* * * *
On a cold day in February of the year 670 King Oswy took ill and called Wilfrid, Etheldreda and Egfrid to Bamburgh.
They took the road to the north together, travelling over bleak and icy moors, the snowdrifts sometimes so deep that they were forced to spend several days and nights in whatever shelter they could find.
One night just as a blizzard looked as though it were setting in, they came upon a village huddled against the lee of a hill.
‘We have to take shelter,’ Wilfrid said, ‘whether we like the conditions or not.’
Etheldreda at once dismounted, thankful to see the smoke drifting up through the thatch. Although she was clad in fur from top to toe her face was exposed, her cheeks were stinging and her nose seemed as though it would never feel like living flesh again.
Eg
