As Henry hesitated for a moment at these crushing demands, a sudden terrible thunder broke from the still air.  Both kings fell back with superstitious awe, for there had been no warning cloud or darkness.  After a little space they again went forward, and again out of the serene sky came a yet louder and more awful peal.  Henry, half fainting with suffering, was only prevented from falling to the ground by the friends who held him up on horseback while he made his submission to his rival and accepted the terms of peace.  Then for the last time he spoke with his faithless son Richard.  As the formal kiss of peace was given, the count caught his father’s fierce whisper, “May God not let me die until I have worthily avenged myself on thee!” The terrible words were to Richard only a merry tale, with which on his return he stirred the French court to great laughter.

Henry was carried back the same day in a litter to Chinon.  So sudden and amazing a downfall was to the superstitious terror of the time, evident token that the curse of Thomas had come to rest on him.  The vengeance of the implacable martyr seemed to follow him through every act of the great drama.  In Philip’s scornful refusal to allow Henry to swear obedience, “saving his honour and the dignity of his kingdom,” the zealots of the day saw a just retribution.  At Chinon a deputation of monks from Canterbury met him.  “Trusting that in his affliction he might pity the affliction of the Church,” and grant demands long urged by the convent, they had sought him out, “going through swords.”  “The convent of Canterbury salutes you as their lord,” they began, as they forced their way into the sick king’s presence.  Henry broke in with bitter indignation, “Then lord I have been, and am still, and will be yet—­small thanks to you, ye evil traitors!” he added in a lower voice, which just caught the ears of the furious monks.  But he listened patiently to their complaint.  “Now go out,” he said, “I will speak with my faithful servants.”  As the monks passed out one of them stopped and laid his curse on the king, who trembled and grew pale at the terrible words.  “The omnipotent God of His ineffable mercy, and for the merits of the blessed martyr Thomas, if his life and passion has been well pleasing to Him, will shortly do us justice on thy body.”  Tortured with suffering, Henry still summoned strength for his last public act.  He called his clerk and dictated a letter to Canterbury, to urge patience till his return, when he would consider their complaint and find a way out of the difficulty.  The same evening his chancellor, whom he had sent to Philip at Tours, returned with the list of those who had conspired against him Henry bade him read the names.  “Sire,” he said, “may Jesus Christ help me! the first name which is written here is the name of Count John your son.”  The king started up from his pillow.  “Is it true,” he cried, “that John, my very heart, whom I have loved beyond all my sons, and for