A brief pause, the horses were stabled, the guests entered.
“We have come to crave your hospitality,” said the knight.
“It is free to all—sit you down, and in a few minutes the women will serve the supper.”
They seated themselves—no names were asked, a few remarks were made upon that subject which interests all Englishmen so deeply even now—the weather.
“Hast travelled far?” asked the chieftain.
“Only from Pevensey; we sought Michelham, but in the storm we must have wandered miles from it.”
“Many miles,” said a low, sweet voice.
The knight then noticed the woman for the first time—he might have said lady—who sat on the right of this grim king. Her features and bearing were so superior to her surroundings that he started, as men do when they spy a rich flower in a garden of herbs. By her side was a boy, evidently her son, for he had her dark features, so unlike the general type around.
“How came such folk here?” thought De Montfort.
The meal was at length served, the stew poured into wooden bowls; no spoons or forks were provided. The fingers and the lips had to do their work unaided, in that day, at least in the huts of the peasantry. Bread, or rather baked corn cakes, were produced; herbs floated in the soup for flavouring; vegetables, properly so called, were there none.