London - Edward Rutherfurd [69]
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