Across the spine of the keel the vessel’s wooden ribs were fitted, and on to them were laid overlapping planks fastened with nails. Long though the vessel’s lines were, Offa realized that with the broadening allowed for at the centre, the ship had a considerable capacity. It had only two small decks, fore and aft; otherwise it was open. It had a single mast on which a sail could be raised on a crossbar. But its real power lay in the half-dozen long oars projecting from each side.
This was the longship of the northern world. Similar vessels had brought the Saxons to the island. Elfgiva’s father lay buried on the East Anglian coast under such a one.
The cargo also intrigued Offa: fine, wheel-turned grey pottery; fifty huge jars of wine; and, for the king’s household, six crates of a strange, clear material he had never seen before. “It’s glass,” a sailor told him. In the northern lands by the Rhine they had been making wine and glass since Roman times.
In this way, for the first time, Offa received a hint of that great heritage from across the seas – the heritage his own ancestors had known, and which had once filled the empty, walled city where he liked to roam.
A few days later, however, he received a far more significant visit from the Roman world.
He had sneaked off again into the empty city and spent an hour or two on the western hill. Since he had time – perhaps a lifetime, he ruefully realized – to investigate the place, he had decided to proceed methodically, concentrating on one small site at a time, searching it thoroughly until he was sure it had yielded all its secrets, before proceeding to the next.
That afternoon, halfway up the hill on the river side he had found a promising little house with a cellar. Using an improvised shovel, he was on his hands and knees picking away at the debris when it seemed to him that, some way distant, he might have heard voices calling. Emerging, therefore, he looked up the hill.
The brow of the western hill on the river side was much barer than the rest. The tile kilns had long ago crumbled away, though there were still plenty of tile fragments sticking through the soil to attest their former presence. The little temples were only a few stumps of stone now, marking the bases of their columns. The area around formed a sort of grassy platform with a view over the river.
On this plot of ground he now saw two men, one of whom, presumably a groom, was holding their horses. The other, a shortish figure in an ankle-length black robe, was pacing about, apparently looking for something. At once, his heart filled with misgiving, Offa thought: They must have come to look for the treasure. He wondered how they had found out. He was just about to duck out of sight when the black-robed figure looked up, saw him, and pointed.
Offa cursed inwardly. What should he do now? The man was still pointing at him, and since they had horses he did not think he would be able to escape them. “Better act stupid,” he muttered, and slowly advanced.
The figure in black was the most curious man Offa had ever seen. He was not tall, and had a large, clean-shaven oval face and grey hair that, being tonsured, left the top of his head bald. He looks like an egg, thought Offa.
Indeed, as he came close, the man’s small features and tiny ears reinforced that impression. Offa could not help staring, but the man seemed unconcerned and smiled slightly.
“What is your name?” he enquired. He spoke English, as the Anglo-Saxons called their language, but with a strange accent Offa could not place.
“Offa, sir. What’s yours?” the slave boldly asked.
“Mellitus.”
Offa frowned at the curious name, then looked about.
“You are wondering what I am doing here?” the strange man enquired.
“Yes, sir.”
In answer Mellitus showed him the beginnings of an outline he was making with stones on the ground a few yards away. It looked like the foundation line for a small rectangular building of some kind. “This is where I am going to build,” he declared.
It was certainly a pleasant site, with a good view down the hill in three directions.
“Build?”
The strange man smiled again.
“Cathedralis,” he replied, using the Latin word. Seeing Offa’s look of bafflement, he explained: “A temple to the true God.”
“To Woden?” Offa asked, but the man shook his head.
“To Christ,” he answered simply.
And then Offa understood who the stranger was.
He had known, of course, everyone had been told, that a man from Canterbury was going to come there. A bishop, whatever that was. At any rate a man of great importance. Offa stared at the monk in his black habit with surprise and doubt. He’s nothing much to look at, he considered. All the same, he’d better be careful.
“What’ll you build with, sir?” he asked. He supposed he might be forced to cart a lot of timber up the hill.
“These stones,” Mellitus said, and indicated the Roman masonry and broken tiles that lay all around.
Why here? Offa wondered, but remembering that the stockmen had told him they used to sacrifice bulls in the big round space nearby, he assumed it was a religious precinct, so merely nodded politely.
“And what are you doing here?” the stranger suddenly asked.
Immediately Offa was on his guard.
“Nothing much, sir. Just looking.”
“Looking for something?” The man smiled. Offa noticed that his brown eyes, though rather soft, had a curious, perceptive light in them. “Perhaps I can help you find it,” Mellitus said gently.
What did this stranger know? Was he just, as he said, designing a building as he paced, eyes on the ground? Or did he have some other intention? Was it possible that somehow he knew about the buried gold? Was he really offering to help Offa find it, or was he trying to find out what Offa knew? Evidently, this bishop was a cunning fellow, to be treated cautiously.
“I must go to my master, sir,” Offa muttered, and started to move away, conscious that Mellitus was still watching him.
Why should the bishop have chosen this deserted citadel near an isolated trading post to build his cathedral?
The reason was simple and it lay in Rome.
When the Pope had sent the missionary Augustine to the island of Britain, he had never meant him to tarry more than briefly in Canterbury. After all, why, except for the opportunity offered by the Frankish princess, should the pontiff have more than a passing interest in the peninsula of Kent? He desired to convert the whole island. And what did he know of Britain? That it had been, until unfortunately cut off, a Roman province.
“The records are clear,” the archivists told him. “It is divided into provinces, each with a capital: York in the north, Londinium in the south. Londinium is the senior.” Consequently, when Augustine and his colleagues, reporting upon the kindness of the Kentish king and on Londinium, protested that the place was empty, the response from Rome was unequivocal: “Let the king have a bishop in Canterbury. But set up York and Londinium at once.” Roman tradition must be maintained.
This was why Bishop Mellitus now stood in the deserted ruins of Londinium. In a way, it occurred to the monk, there were advantages in the situation. It was by a growing trading post, yet set apart in this ancient and majestic place that surrounded it like a vast cloister. The site, by the old temples, was impressive. The little church to be built there would be his cathedral; its patron saint had already been chosen.
It would be called St Paul’s.
The bishop stayed at Cerdic’s hall that evening. His party was small: apart from himself there were just three servants, two young priests and an elderly noble from King Ethelbert’s court. Though Cerdic was anxious to prepare a feast for him, the missionary begged him not to.
“I am a little tired,” he confessed, “and I am anxious to continue on to the King of Essex. Next month I shall return here to preach and to baptize. After that, you may prepare a feast.” He did, however, announce that the following morning, before continuing on his way, he would say a Mass at the place where th
e new church was to be built. Until then, Cerdic begged the bishop and his party to take over his own hall for the night, while he and his family retired to the barn.
Early in the bright, sunny morning, Bishop Mellitus led his little party to the empty city. One of the young priests took with him a flask containing wine, the other a bag containing barley bread. The nobleman from King Ethelbert’s court carried a simple wooden cross about seven feet high. At the site on the hill, they stuck the cross into the ground. There, Mellitus and his two priests prepared to say a simple Mass.
Cerdic looked around him with satisfaction. It was an intimate occasion. He and King Ethelbert’s noble would receive the bread of the communion while his family watched. He felt proud to be part of such an occasion. “I’m sure I’m the only man north of the Thames to have been baptized,” he remarked to the nobleman. In due course, when the cathedral was built and ready to be dedicated, he thought it likely that the kings of Kent and of Essex would attend with their courts. Then he, too, having helped the bishop as he built it, would have a place of honour amongst them.
Only one thing had irritated him. The night before, his two eldest sons had asked him if they could be excused from the event. “Why?” he had demanded. “We wanted to go hunting,” they casually replied. He had been furious. “You will all accompany me and behave yourselves,” he thundered. And when the boys had asked him to explain what the ceremony meant, he had been so angry that he had only shouted: “Never mind what it means. You’ll show respect to your father and the king and I’ll hear no more about it.” But glancing at them now, wearing their finest cloaks, their fair hair and young beards neatly combed, he decided that, all in all, they were a credit to him, and he approached the Mass in better humour.
The service was not unduly long. Mellitus preached a brief sermon in which he dwelt on the qualities of the Saxon King of Kent and the joy that they should all feel in this place of worship. He spoke Anglo-Saxon rather well, with feeling and eloquence. Cerdic nodded approval. Then came the communion itself. The bread and wine were consecrated. The miracle of the Eucharist took place. Proudly Cerdic stepped forward with the other noble who had been baptized.
It was then that Elfgiva, understanding little of these foreign rites but thinking to please her husband who, perhaps, still loved her, urged her four sons: “Go and do as your father does.” Which, after hesitating, they reluctantly did.
So Cerdic’s four sons, blushing a little, tramped forward to where the Roman priest was serving communion and, glancing at each other uncertainly, knelt before him to receive their due. Cerdic, who was already kneeling, did not see them approach, and, not expecting them to be there, was unaware of their presence until, just after he had risen and turned to go, he heard the bishop’s voice.
“Have you been baptized?”
The four sturdy fellows looked at him mistrustfully. Mellitus repeated the question. He guessed they had not.
“What does this beardless wonder want?” muttered the youngest.
“Just give us the magic bread,” the eldest said, “like you did our father,” and he indicated Cerdic.
Mellitus stared at him. “Magic bread?”
“Yes. That’s what we want.” And one of the four, meaning no harm, reached out to grab one of the pieces the priest held in a bowl.
Mellitus drew back. Now he was angry. “You treat the Host in this way? Have you no reverence for the body and blood of Our Lord?” he cried. Then, seeing the four strong Saxon youths look utterly mystified, he turned furiously towards Cerdic and demanded in a voice that seemed to echo off the city walls: “Is this how you instruct your sons, wretched fellow? Is this how you respect your sovereign Lord?” Cerdic, thinking the bishop was referring to the king, went scarlet with shame and humiliation.
A terrible silence fell. Cerdic looked at his sons. “What are you doing here?” he enquired, through gritted teeth, of the eldest. To which the boy shrugged and, indicating his mother, “She told us to come up for the bread,” he said.
For a moment Cerdic did not move at all. He was too shocked. The truth of the matter was that not only had he failed to instruct his sons and to control his family, but that he was in fact a little uncertain about the niceties of the communion anyway. He had followed his king. He had supposed it was enough. Yet now he had been shamed before the king’s man, humiliated by this bishop, shown up as a weakling and a fool. He had never thought of himself as either. The pain was terrible. His throat felt very dry, his face red. Almost choking, he motioned to his sons to rise, which they did awkwardly. Then he walked back to where Elfgiva was standing. And as he did so, and glanced at her, it suddenly seemed to him that this was all her fault. None of this would have happened but for her obstinacy and disloyalty. Now she had sent his sons to disgrace him. If, at the back of his mind, he realized she had not done it deliberately, it no longer seemed to make any difference. It was her fault; that was the point.
Coldly, deliberately, he struck her across the face with the flat of his hand.
“I see you no longer wish to be my wife,” he said quietly. Then he strode over to his horse and rode down the hill.
A few hours later, a group of five riders came along the track from Lundenwic and, emerging from the trees, rode towards the little river now called the Fleet that lay below the Roman city’s western walls. Instead of crossing the wooden bridge, however, they went a short way upstream, dismounted, and walked down to the Fleet’s grassy riverbank, where Mellitus and his priests awaited them. There, watched by Cerdic, the four young men undressed and, at the priests’ command, jumped one by one into the freezing water.
Bishop Mellitus was merciful. He did not force any of them to stay in for more than a moment, but made the sign of the cross over each and let them hastily clamber out, shivering, to dry themselves. They had been baptized.
Cerdic watched calmly. After the disaster of the Mass it had taken all his powers to persuade the furious bishop not to leave at once. Finally, however, deeming it best for his cause, Mellitus had agreed to delay his onward journey a few hours and to perform this important ceremony for these pagan youths.
“I dare say,” he remarked with a smile to his priests, “that we shall be called upon to baptize worse fellows than these before long.”
As Cerdic saw them emerge dripping from the water, he had another reason for quiet satisfaction. The rage he had thrown at his sons when they returned to the trading post had proved effective. He had reasserted his authority. Without another word about hunting, they had gone meekly to their baptism.
Only one person was absent from the scene.
Elfgiva had remained alone in the hall, silently weeping.
By the next day, everybody knew. A groom had been sent down into Kent with a message: the master wished to claim his new bride. The Lady Elfgiva was to be cast aside. Despite the long weeks of tension between master and mistress, the entire household reeled from the shock. Yet nobody dared say a word. Cerdic went about looking silent but grim. Elfgiva, tall and very pale, moved through the days with a stately dignity that no one liked to invade. Some wondered if she would stay there in defiance of Cerdic. Others thought she would return to East Anglia.
Yet for Elfgiva the most painful aspect of the business was not the rejection, or even the humiliation of her position. It was not what had happened, but what did not happen.
For as she waited for her sons to protect her, or at least to protest, there was only silence.
True, the three eldest came to her, each in turn. They commiserated: they suggested that perhaps, if she converted, there might be a reconciliation. But even this they said without conviction. “The fact is,” she murmured to herself, as she stood staring at the river one day, “they fear their father more than they love me. And I do believe they probably love hunting slightly more than they love their own mother.”
Except for Wistan. When he had come to talk to her, the sixteen-year-old had broken down with grief. He had been so upset wi
th his father that she had had to urge him for her sake not to enrage Cerdic further by attacking him.
“But you can’t just accept this,” he protested.
“You don’t understand.”
“Well, I can’t,” he vowed, and would say no more.
Three days after this conversation, Cerdic, walking along the lane from Thorney, was not entirely surprised to see young Wistan standing in his path awaiting him.
Assuming a grim expression, the merchant walked towards him with scarcely a nod, expecting to freeze the boy into silence. But Wistan stood his ground and spoke firmly.
“Father, I must talk to you.”
“Well I don’t need to talk to you, so get out of the way.” It was said with the cold authority that made most men tremble, but bravely the boy moved to bar his path.
“It’s Mother,” he said. “You can’t treat her like this.”
Cerdic was a burly man. Not only that, he had force of character and all the tricks of authority. When he chose, he could be very frightening indeed. Now, he glowered at his son and fairly bellowed.
“That is a matter for us, not for you. Be quiet!”
“No, Father, I can’t.”
“You can and you will. Out of the way!” And using his far greater weight he knocked the boy aside and strode furiously down the lane, his eyes blazing with fury.
But that boy’s the best of the lot, he thought to himself secretly as he marched along.
It did not change his view about Elfgiva, however.
Four days after he had left, the groom Cerdic had sent to Kent returned with the reply from the girl’s father. Cerdic’s new bride would be delivered to him at Bocton, two weeks after the midwinter feast of Yule.
It had always been the habit of Cerdic and Elfgiva to return to the Bocton estate well before the great Saxon Yuletide celebrations, but on receiving this news, the merchant announced briefly: “I shall celebrate Yule here at Lundenwic. Then I shall go to Bocton for the rest of the winter.” The signal was clear. The old regime was to end. A new one was to begin.