They crossed the Severn at Worcester, and rode over the great hill of Malvern, and when they were within a day’s journey of the Royal Palace of Sutton, they pitched their tents at Fernlege, on the banks of the Wye, and there Ethelbert and most of his nobles waited, while one or two knights rode forward to inform King Offa of his arrival. In the evening, so the quaint old story goes, the young King left his tent, and, ascending a little hillock, from whence he could obtain a wide view of the surrounding country, sat down at the root of a giant oak-tree. Everything was so fair and peaceful that he smiled as he remembered his mother’s fears, and he thought to himself how delighted she would be when he arrived at home once more, accompanied by his beautiful young bride. Musing thus he fell asleep, and dreamed a dream. He dreamt that he was standing beside the little church which stood down by the riverside, which had been founded by Sir Geraint, and that all of a sudden an angel appeared, who carried a basin in his hand, and, to the King’s horror, the basin was full of blood. But the angel’s calm face was quite untroubled as he picked a little bunch of herbs and dipped them in the blood, and began to sprinkle the rude little building with the scarlet drops. And lo! to Ethelbert’s amazement, the building began slowly to change; it grew bigger and higher, and the reeds and wattles turned to blocks of stone, and presently a magnificent Minster stood in its place. Apparently it was some great Festival, for a sweet-toned organ was pealing inside, while from all directions multitudes of people came thronging to the church, singing hymns of praise as they did so. And as they drew near the King, he heard that there was one name which mingled with the name of God and of the Saints upon their lips, and that name was his own, ‘Ethelbert.’ Wondering greatly, he awoke, and the vision passed quickly from his mind, for at that moment his Ambassadors returned, bearing courteous greetings from the Mercian Monarch, who hoped that on the morrow he would come with all speed to his Palace. Meanwhile, at Sutton, a scene was going on which is almost the story of Ahab and Jezebel and Naboth’s vineyard over again. For King Offa and his wife, Queen Quendreda, were sitting in the King’s private chamber, talking about their coming guest and his fertile dominions, just as Ahab and Jezebel had talked about Naboth. And Quendreda was putting an awful thought into Offa’s mind. ‘It were a good thing,’ so she whispered, ‘to have the King of East Anglia for a son-in-law, but it were a better to murder him quietly, and add his Kingdom to that of Mercia. Then would Offa be a mighty Monarch indeed.’