Beyond, the
low rolling hills and meadows met the chilly January sky.
For four months now the village had been transformed into a kind of
camp. The castle itself was crammed to bursting. The row of little
windows beside the hall on the first floor, visible only from the road
that led past the inn parallel to the river, marked the lodgings of the
Queen, where, with the hall also for her use, she lived continually; the
rest of the castle was full of men-at-arms, officers, great lords who
came and went--these, with the castellan's rooms and those of his
people, Sir Amyas' lodgings, and the space occupied by Mary's own
servants--all these filled the castle entirely. For the rest--the
garrison not on duty, the grooms, the couriers, the lesser servants, the
suites of the visitors, and even many of the visitors themselves--these
filled the two inns of the little town completely, and overflowed
everywhere into the houses of the people. It was a vision of a garrison
in war-time that the countryfolk gaped at continually; the street
sparkled all day with liveries and arms; archers went to and fro; the
trample of horses, the sharp military orders at the changings of guard
outside and within the towered gateway that commanded the entrance over
the moats, the songs of men over their wine in the tavern-parlours--
these things had become matters of common observation, and fired many a
young farm-man with a zeal for arms.
The Queen herself was a mystery.
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