The king shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"I wish the duke joy of him," he said. "He is more dangerous to my enemy when he is on my enemy's side. Where are the rascals of last night?"
"The tavern rabble are in custody of Messire Noel."
"And my rival for royalty?"
"Barber Olivier has charge of him. I would have hanged the rogue out of hand."
"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.
