The Rose struck her canvas and dropped her tow ropes when she was under the shelter of the high ground west of the harbor. A couple of galleys7 came out to tow her in, and she was berthed8 at the Great Wharf9 under the walls.
She carried merchandise and wine from Spain and Bordeaux, also a few passengers; but the passengers were of small account. Two of them, a girl and a young man, were leaning over the poop rail and watching the people on the wharf below. The young man’s face was yellow as a guinea; he was dressed like a strolling player, with bunches of ribbons at his elbows and bells in his cap. The girl looked the taller of the two, perhaps because the sea had not humbled10 her; she wore a light blue coat edged with fur, and a gown of apple green; her green hood11 had white strings12 tied under her chin.
“Holy saints, what an adventure!”
The man straightened himself, and managed to smile.
“I never knew what cowardice13 was like till I got aboard a ship. My courage came out of my mouth. And now an impudent14 tongue and a laughing eye are necessities——”
The girl’s dark eyes were on the alert.
“There’s old Adam Rick, or am I blind?”
“Master Port Reeve—so it is! The bridge is ashore15. We had best be putting our fortune to the test. Have I anything of the gay devil left about me?”
He shook himself with the air of a bird that had been moping on a perch16, but the girl did not laugh; she held her head high, and seemed to take life with fierce seriousness.
They climbed down to the waist of the ship where Master Hamden stood by the gangway, talking to some of the fathers of Gawdy Town who were gathered on the wharf.
“News, sirs, what would you with news? If Crookback is still king, I have no news for you.”
“There have been rumors17 of landings.”
“Rumors of old wives’ petticoats!”
The man and the girl were close at his elbow, ready to leave the ship. The man carried a leather-covered casket in one hand, and a viol under his arm, while the girl carried a lute18. She kept her eyes fixed19 on the tower of the town church; they were very dark eyes, blue almost to blackness, her skin was softly browned like the skin of a Frenchwoman, but her lips were very red. The hair under her hood was the color of charcoal20. Her attitude toward her neighbors seemed one of aloofness21; men might have voted her a proud, fierce-tempered wench.
Master Hamden looked at the pair with his red-lidded, angry eyes. The man nodded to him.
“Good-day, master.”
“Give you good-day, Jack22 Jester. Go and get some wine in you, and wash the yellow out of your skin.”
He looked slantwise at the girl as she passed him, but he did not speak to her. Had she been all that she pretended to be she would not have left old Hamden’s ship without a coarse jest of some kind.
Her brother was pushing his way toward a handsome, ruddy man in a black camlet cloak, and the man in the cloak was eying him intently.
“Sir Adam, a word with you.”
The Port Reeve appeared lost in thought. He drew a quill23 from his girdle, and meditated24 while he picked his teeth. And very much at his leisure, he chose to notice the young man with the viol.
“Where have you come from, my friend?”
“France, sir. My sister and I are poor players, makers25 of music.”
The Port Reeve scanned the pair with intelligent brown eyes.
“Queer that such a Jack and Jill should come out of France.”
“We were in the service of my Lord of Dunster.”
“And he sent you packing? How are you called?”
The young man answered in a low voice:
“Lambert Lovel.”
The Port Reeve’s eyelids26 flickered27 curiously28.
“You would lodge29 in Gawdy Town?”
“If it pleases you, sir.”
“Our laws are strict against vagabonds and strollers. Well, get you in, Lovel, my lad, and your sister with you. You make no tarrying, I gather.”
“But to make a little money for the road, sir.”
“Well, try the ‘Painted Lady,’ my man. It is the merchants’ tavern30.”
He gave them something very like a solemn wink31, and then turned aside to talk to a sea-captain who wanted to quarrel about the port dues.
The strolling singers entered Gawdy Town by the sea-gate, and chose a winding32 street that went up toward the castle. Lambert carried himself with a jaunty33 and half-insolent air, fluttering his ribbons and making grimaces34 at the people in the doorways35.
“Do you remember your name, sweeting?”
“Am I a fool, Gilbert!”
“God save us,” and he glanced at her impatiently, “but you have forgotten mine! Lambert Lovel, brother to Kate Lovel. Be wary36; the Crookback has spies in every port.”
“Why stay in the town—at all?”
“Oh, you wild falcon37! Are there not things to be done here? Are we not hungry? Besides, the Forest is seven miles away.”
“I know—but it is home.”
Her brother laughed. He was built on lighter38, gayer lines than the girl; he had not her strength. A sort of adventurous39 vanity carried him along, and life pleased him when it was not too grim.
“Robin40, sweet Robin under the greenwood tree! A pile of stones and a few burnt beams! Scramble41, you brats—scramble!”
With a lordly air he pretended to throw money to a number of children who seemed inclined to follow them.
“You will have to play your part, sweeting. Where the devil is that gaudy42 inn? Ha! we have it!”
A broad square paved with cobbles opened in front of them, its timber and plaster houses built out on brackets and pillars, many of them carrying painted signs hung out on poles. A stone cross stood in the center of the square, and above the lichened43 roof of the town hall the great round tower of the castle showed like a crown resting on a cushion. The “Inn of the Painted Lady” stood by the guild44 house of the Armourers’ Guild, a noisy, buxom45, deep-chested house, its plaster-work painted green and red, its sign looking like a Roman mosaic46. A white mule47 and a couple of palfreys were waiting outside the entry, and from an open window came the sound of some one singing:
“Cuckolds, cuckolds, list to my tale——”
It was a big, brawling48 voice that sang, the voice of a man who was hearty49 with liquor.
Lovel looked at the place a little doubtfully.
“Fat—and bountiful! I will go and beard my friend—the host.”
The girl turned aside.
“I shall be there—on the steps of the cross.”
“Be brave, sweeting.” And he went off humming a song.
He reappeared shortly with a certain whimsical look.
“You will be suffered to sleep with the sluts, Kate.”
“And you?”
“With the scullions! What men must stomach for the sake of—adventure!”
Her nostrils50 dilated51.
“The Forest would be sweeter.”
“True, dear sister; but shall we be frightened by having to sleep on musty straw with fellow Christians52 who wash under the pump but once a week? I trust not. Besides, I have to see the Flemming to-night.”
Her pride was in revolt, the pride of a kestrel put to perch with flea-ridden hens.
“Had I known this I would have chosen to cross the sea in some other dress.”
Her brother shrugged53 his shoulders, and then sat down beside her on the stone steps of the cross.
“I’m sorry, Kate, but what would you? We have begun this game in cap and bells, and we must go through with it—or pay forfeit54. And the forfeit may be our lives. Crooked55 Dick shows no mercy.”
He was right, and she knew it. There could be no turning back.
“What must be—must be. I shall not fail you, brother.”
“That’s brave; but one word more, Kate.”
“Speak out.”
“Your pride may be sorely touched in yonder, for you are a singing-girl, no more, no less. Take it not to heart, child, and do not let it anger you. I would stab the man who offered to do you harm, even though the dagger56 blow meant ruin for both of us. I, too, have my pride.”
“Those are a man’s words. You shall not be disappointed in me.”
Half an hour later Mellis Dale stood at an attic57 window overlooking the inn yard. She had liked the part she was playing still less when she had seen the attic, but for the moment it was empty; the wenches who were to be her bed-fellows were at their work below. She could see her brother Gilbert sitting on an overturned tub in the yard, twanging the strings of his viol, and making the ostlers and loiterers laugh with his whimsies58. His color had come back to him; he was playing a man’s game, even though it brought his feet very close to the gutter59.
She caught some of her brother’s spirit, some of his cynical60 and gay audacity61. After all, they were not the sport of fools, but players who made the fools dance to their piping. Her pride caught a note of mockery. There were enemies to be outwitted; there was the thought of revenge.
The inn simmered with life like a kettle about to boil. She could feel the bubbling of its activities, the reverberations of its crude, animal energy. There was much clattering62 of pots and pans, and much loud talking in the kitchen. She could hear girls giggling63, and a woman scolding somewhere with a voice that suggested the rending64 of linen65. The gentleman with the big, brawling bass66 was still singing in the deeps of the house, and other voices took up the chorus. A knife-grinder appeared with his barrow and wheel and started to sharpen knives. Two dogs fell to fighting over a sheep’s foot that had been flung out of the kitchen. A man rolled out from the guest-room and was sick in the kennel67.
Mellis saw her brother draw his bow from its case, and begin playing his viol, and the music brought six bouncing girls from somewhere, all ready to dance. They footed it up and down the yard, holding up their gowns, and laughing to each other, while the men stood around and made jests. The windows of the inn filled with faces; all sorts of unsuspected folk poked68 out their heads to watch the fun. This living picture-show included a little old lawyer, blue and wrinkled, with a dewdrop hanging at the end of his nose; a red-faced widow with a headdress like a steeple; a couple of priests; a vintner from London who munched69 something as though he were chewing the cud; a country squire70 with the eyes of an ox; a young bachelor who kept looking up at Mellis and showing off his slashed71 doublet and the jewel in his ear.
The members of one of the Merchant Guilds72 were supping together in the great guest-room, and servants began to go to and fro across the yard with dishes from the kitchen. Mellis saw a big man with a face as round and as sallow as a cream cheese come out and speak to her brother. Gilbert glanced up at her, and then beckoned73 her to come down.
She appeared in the yard, with her lute hanging from her shoulders by a cherry-colored ribbon. The man with the sallow face stared her over, and nodded his approval.
“If her voice prove as good as her face, my guests will have no cause to grumble74. I will hire the two of you for the evening, for a silver groat and your suppers.”
Mellis had to suffer the insolence75 of the fat fellow’s eye. Her brother grimaced76, and shook an empty gypsire.
“We shall not die of a surfeit77 of wealth.”
“Take it or leave it,” said the innkeeper roughly. “I have my choice of all the wastrels78 and wenches in Gawdy Town.”
Mellis’s face showed white and cold. The beast’s churlishness roused such scorn in her that she soared above such a thing as anger.
And so for two hours she stood in the guest-room of the “Painted Lady,” making music for men who over-ate and over-drank themselves, and who looked at her as none of them would have looked at their neighbors’ daughters or wives. Her scorn filled her with a kind of devilry. She sang to see what manner of swine these men were; sang to them as though each had the soul of a Dan Chaucer. And not a few of them grew very silent, and sat and stared at her with a brutish wonder. An oldish man sniveled and wept. Her brother Gilbert was kept busy scraping at the strings of his viol, and all the passage-ways were crowded with servants and scullions who crowded to listen.
“That was famous, Kate,” he said to her as he saw her safe to the stairs, “I passed around the cap and drew five pence out of the worthies79.”
“I think I would sooner have sung to lost souls in Hell,” she answered him.
In the attic she stripped off her spencer and gown, and lay down on one of the straw pallets in her shift. Her bed-fellows came up anon, three rollicking girls who smelt80 of the kitchen.
Said one of them:
“That brother of thine is a pretty fellow. I warrant I’d tramp to Jerusalem with such a brother.”
They tittered, and squeaked81 like mice. Mellis sat up and looked at them by the glimmer82 of the rushlight.
“My dears,” she said, “I am very weary. Let me sleep. One may have to sing when one’s heart is heavy.”
And so she silenced them. They crept to bed as quietly as birds going to roost.
