London - Edward Rutherfurd [77]
“Now it’s you who’s gone mad,” he cried.
“But it would work,” the girl insisted. “I’m sure of it. Just so long as we get it right.” She smiled. “Think of all she’s done for us. Anyway, what’ve we got to lose?”
“Everything,” he replied.
The rider from King Ethelbert of Kent took them by surprise; his message even irritated Cerdic somewhat.
“Bishop Mellitus is returning, as he promised, to preach,” the messenger declared. “You are to gather all the folk from round about to hear him.”
“At Yuletide?” the merchant cried. “Why come at Yule of all seasons?”
But he did as he was asked, and when, two days later, the bishop and a party of ten priests and two dozen noblemen of Kent appeared, Cerdic had assembled a goodly company of some hundred people from the hamlets along the river to meet them.
“Today is Saturday,” Mellitus announced. “Tomorrow I shall preach and then baptize.”
The rest of that day was spent in feverish activity. Accommodation had to be readied for all the company. There was hardly a yard of floorspace in any of the outbuildings that would not be covered with a straw bed or a blanket. Everyone was hard at work, including Elfgiva, who was directing the household exactly as she had always done, so that more than once Cerdic glanced at her with quiet admiration. Great sides of beef were brought in from the stores. And when, during these proceedings young Wistan somehow miraculously appeared, hard at work, Cerdic decided to ignore it.
Only one ripple might have disturbed this pleasant scene. This was when, not unnaturally, some of the monks began to look askance at what was clearly going to be considerable feasting, both in the austere, pre-Christmas season of Advent, and on the Sabbath eve. But Mellitus, smiling, told them: “This is not the time to worry about that.” Then, scandalizing one or two still more, he remarked: “I for one shall eat a hearty meal tonight with our Saxon friends.”
And so he did.
Towards noon on that Saturday, accompanied by some hundred and fifty people, Bishop Mellitus entered the empty city and walked up the hill to the site of his future cathedral of St Paul’s. He brought with him no communion bread, but to aid him in his work he did bring one remarkable object, which was carried before him.
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