"
"Your turn will come, gossip, never doubt it. But the stars warn me
that I need this rhyming ragamuffin. There is a tale of Haroun al
Raschid--"
Tristan stifled a yawn and a sneer. "Another tale, sire," he said
with something like piteous protest, for the king's tales did not
always entertain Tristan.
Louis went on, however, indifferent to his companion's feelings:
"How he picked a drunken rascal from the streets and took him to his
palace. When the rascal woke sober, the courtiers persuaded him that
he was the Caliph, and the Commander of the Faithful found great
sport in his behaviour. I promise myself a like diversion."
Tristan stared in surprise. This form of entertainment was new to
him and did not seem to be particularly amusing.
"Are you going to let him think he is king, sire?" he asked.
A queer smile wrinkled the king's malign face.
"Not quite," he said. "When he wakes, he is to be assured that he is
the Count of Montcorbier and Grand Constable of France. His antics
may amuse me, his lucky star may serve me, and his winning tongue
may help to avenge me on a certain froward maid, who disdained me.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96