache in my knees, and I find myself longing for the little cushions we had in our chapel back home. I think of home a lot nowadays, though it has been over a year since I crossed the Channel. I have received a handful of letters from those I love most, separated by months though arriving with the same emissary, keeping me up to date on all the news from the Frankish court. Relief pours over me each time I open them. Sometimes, I even carry them in my pockets, like some talisman of safety I can touch when distress washes over me. I have them here today, though the bishop would probably prescribe me a penance if he knew of the talisman’s existence. A tiny smile creeps across my face as I picture them tucked safely in my pocket.

As I shift uneasily, willing the bishop to rise from his prostration and so signal that we can return to our stools, an idea comes to me with such startling clarity that my eyes snap open. It is as if everything has suddenly been made very plain to me. The answers I have been looking for, sent from heaven like a bolt from a bow, piercing my frozen body with a satisfying warmth.

Of course, I whisper internally.