Гарри Гаррисон - A Letter From the Pope

“There is one thing that troubles me,” said Alfred. Once more he had the heathen pendant in his hand, and was swinging it thoughtfully. “When our two armies met, mine fought for Christ and yours for the old gods. Yet mine won. Does that not show that Christ and his father are the stronger?”

Guthrum laughed explosively. “Is that what you thought all the times you lost? No.” He pulled suddenly at the pendant he wore round his own neck, undid the fastening, and handed it across the table to the king. “What that victory shows is that you are a true leader. Put down Rani’s pendant and take mine. He worshipped Freyr, a good god for a warrior and stallion, like Rani was. May he live in Thruthvangar, in the plains of pleasure, forever. But for kings like you and me, the true god is Odin, the father of the slain, the god of justice, the god who can say two meanings at once. Here, take this.”

Again he held forward the silver medal. On it was Gungnir, the sacred spear of Odin. Alfred reached out and touched it, pushed it about on the table — then touched his chest.

“No. It is the cross of the Christ that I wear here. I have always sworn it.”

“Wear it still,” Guthrum said. “Wear them both until you decide.”

All movement round the tables stilled, the very cupbearers and carvers stopping in their tracks to gape at the king. Alfred’s eyes, sweeping along the row of faces turned to his, fell suddenly on the anguished gaze of his chaplain Edbert.

In that moment he knew the future. If men were given the free choice Guthrum offered, then all the passion, the faith, the loyalty of Edbert and his like would be of no avail. The bitter, grasping selfishness of the archbishops, the popes, the Daniels, would cancel it every time. With his mind’s eye he saw the great minsters deserted, their stone carted away to use in barns and walls. He saw armies gathering on the white cliffs of England, armies of Saxons and Vikings united under the banners of Odin and Thor, ready to spread their faith to the Franks and the southerners. He saw the White Christ himself, a baby, crying forsaken on the last untended altar of Rome.

If he wavered now, Christianity would not stand.

In the tense silence Tobba leaned forward from his place behind King Alfred’s chair.

He took the chain in his hand and clasped it round his master’s neck. There was the tiniest sound in the silent room as metal touched metal.

Or was it the loudest sound any of them had ever heard?