London - Edward Rutherfurd [59]
For in the year of Our Lord 597, the monk Augustine had been sent by the Pope to convert the Anglo-Saxons to the true faith. His mission had taken him straight to Canterbury, in the south-eastern peninsula of Kent.
It was certainly a convenient place. Situated at the centre of the peninsula’s tip on a small hill, Canterbury had since Roman times acted as a hub to which the Kentish ports like Dover – which lay only twenty miles across the Channel from the European Continent – were all connected. Coming from Europe, Canterbury was the first place of significance a traveller reached. Far more important than its geography, however, was that good King Ethelbert of Kent, whose principal residence this was, had married a Frankish princess, and her people had already been converted. It was the presence of this Christian queen that really drew the Church to Canterbury and gave it its opportunity. In those times the rule of conversion was simple: “Convert the king. The rest will follow.”
“And you, my good Cerdic, I know I can trust absolutely.” Only yesterday, the grey-bearded King Ethelbert had put his hand on his shoulder whilst Queen Bertha had smiled approvingly. Of course they could trust him. Hadn’t his ancestors been loyal companions of the first Kentish kings? Hadn’t King Ethelbert given rings – the most intimate token between a lord and his men – to his own father? “We are always so glad to see you,” the queen had said, “at our court at Canterbury.”
The court of the Kentish king was, by the standards of ancient times, a rustic little place. Where once, in the days of Rome, the provincial town had had a small forum, temple, baths and other buildings in stone, there now stood a large stockaded enclosure, in the centre of which was a long, barn-like building with timber walls and a high thatched roof. This was King Ethelbert’s hall. A short distance away, however, was another, simple enclosure, and in the centre of this stood an altogether more remarkable building. For although it, too, seemed little more than a barn and was smaller than the king’s hall, it was built in stone.
Canterbury’s cathedral was built by the monk Augustine himself. It was possibly the only stone building in Anglo-Saxon England at the time. Primitive though it surely was, in these first few years of its existence this little building marked a turning point in the island’s history.
“And now we have Canterbury as a base,” the queen had said eagerly, “the missionary work can really begin.” And she smiled at her husband.
“You see,” the king explained, “your position makes you particularly useful.” The plan for the rest of the island, Cerdic had now discovered, was ambitious. The missionaries planned to strike right up the east coast to the north. Their first goal, however, was to secure both banks of the Thames Estuary, which meant, after Kent, converting the Saxon King of Essex. “He’s my nephew,” King Ethelbert explained, “and he’s agreed to convert out of respect for me. But,” he made a wry face, “some of his followers may be more difficult.” He fixed his eyes firmly on Cerdic. “You’re a loyal man of Kent,” he went on, “but you trade from Lundenwic, which is on the north shore, part of my nephew’s kingdom, technically. I want you to give the missionaries every help you can.”
Cerdic nodded. “Of course.”
“There’s to be a bishop there, you see. And a new cathedral,” Queen Bertha added enthusiastically. “We shall tell the new bishop to rely on you.”
Cerdic bowed. Then, thinking of the various residences of the Essex king, enquired: “But where does this bishop plan to build his church?” Only to find the king laughing.
“My dear friend, I see you haven’t understood.” He smiled, but with a serious look in his eyes. “The cathedral is going to be at Lundenwic.”
It was late afternoon when Cerdic arrived at his destination for that day. Since leaving Canterbury