"I desire, dear man, tomes concerning the rise and fall of King Richard."
With a sigh, I recommended the Auchinleck manuscript, though I warned him of the missing leaves. He seemed very grateful, but in the pursuit of completion, I also made mention of Andre Ernest Modeste Gretry's opera, Richard Coeur-de-Lion. I further dropped the name of Eleanor Anne Porden for her poem, Coeur de Lion. I hesitantly decided to perhaps allow him to find James Goldman on his own; I was uncertain how the man would react to the subject of King Richard as a homosexual.
With a sigh, I recommended the Auchinleck manuscript, though I warned him of the missing leaves. He seemed very grateful, but in the pursuit of completion, I also made mention of Andre Ernest Modeste Gretry's opera, Richard Coeur-de-Lion. I further dropped the name of Eleanor Anne Porden for her poem, Coeur de Lion. I hesitantly decided to perhaps allow him to find James Goldman on his own; I was uncertain how the man would react to the subject of King Richard as a homosexual.
Again, he seemed very grateful. He moved with such slow assurance, there was an awkward pause in which I worried my help had not been thorough for him. I often get that way amongst people who seem to demand respect by their presence: a dogged determination to be as thorough as possible, cursing every slight lapse of memory. I am positive there were other tales I could have mentioned, but the old, tired man seemed content to start his search with the tomes I had advised.
He walked away for a moment, and then turned back to me. His eyes seemed very sad; I could not help but feel a pang of pity for this old man.
"Do the tales portray me well?" he asked. I was not sure how to respond. His eyes begged that history had remembered him well; I felt my tongue self-censored when it came to his crusades. Looking into those pitiful eyes, I had no doubt that the man's beliefs were sincere, and sincere but misguided beliefs are enough to spark pity in a man as weak as I am.
"Very well, sir," I partially lied. After all, I felt I had done right to censor my tongue. In his slow but deliberate movements, I had no doubt that he would catch me in this lie. He moved as if he had all the time in the world.
"And what of the boy?"
I casually avoided his gaze. I knew the boy he spoke of. The child was referred to as "the ant that had slain the lion." It is said that, after being shot in the shoulder by the boy, King Richard had the boy captured. But the boy had told Richard that he was only acting in vengeance, for Richard had killed the boy's father and two brothers. In an act of mercy, Richard had set the boy free, even granting him a monetary gift before sending him on his way.
It is said that captain Mercadier had the boy skinned alive immediately after Richard's death.
I casually avoided his gaze. I knew the boy he spoke of. The child was referred to as "the ant that had slain the lion." It is said that, after being shot in the shoulder by the boy, King Richard had the boy captured. But the boy had told Richard that he was only acting in vengeance, for Richard had killed the boy's father and two brothers. In an act of mercy, Richard had set the boy free, even granting him a monetary gift before sending him on his way.
It is said that captain Mercadier had the boy skinned alive immediately after Richard's death.
I simply shook my head. The sad eyes of Richard gazed at me, nodded in understanding, and then turned in the direction I had pointed him in.
He was the first to enter into my library. And I immediately came to the conclusion that the dead must be sad indeed, especially to note that the living constantly question them.
With a sigh, I returned to my catalogue, and the repairs I had begun on some of the more desperate tomes of knowledge.
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