It was a large wooden cross. It was certainly striking just in its size, for planted in the ground it stood some twelve feet high, lending a dignity to the hillside scene as great as in any church. What was truly remarkable about the cross, however, was the magnificent carving upon it.
In the centre of the cross, his arms stretched out flatly, the figure of the crucified Christ gazed out with hollowed eyes that somehow conveyed to the onlooker both the Roman hierarchy of heaven and hell and the grim Norse sense of fate. But what really caught the attention of the Saxons gathered there was the rest of the workmanship. For on every spare inch around the figure of the Saviour were, wonderfully carved, all the geometric plants, birds, animals and beautiful interlaced designs that had long been the glory of their Anglo-Saxon art, and which from now on, joined to the Continental, Christian figures and symbols, would be the glory of the Anglo-Saxon Church.
This was another great rule of the missionaries: “Do not destroy what is already entrenched. Absorb it.”
Which was precisely why the good Bishop Mellitus had come to Lundenwic on the Saxon feast of Yuletide. Centuries ago, had not the Christian Church done its best to convert Rome’s pagan, sometimes obscene, midwinter festival of Saturnalia into a more spiritual Christian festival? Had not, somehow, the birthday of the Persian god Mithras – 25 December – been converted to the birthday of the Christian Lord?
“If the Anglo-Saxons like Yuletide,” Mellitus had explained to his monks, “then Yuletide must become Christian.”
Now, standing before his Saxon wooden cross, Bishop Mellitus surveyed the congregation gathered before him.
Everyone was there. Farmers, stockmen, even Offa and Ricola, and the Lady Elfgiva had all come. Uncertain at the last minute who to leave behind to guard them, Cerdic had also ordered the captive slaves from the north to be brought and tethered at the back of the crowd.
These simple folk then, nearly all pagans, were to be his flock. They would come, perhaps, from time to time to the little stone cathedral he would build in the middle of this deserted citadel. He must love them and cherish them and, if God gave him grace, even inspire them.
The missionary bishop was a realist but also a man of faith. As he always told his priests: “Our Lord saved the world. You must learn to accept a humbler role. If, when you preach, you save a single soul, you will have done well.” As he gazed out at the rustic crowd, the bishop smiled to himself. “Which of these souls shall we save?” he murmured. “Only you, Lord, could even guess.”
Offa watched with fascination. The service was not long. The ten priests sang psalms and other responses in Latin, so that Offa had no idea what they were about. The singing was strangely nasal, though it had a melancholy, haunting quality amongst the cold grey ruins. Growing a little bored, the young fellow might have stolen away before the end had it not been for his sudden curiosity when the bishop with the head like an egg began to address the little crowd not in Latin, but in Anglo-Saxon English.
And what English. As Mellitus got under way, young Offa was amazed. He remembered from their meeting that the strange priest spoke the island tongue, but this was astonishing. He must have been studying with the poets who sing to the king, he thought.
Anglo-Saxon English was a language of tremendous richness. Its vowels, which could be mixed together in many ways, gave it subtle moods and echoing tones. Its Germanic consonants could declaim or whisper, crack and crunch. Even in formal verse, the lines varied their stresses and length, falling into the natural rhythm of the scene the poet wished to evoke. It was the tongue of Nordic sagas and of men who lived by the sea, river, and forest. When poets recited, their listeners could almost feel the swinging axe, see heroes fall, sense the deer in the thicket, or hear the singing saw of the swans’ wings over the water. Above all, the art of the poet lay not in rhyme but in the clever use of alliteration, to which this strong tongue so obviously lent itself, searching its riches for an endless supply of evocative repetitions.
And this the preacher had already begun to master. How simply and sweetly he spoke. He talked of the coming of the Lord upon the Earth: this man god who, it seemed, had opened the way for mankind to enter the wonderful place he called heaven. Not only heroes who had died in battle, not only kings and nobles, but poor men, women and children, even slaves like himself, young Offa discovered. It was astounding.
And who was this Lord? He was a hero, yet more than a hero, Mellitus explained. He was like Frey, the priest said, only greater. And he was born in winter, in this very season. Born in midwinter, but bringing promise of a new spring, an everlasting life to come.
Offa knew about Frey. This was a handsome young god of the Anglo-Saxons, kindly and loved by all. Fervently, using these Anglo-Saxon terms, the bishop declared: “The Frey of mankind, this young hero was God Almighty. It is He who washes our sins away with water, the laver of life.” This Frey, then, the one they called Christ, had been sacrificed upon a cross – a rood as the Anglo-Saxons called it.
“Reared up on the Rood, He rose again,” the preacher cried out. “He sacrificed Himself for our sins, and gave to us life everlasting.” How wonderful it sounded. Mellitus was doing his work well.
Why had this Frey been raised upon a cross? Offa was not sure. But the spirit of the preacher’s words was clear. Somehow this young god had given himself for them all. It was strange but wonderful. For the first time in his life Offa had a sense that fate itself, the grim, unknowable Wyrd, might instead be something reassuring, happy. It produced in him a feeling of ineffable joy that made him tremble.
And – this was the message of the bishop that day – if Christ could lay down His life for men, how much more should they be ready to sacrifice themselves, to be reconciled one with another, in order to be worthy of Him? “There is no place for unkindness, for obstinacy, for ill will amongst us,” he said. “If you have quarrelled with your neighbour, your servant or your wife, go now and make amends. Forgive them and beg their pardon in turn. Do not think of yourself. Be ready to sacrifice your own desires. For the Lord has promised us, He will protect us, He will lead us through even the darkness of death so long, only, as we believe in His name.” And in the manner of the Anglo-Saxon poetry that was its inspiration, he ended his sermon resoundingly:
High on the hill in sight of heaven,
Our Lord was led and lifted up.
That willing warrior came while the world wept;
And a terrible shadow shaded the sun.
For us He was broken and gave us His blood
King of all creation Christ on the Rood.
For a moment the little crowd, spellbound, was silent. Then there was a gentle murmur almost like a sigh. The Roman priest had touched them.
Offa stared in wonder. Those words about reconciliation and forgiveness – didn’t they refer to Cerdic and his wife? As for the rest, the promise of heaven, the demand for sacrifice, to his astonishment it seemed to the young fellow that in some way he did not yet understand, they were meant for him. Flushed with emotion, still half trembling, he stayed there until the service was over.
Now the bishop led his flock to be baptized, not, this time, to the Fleet outside the wall, but to the little brook that ran down between the city’s two hills. They were all invited to come forward, and under Cerdic’s stern eye his entire household did so. Offa and Ricola and even the rather puzzled northern slaves stepped into the little stream, watched with satisfaction by those already dripping from this brief ordeal. Cerdic, his sons and the noblemen from Kent, already Christian, looked on with a sense of duty performed.
It was at the very end of this process that Cerdic’s stern look fell upon Elfgiva.
In truth, she was not at this moment sure what she wished to do, for like Offa, and despite all her resistance, she had found herself strangely touched. The bishop, though he did not know it, had spoken directly to her heart. Was there really a hope greater than that offered by the bleak, harsh gods of her Nordic heritage? Was it pos
sible that the great destiny behind the skies might be suffused with a love that could comfort sufferers such as she? Had she been alone, had Cerdic not been watching her, she might have stepped forward with the rest. But his eyes were upon her, hard and unyielding as ever. She hesitated. All he wants, she thought, is surrender.
Bishop Mellitus was coming up from the stream now, straight towards her. He glanced up, saw her hesitation, saw her husband’s grim face and, remembering the unhappy scene he had witnessed between them some weeks before, went quietly to her side and beckoned Cerdic to him.
“You wish to be baptized?” he gently enquired of Elfgiva.
“My husband wishes it.”
Mellitus smiled, then turning to Cerdic he announced: “I shall baptize your wife, my friend, when she comes to me with a good heart. When she desires it – as I hope she will – and not before.” With more firmness, he added: “You must show Christian charity, Cerdic. Then she will obey you willingly.”
And hoping that by this show of understanding he might have improved things between them, he turned back to his duties.
Cerdic begged Mellitus to rest at Lundenwic until the next day, but although it was the Sabbath, the bishop was anxious to continue on his way. “Some of the brethren await us in Essex tonight,” he explained. “A good ride from here.” Soon afterwards, he and his party were riding across the city, taking the track that led to the eastern gate. Meanwhile, Cerdic and the others slowly made their way back along the pathway to Lundenwic, with Offa bringing up the rear.
Towards evening it grew a little warmer. After the preacher’s moving words, a certain quietness descended on the settlement. It seemed to young Offa that men and women alike were walking about with a softness in their expressions. That night he fully expected his master, his heart opened, to comfort and be reconciled with his wife. But though he was sure that the merchant had been no less affected than the others, Offa saw that Cerdic still went off to sleep in another of the huts, leaving Elfgiva alone.
So it was that, late at night as he lay in Ricola’s arms, Offa, still profoundly moved by the day’s events, murmured to his wife: “I was thinking about the master and mistress.”
“Yes.”
“We owe her so much. I mean, she saved our lives.”
“That’s right.”
“It’s such a shame. If only we could do something.”
“Like what I said the other day? Is that what you mean?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
While her husband slept, Ricola lay awake, thinking, for a long time.
The main feast of Yuletide fell on the eve of the year’s shortest day, two days after Mellitus had left.
The eve of the shortest day, the year’s midnight. How brief the hours of daylight seemed. Grey clouds came in from the west, closing over the river like a blanket. As the men set up the trestle tables in the hall and banked up the fire, they all agreed that there would be a blizzard before the feast was done. Indeed, by midday the western sky had taken on that orange tinge that signals the coming of snow.
Ricola was busy. She baked bread, made the oatcakes, and helped the two women turn the great haunches of venison over the fire. How good the meat smelled as it slowly hissed and the smoke rose into the thatch. But all the time she was doing these things, the girl was thinking about her plan. And the more she did so, the more she told herself it would work, whether Offa believed her or not.
The plan that Ricola had formed, and which had so horrified her husband, rested on two very simple assumptions. The first, that she knew men. The second, that she understood her mistress.
“It’s this way,” she had explained to Offa. “I’ve watched her. She can’t make up her mind. She thought she’d lost him; now she knows she could have him back. She wants to give in, but she’s so afraid of losing him again that she can’t bring herself to make the move. And he won’t either because . . .” She searched her mind for the reason, was not sure if she saw all the possibilities, and settled on: “Because he’s a man.” Then she grinned. “You know what she’s like?” She stood up and gave a wonderful imitation of a woman teetering on a riverbank, unable to make up her mind whether to jump into the stream. “That’s how she is,” the girl concluded. “She’s so close. All she needs is a little push.” She smiled at him again. “Just one little push, Offa. That’s all.”
“And who’s going to do that?” he had asked.
“We are,” she had replied, almost severely.
Now, it seemed, was time to do it.
“I understand her,” Ricola had claimed again. “And as for him, that’ll be easy enough.”
“But if it goes too far. If it doesn’t work . . .” The possibilities were horrifying.
“It will,” she promised. “Just do as I say.”
There were about a dozen guests at the feast. They had gladly come to Lundenwic, to Cerdic’s generous table.
In the hall, many lamps were lit. The long table was crowded. Even the household slaves – Offa, Ricola and four others – had been allowed in to join the festivities. All around were merry faces flushed with ale. One of the stockmen had just given the company a song. As the light faded, a few tiny flakes of snow had fallen, lying like a powdery frosting upon the thatched roof before slowly dissolving. The sky was still orange.
Offa was still nervous. All the time, Ricola’s words kept echoing in his ears.
“It’s nothing, silly. He’s just been giving me the eye recently. It’s only natural. But we can use that. Don’t you see?”
Was his wife right? The dangers seemed so terrible to him, but Ricola had been reassuring: “She’s my friend. She won’t be angry with me. If we do nothing and the mistress gets sent away, where does that leave us? Out with her, or worse.”
Until the sermon, he had refused to think about it. Even now, he could not quite say why he had changed his mind. Had it been a sense that they should take a risk for this woman to whom they owed their lives? Or had it been something more general, a feeling he had taken from the preacher that somehow, thanks to this wonderful new god, everything would be all right? Only believe in His name, the preacher had said. He believed. He was sure he did. The Frey would protect them.
But now he was beginning to wonder again. He tried to put such thoughts away. Gradually, as the warmth from the venison and the thick, spicy ale spread pleasantly inside him, he began to feel that, after all, Ricola was right. There would be a fleeting incident. If it worked, well and good; if not, no harm would be done. He reached for the wooden beaker before him and drank some more ale.
The master, too, was eating and drinking well. He seemed content, if watchful. Elfgiva, wearing a fine gold band around her neck and looking, it seemed to Offa, as beautiful as any of the younger women, was graciously serving her guests with mead and ale. Everyone thanked her and raised their beakers to their host, swearing oaths of friendship and loyalty. Everything appeared as it should.
More than once, Offa noticed, Cerdic, flushed with warm mead, looked across at Elfgiva. Just let her look back at him, Offa silently prayed. One little look of surrender was all that was needed. If she would just give in that night, Ricola’s charade would be unnecessary and they could all go to their beds happy.
But though Elfgiva played her part she gave Cerdic no sign, and his face darkened. Other men would be with their wives that night, but not, it seemed, the merchant. Offa sighed. The plan would go ahead. As the feast wore on, he thought about it numbly.
It was almost the end of the feast when Ricola made her move.
People were drifting in and out. Men who had drunk a quantity of ale would step briefly outside. Already one or two couples, red-faced and well fed, had staggered off, not to return. When Cerdic went outside, and Ricola and Offa slipped out after him, nobody even noticed.
A short time later, Cerdic, returning, noticed the slave girl standing alone by the door of her hut. A faint light from the lamp inside showed her outline in the darkness; it als
o caught her short, fair hair, giving it a strange glow. She’s a pretty little thing, the merchant thought. The woollen shawl she was wearing round her shoulders had slipped, revealing the top of her breasts, which were small but well formed. If she was cold, she did not seem to notice it. Cerdic paused.
“Where’s your husband?”
She gave him a smile and nodded towards the hut.
“Sleeping. He’ll sober up tomorrow.”
He grinned. “All alone tonight then?”
She glanced up at him, pausing for just a fraction of a second before answering, “Looks like it.”
He began to turn away, but then did not. He looked at her thoughtfully. He felt a warmth stirring inside him. Other men were sleeping with their women that night, yet the master of the house would sleep alone.
Why should he?
The plan was simple enough. Crude, even. But not entirely stupid.
“All we need to do is let her see him coming after me. Nothing more.”
“Then she’ll blame you,” Offa had protested.
“No.” Ricola had shaken her head. “Not if we do it right. He’ll be wanting a woman. She’ll know that. I’ll be looking frightened because he’s the master and I don’t know what to do. You go and get her. Say I sent you, like I’m asking for help.”
“She’ll be angry with him.”
“Maybe. But he’s still her man. She isn’t going to have him sleeping with her own slave right in front of her. She’ll put a stop to that quickly, and there’s only one way a woman can do that.”
“So she’ll just take him off to bed herself?”
“She knows she can have him. This time she has to decide: take him or he grabs another woman. Move or not. On the spot. She’s his wife. If she’s half a woman, she’s got to make a move. After all,” Ricola wisely added, “if she was really ready to let him go, she wouldn’t still be here now.” This was the plan. The little push Elfgiva needed.
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