Richard sat on his bed's edge in his shirt, humming a tune and picking it out on his lute with:—
“Went it not this way, Etienne?” or “Was 't thus?” or “A plague on 't, but I 'll have it yet!” And then would he begin again.
The squire was setting forth the morrow's riding-coat and gloves and furred hood by the light of a cresset, for the start was early. A pot of charcoal stood by the window. The night was cold, and Richard, as he played on the lute, tucked his bare feet under him.
“My lord,” said Stephen, on a sudden, coming across to the bed and kneeling down, “I 've a grace to ask of thee.”
“Thou!” cried Richard, throwing away the lute. “Here 's a marvel!” and he leaned out and flung his arms, linked, around Stephen's neck, and so peered, mischievous, into his face. “The others are at it all day long, but when hast thou asked aught of me? Be sure 't is granted or ever 't is spoke, sweet friend.”
“Natheless, my heart doth not so assure me, sweet lord,” made answer Stephen, very sad. “Belike I 'm froward, but I do believe thou lovest me dear, and for that cause 't will go hard with thee or thou grant this boon.”
Richard wrinkled his brow. “What a riddle is here?” quoth he. “I 'll love thee, and yet prove a churl to thy desire?”
Stephen looked steadily beyond him for a moment before he began:—
“Is it fitting, beau sire, that one so young and fair and helpless as Calote should go alone through this realm on perilous and haply hopeless business?”
“Do not many so?” asked Richard uneasily.