“So much the better,” thought Hereward. “I have no wish to see the old place till I have somewhat cleaned it out.”
He rode slowly into the long street between the overhanging gables. At the upper end he could see the high garden walls of his mother’s house, and rising over them the great hall, its narrow windows all ablaze with light. With a bitter growl he rode on, trying to recollect a house where he could safely lodge. Martin pointed one out.
“Old Viking Surturbrand, the housecarle, did live there, and maybe lives there still.”
“We will try.” And Martin knocked at the door.
The wicket was opened, but not the door; and through the wicket window a surly voice asked who was there.
“Who lives here?”
“Perry, son of Surturbrand. Who art thou who askest?”
“An honest gentleman and his servant, looking for a night’s lodging.”
“This is no place for honest folk.”
“As for that, we don’t wish to be more honest than you would have us; but lodging we will pay for, freely and well.”