“I do not know,” said the King of Castile, “to whom I am indebted for this consideration, but I beg you to believe I am grateful for it.”
I suppose a famous and powerful prince could never have spoken from quite such a plight, yet his words were ordered with a simple courtesy that seemed entirely to efface the circumstances of the case. And no sooner had the Count of Nullepart heard the regal tones of the Castilian than first he bowed to the earth with all the grace of one who has moved in courts, and then, quite suddenly, his addiction to laughter overcame him. Clapping his slender hands to his ribs he began to twist and writhe most immoderately.
King John of Castile, however, from the precincts of the sack continued to sustain the glances of the Count of Nullepart and myself with a simple and serious dignity that no amount of levity could abate; and indeed so kingly in his bearing was the royal occupant, bound hand and foot as he was and laid in a clump of alder trees, that I was fain to remove my hat and bow low before him, if only to prove that at least a hidalgo of the northern provinces was sensible of his condition.
The King’s majesty received my homage with a smile of great courtesy. He then asked for a cup of water that he might moisten his lips.
“Sire,” I assured him, “I shall esteem it the greatest honour of my existence to have the felicity of procuring you something to drink.”
Yet, happy as I was to render this service, it was in no sense easy to accomplish, for there was never a drinking utensil for the King’s convenience. I was fain to regret that we had the water-cart no longer and the skins with which it was furnished; but at the time we cast them away this present contingency had not been foreseen. Nevertheless, I went to the stream and dipped my hat in it, and was able to return with sufficient water to offer the King’s majesty. And I think I have never seen a prince who was so thirsty. Yet doubtless his mouth and tongue were in sore case.
The King, having thus refreshed himself, thanked me very gravely and said, not at all harshly or unpleasantly, “I do not see that foreign robber, that gigantic and formidable English thief. Yet more than once in the night I heard his voice. Where is he? I would make him a compliment on the fortunate issue of his cunning.”
Although the King smiled a little wryly as he said this, he still preserved the serious dignity of his mien.
Before I could make Sir Richard Pendragon’s excuses for not being present, as I felt sure, notwithstanding his quiddity, the English giant, having the blood of kings under his doublet, would have wished me to do, there came through the soft and sweet morning airs a mighty commotion. There was shouting, the blowing of horns and trumpets, and then came the loud bark of a culverin.
“It would appear, your majesty,” said the Count of Nullepart with his inimitable smiling air, which proceeding from one who wore the garb of a peasant seemed considerably to surprise the King, “that your worthy and loyal followers have just discovered that the royal tent has a hole in it.”