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come.’
    ‘May God bless your soul, Bishop.’
    ‘And yours, my lord. You will know why I wished to see you, why I wished to speak with you before I left this earth for ever. I fear for you, my lord.’
    ‘Be of good cheer. I have taken care of myself and my kingdom for many years. Fear not, I shall go on doing so whatever befalls.’
    ‘It is what may befall, my lord, which makes me fearful.’
    ‘Have you brought me here to utter gloomy prophecies, Bishop?’
    ‘My lord, you know I refer to the murder.’
    ‘Few refer to anything else now. I am a little weary of the subject.’
    ‘You must be very sick at heart, my lord.’
    ‘The Archbishop is dead. Nothing can bring him back. When a man has a kingdom to govern he cannot indulge in prolonged mourning because a subject is no more.’
    ‘Thomas was no ordinary subject.’
    ‘Archbishop of Canterbury no less, though for some years he preferred to forget it.’
    ‘You cannot deceive a dying man, my lord. You are sick at heart and fearful of consequences.’
    ‘Why should I be, pray?’
    ‘Because, my lord, you are guilty of murder and that the murder of a saint.’
    ‘My lord Bishop, you forget to whom you speak.’
    ‘I’m dying, my lord. Nothing you could do to me now could harm me. I will speak the truth in death.’
    ‘Is it not a cowardly thing to do – to say in death that which you feared to say in life?’
    ‘I would say it if I had ten years more left to me. I tremble for you, for you have murdered a saint.’
    ‘My lord Bishop,’ said the King affecting weariness, ‘my knights misunderstood me. I raged against the man. Who would not? He plagued me. He frustrated me at every turn. I forgave him. I allowed him to return to England after his exile and what did he do? He tried to raise the country against me.’
    ‘He did no such thing. That was what his enemies said against him. He was always your friend.’
    The King was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘I had no part in his death. I did not wish him dead.’
    ‘My lord,’ said the Bishop lifting his hand, ‘your knights killed the Archbishop because you had led them to believe you wished it. You cannot deny that and you are responsible for his death. I fear your expiation will be terrible.’
    Hot anger seized the King. He clenched his fist and wanted to crash it into those sightless eyes. But this was a dying man and a terrible fear and remorse quickly overcame his fury. He remained still with his fist raised.
    ‘Repent, my lord,’ murmured the Bishop. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness for this terrible deed.’
    The Bishop was suddenly still. The King called out: ‘Come hither. The Bishop is dying.’
    He was glad to escape from that chamber of death. He was afraid and fear made him angry.
    ‘Thomas,’ he muttered, ‘are you going to haunt me for ever?’
    He must escape. He must shut out of his mind memories of Thomas, memories of the dying Bishop.
    Normally he would go with all speed to Rosamund; now he thought the innocence of the children in the royal nursery could appease him better.

    When the kings of Ireland heard that Henry Plantagenet had landed they made haste to swear fealty to him. The chiefs and kings of such places as Waterford, Cork and Limerick were all eager to avoid a war. They trembled before the might of the King of England. They were Celts, tall and elegant men and their complexions were ruddy. Their tunics were of roughly spun wool and their weapons of war were very primitive for they had nothing but swords, short lances and hatchets. Although they were quarrelsome they often appeared to have little heart for a fight; they were passionately fond of music and many of them played the harp. Their houses were of wood and wattle; their country was green and fertile, the climate warm and damp. Henry liked what he saw of it and recalled to his followers that both his grandfather and great-grandfather had planned to conquer the place, but their commitments in