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The Bocton estate was extensive. There were fields, apple orchards, and productive oak woodlands. It also contained a quarry – unused since Roman times – of Kentish ragstone.

But the feature that made the place so outstanding, and which, whenever he saw it, caused Cerdic’s hard face to break into a mellow smile of deep satisfaction, was the view. For, gazing southwards from Bocton, one looked right across the huge, sweeping valley – that glorious, wooded landscape, some twenty miles across – known as the Weald of Kent. Bocton and the several estates along this long ridge shared this magnificent view, one of the finest in southern England. It was not just the house, but this huge, rich outlook over the Weald that was in his heart when Cerdic the Saxon said: “I’m home.”

But this time he had not come only to see the view. He had come to pay a visit to another estate, not far away, the following morning. The purpose of this visit he had told no one at all.

It was astonishing how quickly Offa and Ricola recovered from their ordeal. Like two puppies who had fallen into water and shaken themselves dry, the young couple had accepted their new situation and regained their spirits before they had even reached their new home.

“We won’t be slaves for long,” Offa assured his wife. “I’ll think of something.” And though Ricola was the more practical of the two, she quite believed him.

The day after their arrival Offa was sent to help the men, who were harvesting in the meadow. “You’ll work under my husband’s foreman and do whatever he tells you,” Elfgiva explained, although as her personal slave he would be at her disposal whenever she wanted him. As for Ricola, she was sent to help the women.

At the beginning the pair were too occupied to think of anything very much. All the same, Offa had time to observe, and what he saw pleased him. Unquestionably, the little trading post of Lundenwic was a delightful spot.

It was certainly not a place of great importance. The ford nearby was a useful place to cross the river, but it lay in a tribal no-man’s-land between the Saxon kingdoms of Kent and Essex, and had no other significance.

When the Saxons had finally made a small settlement there in the time of Cerdic’s father, they had ignored the great empty ruins of Londinium on the twin hills nearby; they had also, because it was rather marshy, avoided the ground by the island and ford upstream. Instead, they had chosen a pleasant spot, just halfway between the two, where the river curved and the northern bank sloped down some twenty feet to the water. Here they had built a single wharf. This landing place they now called Lundenwic:
Lunden
from the old Celtic and Roman name of the place, Londinos, and -
wic
, meaning in Anglo-Saxon “port” or, in this case, “trading post”.

Above the wooden jetty, a small group of buildings included a barn, a cattle pen, two storehouses and the homestead of Cerdic and his household, surrounded by a stout wattle fence. All these buildings, large or small, were single-storey and mostly rectangular. Their walls, made of post and plank, were low, only four or five feet high, and strengthened on the outside by a sloping earth bank, turfed over. Their steep thatched roofs, however, rose to a height of nearly twenty feet. Each building had a stout wooden door. The floor of Cerdic’s hall was slightly sunken, so that one stepped down on to the wooden floorboards covered with rushes. The space inside was warm and commodious but rather dark, since when the door was shut the only light came from the vents in the thatch, made to let out the smoke from the fire in the stone hearth near the centre of the floor. Here, the entire household gathered to eat. Beside the hall were several small huts, including one, the smallest of all, where Offa and Ricola were quartered.

And how delightful the place was. The grassy north bank was high enough to afford a good view of the great sweep of the river, including the marshes on the opposite bank. Less than a mile away to the right lay the ford, whilst to the left, no further away, one could just see through the trees a hint of the huge Roman ruins upon the twin hills. Across the river from them a gravel promontory jutted out from the south bank. “That’s the best place to fish,” one of the men told him. Of the sturdy Roman bridge that had once crossed between these points, the only sign was some rotting timbers on the southern side.

Lundenwic might be small, but as Offa soon discovered, it was surprisingly busy. “The master spends more time here than at Bocton,” the men told him. Boats would come down the river from deep in the island’s interior, and as Cerdic’s activities increased, ships would even make their way up the estuary from the lands of the Norsemen, the Frisians and the Germans. In the stores, Offa found pottery, bales of wool, beautifully worked swords, and Saxon metalwork. There were also kennels: “They always ask us for hunting dogs,” the foreman explained. More intriguing, however, was another building set a little apart. Like the other stores it was a stout hut with a thatched roof, but it was long and narrow, and for some reason its roof was low, leaving only just enough headroom for standing up. Down each side were small pens that might have been for pigs or small livestock. Attached to the posts were chains.

“What are the chains for?” Offa asked. The foreman gave him a sidelong glance. “They’re for our best cargo. The one that makes the master rich,” he quietly replied.

Offa understood. Once again, as it had been before the Romans came, the island had become well known for its slaves. They were sold all over Europe. Indeed, just before he sent the monk Augustine to the island, it was the Pope himself who, seeing the fair-haired English slaves in the marketplace in Rome, had famously pronounced: “They are not Angles, but angels.”

The supply was always plentiful. Some were the losers of occasional conflicts between the various Anglo-Saxon kingdoms; a few might be criminals. But the majority of slaves came to that condition not through war, or even the raids of cruel slave-traders, but because, whether they were unwanted or there were too many to be fed, they had been sold by their own people.

“The Frisians come for a load every year,” the foreman remarked, and then added with a grin: “You’re lucky it was the mistress who bought you and not the master, or you’d be on the next ship!”

It was on the second day of his return that Cerdic gave Elfgiva his ultimatum. He did so in private. Not even his sons were aware of what passed between them. His message was as blunt as it was simple.

“If you will not obey me, then I am going to take another wife.”

“As well as me?”

“No. Instead of you.”

And Elfgiva stared at him with a terrible, dull pain, knowing that he meant it.

He was within his rights. The laws of the Anglo-Saxons concerning women were simple. Elfgiva belonged to her husband. She had been paid for. He could add other wives if he wished, and if she committed adultery not only could he throw her out, but the other man would have to compensate him and provide another wife. If, however, he just chose to replace her, this too was allowed.

This was not to say that all Saxon women were downtrodden. Elfgiva knew some wives who ruled their husbands entirely. All the same, if he chose to use it, the law was on Cerdic’s side.

“The choice is yours,” he explained. “When this bishop comes here, you must be baptized with our sons. If you refuse, I shall feel free to act as I wish. It’s up to you.”

Indeed, as far as Cerdic was concerned, he was acting properly and morally. To Cerdic, the issue was very simple. As a loyal man of King Ethelbert, he had become a Christian, having been baptized earlier that year. However much he might feel sorry for her, as his wife Elfgiva’s duty was to do the same if he asked. The fact that they had loved each other as man and wife for so many years only made her refusal all the more disloyal. The more he considered it, the clearer it became to him: there was a right course and a wrong course; black and white. Elfgiva’s duty was clear. Whether anybody liked it or not, there was nothing further to be said.

That the Christian Church frowned upon both polygamy and divorce was something Cerdic did not know. But this was not his fault. The Catholic missionaries, although usually men of fearless courage and deep dedication, were also wise, and in the matter of ancient customs they usually followed a simple rule: “First convert them to the faith, then start to change their customs.” It would be many generations before the Church would be able to wean the Anglo-Saxons from polygamy.

The girl in question was young, the daughter of a fellow like himself with a fine estate not far from Bocton. “I’d thought of her for one of your sons rather than you,” her father had remarked mildly when Cerdic had called upon him the day before. This, indeed, was the arrangement the two men had privately come to. If Cerdic put away his wife, the girl should marry him; if not, his eldest son. She was a nice, sensible and pretty young Saxon who liked the ordered life of Kent, to which she so entirely belonged. She also agreed to be baptized.

I should have married a girl like that in the first place, Cerdic had thought to himself as he rode from Bocton towards Lundenwic. She’d never have given me trouble like Elfgiva, from her wild East Anglian shores.

She was young, too. Was that part of it? Hadn’t he suddenly felt youthful again, rejuvenated by the presence of this fresh fifteen-year-old maiden who might be his? Perhaps. Did he secretly fear the loss of his strength? No, he told himself, not for a long time yet. In any case, he reminded himself, if Elfgiva behaved like a proper wife, she had nothing to fear.

So it was, faced with this humiliating ultimatum, that Elfgiva listened and bowed her head. She did not even ask who the other woman was. She said nothing at all.

The day after his conversation with Elfgiva, Cerdic decided to deal with his sons.

In a way, he was rather looking forward to it. Although he was quite determined that they must submit, he would be disappointed if they did not show some resistance.

They’re young bulls, he told himself. But I dare say I can still master them. Now, standing before them, in front of his hall, he spoke sharply. He did not choose, at this stage, to tell them about his threat to their mother, but he explained about the arrival of the bishop and King Ethelbert’s request. “We are all his men,” he reminded them. “You will therefore take this new religion as I have.”

The four young men stood there awkwardly. He could see they had been discussing the matter amongst themselves, for now they all turned to the oldest, a stalwart fellow of twenty-four, who spoke for them.

“Is it really our duty to forswear our own gods for the king, Father?”

“The king’s gods are ours. I’m his man. The King of Essex has already promised to follow King Ethelbert,” he said, to encourage them.

“We know. But did you know that the King of Essex’s sons are refusing to follow their own father? They say they won’t worship this new god.”

Cerdic reddened. He had not heard this, but he saw the implication well enough.

“The Essex princes will do as their father tells them,” he said firmly.

“How can you ask us to worship this god?” the eldest suddenly burst out. “They say he let himself be nailed on a tree and killed. What sort of a god is that? Are we supposed to desert Thunor and Woden for a man who couldn’t fight?”

Cerdic himself was a little vague about the details of Christianity and this point had worried him too. “Christ’s father could send floods and part seas,” he assured them. “And the King of the Franks has had notable victories since he became a Christian.” But he could see they were not impressed. “This is your mother’s doing,” he muttered, and waved them away.

It was a week later that Elfgiva received a sign.

She had gone riding with her youngest son, Wistan. As she often did, she had followed the curve of the Thames a short distance upstream to the island beside the ford. It was a spot she liked. The small Roman villa on the old Druid’s island had vanished and the ground was all overgrown now, except for the track across it to the ford. Thorney, the Saxons called it, because it was so full of bramble bushes. Perhaps it was the somewhat desolate air that attracted Elfgiva to the place.

The day was fine, the sky clear blue, a few white clouds scudding by, throwing their moving shadows on the river. Since the breeze was rather cold, Elfgiva was wrapped in a heavy brown woollen cloak. On her raised left hand she wore a thick leather glove, upon which, with curling claws and curving beak, was perched a hooded bird of prey.

Like many Anglo-Saxon women of her class, Elfgiva enjoyed hawking. On Thorney, she often had good hunting. She also liked to have Wistan near her. He was only sixteen, but of all her sons, it was he who most resembled her. When his brothers went hunting he would often good-naturedly join them, but he was just as likely to go for a walk by himself or sit down to carve a piece of wood, which he did well. She suspected he was the one who loved her best; she also knew that if the other three were defiant over the question of religion, he was deeply troubled. She had therefore used this opportunity to urge him: “Obey your father, Wistan. It’s your duty.” When he had replied, “I will if you will,” she had shaken her head sadly. “It’s not the same. I’m older.”

“Do you mean to refuse him then?” he had asked, but she had not yet replied. Instead, since they had now arrived at Thorney, she began to hawk.

As she reached over and flicked off the falcon’s hood, Elfgiva almost caught her breath at the magnificent, hard beauty of the bird’s tawny eyes. In a flash, it unfurled its wings and rose as she gazed after it, envying its ease.

High the hawk flew, into the heavens. How free it was: free as wind over water. It soared into the open sky, braced against the breeze like a sail on the sea; then dipped, slipping silently, plummeting on to its prey.

Elfgiva watched as the hawk caught the bird. As she saw the luckless victim fluttering helplessly in the falcon’s claws, she felt a sudden sense of sorrow and foreboding. How cruel life was, and how transient. It was then, in a momentary flash of absolute clarity, that she understood.