"This is the Gatehouse Tavern," Master Bertie said in a low voice. "We shall soon know whether we have come on a fool's errand--or worse!"
We rode under the archway into a great courtyard, from which the road issued again on the other side through another gate. In one corner two men were littering down a line of packhorses by the light of the lanterns, which brought their tanned and rugged faces into relief. In another, where the light poured ruddily from an open doorway, an ostler was serving out fodder, and doing so, if we might judge from the travelers' remonstrances, with a niggardly hand. From the windows of the house a dozen rays of light shot athwart the darkness, and disclosed as many pigs wallowing asleep in the middle of the yard. In all we saw a coarse comfort and welcome. Master Bertie led the way across the yard, and accosted the ostler. "Can we have stalls and beds?" he asked.
The man stayed his chaffering, and looked up at us. "Every man to his business," he replied gruffly. "Stalls, yes; but of beds I know nothing. For women's work go to the women."
"Right!" said I, "so we will. With better luck than you would go, I expect, my man!"
Bursting into a hoarse laugh at this--he was lame and one-eyed and not very well-favored--he led us into a long, many-stalled stable, feebly lit by lanterns which here and there glimmered against the walls. "Suit yourselves," he said; "first come is first served here."
He seemed an ill-conditioned fellow, but the businesslike way in which we went about our work, watering, feeding, and littering down in old campaigners' fashion, drew from him a grunt of commendation. "Have you come from far, masters?" he asked.
"No, from London," I answered curtly. "We come as linen-drapers from Westcheap, if you want to know."
"Ay, I see that," he said chuckling. "Never were atop of a horse before nor handled anything but a clothyard; oh, no!"
"We want a merchant reputed to sell French lace," I continued, looking hard at him. "Do you happen to know if there is a dealer here with any?"
He nodded rather to himself than to me, as if he had expected the question. Then in the same tone, but with a quick glance of intelligence, he answered, "I will show you into the house presently, and you can see for yourselves. A stable is no place for French lace." He pointed with a wink over his shoulder toward a stall in which a man, apparently drunk, lay snoring. "That is a fine toy!" he ran on carelessly, as I removed my dagger from the holster and concealed it under my cloak--"a fine plaything--for a linen draper!"