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 rumors 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 lute. She kept her eyes fixed 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 charcoal. Her attitude toward her neighbors seemed one of aloofness; 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, Jack 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 quill from his girdle, and meditated 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, makers 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 eyelids flickered curiously. “You would lodge 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’ tavern.” He gave them something very like a solemn wink, 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 winding street that went up toward the castle. Lambert carried himself with a jaunty and half-insolent air, fluttering his ribbons and making grimaces at the people in the doorways. “Do you remember your name, sweeting?” “Am I a fool, Gilbert!”