Barthelemy laughs uproariously at the Spanish sons jest, then quiets and nods thoughtfully as Micheal speaks of the princess. Then he leans back a little unsteadily, takes a swig from a wooden cup, and waves his free hand vigourously.

You have a point there, my Lord. Why in heaven's name doesn't he just drop the whole thing - that whole Spanish... thing - and go fight the Germans with his brother? Get him, Henri, Charles, blast even Phillippe! Get the whole family together and bash some heads that need the bashing!

The Moors... *Barthelemy scrunches up his face as if smelling something bad* ...they aren't worth the trouble.