There was a good deal of bustle going on in the kitchen of the White Hart, the little hostelry at Staplehurst. It was “fair day,” and fairs were much more important things in the olden time than now. A fair now-a-days is an assemblage of some dozen booths, where the chief commodities are toys and sweetmeats, with an attempt at serious business in the shape of a little crockery or a few tin goods. But fairs in 1557 were busy places where many people laid in provisions for the season, or set themselves up with new clothes. The tiny inn had as many guests as it could hold, and the principal people in the town had come together in its kitchen—country inns had no parlours then—to debate all manner of subjects in which they were interested. The price of wool was an absorbing topic with many; the dearness of meat and general badness of trade were freely discussed by all. Amongst them bustled Mistress Final, the landlady of the inn, a widow, and a comely, rosy-faced, fat, kindly woman, assisted by her young son Ralph, her two daughters, Ursula and Susan, and her maid Dorcas. Cakes and ale were served to most of the customers; more rarely meat, except in the form of pies, which were popular, or of bacon, with or without accompanying eggs.
The company in the kitchen were all more or less acquainted with each other, two persons excepted. Those who were not Staplehurst people had come in from the surrounding villages, or from Cranbrook at the farthest. But these two men were total strangers, and they did not mix with the villagers, but sat, in travelling garb, at one corner of the kitchen, listening, yet rarely joining in the talk which went on around them. One of them, indeed, seemed wrapped in his own thoughts, and scarcely spoke, even to his companion. He was a tall spare man, with a grave and reserved expression of countenance. The other was shorter and much more lively in his motions, was evidently amused by the conversation in his vicinity, and looked as if he would not object to talk if the opportunity were given him.
Into this company came Emmet Wilson and Collet Pardue. Both had brought full baskets from the fair, which they set down in a corner, and turned to amuse themselves with a little chat with their friends.
“Any news abroad?” asked Collet. She dearly loved a bit of news, which she would retail to her quiet husband as they sat by the fireside after the day’s work was done.
“Well, not so much,” said John Banks, the mason, to whom Collet had addressed herself. He was the brother of Mr Benden’s servant Mary. “Without you call it news to hear what happed at Briton’s Mead last night.”
“Why, whatso? Not the mistress come home, trow?”
“Alack, no such good hap! Nay, only Tabby came down to see the master, and brought her claws with her.”
“Scrat him well, I hope?”
“Whipped him, and laid on pretty hard to boot.”
“Why, you never mean it, real true, be sure!”