human
Yoi-hoi! yelled Kit.
gpt
A Mecca for the King.
human
Why, Michael, what are you doing here?
gpt
To be frank, I was yawning just before you came. I’ve been waiting since daybreak for some messenger from Lathom. And at the end of it you come, white brother of the Metcalf flock—you, who have the luck at every turn.
human
I had luck this time—fifteen sorties since I saw you last. Michael, you should have been there with us. We brought their mortar in——
gpt
Good, drawled Michael.
human
You had the luck. For my part, I’ve been sitting on a horse as thirsty as myself for more hours than I remember. Let’s get down to camp and a brew of ale there.
gpt
And afterwards we sortied—sortied till we drove them into hiding, like rabbits. The Lady of Lathom welcomed us home each night, her eyes on fire.
human
No doubt, brother. The tale will warm me by and by. Meanwhile I don’t care a stiver what fire shone in my lady’s eyes—blue, or grey, or black. Give me honest ale, of the true nut-brown colour.
gpt
You’re a wastrel, Michael,
human
I am, my lad, and know it. There’s luck in being a wastrel—folk expect nothing from a man. He goes free, while such as you—babe Kit, if you guessed how prisoned up you are! They look for sorties, gallops against odds, moonshine of all sorts every day you live. You’ve a nickname already in Oxford. They name you the White Knight.
gpt
Oh, be done with banter, snapped Christopher.
human
There’s little knighthood about me. Let’s get down to camp and see the colour of that ale of yours.