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“There are many gods,” he had told me so often, “and you never know which one of them is awake, so pray to them all.”
The Christian church is a clever thing. The moment a lord becomes wealthy he builds a church or a convent. Æthelflaed had insisted on making a church in Ceaster even before she began surveying the walls or deepening the ditch. I told her it was a waste of money, all she achieved was to build a place where men like Ricseg could get fat, but she insisted anyway. There are hundreds of men and women living off the churches, abbeys, and convents built by lords, and most do nothing except eat, drink, and mutter an occasional prayer. Monks work, of course. They till the fields, grub up weeds, cut
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“I’m in pain all the time,” I said, “and if I gave in to it then I’d do nothing.”
Many men do not beat their wives, even though the law allows it and the church encourages it, but a man gains no reputation by beating a weaker person. Æthelred had beaten Æthelflaed, but he was a weak man, and it takes a weak man to prove his strength by striking a woman.
We think we control our own lives, but the gods play with us like children playing with straw dolls.
“So a good man can be a bad Christian?” “I suppose so.” “Then a bad man,” I said, “can be a good Christian?” She did not answer. “That explains half the bishops,”
“God offers his protection to sinners,” Ceolnoth said unctuously. “Especially to sinners,” Ceolberht said. “I’ll remember that,” I said, “when I’ve finished sinning.
“Wasn’t your nailed god born in a stable?” I asked, and he just looked at me dumbly. “If a stable was good enough for Jesus,” I said, “it’s good enough for his damned priests. But not for me.”
We pick sides, lord, and sometimes loyalty gives us no choice in our opinions.”
