The High King of Ireland was about to take a ceremonial bath. So it proved. Before they had finished filling the tub, the first patrols started to return. There seemed to be even more of them this time. Peter guessed that at least two hundred were going down into the river, and others were still arriving. And as soon as everything at the top of the slope was ready, he saw a single figure emerge from the camp, accompanied by about a dozen men, who lifted the figure into the great bathtub. While his men splashed about in the river below, the O'Connor king, surrounded by his companions, was performing the royal ablutions. It was perfect. Peter couldn't believe his luck. He turned the steel reflector over, carefully judging the angle. He started to rotate it, back and forth. On the roof of Christ Church, the waiting sentry saw the tiny flash of light, greenish from the tree, reflecting the brightness of the burning sun. And moments later, the southern and western city gates burst open; a hundred lightly armed horsemen, with five hundred more foot soldiers running behind them, made for the ford, while two hundred armoured knights thundered at a gallop across the wooden bridge.
