‘“Many a stray shot goes too well home,” said Rahere.
‘The old man flinched as at an arrow. “Why do you hurt me still?” he said in Saxon. “It was on some bones of some Saints that I promised I would give my England to the Great Duke.” He turns on us all crying, shrilly: “Thanes, he had caught me at Rouen—a lifetime ago. If I had not promised, I should have lain there all my life. What else could I have done? I have lain in a strait prison all my life none the less. There is no need to throw stones at me.” He guarded his face with his arms, and shivered.
‘“Now his madness will strike him down,” said Rahere. “Cast out the evil spirit, one of you new bishops.”
‘Said William of Exeter: “Harold was slain at Santlache fight. All the world knows it.”
‘“I think this man must have forgotten,” said Rahere. “Be comforted, Father. Thou wast well slain at Hastings forty years gone, less three months and nine days. Tell the King.”
‘The man uncovered his face. “I thought they would stone me,” he said. "I did not know I spoke before a King.” He came to his full towering height—no mean man, but frail beyond belief.
‘The King turned to the tables, and held him out his own cup of wine. The old man drank, and beckoned behind him, and, before all the Normans, my Hugh bore away the empty cup, Saxon fashion, upon the knee.
‘“It is Harold!” said De Aquila. “His own stiff-necked blood kneels to serve him.”
‘“Be it so,” said Henry. “Sit, then, thou that hast been Harold of England.”
‘The madman sat, and hard, dark Henry looked at him between half-shut eyes. We others stared like oxen, all but De Aquila, who watched Rahere as I have seen him watch a far sail on the sea.