The Follies of the King

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THE old King was dying. There, in the little village of Burgh-on-Sands where he was in sight of the Solway Firth beyond which lay the land he had planned to conquer, he had come to the end of a long life of endeavour and triumph. He had brought his country out of the pit of disaster into which the ill rule of a demoniacal grandfather and a weak father had led it, and he had made England a proud country again. His ancestors, chief of them that great William who had become known as The Conqueror, would be proud of him.

But God had seen fit to take him before his work was completed. He had done much but not enough. He had known he had been inspired and he would become a legend. His enemies quailed before him and wherever Edward had ridden into battle, that aura of invincibility had gone with him.

But God had seen fit to take him before his work was completed. He had done much but not enough. He had known he had been inspired and he would become a legend. His enemies quailed before him and wherever Edward had ridden into battle, that aura of invincibility had gone with him.

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