"Good Sir Boudvaar,
Espied from afar.
Yea, to the tourney I journey,
Where the muse shan't refuse,
Lest I ail and wail
Straight again to the dale."
Sir Boudvaar lighted to the ground, removed the plumed helmet and smiled.
"Alas, have I found no finer
A quick-thinking rhymer
In all my travels 'pon land or sea,
Nay, even as far as Burgundy!
Do ye still earn meals with the royal saga? And in Angles, no less?"
"Yea," replied Allan. "Even doth our new king favor Angles to that backwards Frankish tongue. I pray thee, abide with me until the morn."
"Hast thou flesh and wine?" asked Boudvaar. "I have much hunger. And strum some more upon the lyre, for it was thy cheery tune which beckoned me hence."
"Behold, no flesh have I," answered the bard. "But a little wine, some berries and roots." He passed his bag to Sir Boudvaar, then lifted up his lyre and merrily meted many melodies, singing of heroes and villains and damsels a'plenty.
Whilst the troubadour supped with him that night, they shared tales both true and fanciful; some new poems and some olde favorites.
"Shalt thou joust on the morrow, sire?" asked Allan after voices grew tired.