Chapter 11 Britain find the law

For more than four centuries, Britain had been a land of war. Celt against Saxon, Saxon against Angle, Angle against Dane. The island was torn by rival peoples and rival gods, until Alfred stood up and, by God’s providence, brought peace. For the first time in generations, Britain was united under one king, one sword, one shield.

But Alfred knew what every wise man of Israel once knew: a nation cannot stand on strength alone. Armies can win a field, but without law, nations fall into ruin. And the law Alfred turned to was not the law of Rome, nor the decrees of bishops. It was the law of God.

Yet here lies the snare of history. Later chroniclers, shaped by their own age, would write of Alfred as a Christian king. To them, “Christian” meant Catholic, for Rome had come to brand the word as its own. They did not know, or did not care, that this word had not been spoken in Britain in Alfred’s day.

The term “Christian” had never been born in Jerusalem or Antioch by the mouth of the apostles themselves. It was a Gentile word, applied from the outside, not a name chosen by the followers of Christ. By Alfred’s time, the historians had begun to throw this net wide. They called the Celtic druids Christian Celts, though their ways were pagan. They called the monks Christian monks, though their faith came not from Rome but from Scripture. They called those under the pope’s sway Christians, as if one word could hide a thousand different fires.

So when the records call Alfred a “Christian king,” they hide the truth. They clothe him in a Catholic robe that he never wore. Alfred was no servant of Rome. If he was to be called Christian at all, it was in the sense of the monks he loved and learned from: men who clung to God’s law, not to papal decrees. He was, in truth, a law-king, not a Catholic king.

The Challenge of Rome

When Alfred had at last united the warring tribes of Britain into one military force, his work was only half done. For a kingdom may be defended with the sword, but it cannot stand without law. And law, in Alfred’s time, was tangled in the great question of religion.

Four centuries earlier, when the Roman Empire still cast its shadow over Europe, Pope Gregory had sent a missionary named Augustine to Britain. Augustine’s mission was not simply to preach Christ, but to bring the island under Rome’s religious authority. His order was plain: convert the people, bend the church of Britain to Rome, and bring the island into the Catholic fold.

But Britain was no blank slate. Long before Augustine stepped ashore, the Celts had their druids and monks, learned men who kept law and scripture apart from Rome. They were not “Christians” in the Roman sense, though the historians now call them so. They were men of the old faith of the land, holding fast to the law of God, some to their own traditions. Rome called them “Christian monks” though they never bent knee to the pope.

 The Weight of Catholic Power

By Alfred’s day, Rome’s power had swept across nearly all of Europe. Kings bowed to papal decrees. Crowns were set or removed at the whim of the pontiff. Catholic influence reached into courts, armies, and monasteries, binding men with oaths not to God, but to Rome.

Here lay Alfred’s trial: to forge a nation bound not by papal law, but by the law of God. He knew that if the Catholic Church gained dominance in Britain, the people would not only lose their freedom, but the truth of God’s word would be buried beneath Roman ceremony.

The historians, eager to write Britain into Rome’s story, would later call Alfred a “Christian King.” But in their pen, “Christian” meant Catholic. This was false. Alfred was no servant of the pope. If he was to be called a Christian, it was in the sense of a monk-king, a man schooled by the law of God, not by papal decrees.

Alfred’s Resolve

Thus Alfred stood at the crossroads. Around him lay the ruins of four hundred years of tribal wars. Ahead stood the might of Rome, pressing upon his island as it had pressed upon Gaul, Spain, and the German lands. If Britain was to be free, if it was to stand as a covenant nation under God, Alfred would have to resist not only the sword of the Viking, but the cross of Rome.

This was the battle unseen by many: not only a clash of armies, but of governments, of laws, and of faiths

The Catholic Problem for Alfred

By the time Alfred came to power, the Roman Catholic Church had entrenched itself as the most powerful force in Europe. The bishops of Rome, following the missionary orders first sent by Pope Gregory the Great and carried out by Augustine of Canterbury (596 AD), had laid claim to Britain as part of their spiritual empire. Every kingdom that submitted to Rome was drawn into a wider network of European power: papal blessing was political legitimacy, and papal disapproval was political ruin. Monarchs who resisted Rome often found themselves isolated, without allies, and vulnerable to both excommunication and foreign invasion.

Britain had already experienced this tension. The Celtic monks, keepers of older traditions, resisted Roman customs for centuries until they were forced into submission at the Synod of Whitby (664 AD). But the memory of this resistance lingered, especially in the hearts of those who held to a stricter form of biblical law. When Alfred rose to power, Catholic influence was everywhere in Europe — but Britain’s own religious heritage was not Catholic. There were still traces of monk monastic teaching and biblical law outside papal control. This meant Alfred was caught between two competing worlds: the massive Catholic bloc dominating the continent, and the independent biblical teaching still present in his own land.

The Risk of Denouncing the Pope

For Alfred, the challenge was not merely theological — it was political survival. If he openly denounced the Pope, Britain would become an island truly alone, cut off from alliances with Catholic Europe. Trade could suffer, armies could be raised against him under papal banners, and he might even face a crusade launched in the name of Rome. Worse still, his own people were divided. Many of his subjects, especially those influenced by Catholic missionaries, had adopted Roman practices. If Alfred declared against the Pope, he risked splitting his kingdom once more — undoing the fragile peace he had fought so hard to achieve after centuries of war between Saxon, Angle, and Celt.

Thus, Alfred walked a narrow path. To protect Britain’s unity, he could not submit fully to Rome. But to protect Britain’s safety, he could not openly denounce Rome either. His genius lay in how he insulated Britain: strengthening law and learning within his kingdom so that his people were bound by God’s law rather than papal decree, while diplomatically maintaining enough outward respect to avoid provoking Europe’s Catholic powers into war.

Alfred and the Catholic Question

In Alfred’s day, the law was not the only authority men bowed to. Across the Channel, in Rome, the Pope’s hand stretched like a net across the whole of Europe. From Spain to the German states, from France to Italy, kings paid homage to the See of Rome. The command of Pope Gregory, given through Augustine in the sixth century, had not been forgotten: Britain was to be converted to Catholic obedience. The teachers that came with Augustine had spread papal teaching, and though many Celtic monks resisted, the Catholic order continued to grow.

The Dilemma of Denouncing Rome

Here Alfred faced a dangerous crossroad. If he openly denounced the Pope, he would isolate Britain from the rest of Europe, cutting himself off from alliances and trade. To the Catholic believers within his own borders, such a denouncement would sound like rebellion against the very faith they thought sacred. Civil war could ignite again, undoing the fragile peace he had worked so hard to secure.

But if he bowed to Rome, Alfred would surrender the independence he had just forged. Britain would be no longer a free nation but a servant of papal decrees, its laws bent to foreign will. He had seen what papal power had done in the Frankish kingdoms — how kings became puppets while bishops and abbots carried more sway than crowns. Alfred could not allow such a fate for his kingdom.

Thus Alfred’s problem was not merely political but spiritual. To build a kingdom of law under God, he had to walk a razor’s edge: resisting Rome’s domination without tearing his people apart, holding Britain together as one nation while shielding it from the net of papal Europe.

Alfred Before the Crossroads

.Here lay the heart of Alfred’s greatest challenge. The faith that stretched across Europe was Rome’s faith. From the days of Pope Gregory’s order to Augustine, the Catholic Church had extended its arm into the isles, pressing its claim of spiritual supremacy. Across the continent, kings bowed their crowns before the Pope. Thrones rose and fell by Rome’s blessing. To denounce the Pope was to set oneself against the power that bound all Europe together — a power greater than any army Alfred had faced.

In Britain, this power was not merely abroad but within. Monks taught under the shadow of Augustine’s mission. Nobles with Catholic sympathies looked to Rome. To strike openly against the Pope would not only insult Europe — it would stir unrest within Alfred’s own land, undoing the fragile unity he had just secured.

Thus the dilemma was laid bare before the king. If Alfred bent the knee to Rome, he would preserve peace with Europe but surrender the soul of his nation to Catholic law. If he rejected Rome, he risked isolating Britain, turning the continent against him and dividing his own people. This was no small matter of words or titles. It was the fulcrum on which the future of Britain would turn.

It was here that Alfred’s greatness shone. For while many kings yielded to the Pope for the sake of safety, Alfred sought a higher path. He would honor the unity of the Church, but not by bowing to Rome. He would root Britain in God’s law — the law he had learned from the Scriptures and the monks who carried the old flame of truth. In this way, he would give his nation both peace and freedom, balancing the sword of war with the staff of shepherding.

The Suspense Around Alfred’s Decision

.The choice before Alfred was not simply political — it was civilizational. One false step, and the fragile house he had built could collapse back into war, religious division, or foreign domination.

Alfred gathered around him men of vision—those who could shepherd the nation’s soul as much as defend it with a sword. None was more crucial to this mission than John the Old Saxon, the scholar and abbot at Athelney.

So Alfred waited. He listened. He studied. He drew close advisers into his circle, men like John of Old Saxony, whose knowledge of both Rome’s power and the Saxon heritage was unmatched. Every voice in his council mattered, every option was weighed.

Yet the final decision would rest on Alfred alone. And he knew it would define Britain’s future forever.The choice before Alfred was not simply political — it was civilizational. One false step, and the fragile house he had built could collapse back into war, religious division, or foreign domination.

Yet the final decision would rest on Alfred alone. And he knew it would define Britain’s future forever.

John of Old Saxony Enters the Scene

Alfred was not content to rely only on warriors and earls to secure his kingdom. He understood that swords could defend a border, but only minds could build a nation. To this end, he sought out men of wisdom, men who could teach, translate, and bring order to a people long scattered by war. One of the most important of these men was John of Old Saxony, sometimes called John the Old Saxon.

John was renowned for his intelligence. Unlike many clerics of his time, who lived cloistered lives and France, loyal to Rome and the Pope, grew hostile toward John. His scholarship threatened the grip they held over interpretation. These were not simply jealous monks — they were the guardians of Rome’s influence in Western Europe, and they saw in John a rebel voice that had to be silenced.

They tried to kill him. Whether by plot, poison, or dagger, history hints at attempts on John’s life, for his pen and his teaching undermined the Catholic order. Alfred knew this, and yet he sheltered John in his court, valuing his wisdom above the danger it brought. The men who hated John were not random assassins. They were part of the same network that tied France, the monasteries, and the Roman church together — a network that would never forgive Alfred for protecting a man who dared to bring Hebrew truth through Latin words into the heart of England recited prayers by rote, John had a sharp, practical mind that Alfred recognized instantly. He was a translator, a scholar who could take the sacred texts and render them with precision. What made John unique was his insistence on working not from the polished glosses of Rome, but from Latin translations that preserved the raw, word-for-word accuracy of the Hebrew. This gave his work a power that Alfred valued deeply, for it cut through layers of commentary and tradition and reached back toward the roots of truth itself.

But such fidelity to the original sources was dangerous. It was a challenge to the authority of Rome and its carefully controlled narrative. Soon whispers spread across the channel. 

Alfred’s Guardian of Truth — John the Old Saxon

Alfred gathered around him men of vision—those who could shepherd the nation’s soul as much as defend it with a sword. None was more crucial to this mission than John the Old Saxon, the scholar and abbot at Athelney.

A Scholar Anchored in Truth

John had walked into Alfred’s court not just as a learned man, but as a keeper of the written Word. Unlike some who relied on secondhand tradition, John worked from Latin translations that hewed closely to the Hebrew originals, striving for the clarity of God’s law, illuminated in their raw, unfiltered Alfred understood the power of what this meant: knowledge grounded not in Rome’s commentary, but in the commandment itself.

A Threat to Roman Power

In France, where the influence of the Catholic Church was strongest, John’s precise scholarship sparked hostility. These were powerful men—clerics tied to Rome—who saw in John a threat to their controlled narrative. Their influence reached beyond church walls; their allegiance lay with papal authority and territorial power.

Attempted Murder in the Chapel

Their opposition turned deadly. In his work Life of Alfred, Asser recounts how, while John was at prayer in the church of Athelney, two Gaulish (West Frankish) monks—loyal to Rome’s influence—ambushed him. They hid within the sanctuary and attacked with swords. John’s cries, however, roused his companions, and he survived the lethal assault 

Alfred Guards a Flame Too Worthy to Quench

Alfred knew the danger John’s presence invited. But he also recognized that this scholar carried light strong enough to guide a nation. Where some saw a target to be silenced, Alfred saw a torch to be shielded. By protecting John, Alfred wasn’t just defending a man—he was preserving a pathway to truth, education, and sovereignty.

                                             John of Old Saxony

Among the men Alfred gathered to strengthen his kingdom, none stood out more than John of Old Saxony. Known for his brilliant mind and sharp memory, John was not merely a scholar but a man who understood the weight of truth. Alfred recognized this at once and drew him close, giving him the charge of building the intellectual and spiritual foundation of the English court.

John’s greatest gift was his mastery of languages. Unlike many clerics of the age who worked only from Latin, John labored from a Latin text that itself was a word-for-word translation of Hebrew. This gave his teaching a rare precision—each word carried the rhythm of Scripture as it was originally spoken. For Alfred, who longed to restore both law and learning to his people, this was a treasure beyond measure.

The Threat from Abroad

But brilliance attracts danger. John’s work stirred envy and suspicion among some, especially those tied to the old powers across the Channel. Certain factions in France, bound to Rome and threatened by the independence Alfred was fostering, saw in John a dangerous figure. His teaching threatened their hold, for if the English gained direct access to truth—through Hebrew precision rather than Rome’s interpretations—then Rome’s control would weaken.

So it was that John faced a plot against him. Enemies moved quietly, hoping to silence him before his influence could spread. They tried to have him killed, a grim reminder that knowledge and faith were weapons in their own right. Yet John survived, and in his survival, Alfred’s cause only grew stronger.A Link Exposed

The attempt revealed more than hatred—it uncovered a link between the French powers, the monasteries bound to Rome, and the forces that wished to see Alfred fail. What might have seemed a single act of violence proved instead to be part of a larger struggle: a contest not only for the body of England but for its soul.

The scholars of Alfred’s court, like John the Old Saxon, had built a foundation of learning and government rooted in God’s Word. And at the center of that foundation was something every Christian across Europe already knew by heart: the Ten Commandments.

Alfred did not invent them, nor did he claim them as his own. What he did was something far more daring — he took those ancient words and made them the foundation of law and government in his realm. Unlike the Church of Rome, who kept the Commandments as lofty moral rules but did not govern nations by them, Alfred declared they would be the bedrock of justice and judgment in Britain.

This was bold — but here lies the twist. The Ten Commandments alone were not proof that Britain was Israel. Gentile nations, too, had the commandments. They had filtered into Europe long before Alfred’s day, passed along through the Church, through Rome, through countless translations. The Catholic Church taught them as moral principles, though never as the foundation of government.

So Alfred’s government was different. He raised up the commandments, not as a catechism, but as the structure of national law. Yet even then, one must be cautious: this was not proof that Britain was Israel — it was another path, another marker along the way, but not the destination.

What we see here is like nothing is world history show any other place. At Mt. Sinai God made with Israel a covenant and the foundation of the covenant God made with no other people was the Ten Commandments. The full covenant was not given at Mt Sinai only the foundation of the covenant the Ten Commandment. The full covenant was added by Moses over the next months and years but the covenant God made with Israel was the Ten. Commandments. It was the beginning foundation of the law of government that will be places over Israel. Alfred mirrored this in setting up his government. He as on Mt. Sinai began with the law of the Commandments as the foundation of the government he set and just like Israel added the full government based on these Ten Commandment under these laws. No other nation has done this is passed history or present, only Alfred in Britain.

The Last Piece of Candy

As Alfred’s reign matured, the Ten Commandments stood at the very heart of his laws. Some would look at this foundation and say, “Surely this proves Britain is Israel.” But that alone cannot be the proof.

The truth is, the Gentiles were also given the Ten Commandments, just not as their governing foundation. The Catholic Church carried them as moral guidelines, shaping conscience but not shaping government. Alfred, on the other hand, built his kingdom’s laws directly upon them, weaving God’s order into the framework of daily life.

So yes, Alfred’s use of the Commandments was unique, but the law by itself is not enough to prove Britain was Israel. It was one more path—another strand in the great tapestry—but not the crown jewel of evidence.

And so, we leave this chapter with the taste of that last piece of candy: a reminder that truth is not proven by one thread, but by the whole fabric woven together.