The tale of Taillefer was no more than the imagination of some copyist who had improved upon the tale to while away his time.
But men had died. They had run down the hill, staggering with their wounds, and died. They had fallen from their horses and been dragged to death by their frightened mounts. They had come crawling down the hill, with minutes left of life and with a whimper in their throats.
He stood up and his hands were shaking.
He walked unsteadily into the next room.
"You are going to bed, sir?" asked the cabinet.
"I think I will," said Bishop.
"Very good, then, sir. I'll lock up and put out."
"That's very good of you."
"Routine, sir," said the cabinet. "Is there anything you wish?"
"Not a thing," said Bishop. "Good night."