London - Edward Rutherfurd [71]
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