'To my liege-lord, sire? Yes, it is true.'
'He is not your liege-lord, man,' roared the King. 'I am your liege-lord, by heaven. I gave and I can take away. Heed me now.'
'Fair sire,' says Richard, 'observe that I have knelt to you. I am not here for any other reason, and least of all to try conclusions of the voice. I have come out of my lands with my company to give you obedience. Be sure that they, on their part, will pay you proper honour (as I do) if you will let them.'
'You come from lands I have given you, as Henry came, as Geoffrey came, to defy me,' said the old man, trembling in his chair. 'What is your obedience worth when I have measured theirs: Henry's obedience! Geoffrey's obedience! Pish, man, what words you use.' He got up and stamped about the tent like an irritable dwarf, crook-legged and long-armed, pricked, maddened at every point. 'And you tell me of your men, your lands, your company! Good men all, a fair company, by the Rood of Grace! Tell me now, Richard, have you Raimon of Toulouse in that company? Have you Béziers?'
'No, sire,' said Richard, looking serenely down at the working face.
'Nor ever will have,' snarled the King. 'Have you the Knight of Béarn?'
'I have, sire.'
'Ill company, Richard. It is a white-faced, lying beast, with a most goatish beard. Have you your singing monk?'
'I have, sire.'
'Shameful company. Have you Adhémar of Limoges?'