Venta Bulgarium. Winifred and Ambrosius
Aurelianus sat, each in shadowed isolation upon their privileged seating of
high-backed, cushioned, ornately carved chairs. The Bishop was intoning his
sermon. Several of the nobility arrayed on the front rows of hard, wooden
benches had their chins tucked well into their chests, though only one had the
indecency to snore.
Venta was one of the few towns that could still boast a bishop. Aquae Sulis had
old Justinian, a frail man who had to be carried everywhere by litter and often
stank of the bowl flux; Gwynedd had Bishop Cynan, firmly installed as shep-
herd of men at the wondrous recently built chapel of Valle Crucis—Winifred
intended to travel there one day, to see if it really was more splendid than
this, her church. Eboracum was a deserted town now, save for the Saex who
seemed not to mind the annual flooding. Durovernum was partially destroyed,
its crumbling stone walls protecting the establishment of Aesc’s Jute settlement,
Canta Byrig, his capital town.
Deva, Caer Gloui, and Caer Lueil, the minor towns that had once seen the
wealth of Rome, had never quite recovered from various tragedies of flood or
assault, or abandonment. Only Venta Bulgarium flourished because Winifred
sank much of her wealth into it, and Ambrosius, Governor of Britain, patronised
its church.
Compared to the simple standards of the period, the building was a superb
place. Twice the size of any other known British church and built in the style
of an equal-sided cross. A single narrow, green and blue glass window was set
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 3
in the eastern wall, solid-built of stone. Above, a slate roof, not straw or reed-
thatched, topped the vaulted, carving-encrusted rafters. Standing on the linen
altar cloth were a golden crucifix the height of a man’s forearm, two chalices,
and a silver salver.
Winifred had financed much of the construction and decoration, bringing in
the best Roman architects, the best masons and carpenters. It was intended to
be grander than the wattle-built shacks that normally served as church or chapel,
a place where pilgrims would come to worship the Christian God. A place to
generate wealth for the Church—and Winifred. Travellers needed somewhere
to sleep and eat. Farmers came to sell goats and cattle in the wide-spaced forum,
traders brought their pottery, jewellery, cloth. The Church—the Bishop—or
Winifred, owned between them the taverns and open-fronted shops, collected
rent for the stalls. Were doing very nicely out of her investment.
Winifred fingered the crucifix dangling from her corded waist-belt, feeling
its shape, its smoothness, trying to feel its meaning and comfort, finding instead
only the cold of emptiness. Arthur had mocked her devotion to the Christian
faith, accusing her of using religion to further her own gain. To a point, happen
she had, but she did believe, that was not faked. Believed, but found no comfort.
God had deserted her, had allowed her son to turn on her. She knew she ought
regard this as some sign of testing her faith, of her true love of God; but she
could not find the strength, the willingness. God and the Christ she loved, but
not above her son, Cerdic.
And Ambrosius, sitting opposite her on the spear side of the aisle, chased
similar thoughts in a crazy whirl around his mind. He ought to be listening
to the Bishop’s words, ought to focus his attention on God, not Cadwy, his
misshapen, useless son. The doubts and bitterness had been encroaching stronger
of late. The questions, the asking why. Why, if God favoured him to become
the sole lord of Britain, had He not blessed him with a strong, capable son?
A son able to command an army, able to ensure the taking of what had been
Arthur’s? To follow, as his heir.
Cerdic had turned his back on his mother and her oppressive Christianity,
had returned, with determination of will, to the people and pagan beliefs of
his
Aurelianus sat, each in shadowed isolation upon their privileged seating of
high-backed, cushioned, ornately carved chairs. The Bishop was intoning his
sermon. Several of the nobility arrayed on the front rows of hard, wooden
benches had their chins tucked well into their chests, though only one had the
indecency to snore.
Venta was one of the few towns that could still boast a bishop. Aquae Sulis had
old Justinian, a frail man who had to be carried everywhere by litter and often
stank of the bowl flux; Gwynedd had Bishop Cynan, firmly installed as shep-
herd of men at the wondrous recently built chapel of Valle Crucis—Winifred
intended to travel there one day, to see if it really was more splendid than
this, her church. Eboracum was a deserted town now, save for the Saex who
seemed not to mind the annual flooding. Durovernum was partially destroyed,
its crumbling stone walls protecting the establishment of Aesc’s Jute settlement,
Canta Byrig, his capital town.
Deva, Caer Gloui, and Caer Lueil, the minor towns that had once seen the
wealth of Rome, had never quite recovered from various tragedies of flood or
assault, or abandonment. Only Venta Bulgarium flourished because Winifred
sank much of her wealth into it, and Ambrosius, Governor of Britain, patronised
its church.
Compared to the simple standards of the period, the building was a superb
place. Twice the size of any other known British church and built in the style
of an equal-sided cross. A single narrow, green and blue glass window was set
S h a d o w o f t h e k i n g 4 3
in the eastern wall, solid-built of stone. Above, a slate roof, not straw or reed-
thatched, topped the vaulted, carving-encrusted rafters. Standing on the linen
altar cloth were a golden crucifix the height of a man’s forearm, two chalices,
and a silver salver.
Winifred had financed much of the construction and decoration, bringing in
the best Roman architects, the best masons and carpenters. It was intended to
be grander than the wattle-built shacks that normally served as church or chapel,
a place where pilgrims would come to worship the Christian God. A place to
generate wealth for the Church—and Winifred. Travellers needed somewhere
to sleep and eat. Farmers came to sell goats and cattle in the wide-spaced forum,
traders brought their pottery, jewellery, cloth. The Church—the Bishop—or
Winifred, owned between them the taverns and open-fronted shops, collected
rent for the stalls. Were doing very nicely out of her investment.
Winifred fingered the crucifix dangling from her corded waist-belt, feeling
its shape, its smoothness, trying to feel its meaning and comfort, finding instead
only the cold of emptiness. Arthur had mocked her devotion to the Christian
faith, accusing her of using religion to further her own gain. To a point, happen
she had, but she did believe, that was not faked. Believed, but found no comfort.
God had deserted her, had allowed her son to turn on her. She knew she ought
regard this as some sign of testing her faith, of her true love of God; but she
could not find the strength, the willingness. God and the Christ she loved, but
not above her son, Cerdic.
And Ambrosius, sitting opposite her on the spear side of the aisle, chased
similar thoughts in a crazy whirl around his mind. He ought to be listening
to the Bishop’s words, ought to focus his attention on God, not Cadwy, his
misshapen, useless son. The doubts and bitterness had been encroaching stronger
of late. The questions, the asking why. Why, if God favoured him to become
the sole lord of Britain, had He not blessed him with a strong, capable son?
A son able to command an army, able to ensure the taking of what had been
Arthur’s? To follow, as his heir.
Cerdic had turned his back on his mother and her oppressive Christianity,
had returned, with determination of will, to the people and pagan beliefs of
his
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