Sir Rowland Hill had a profound interest in the ancient origins of London.
While serving as Lord Mayor, Hill was not only concerned with the city’s commerce and governance but also its spiritual and historical foundations, which he would have believed were re-laid during the earliest Anglo-Saxon period.
As Lord Mayor of London his intellectual curiosity extended far beyond his own time, focusing on the historical transition of the city from its pagan past to its Christian identity.
He was particularly fascinated by the period of early Anglo-Saxon England and the figures who shaped the capital’s faith. Soulton Hall, therefore, serves as a physical representation of this scholarly devotion, designed as a retreat where Hill could study the foundational legends of his city.
The London we know today is a city of countless faiths, but its spiritual journey incorporated a clash of worlds.
Long before the great cathedrals and churches that dot its skyline, the city was shaped by the beliefs of the Anglo-Saxons.
It’s a story of a long-lost religion, a failed mission, and a miraculous, body-snatching chase that would forever change the course of London’s soul.
We don’t have many written records from the Anglo-Saxons themselves, so our knowledge of their pagan religion is scarce. What we do know comes from a mix of archaeology and later Christian accounts. The Anglo-Saxon pantheon included powerful gods like Wodin, the all-father; Tiw, a god of law and war; and Thunor, the mighty god of thunder. Their mythology, we believe, was very similar to the Norse sagas, with Wodin being the equivalent of Odin and Thunor the powerful Thor.
Anglo-Saxons didn’t build grand stone temples. Instead, they preferred to worship in nature’s own sanctuaries—around ancient trees, by the banks of streams, or at old standing stones that had been sacred since the time of the ancient Britons and Romans. Their faith was deeply personal and tied to the natural world. This decentralized form of worship meant that Christian missionaries couldn’t simply tear down a temple; they had to win the hearts of the people one by one.
In the year 604, a man named Mellitus arrived in the city. He was part of a major mission, authorized by the Pope, sent to convert the people of England. Mellitus was installed as the first Bishop of London and set to work on a powerful symbol of the new faith: a new cathedral, Old St. Paul’s. The location was no accident—it was inside the old Roman city walls, a powerful statement that the church was reclaiming the glory of a fallen empire. For the Londoners, who largely lived outside the crumbling walls, venturing into the ruined city to worship must have been a daunting and unsettling experience.
Perhaps it was too unsettling, because the first generation of the mission didn’t go very well. In 616, the Christian King Saebert died, and his three pagan sons took over. They were hostile to the new religion and its bishop. The Venerable Bede, a monk writing a century later, claims they burst in on Mellitus during mass at his cathedral.
The three brothers saw the bishop giving communion to the people and, with a “barbarous folly” Bede noted, demanded, “‘Why do you not give us also that white bread, which you used to give to our father Saebert…?'”
Mellitus’s answer was simple: “‘If you will be washed in that water of salvation, in which your father was washed, you may also partake of the holy bread…but if you despise the water of life, you may not receive the bread of life.'”
Outraged by this perceived slight, the kings saw the Christians as troublesome and disrespectful. They ran Bishop Mellitus out of town, and for thirty years, the cathedral stood empty. Christianity was on the brink of being forgotten in London.
Christianity was down, but it was not out. Decades passed with London teetering on a spiritual precipice, until the 660s, when a pious king named Sebbi restored Christianity to the city. King Sebbi had a powerful partnership with a devout monk named Earconwald, who would later become a saint and a legend in his own right.
With King Sebbi’s help, Earconwald set about rebuilding the faith. He first founded the abbey for monks at Chertsey and then, for nuns, Barking Abbey, which was led by his sister, Ethelburga. In 675, Earconwald was promoted to Bishop of London. He was beloved by the people for his common touch and sense of charity. He liked to preach in public, and a much later, though less reliable, story claims that even when he was too old and frail to walk, he had a horse-drawn litter built so he could continue his sermons in the streets. Once, a wheel allegedly fell off his vehicle, but it kept moving smoothly as if nothing had happened—a testament to his miraculous nature.
The people truly appreciated his accessibility, and under his rule, Christianity flourished. But it was his death that would truly cement his legacy in London’s history.
Erkenwald was staying at Barking Abbey when his illness finally took him. His biographer, Arcoid of London, claims that as he passed away, a “most marvellous fragrance and sweetest odour” filled his room. What followed, however, spoiled this sweet ending.
Almost immediately, two separate crowds turned up to claim his body: one was a group of monks from Chertsey Abbey, and the other was a large crowd of Londoners, led by the canons of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Both sides believed they had the right to bury the holy man. An ugly stand-off ensued, and the Londoners, in a fit of desperation, broke into the nunnery, grabbed the cold body of their beloved bishop, and “legged it!” The monks and nuns set out in hot pursuit, “weeping and wailing.” The chase was on.
As if the scene weren’t dramatic enough, a powerful storm gathered. The rain lashed down, the wind was so violent that people could “scarcely stand upright,” and the candles around the body were blown out. As the two groups tried to cross the River Roding, the waters suddenly surged, blocking their paths both forward and backward. The groups continued to fight, trapped by the elements.
Then, a learned man from the London crowd cried out that their ridiculous chase was angering God. He urged everyone to stop, lay on the ground, and pray for forgiveness, letting God decide where the body should go.
The entire crowd knelt in the mud and prayed. And then, a miracle: the storm immediately passed, the candles around the body spontaneously relit themselves, and the river lowered, presenting them with a clear path back to London.
God had spoken. Erkenwald was a Londoner, through and through, and his body was carried triumphantly back to St. Paul’s.
Erkenwald and King Sebbi were both buried at St. Paul’s Cathedral, and their tombs quickly became the focus of saints’ cults and pilgrimages. The frenzy and devotion surrounding these events were the first true signs that Christianity had finally found a secure and passionate footing in London. The new religion was no longer a royal decree but a faith embraced by the people. The local mania for miracles and relics was the first real evidence that London had, at last, truly become a Christian city.
