"I have nothing to confess. Take me before the Prince, or whoever your boss is; perhaps he will at least give me food."
"Thou shalt have food here. Never shall it be said that Richard Montmorency turned a hungry man from his doorway. Hey! Michel! Michel! Where is the lazy brat? Michel!"
A door opened from an inner apartment to admit a boy, sleepy eyed, digging a grimy fist into one eye. He was clothed in a short tunic, his legs encased in green tights. In his cap was a feather.
"Sleeping again, eh?" demanded Sir Richard. "Thou lazy knave! Fetch bread and meat for this poor wayfarer and be not until the morrow at it!"
Wide-eyed and rather stupidly, the boy stared at Blake. "A Saracen, master?" he asked.
"What boots it?" snapped Sir Richard. "Did not our Lord Jesus feed the multitude, nor ask if there were unbelievers among them? Haste, churl! The stranger be of great hunger."
The youth turned and shuffled from the room, wiping his nose upon his sleeve, and Sir Richard's attention came back to Blake.
"Thou are not ill-favored, fellow," he said. "'Tis a pity that thou beest not of noble blood, for thy mien appearth not like that of one lowborn."
"I never considered myself lowborn," said Blake, with a grin.
"Thy father, now—was he not at least a sir knight?"