CHAPTER V. THE ENDING OF THE PEACE.
"Seven leagues from London, if that wagoner gave me the distance aright," said Richard to himself, "and this horse is sore wearied. Twain have tired under me since my lance was splintered on the shield of that felon knight."
Much and often had he wondered who might be the stranger man-at-arms, but of one thing he felt assured: only some baron of high name had used such speech and worn such armor. Now, at last, even his tough sinews were giving out, for he had ridden hard and slept little. Food had been easy to buy at wayside hostelries. He had ridden through towns and villages with no longer pauses than had been needful that he might ask the way or answer courteously the questions of persons of condition.
His fresh mounts had been freely furnished him on showing of the royal order, for none might lightly disobey the king.
"Surely I now am safe," he thought, "but the night is falling. I will even rest at an inn and go onward in the morning. I must sleep, lest I fall from my horse."
It was a huge, rambling tavern at the right of the highway, and as he drew rein before it a portly host came forth to welcome him.
"In the king's name," said Richard.
"And whence art thou?" asked the landlord.