As the household adjusted to this information, a change of mood began to take place at the trading post. At first it was almost imperceptible, but as the days went by there was no mistaking it.
Elfgiva was still there. Technically, since Cerdic had not yet sent her away, she was still his wife. However, in some indefinable way, people started to behave as though she had already left. If she gave an order, for instance, it would be politely obeyed, but something in the other person’s eyes would tell her that the servant was already thinking about how to please the new mistress. “It’s as though I’ve become a guest in my own home,” she murmured to herself. And then, with bitter irony: “One who’s starting to stay too long.”
Yet if everybody else was wondering when she would leave, she herself had still to make up her mind about what to do. She had a brother in East Anglia. But I haven’t seen him for years, she reminded herself. There were some distant kinsfolk living in a village a few miles from her childhood home. Could she go there? “Surely Cerdic can’t just send me out into the forest?” she cried. For the moment, though she hardly realized it, a strange lassitude crept over her. I’ll decide before Yuletide, she told herself. And did nothing.
Cerdic, too, said nothing. She did not know what he wanted nor how he meant to provide for her. He merely left her, still his wife in name, in a kind of limbo.
Ricola found that she was often with her mistress now. Although Elfgiva was usually reticent and dignified, occasionally, in her loneliness, she stooped to sharing a confidence with the slave girl. Ricola was certain the rift between Cerdic and his wife was complete. “The master’s not sleeping with her any more,” she told Offa. “I’m sure of that.” She braided and brushed Elfgiva’s hair with a secret tenderness. And once, after Elfgiva confided that she hadn’t decided where to go yet, she cautiously asked: “If the master means you to leave, Lady Elfgiva, then why hasn’t he made arrangements about it?”
“It’s quite simple,” the older woman explained with a sad smile. “I know my husband. He’s a cautious merchant. He’ll divorce me as soon as he has the new girl in his hands. Not before. He’ll wait until then.”
“I’d just leave,” Ricola blurted out. To which the older woman said nothing.
But this uncertainty left one problem which Offa brought up with Ricola one night. “If she’s sent away,” he demanded, “what do you think will happen to us? You and me?” He looked perplexed. “She bought us. Does that mean we go with her?”
“I should hope so,” the girl cried indignantly, surprising herself by the strength of her feeling. “She saved my life,” she added, to explain her vehemence. And then, staring at Offa she asked: “Don’t you want to stay with her?”
At first Offa could only reply by looking puzzled. Where would Elfgiva take them? He thought of the dark Essex forest; he had no wish to go back there. He thought of what little he knew about the huge cold openness of East Anglia. And he thought of the rich, lush valley of the Thames, and of the empty city with its hoard of gold.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I don’t know at all.”
As the days passed, there were two events in Ricola’s life that she did not discuss with anyone. The first concerned the merchant.
It was just a week after the baptism of his sons that he first looked at Ricola. It was nothing much. She had been emerging from the main house, stooping under the heavy thatch of the little doorway just as he strode up from the jetty. She had passed close to him, and he had looked at her.
She was neither surprised nor shocked. She was sensual; she accepted sensuality. He hasn’t had a woman in a week, she thought, and passed on. Nor did it worry her too much when it happened the next day. Better keep clear of him, she decided, and better not tell Offa, she added to herself with a grin.
The second event was more pleasant. At the end of Blodmonath, she realized she might be pregnant. But I’ll wait another month, just to be sure, she thought contentedly. Though she did wonder now, a little anxiously, where and how they would be living when the child was born.
Offa continued to do all he could to please the master. He also managed to sneak off once or twice to the empty city, where, having fashioned himself a little pick and shovel, he burrowed into places that seemed promising. It was after returning from one of these secret expeditions one evening that he witnessed the arrival of a new cargo at the trading post.
There were half a dozen slaves. A tough, ugly-looking merchant was leading them along, but Cerdic greeted him civilly enough. “You come late in the year,” he remarked.
The men were fine, dark-haired fellows tied to a rope. Their cropped hair and depressed looks proclaimed their new condition. “The King of Northumbria raided the Scots last year,” the merchant explained. He grinned. “Captives. I had a hundred when I left the north. This is what’s left.”
“The dregs?”
“Take a look. They’re not bad.”
Cerdic inspected them. He did not trouble to cavil about the merchandise. “They seem sound,” he agreed. “But I’ll probably have to feed and house them all winter. Slave traffic usually starts in the spring.”
“You can work them yourself.”
“Nothing much for them to do once the snows come, is there?”
“True. What’s your price, then?” People liked doing business with Cerdic because he was straightforward and never wasted time. Offa saw the two men go into Cerdic’s hall together. Before long, the merchant had left.
For the moment, the six fellows were housed in the slave quarters and chained up each night. During the day they were exercised, and one or two were set to work hauling wood or repairing one of the storehouses. Offa watched them, wondering what their final fate would be, and felt sorry for them.
A whole day passed before anyone realized that young Wistan had disappeared. Nor did anyone know where he had gone, except that he had told one of his brothers he wanted to go hunting. It was strange in itself for him to go hunting alone, and when he did not return, Elfgiva was worried. Cerdic was more sanguine.
“It must be a girl,” he said curtly. “He’ll be back.” When another night passed, he remarked grimly: “He’ll have some answering to do to me, for going off without permission.” But another day and night passed without any sign of him.
Wistan had risen early. By the first grey light of dawn he was by the waste ground at Thorney, crossing the ford. It was low tide. His horse only had to swim a short part of the crossing, and when Wistan emerged on the southern side he was hardly wet. His route took him a mile or so to the south, first on to the slopes above the marshy ground. Then he turned eastwards, keeping roughly parallel with the river.
It was a clear, cold day. As he rode over marsh and through oak woods, he could see the dim ruins of the empty city two miles away on the other side of the river. The ground began to rise after that into ridges that grew progressively higher. Two or three miles more and, as the sun broke over the horizon, he had a splendid view of the sweep of the glinting river as it made its great series of bends towards the estuary. At the bottom of the long slope down the ridge, beside the riverbank, was a tiny hamlet known as Greenwich. Ahead, the ridge broadened out, the light oak woods giving way to a great expanse of open heath. Across this he followed the hard, turf lane that covered the metalled Roman road and which would lead him, by the afternoon of the following day, to the settlement of Rochester.
He was going to see the girl.
He slept the next night at Bocton. Then, early in the morning, with a fond look at the magnificent view over the Weald, Wistan rode on to her home.
He knew her family, of course, but as it happened he had not seen the girl for some years. Indeed, he thought wryly, last time I saw her she was just a skinny child like me. It was hard to believe his father was about to marry her.
It was mid-morning when he reached the place, but he did not go up to it. Instead he remained some distance away in the trees, watching. At last he saw her come out of
the homestead and, by good fortune, take a path that led into the trees not far from where he was.
At least he supposed it must be her. As she drew nearer, he hardly recognized her, for in place of the skinny girl was a young woman. And a lovely one at that. Nearly as tall as he, still with a little down on her lip, her golden hair done up in a plait, her blue eyes bright and intelligent, this beautiful creature of almost fifteen was only ten yards from him when he softly called her name.
“Edith.”
She did not start when the gentle-eyed young fellow with his first beard stepped on to the path before her, though she looked surprised. She gazed at him evenly, then smiled.
“Don’t I know you?” To his surprise he blushed. “You’re Wistan,” she said and smiled. He nodded. “What are you doing here?” She looked curious. “And why are you in the woods?”
“Will you promise not to tell anyone I came?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“I’m here . . .” He took a deep breath, suddenly aware of the enormity of what he was doing. “I’ve come to tell you we don’t want you.”
They talked for almost an hour. It was not difficult for her to make him tell her everything. To his relief she was not angry. “So you’ve come to try to save your mother?” she summarized. And then, with a smile: “You’ve told me so much about your father, also, I suppose you’ve come to save me too.”
He looked confused and she laughed. Then she heard voices calling for her.
“You must go,” she said suddenly. “Go now.”
He nodded as she turned.
“And what will you do?” he called softly after her.
But she was already walking swiftly through the trees.
Thunor’s day, the day of the Thunderer.
A week had passed since young Wistan had reappeared. Cerdic had made a show of fury and threatened to whip him, but the boy’s excuses that he had gone hunting, met friends and got lost were so entirely unlikely that the merchant had grinned to himself and chuckled to the stockmen: “I told you it was some girl.” Once or twice he had even given the boy a friendly, if somewhat knowing, look.
But now, at noon, like a thunderclap from the grey skies, had come the news. His young bride had changed her mind. The messenger from her father, clearly embarrassed, regretted that there had been a mistake. She was not coming.
He knew how upset his youngest son had been. Now, seeing the boy pale, he guessed at once. It only took a few moments’ savage confrontation for the truth to come out. In an apoplexy of fury he seized a stock whip, and if Wistan had not fled after a few blows, Cerdic might almost have killed him.
The next question was, what to do? He toyed with the idea of sending for the girl again, demanding that her father keep his word, but decided it would be undignified. Besides, he admitted to himself, if he was trying to avoid the kind of trouble his otherwise loyal Elfgiva had been giving him, why insist upon marriage with a young girl who, it seemed, was already capable of giving trouble?
For several days he stomped about the trading post in silent fury. Wistan wisely remained out of sight. Gradually, however, as his anger lessened, he began to feel a sense of weariness. Despite himself, he secretly missed the comfort of his old marriage. At least, he thought wryly, it was better than chasing after young girls who changed their minds.
But if, once or twice, he allowed himself to gaze thoughtfully at Elfgiva, she made no answering sign, instead remaining stiff, cold and numb in his presence.
A whole week passed before, striding into the hall where his wife was sitting with the pretty slave girl, he informed her calmly that if she would follow the example of her sons and be baptized, he would end his search for a new wife and take her back. “Perhaps,” he said kindly, “you would like to think it over for a day.”
A moment later, he was storming out in a greater rage than ever.
She had refused.
Ricola gazed at her mistress for a long moment before she spoke.
“You’re mad. You know that?”
Even a week before such words from slave to mistress would have been unimaginable, but much had passed between the two women in those last days.
Alone in the whole household, it was Ricola who had sat with Elfgiva on those nights when, unable to hide her grief entirely, the older woman had allowed silent tears to run down her face. It was to the slave that Elfgiva had turned when young Wistan had fled from his furious father into the woods. Ricola had sent her husband to find the boy and they had hidden him in their tiny hut for the night. “It’s the one place the master won’t think of looking for him,” she had remarked with a grin. And when Cerdic was down at the jetty that morning, it was Ricola who had smuggled Wistan in to see his mother and had heard him plead with her: “I stopped the girl coming. Won’t you be baptized now, and go back to him?”
So Elfgiva did not rebuke the girl for her impertinence; she just stared into the fire, and said nothing.
The truth was, she did not know what to do. The sight of her youngest son pleading, the thought of all he had done for her, moved her profoundly. How could she refuse him after such a show of love? Yet it was not so easy. Had anything really changed? They beg me to give in today, she considered. They tell me it will be all right. But what about tomorrow? Won’t my husband get restless? Won’t it be the same all over again, and even more painful?
She listened to Ricola urging her, “If you don’t convert, then he’s sure to look for another wife. Otherwise he’ll look a fool again. I mean, maybe he’ll throw you over one day, but that’s a risk you have to take, isn’t it? Better than losing him now.” And shaking her head the girl said firmly: “You’re just looking a gift horse in the mouth. You’ve nothing to lose.”
“Except my dignity.” The girl looked doubtful. But then dignity meant less, Elfgiva supposed, if one were only fifteen and a slave.
And so, for some time, the two quietly sat together without coming to any conclusion, until at last Elfgiva, growing weary, sent the girl away. Ricola went, but not before turning by the door and saying fearlessly: “He’s not so bad, you know, your husband. If you won’t have him, just remember all the other women that will.” That, the earthy girl considered, would give her mistress something to think about.
As Yuletide approached, a new animation came over the people at Lundenwic. Offa helped the men drag a huge log into Cerdic’s hall, where it would slowly burn for many days, a token that, though the sun might depart, here on earth the Anglo-Saxon fire in the hearth would smoulder on until spring returned. Ricola helped the women. At the Yuletide feast there would be venison. Brought in from the store would be great jars of fruit preserved from the summer – apples, pears and mulberries. There would be drink, including that speciality of the Saxons known as morat, made of honey and mulberry juice.
And each day, as they worked and the time of the festival drew near, the women gossiped together and wondered: Will the Lady Elfgiva still be there?
As for Elfgiva, she found herself perhaps more torn than ever. As Yuletide drew close, happy memories of that season came flooding back. She had nowhere to go to. Her husband had bluntly offered, once more, to have her back. Even on his terms she might have done it. She understood well enough how absolute his duty or his pride, whichever it was, must always be to him. But was she allowed no pride, no self-respect, in return?
If he would only beg me, she mourned to herself. If he would only show tenderness, even a little regret. But he left her there, like some poor animal tethered and forgotten in a storm.
It was one evening during this critical time that Ricola the slave formed a plan to save her mistress. It was typical of her entire outlook on life: down-to-earth, sensuous, cheeky and, it had to be admitted, extremely brave. When he heard it, Offa was horrified.
“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 smil
ed. “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.