times she ‘knew’ that her way was not the way of the flesh, but the hard, bright way of spirit, and that the only way to it was through self-denial.
Heregyth had found her crying in the night more than once, but the princess would never tell her what she was crying about.
The winter deepened.
The winds off the marshes were sweeping and bitter. Snow flurried through the grey air and lay on the hard icy ground.
Etheldreda told Hilda about an Irish monk called Fursey who had visited them when she was a child and how he had such control over his body that he no longer felt pain or cold. [3] Hilda was intrigued and at once suggested that they should start training their bodies in the same way. They started by leaving their fur capes off when they went for brisk walks across the crackling snow fields, and gradually reduced their garments and their comforts until they were sleeping on the hard floor of their bed chambers with barely a covering on the wildest nights. By Christmas they were both ill with the coughing fever and unable to take their place in chapel or hall.
When King Anna heard from Heregyth what they had been doing he was very angry. He stormed in to see Etheldreda and strode up and down her small room almost too angry to speak.
She felt terrible. Her eyes were streaming, her throat was so sore she could barely swallow, and her chest was burning and aching. She was sure she was about to die. She told herself that she ought to be glad that she would soon be in God’s beautiful kingdom untrammelled by physical limitations, but she found herself longing to stay alive; there were so many things she still wanted to do, so many places she still wanted to see. Memory of the spring with its flowers and its bees haunted her.
Bishop Felix, himself not well, made the journey through blizzard and storm to spend Christmas with the king, and to see the two princesses.
‘If you are going to follow Fursey,’ he said as he sat beside Etheldreda’s bed, ‘it will take you much longer than one winter. It is not just a matter of leaving off robes and exposing yourself to the elements. Fursey trained himself day and night with rigorous disciplines for years – but even then it was the strength of his spirit that gave him control.’
Etheldreda sighed. Was there no easy way?
Bishop Felix laid his hand upon her aching head.
‘Sleep my child. You always were one to try to go too fast.’ He thought back on the years when she was at his school, and how she had insisted on learning everything as fast as she could. More than once he had given in to her wish to join a class that was beyond her, because of her eagerness. He had loved her for her enthusiasm and joy, and he blamed himself that he had allowed himself to be so charmed by it that he had neglected to teach her enough self-discipline.
He shut his own eyes, still resting his hand on her feverish head. Suddenly he had a strange sensation, as though he were touching a ball of light instead of a head of bone and flesh. He took his hand away quickly and opened his eyes.
There was no ball of light, but the impression had been so strong he crossed himself and, before he left, he knelt down on the dusty floor beside her in all his grand robes, and put his own head against her hand.
She looked at him with surprise, and then drifted peacefully off to sleep, the fever gone.
In the spring when Hilda was making her final preparations to go to France she received a letter from Bishop Aidan of Lindisfarne.
He wrote most persuasively that Hilda should not go to France, but return to her own country to take her vows there and to found a little community of companions on the north bank of the River Wear. He spoke of the need for such communities in Britain and regretted that so many sons and daughters sought the holy life in other countries, neglecting their own.
‘Sometimes it is more difficult to work amongst those we know, but sometimes it is necessary. If all who feel the
Heregyth had found her crying in the night more than once, but the princess would never tell her what she was crying about.
The winter deepened.
The winds off the marshes were sweeping and bitter. Snow flurried through the grey air and lay on the hard icy ground.
Etheldreda told Hilda about an Irish monk called Fursey who had visited them when she was a child and how he had such control over his body that he no longer felt pain or cold. [3] Hilda was intrigued and at once suggested that they should start training their bodies in the same way. They started by leaving their fur capes off when they went for brisk walks across the crackling snow fields, and gradually reduced their garments and their comforts until they were sleeping on the hard floor of their bed chambers with barely a covering on the wildest nights. By Christmas they were both ill with the coughing fever and unable to take their place in chapel or hall.
When King Anna heard from Heregyth what they had been doing he was very angry. He stormed in to see Etheldreda and strode up and down her small room almost too angry to speak.
She felt terrible. Her eyes were streaming, her throat was so sore she could barely swallow, and her chest was burning and aching. She was sure she was about to die. She told herself that she ought to be glad that she would soon be in God’s beautiful kingdom untrammelled by physical limitations, but she found herself longing to stay alive; there were so many things she still wanted to do, so many places she still wanted to see. Memory of the spring with its flowers and its bees haunted her.
Bishop Felix, himself not well, made the journey through blizzard and storm to spend Christmas with the king, and to see the two princesses.
‘If you are going to follow Fursey,’ he said as he sat beside Etheldreda’s bed, ‘it will take you much longer than one winter. It is not just a matter of leaving off robes and exposing yourself to the elements. Fursey trained himself day and night with rigorous disciplines for years – but even then it was the strength of his spirit that gave him control.’
Etheldreda sighed. Was there no easy way?
Bishop Felix laid his hand upon her aching head.
‘Sleep my child. You always were one to try to go too fast.’ He thought back on the years when she was at his school, and how she had insisted on learning everything as fast as she could. More than once he had given in to her wish to join a class that was beyond her, because of her eagerness. He had loved her for her enthusiasm and joy, and he blamed himself that he had allowed himself to be so charmed by it that he had neglected to teach her enough self-discipline.
He shut his own eyes, still resting his hand on her feverish head. Suddenly he had a strange sensation, as though he were touching a ball of light instead of a head of bone and flesh. He took his hand away quickly and opened his eyes.
There was no ball of light, but the impression had been so strong he crossed himself and, before he left, he knelt down on the dusty floor beside her in all his grand robes, and put his own head against her hand.
She looked at him with surprise, and then drifted peacefully off to sleep, the fever gone.
In the spring when Hilda was making her final preparations to go to France she received a letter from Bishop Aidan of Lindisfarne.
He wrote most persuasively that Hilda should not go to France, but return to her own country to take her vows there and to found a little community of companions on the north bank of the River Wear. He spoke of the need for such communities in Britain and regretted that so many sons and daughters sought the holy life in other countries, neglecting their own.
‘Sometimes it is more difficult to work amongst those we know, but sometimes it is necessary. If all who feel the
Similar Books
