Rædwald, king of the East Angles, was angry with his wife, a woman who, like many in his hall, still clung to the old ways he had once followed. He had been baptized in Kent and taught the rite of Christ, yet in his own court the old demands had not fallen silent.
“It is because of you,” he said, “that I am unfit for Christ’s table this morning.”
“My lord,” she answered, “Blōtmōnaþ is nearly gone, and it is your duty to the land that the cattle be given. You are the king.”
"So I am."
The profaned sanctuary fell quiet for a long moment. Outside the temple, which had two altars, distant thunder rolled across the dark sky, low and heavy, as if the anger of Þunor still moved over the land.
His wife spoke at last.
"Can you not confess to your Christ for the forgiveness of sin, as you often call it?"
"Yes", he hissed.
Blood still ran down his hands and forearms, dark against the skin, thick at the fingertips. His tunic was spattered at the sleeves and hem. Behind him, one altar smoked faintly, the cattle’s sacrifice still fresh in the air.
“Strip bare and lie on your back upon the other altar”, Rædwald ordered, his hands dark with blood. “I am already tarnished by you. What more is this?”
inspired by II.15 Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede