The café
Present day

"Speaking of history," Amanda interjected. "What exactly happened between you and the king that caused such a fuss?"

Methos sat back in his chair, sighing heavily. "You don't know?"

Amanda shook her head. "Rebecca kept me far away from any political discussions until almost the very end of my stay with her. I think it was part of her efforts to keep me innocent."

Methos laughed aloud. "Not that it worked, Leaswene."

Amanda huffed. "And what would you know about innocence of mind, Adræfan?" she countered.

Methos tried to laugh with her, but the barb still stung. What, indeed. Suddenly his laughter ceased. "Enough to be grateful that Rebecca tried to keep you sheltered for as long as possible."

Amanda's retort died in her throat when she realized the sincerity in Methos's statement. Then she sighed. "It couldn't have lasted forever."

Methos nodded. "Nothing lasts forever, Amanda. Not even immortality."

Amanda's gaze fell to the table as the weight of his words settled in around them, layered among their silences. Not surprisingly though, Amanda was the first to shake herself free.

"Well since I'm far from innocent," she intoned with innuendo, "perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me exactly what happened back at the abbey?"

That startled a laugh out of Methos, a true, genuine laugh that set Amanda smiling in return.

"As you wish, Leaswene."


The Abbey
The following morning

Methos had managed to find his way back to his chambers by the light of the dying stars and intruding false dawn. He was not so presumptuous as to stay out there until Rebecca herself declared when the night was over. He would let her decide that on her own. Besides, he was a lot more tired than he would have admitted.

When he awoke again, bright sunlight was streaming through his eastern window. He blinked heavily and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, muttering obscenities in a few forgotten tongues as he drew himself up to a sitting position. Methos dejectedly realized that the downside to having the highly coveted east-facing window was the fact that on mornings like these it would be impossible for him to get back to sleep. There was nothing for it, and so with a few more archaic curses, Methos swung his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself to standing.

The first thing he noticed was that someone had refilled his wash basin at some point in the night, most likely before he came to bed or else he would have caught the person in the attempt. Methos made generous use of the cold water to scrub himself down, lastly dribbling some across his fingers so that he could attempt to work most of the tangles from his hair. It tended to get rather unruly at its current length, and he regretted not having a hairbrush on hand.

His morning routine finished, Methos took greater stock of the shadows in his room and realized that the sun had yet to reach its zenith. This boded well for his chances of making the noontide meal, if indeed Rebecca served one. He was on his way out the door, not really caring that all he had to his name at current were the faded nighttime leggings and tunic he had been gifted earlier, when on a whim he decided to open the trunk. What he saw there surprised him. Robes! Rebecca had gifted him with robes! Reverently Methos pulled the garments free and inspected them. Much to his surprise, the crest of the Eofrea had been removed from his old tunic and then transplanted to these robes. The colors were dark forest green and a faded bronze and he couldn't help but feel a sense of love had come with the gesture, just as he did when he noticed his window.

First he pulled on a fresh under-tunic. It was made of a soft silk and Methos was reminded of just why he had sought Rebecca's aid. That being laced properly, he pulled the long bronze outer tunic over his head. That's when he discovered that his belt had been salvaged and thoroughly cleaned. With a shake of his head he fastened the belt around his midsection, taking the time to secure his coffer (which was sadly empty) and his dagger. Rebecca would certainly remember that he always wore one, so he felt no danger for it. That being done, Methos pulled the green robes over his head on top of the tunic. They covered him from head to toe and hung just a bit too long down his arms, but they fit properly across his chest so that the loose fastener, a simple broach of bronze encasing a jewel of green glass, hung in front of the tunic in exactly the right spot, leaving the bronze of the tunic showing just enough down his front as the rest of him was enveloped by green.

Methos turned around a few times, inspecting himself. Fine bronze embroidery shone out of the green, but in such a way that only light reflecting at the proper angle would reveal it. He couldn't wait to see what starlight did to them.

Methos couldn't help but smile, knowing that Rebecca had personally selected these garments. If he truly wanted to lose himself in fantasy, then he would imagine that Rebecca had had these garments tailored personally for him long before she even knew he was coming. Only the device of the horse lords looked slightly out of place, but that was only to his biased eyes that were currently torn between waking reality and long-forgotten memory.

Finally he declared himself ready to face the day. Of course, his hair could use a thorough brushing, and a nice mint leaf would take care of the wretchedness that he suspected of his breath, and then of course it was impossible to look entirely regal without any boots, but it would have to do. With a sigh he realized the most probable reason Rebecca had chosen these garments for him to wear: he was here on a political matter, and a meeting between Rebecca and her advisors should be commencing in the near future.

Methos departed his chambers with an added air of dignity and relished the long-forgotten sensations that accompany the swish of robes. How long had it been? Methos chuckled to himself, truly allowing his mood to elevate as he roamed to corridors of the abbey.

"Excuse me, milord?"

Methos turned sharply and nearly knocked a young boy off his feet. He had been so distracted that he failed to notice the boy come up behind him. The boy, who looked like he'd barely reached his first shave, jumped gracefully out of the way.

Methos backed off several paces and smoothed his robes. "Er, yes?"

"Milord, the Lady is asking for you," said the boy, bowing slightly. "She is in the library."

"Thank you…"

The boy grinned. "Grenhyrde, milord."

Methos smiled congenially. "Thank you, Grenhyrde."

The boy practically beamed before bowing quickly and turning on his heels. Methos watched him practically skip down the corridor. Smiling to himself, Methos turned back around, intent on seeking out Rebecca. That's when he realized that he had no clue where the library was.

Twenty or so minutes later Methos found the library, by the advantage of sensing another immortal. He found its large double doors hung opened, and a cool breeze hit head on as it wafted in through the open double doors that lead to a small balcony directly across from him. This balcony was only a few paces deep, and cascading curtains of white lace swayed in the breeze, partitioning off the balcony like a screen. The only piece of furniture on the balcony was an antique settee, and that's where Rebecca was seated. She too wore robes, hers of faded blue and pale grey. Her hair framed her face in long flowing tresses for she didn't tie it back, even to ease her perusal of some ancient tome that was resting in her lap. Rebecca looked up at him as he entered, and seemingly on cue a breeze blew in and rustled the lace, catching Rebecca's hair just so and effectively stealing Methos's breath away.

"And lo! There was then light in dark places…" he murmured, quoting, having slipped into the ancient tongue.

Rebecca's face wore a serene mask as she placed the tome aside and stood. Once again she seemed to tread on air as she approached, drawing back the lace curtains and coming to stand inside the library proper. "Some things do not change, brother," she said, no emotion discernable on her countenance when she spoke in that same tongue as she inspected and then admired how Methos fit in the robes she'd given him.

"Some things, no," Methos agreed.

"The needlework is not the finest, but I never truly had the talent for it," Rebecca said, her eyes roaming over the delicate bronze stitching in the green robes.

Methos allowed himself a small smile. "If you have personally fashioned these garments for me, then I am truly blessed."

Rebecca's expression softened slightly before becoming serene again as the barriers were reconstructed. "It was an indulgence on my part," she confessed. "There are dark times ahead. I wanted a happier memory amongst them."

"You're so sure they will be dark?"

Rebecca's serenity remained unbroken, even as she turned from him and walked back over to the balcony. Her steps were discernable now, as there seemed to be a weight about her. She moved through the break in the curtains as they blew apart and stood finally in front of the balcony railing and used her hands to brace herself upon it. Methos finally moved to join her, but remained on the other side of the draping lace.

"The Northmen have not ceased their attacks," she explained to the vista splayed out before them. "The flood of refugees from the northern realms of the isle have increased. Many settle here, believing that the magic of the Lady will protect them."

The biting tone she used sounded so foreign to him. It grated in Methos's ears. "You have a thriving township," he conceded at length.

"I preside over this abbey. Our numbers aren't so great as to rival the Old Times, but the surrounding villages all dwell under the arm of my protection, which seems to try and grow longer by the year. I do not know how much longer I can keep them safe."

"You are not responsible for the safety of the nation," Methos reminded her, quiet authority in his voice and, perhaps, a touch of experience.

Rebecca smirked slightly. "The Vikings attack from the North, the Danes from the east. This kingdom was once united against such threats, but our enemies have proven too great a force for our alliances. Wars are excellent excuses to cast treaties asunder."

"King Egbert wanted a coalition," Methos countered. "Not a united kingdom."

Rebecca laughed at that. "Yet he did not seem to protest when they all swore fealty to him," she pointed out. "He was not prepared for the responsibility that comes with such a rule."

Methos sighed, unable to refute the point. "And you weren't prepared to suddenly have the entire island as your protectorate?" he offered, knowingly overbold.

Rebecca stiffened at his words until finally she released a controlled sigh, and the tension drained from her frame like so much water. "Wessex is safe still," she said at length. "I have ensured it so. Though I am not sure for how long our peaceful existence here can remain. It will not last forever, and already I see fewer days before us than are behind."

Methos hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. "It must have been hard for you, watching the other kingdoms fall."

Rebecca was silent for a long moment, and Methos could tell she was considering exactly how much of herself would be to revealed in her answer. "What you see here is the last refuge in the storm," she said, her voice awash in shades of sadness. "We do not speak of it outside closed doors, but Wessex stands alone."

Methos bowed his head, shoulders stooping beneath the weight of truth. Indeed, he had already surmised this conclusion long ago from his position in the King's court. When at last he spoke, his words were both candid and utterly true. "Your allied kings are dead or dispossessed. Nordic governments are what we deal with now, even in our own neighboring lands. The king doesn't know for how much longer he can keep his own people safe and ignorant of such changes. They believe we are all still one, and that the troubles of the borders do not affect them here, but they don't know how close those borders are."

Rebecca sighed a long breath and then finally turned to face him. Their eyes met through the lacework barrier between them, and as the wind flared again it seemed the immortal song rose approvingly in crescendo.

"Æthelwulf grows weary of the proxy governments," she confessed. "He is a good king and not as greedy as his father was. He knew that the union his father created was not meant to last. When Egbert died, the alliances stood upon a razor's edge, and the torrent of invasion may have fallen as a gentle breeze, for the effect was the same. Æthelwulf inherited a crumbling kingdom, and during his reign he has watched it slip further and further from his grasp."

Methos couldn't help the smirk that slid across his face. "Your words would sound like treason, Lady, were they not so true."

Rebecca dipped her head in acknowledgement. Then she blinked slowly, and Methos plainly saw the weight of the responsibility that weighed on her. It saddened him. When she spoke again there was a bitter edge in her voice. "For many years I had his ear, like his father and grandfathers before him. I see him grow more desperate as the years weigh further upon him. He looks to me to work some sort of magic, cast some sort of protective spell to shield all of Wessex from its immanent fate."

Methos nodded in rueful agreement. "Would that we could. If only our immortality lent us that kind of power."

Rebecca smiled wanly, but it disappeared back into serenity so quickly that Methos wasn't sure if he had seen correctly.

"I do what I can," Rebecca acknowledged. "But the White Lady of Wessex is merely immortal. I am not an oracle or a priestess or God, or whatever else they wish me to be. I am a counselor only, a protector of refugees and lost children."

"You are far more than that," Methos offered with brotherly affection.

"I am not what they need me to be," Rebecca confessed. "What they imagine me to be." Then, with a slight laugh: "The pagans think I am their Goddess incarnate, the druids believe I control the elements, but both sense the power of Sanctuary here."

"And the Christians are more than willing to make you a saint."

That startled Rebecca. "I—" but she bit off whatever thought that was, redirecting her thoughts. "The Roman Church would dispose of me in a heartbeat if it weren't for the influence of the King, whom they need as an ally if their crusade of conversion is to continue."

Methos suddenly felt a sickening lurch to his stomach. "And how long will the King continue to grant you immunity?"

Rebecca smiled sadly, detecting the trend of his thoughts. "I have no fears of losing his friendship," she stated firmly. "But Æthelwulf is a king with a nation to look after. If ever he perceives a threat to that nation…"

Methos didn't need her to finish, and was actually quite glad that she too was aware of this and allowed her voice to trail off, leaving thoughts unsaid. "I should not have come to you," he concluded.

Rebecca didn't refute the statement. Finally Methos couldn't bear the silence.

"What are you going to do?"

Rebecca's face remained impassive as she seemed to contemplate this quandary. "I cannot turn away out of hand any that come for Sanctuary," she answered at length. "You know this."

"Yes," Methos hedged. "But what are you going to do?"

Rebecca sighed heavily, knowing full well that she couldn't avoid the question much longer. She turned from him again and the lace curtains seemed to shroud her. Methos knew that he had better remain where he was.

"I have a responsibility here," she said at length. "To this land, to these people."

"I am not asking you to forsake that."

Rebecca barked a laugh, tired and bitter. "You never ask, brother." The familiarity fell as curse.

Methos dropped his gaze and examined his toes. He didn't look up again until he heard the lace rustle again. Rebecca had turned and now finally traversed the threshold to stand inside once more. When she spoke her voice was stern and devoid of all emotion.

"You are going to tell me what happened, Adræfan of the Horse Lords. You are going to start from the beginning and you aren't going to omit even the smallest detail. Only when you have given me the truth will I be able to decide how best to help you."

Methos nodded gravely, but inside he could have leapt for joy. "Of course, milady," he acquiesced, slipping into formality for such was the power of Rebecca's change of countenance.

Rebecca wordlessly glided towards the door, and Methos got the distinct impression that he was to follow her. Somewhere more formal, and more private than the library would be needed for this council.


The Café

Amanda sat, quiet and thoughtful, as she took in all that Methos just told her. Later on in her immortal life, academically she learned that King Egbert of Wessex had declared himself overlord of England, and that his "United Kingdom," aside from a gross delusion of grandeur, was an attempt to present a unified defense against Viking and Danish invasion. It wasn't until much later, long after she'd already lived through it, that she understood how her native Wessex had been the seat of power for the entire island, and that the supposed peace from the outside world that was her early life (as harsh as it was from the inside) was bought by the blood of that alliance.

As she studied her history, she learned that Æthelwulf, son of Egbert, had inherited a coalition of kingdoms that were falling one by one to rivalry and disputed crowns, which weakened each state and made them vulnerable to invaders. By the time of her stay with Rebecca, Wessex alone remained steadfast in its monarchy. The other kingdoms? Well, they still existed too, but under Danish or Viking rule. The old treaties of alliance were now treaties of non-aggression, and Æthelwulf fought diplomatic wars all over the map to ensure that his people remained safe within his kingdom.

All of these things she had learned centuries ago when she took to a serious study of historical politics. She also became painfully aware of the lie the Crown kept going for the good of the people. So many times they were saved from eminent destruction by a last minute treatise or concession. So many times were the people convinced of peace and plenty while encroaching armies were camped just out of range of Æthelwulf's walls. For the proletariat, ignorance was bliss.

Later on Amanda realized, much to her disillusionment, that while the people were kept happy and ignorant, the church was mightily aware of all that was going on. The Roman Church, the biggest conqueror of Europe, knew everything about the wars of those they were trying to convert—knew and did nothing, because the destitute and starving were easier to preach to. Of course, the Church could be made to care, for the correct price. That price for King Æthelwulf was enormous. It forced him to tax his people nigh into oblivion, creating the conditions into which she was born, lived, and died. She starved because of those taxes, which later she learned barely paid the tithes.

Æthelwulf paid off the Church, and the Church in turn used its blanketing influence to keep the peace amongst its followers. The Archdioceses in Viking-controlled York and Danish-controlled Canterbury masterfully played their subjects like an elaborate orchestra, and Wessex remained untouched and un-invaded for as long as Æthelwulf could afford to pay them. The Vikings and the Danes converted in mass numbers due to the peace (and the wealth) that the Church brought, meanwhile poor Wessex was slowly starved, simply so that Æthelwulf could preserve the freedom of his people.

Amanda learned so much later in life that the reason why she knew such diversity was because the Faithful fled the conquered nations and took refugee status in Wessex. Wessex, that could barely afford to feed its own people, was trying to support the massive in-flood of refugees—mainly those of pagan religions and Christian servants displaced when greedy invaders needed to get the Archdioceses' attention. Good King Æthelwulf turned none away, for he believed that it was better to starve free than to live a false life in plenty.

And Amanda agreed with him. Amanda loved her king and hated the Roman Church. Æthelwulf fought to keep a dying dream alive: his father's dream, that all could live in peace, with freedom from fear and freedom of choice.

It was of course inevitable that Wessex would fall. Either through kinstrife amongst Æthelwulf's sons or the eventual drying up of funds and resources. Finally, Wessex would pay for those years of peace and freedom. Invasion was immanent. Church-loyal Norsemen and Danes would finally throw open the gates and sack every city. The invaders would get the spoils, and the Church would finally have the crowned jewel of Britannia. The pagans would be forced to flee into hiding, convert, or die as martyrs—not that the invaders would care what their patron Church was doing as they would be too busy enjoying the spoils of war. It was win-win for the enemies of Wessex, and all that was stopping them was time.

These things Amanda knew because she studied them. As life would play out, she was nowhere near England when the final conquest happened. She returned when she'd heard tell of course, only to find Rebecca's beautiful abbey in ruins. Whither her teacher had fled she knew not, and didn't learn for many years. It was Darius that arranged their reunion, but of those final dark days Rebecca would never speak. Amanda finally stopped asking, and only the relatively modern invention of women's education allowed her to finally come to understand that which had previously been right under her nose. Even still, she and Rebecca never got around to discussing it.

Amanda released a tired sigh, and this effectively roused Methos from his own musings.

"Deep thoughts?" he asked neutrally, the glittering green eyes of the scholar Adam Pierson regarding her with mild intent.

She shook her head dismissively. "I lived through those times, but I didn't know anything about the world I lived in."

Methos smiled sadly. "Rebecca went to great lengths to ensure that."

"I know," Amanda agreed, bitterly. "I didn't learn the truth until centuries later. It's amazing the things you learn when you actually take an interest."

Methos laughed outright. "I probably don't want to know what you believed until then."

Amanda shot him a sour look. "I lived in Wessex, and life sucked. Then I met Rebecca lived with her, and life was good. We weren't conquered until after I left. I didn't need to know the hows and whys of it—I had been immortal long enough by then to accept Rebecca's lessons. Everything changes. I… adapted, and got on with life."

"Spoken like a true immortal," Methos pronounced with amusement.

Amanda's expression changed then. Something hard and desperate flashed through her dark eyes. Methos instantly took notice. Something told him that he wasn't going to like what followed.

"Methos, be honest with me. What was Rebecca's role in—all of that?"

Methos sighed heavily and blinked slowly, sitting back in his chair. No, he definitely didn't like where this was going. "How much do you know?" he asked tentatively.

"Only the obvious. Rebecca set up the abbey as a sanctuary for mortals and immortals alike. The King respected her enough to leave well enough alone—except for when you came to visit, that is." Methos chuckled at the qualifier, then Amanda shrugged. "Other than that? Well she was an immortal living on holy ground. I guess I'd always assumed that it was because she didn't want to fight anymore." Methos laughed again, and now Amanda grew impatient. "Ok, what am I missing?"

Methos stopped laughing and sighed heavily. "Can I assume that I don't have to lecture you on the socio-political climate of the times?" he asked, slipping into Adam Pierson's scholarly mode.

Amanda shot him a withered looked. "Just tell me about Rebecca. And not the watcher version."

Methos sighed again, trying to decide how best to do this. "First another question: did Rebecca ever mention her teacher?"

"You mean that guy everyone called 'The Ancient?' Just that he once taught both of you, and that Darius killed him."

"Well, what Rebecca may have left out was that she was his star pupil. He was a scholar and a healer, and temples were the places in the ancient world where… such things were allowed to happen. After teaching Rebecca, she left to enter the real world and discovered that she didn't much like it. He allowed her to stay on with him in his temple in Babylon. She was his… well heir is the wrong word, but she was a scholar, and a healer, and diplomatic liaison to the outside world."

"That sounds like Rebecca," Amanda interjected.

Methos grinned. "Rebecca really took to the idea of a Sanctuary. You know, a place immune to war, politics, and any other outside influence? She wanted a place that even mortals would respect so that all who sought refuge were safe."

Amanda nodded. "That was St. Anne," she mused wistfully.

Methos nodded in verification. "She took what the Ancient taught, and from those ideals… created places like St. Anne. First with him, then on her own. Darius… well, the Ancient knew that Darius's mortal army would sack his Sanctuary along with the city because they were not bound to respect holy ground." Methos cast his eyes downward and Amanda sensed the change in mood as one detects the temperature dropping. "Immortals can't destroy a holy place, but they can command others to do so."

Amanda nodded gravely in understanding. "So the Ancient went out to meet Darius's army?" She could tell that this line of questioning was painful for Methos, but her desire to know the truth was greater than her empathy.

Methos didn't evade, however. He laughed in bitter amusement. "When he died… he was the oldest living immortal. He was wise, and he was powerful. He knew that he couldn't turn Darius's army away. Only Darius could do that."

Amanda's eyes went wide. "He sacrificed himself?"

Methos couldn't speak; he merely nodded. Finally he found his voice again. "And Darius disbanded his armies and spared the city. Then he took over the governorship the Sanctuary in the Ancient's name, and stayed there until his death. The temple dwindled into an abbey, then a rectory, and finally became a small church with few resident monks. Mortals no longer came there for sanctuary."

"But immortals did," Amanda concluded, new understanding coloring every word, every glance.

Once again Methos could only nod, and silence reigned as Amanda pondered these revelations. Then finally:

"But what about Rebecca?"

Methos seemed to surface from his own thoughts at the question. The golden eyes of the world's oldest immortal rolled back behind a veil of green as the scholar-historian took over. "She was… employed by independent means, when we learned of our teacher's death. After confronting Darius… we went our separate ways again. When I found my way to Britannia nearly four centuries later, I discovered that she had established St. Anne's."

"She told me that the foundations were laid roundabout 660 or so," Amanda informed him.

Methos nodded with scholarly interest. "That fits with what the watchers have on it. They claim she hitched a ride with the first missionaries under St. Augustine."

"That would make sense," Amanda mused. "They would have let her set up an abbey or convent to house the converts who chose that lifestyle. Especially if Rebecca could front the money for it herself."

"Exactly," Methos agreed. "Establishing one of the Ancient's sanctuaries in Britannia would have been… appealing to her."

Amanda easily picked up on what he did not say. "Why Britannia? Was he born there?"

Methos laughed aloud. "I don't even think he knew where he was from." Then he sobered. The green eyes melted into gold and Amanda shivered at the change. "He and Rebecca were still running the sanctuary in Babylon when it fell. After that… he needed to take her away. Find a change of scenery to try and get past the… memories. They went to Britannia."

"Rebecca saw the fall of Babylon?" Amanda breathed, startled and frightened and in awe of a rather large and important factor of Rebecca's life that she'd never even guessed at.

Methos nodded gravely, and the cold, dead look to his gold eyes frightened her. She needed to change the subject.

"Well, that explains St. Anne," Amanda said, forcing herself to sound cheerful. Just when she started thinking that something stronger would be needed to breach the walls of memory Methos was suddenly trapped behind, the eldest immortal blinked slowly and then sighed.

"So now you know," he declared tonelessly. It appeared to Amanda that he was trying to bring his emotions under control—emotions that he wasn't letting her see.

"I wish she would have told me herself." Amanda allowed Methos to see the hurt she felt at having been kept in the dark about so much for so long. It was a way to distract him from his own pain.

It worked.

"That wouldn't have fit with her 'shield you from the world' motif," Methos pointed out, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Amanda chuckled without mirth. "No it wouldn't," she agreed. Then a sudden thought came to her: "But what about the politics of the time?"

Methos dutifully looked up, bright green eyes questioning her meaning.

"What happened between you and the King? And what on earth was Rebecca doing in the middle of that whole mess anyway? I thought you said that she wanted a place free from political persecution…"

Methos laughed at her rapid-fire questioning. "Those with the cleanest faces have the dirtiest hands," he said, affecting wisdom with the ancient saying.

Amanda smirked. "She had her fingers in dozens of different pies so that she could convince them to leave her and the abbey alone?"

"In an oversimplified way, yes, I'd say that's accurate. I did tell you that she once served as the Ancient's diplomatic liaison." Methos watched Amanda nod, seeming to readily accept this overly simplified answer when actually she was merely distracted by another, more pressing thought:

"But what about you? You still haven't told me what your role was in all of this."

Methos sighed because it covered his groan. "Want more coffee?" he asked, grabbing both of their cups and standing up. "It looks like we're going to be here a while."


AN- St. Augustine led the first Christian missionaries into Britannia around 600 AD. (Theoretically the Irish received their own missionaries around this time too and by 850 AD both Romanesque Christianity and Celtic-ized Christianity were intermingling in Anglo-Saxon Brittany.) In 800 AD Charlemagne, king of the Franks, was crowned Holy Roman Emperor. Across the channel, the kings of Wessex, now the most powerful Anglo-Saxon kingdom, get jealous and want similar titles. They sought to unite all of Anglo-Saxony under their crown (as well as everyone else on that island (Scots, Picts, etc)). The king who succeeded at this was Egbert in 829 AD, despite not having a firm grasp of the kingdom's he's annexed/conquered/peaceably taken over. Then in 839 AD his son Æthelwulf assumed the throne and ruled until 858 (and was thus king during Amanda's tenure with Rebecca). During this time, the Viking (Norse, Swedish, and Danish) raids are getting a bit out of hand and finally only Wessex remained relatively untouched, and stood alone against the invaders. Also during this time, while Wessex is virtually surrounded, the two archdioceses (heads of the Christian Church) on the Island are in Viking-controlled York and Danish-controlled Canterbury.