Too late now for regrets. Her pulse was quickening. Surely that was the distant chanting of the Romans she could hear in the distance?

    As if in confirmation, there was burst of whistling and the tattoo of drums. Thunor’s servants were hurling defiance back.

  Bertha looked sideways and saw Aethelbert grip the arms of his chair and draw himself up taller. She realized with astonishment that he was afraid. Aethelbert of Kent, overlord of Britain, whom all the other kings acknowledged as their superior. Did he really fear unarmed monks?

    Aethelbert glanced up at the sky above him, as if for protection. The day was fine, the small clouds harmlessly white against the blue canopy. There was no evidence of the thunder-god.

    Now Bertha could see movement down the pathway cut through the woods. The glint of sunlight on something silver, a larger standard carried behind it, and the moving column of black-robed monks steadily marching nearer. An undisciplined crowd of the people of Thanet surged alongside them, trying to drown out their chanting. In snatches, she could begin make out words of their Latin litany.

   ‘ . . .that we should be saved from our enemies.’

   ‘And from the hand of all who hate us.’

    Brave words. Bertha’s heart thrilled. She had an overwhelming desire to weep. Fourteen years on Thanet. Only the small thin hymns of her own household, growing less each year. She had forgotten the full-throated sound of many male voices chanting confidently the praise of her God. She was suddenly back in the cathedral of Paris, a small princess attending church with her family. Why had she fidgeted and yawned and wriggled her toes with impatience then? The sound of this choir was the most glorious music this side of heaven.      There were tears running down her cheeks.

    She heard the hiss behind her. Werburh had insisted on coming too, though Thunor was not the god she chiefly served. She was the high priest of Frig, goddess of fertility. Bertha knew that if she turned her head she would see the English wise woman weaving her hands, muttering curses half aloud. There would be hatred in her eyes, born of the same fear as Aethelbert’s that the Christians were bringing a magic more powerful than hers.

Bertha kept her eyes resolutely fixed on the monks.

    The silver cross came first. The young monk who carried it scarcely watched where he was walking. His round face and the thick black circle of his tonsure were turned up, so that he gazed at the sacred emblem he carried. Even so, his face seemed darkly shadowed. A start of astonishment made her crane forward to see better. The monk’s face was black. So were the hands that held the cross. His expression was radiant with excitement.

    The lad behind him looked more nervous. His thinner face and narrow shoulders were almost overshadowed by the wooden board he bore on a staff. A nobler head than his was emerging now into the full sunshine of the clearing. A halo of gold threw into vivid relief the painted features of Christ, her Lord. His face was a beardless oval, his eyes full and dark. Two fingers of one hand were raised in blessing. She could see the nail mark in his palm. A moment more and she felt those serious lips would smile at her. She was on the edge of her throne, wanting to dash forward and throw herself at his feet.

    She steadied herself. It was the third man she must concentrate on. He carried nothing but a book and his pilgrim’s staff. Augustine was a smaller man than she had expected, used as she was to long-legged Franks and Anglo-Saxons. Beside her, she sensed Aethelbert relax a little. He was accustomed to meet his opponents with a sword on the battlefield. This little southerner could never be a match for him. They both watched Augustine approach their thrones. Bertha could see sweat on the Roman’s face, though the spring day was not warm.