“I wish the town would be more quiet,” says Guy, who thinks he will have little chance of sleep, judging by the convivial sounds that come to them from within.
“Hush!” whispers the innkeeper nervously, as they enter. “Don’t disturb them. They are,” and his eyes expand in admiration, “they are the Six Drunkards of Brussels taking supper!”
“Apparently the Six Drunkards of Brussels,” remarks Guy, who is unimpressed by the sounding title, “are not holding themselves back much for to-morrow. They are doing pretty well now.”
“Yes, that is the beauty of it,” says mine host, waving his Flemish hands in admiration. “That is the reason they are called drunkards; nothing will ever make them drunk. They have finished six gallons of wine and are just commencing. They have a lovely pigeon pie in front of them; I made it myself from birds furnished by Señor Vasco de Guerra himself. He is the leader of the Six Drunkards, though the betting is still two to one on our Netherland painter, the greatest artist of his day, the Raphael of the low countries, our honor, our glory, our debtor (for he owes me four thousand Carolus guilders), but still the pride of Antwerp! Will you not have bite and sup, señor Capitan, before retiring to the attic over the stable?”
“Yes, a quart of Rhine wine will be enough for me,” says Guy. “Or, rather,” he suggests, “as you are celebrated for your beer, I will take some of that,” the Englishman upholding his national beverage.
“The finest in all Flanders. And then we have some malt from London.”
“That’s it!” cries Guy, forgetting his Spanish character, “English malt for me!” then checks himself and mutters: “I’ve been drinking Rhine wine all day.” [[46]]
His host departing, he lounges about while his meal is being prepared, tracing figures with his toe on the white sand of the floor, and reading among other placards on the walls of this, the wine room of the inn, one announcing the grand drinking bout between Frans de Vriendt, nicknamed Floris, and the six most celebrated topers of Brussels. This is placarded side by side with Alva’s generous offer of three thousand carolus guilders for the Englishman’s head.
A moment later he finds himself placed at a table near the one occupied by the six champions of Brussels. Carelessly he gets interested in them, for they are six of the most remarkable looking people his eyes have ever rested upon.
During their conversation he catches their names.