Swords From the Sea Page 6

  And, in reality, he was attending upon a discussion only too common in these eventful days, wherein the fate of England rested in the balance. While Cornelius Durforth and D'Alaber sat on either hand, Stratford talked feverishly, giving the Spaniard the tidings of what was passing in the court, and at the same time justifying himself.

  Edward was dying. Stratford and certain other officers of the royal household had contrived to keep this secret until now. And secrecy they must have to gain time to raise their liegemen on land and sea and discover who was of their party.

  Stratford and the Papists of the kingdom supported Lady Mary, the elder sister of the king. She was daughter of Catharine of Aragon, the first wife of the late king, Henry the Eighth.

  Others of the Protestant nobles favored the Lady Jane Grey, or the young Princess Elizabeth. But Elizabeth had inherited her father's love of hawking and the chase and carelessness of affairs of state. Meanwhile, Parliament, ignorant of the true condition of the king, did nothing. A few weeks, and the Papist nobles near London would have enough swords to cut down all opposition to Lady Mary.

  "And the king?" D'Alaber asked thoughtfully. "No one suspects his evil case?"

  "No one," nodded the duke, "save-"

  "Ah. It was your part, my lord duke, to draw a veil around his sinking."

  The Spaniard spoke courteously, but his words were like dagger pricks.

  "A chuckle-headed squire-a niddering-a nobody overheard Edward make lament that his time was drawing to an end."

  "And you?"

  "I sent the youth on a bootless errand to Orfordnesse, saying that it was Edward's will. Nay, he will not set foot in London again till all is over."

  "And there you blundered, my lord. Only one physic will keep a tongue from wagging. His name and time of setting forth?"

  "The lad is Master Thorne of Orfordnesse. On the morrow at dawn he hies him hence."

  "Then-" D'Alaber tapped a lean finger on the hilt of his poniard and glanced at Durforth, whose eyes, so dark that they appeared to be without expression, were fixed on him reflectively-"we must try phlebotomy, a trifle of blood letting. And now, messers, I deliver me of my charge."

  Unfastening one of the laces of his doublet, he drew out two papers folded and sealed with the royal signet of Spain. These he handed to Durforth, who looked at the seal and thrust them into his wallet. Stratford seemed afire with curiosity as to the nature of these papers, but D'Alaber vouchsafed him no satisfaction. Durforth, however, spoke up, twisting powerful fingers in his black beard.

  "My lord duke, you are now one of us; you must run with the hounds now, not with the hare. In your presence I have received from his august majesty, Charles, Emperor of Spain, a letter of commission. The other missive I understand to be a matter of state to be delivered when the voyage hath achieved its end."

  The duke filled his goblet moodily, chafing inwardly at the insolence of the Spaniard. He could not do without their aid, but he found that their countryman Renard, advisor to Princess Mary, was taking the leadership from him. Stratford knew there was in England at that time a man who was called the Fox by those who had dealings with him; who had caused to be slain secretly some of the nobles who opposed Mary. And he suspected that this Fox was Renard the philosopher.

  Stratford knew that another conspiracy was in the wind. Durforth, who had in past years been a merchant of Flanders and the North Sea, had been seen in company with Renard. Durforth, alone of the navigators, knew the coast of Norway. So he had been chosen by the council of Cabot's merchant-adventurers to go with Sir Hugh Willoughby as master of one of the three ships.

  Of traffic and discoveries my lord of Stratford recked little. He wondered fleetingly why D'Alaber and Renard set such importance on the voyage of Sir Hugh. He had spoken truly to Ralph Thorne when he declared that the Spaniards would like to make an end of Sir Hugh and his ships. And why were they giving letters to Durforth to bear upon this voyage?

  Aloud he said to the merchant-

  "Your dallying here hath aroused no suspicion?"

  "Not a jot," responded Durforth with his usual bluntness, "thanks to gaffer Cabot. The old cockatrice was afire to sail with Sir Hugh as far as Orfordnesse. So I yielded my place to him and will strike across the country to that haven with D'Alaber."

  "Who will return to London," put in Stratford meaningly, "in the train of Princess-shall we say, Queen Mary?"

  D'Alaber's dark eyes lighted with some amusement.

  "Senores, porque se tardo tanto-why this beating about the bush? Nay, it shall be Mary future wife of Philip of Spain, King of England."

  "What?" cried the nobleman, the blood rushing to his brow. "Now by my soul and honor, that will never be. Your emperor's dark-faced brat will not be King of England!"

  "Mary," made answer D'Alaber, heedless of the other's surprise and wrath, "is ill favored and shrewish. She hath overpassed thirty years and dotes on Philip, who is yet willing to have her for his bride. I see no hindrance to the match."

  "But the men of England-Parliament-"

  "Will not take kindly at first to a nobler monarch than the Tudor lineage can show. But Mary will have her way, and you of the court have ,,one too far to draw back, unless you would care to make your excuses to the Fox."

  "'Tis the fable of Master Aesop come true," grunted Durforth, who cared little about matters of state, so he was permitted to trade as he listed. "The gentry who were weary of King Log called for King Stork and had sorrow thereby."

  "Por estas honradas barbas!" cried D'Alaber, drawing himself up in his first flash of temper. "You rovers* and cloth peddlers have no wit to see where power lies. Philip will be monarch of Spain before many years."

  He swept his hand about the bare rush-floored chamber of his host. "Instead of on this filth, you will walk on the carpets of Araby, and these foul walls will be covered with the silks of Cathay. Your table will bear its spices, which now it lacks. For-" his eloquent voice rang with the arrogance of one schooled in a militant and conquering court-"you will be allied to the master of Christiandom, to Charles, Emperor of the Romans, King of Spain, Germany, and the Two Sicilies. Lord of Jerusalem and Hungary, Archduke of Austria, and Duke of Burgundy and Brabant, Earl of Flanders, and-"

  One finger, bearing rings set with flawless blue diamonds, tapped the table before the stricken nobleman.

  "-and sole monarch of the New World, with all its riches."

  His words, sinking into the spirit of my lord of Stratford, left the man silent, sucking in his thin lips. D'Alaber, who had dealt with defeated noblemen before now, glanced at him as a physician might study a patient in convalescence and took Durforth's arm.

  "Sir, I leave you to the meditations of prudence and I count upon your pledged aid. Send post to Orfordnesse if Edward nears the end, and so-fare you well."

  But Stratford was voiceless, beholding in the eyes of his imagination the chains that were to be put upon him, no less binding for that they were of gold.

  D'Alaber shrugged and whispered to Durforth.

  "Our islander hath served his turn, but for you senor we have a worthy commission."

  "And a mort of danger."

  "Ah, true. Have you put upon your ship the globe prepared by us?"

  "That I have, and a fine piece it is, bearing a mappamundi of all the known world."

  "Use it. You know the course you are to sail, and what is to befall in the Ice Sea?"

  Durforth nodded and smiled.

  "'Twill be a merry company gathered at our setting forth. Nay, how will you keep this lad of Edward's from spying upon us? Had you forgotten him?"

  Passing by the long mirror, D'Alaber paused to adjust the clasp of his cloak. "Memory is a good servant but a poor mistress. 'Tis my part to remember this unfortunate youth, yours to forget him. Study your part, Durforth, and remember that many an actor hath fallen foul of the pit by mistaking his cue."

  Chapter III

  A Hawk Is Slain

  Ralph Thorne had been born,
his comrades said, with a lucky hood on his head. Which was indeed only another way of saying that the boy managed to accomplish what he set out to do. His father, a merchant, was too wrapped up in the mystery of cosmography to thrive at barter and trade. The goods of the Thornes and then the ships and finally the manor in Suffolk had gone into the hands of those who had sharper wits.

  Left to his own devices by a father who pored over globe and chart, for years young Thorne kept apart from other boys, who, after the fashion of children, made mock of him for his father's oddities, calling him the brat of the "Mad Cosmographer." He trained hawks, built bird houses in the oaks behind the Orfordnesse cottage, and ran with his dogs when the nights were clear.

  Something of woodcraft he learned; he could keep still by a stream for half a day to watch the deer that came down to drink; he could bring down a charging boar with a spear; he could follow the trace of a stag and read, when the snow was on the ground, the stories told by the tracks.

  Robert Thorne, after the way of parents, bade him follow the new pursuit of gentlemen, that of mariner adventurer. It irked the cosmographer that his son cared little for his maps and naught for his talk of ships and unknown seas, and bitter words passed between them.

  But when a kinsman of his mother, wounded in a northern feud, abode at the cottage until his hurt mended and taught Ralph how to use a sword, the boy went to court with his relative and became an armiger, a squireat-arms.

  There he became devoted to swordplay, but remained what his early years had made him-a boy silent and grave beyond his years, with few friends and his full share of quarrels, because of a passionate temper, the heritage of the northern Thornes.

  Having lacked parents and comrades and patrons, he liked best to be left to himself, but there was in him a burning loyalty to those who won his esteem.

  And now, on a misty morning, he rode from the stables of the Strat- fords in high spirits, though his eyes and lips were somber. He had been given a charge by his king.

  To do what lies in me to aid Sir Hugh," he repeated under his breath, "to win to Cathay. For his majesty hath this venture much at heart."

  That this was a large command did not trouble him; a youth of eighteen is nothing loath to tilt against windmills or seek, in his thoughts, the stronghold of legendary Prester John. And it often happens that good comes of high thoughts.

  At the gate opening upon the northern highway he trotted into a group of men-at-arms who carried halberds though they did not seem to be on duty. They were lean and dark-skinned; they wore finely wrought and polished armor, with thigh pieces and crested morions, inlaid with silver and gold. Thorne knew them for Spaniards.

  One of them rose and took his rein as he would have passed.

  "Hold, young sir. Thy name?"

  Except for the light sword at his hip and the old-style leathern buckler strapped over his back, the squire was unarmed. On one wrist was a hawking gantlet; his favorite gerfalcon perched on it, and a velvet wallet bearing food for the bird was slung over the other shoulder.

  "Stand back, knave," he made prompt answer in Spanish. "Loose my rein and curb your tongue to respect. Whose men are you?"

  The one who had spoken did as he was bidden, though sullenly. Thorne wondered how Spaniards came to be posted as a guard.

  "Signior, I kiss your hands," grinned the leader, "and would have of you your name. We are ordered to deliver a letter to a certain caballero who will pass through here."

  "I am Ralph Thorne. Is your missive for me?"

  The halberdier looked at his mates and then at the pavilions. "Ride on, signior," he responded. "Nay, go free, for all of us."

  Thorne, without a backward glance, struck into the highway and left the last of the hedge taverns of Greenwich behind. The mist pressed about the fields on either hand, shrouding the oaks that lined the road, and to rid himself of the morning chill he put his horse into a brisk trot. After a little he looked up from adjusting the hood tighter about the hawk, and listened.

  Then he reined to one side and half turned his beast so that he could see the road behind him, winding at the same time his cloak over his left arm. Another horse was coming up swiftly through the mist, and he had no wish to be stripped and perhaps knocked on the head by thieves.

  Seeing that the newcomer was a Spanish gentleman, mounted on a fine Arab, he was about to take up his reins again, when the stranger spurred his beast so close that Thorne's horse tossed its head and edged back, while the other shied.

  "Now out upon thee for a mannerless lout! " D'Alaber exclaimed. "To block the road against thy betters!"

  Thorne glanced at him swiftly, seeing under a plumed velvet hat a face small and white with intent eyes.

  "Nay, Sir Stranger," he laughed, "the shoe is upon the other foot. For a man who cannot manage such a mettled beast as that of yours is mannerless, indeed."

  The other smiled indifferently.

  "A pox on thy clownish merriment. Here's to requite thee for thy wit, my witless jester!"

  So saying he drew the long rapier at his hip and, bending forward suddenly, ran the blade through the falcon that, blinded by its hood, perched on the young squire's wrist. The hawk screamed and fell the length of its chain, its wings threshing. Thorne stared down at his stricken pet, and the blood drained from his face.

  "If you were Renard himself," he cried, "you should suffer for this."

  Whipping out his rapier, he shortened his rein and kneed his horse toward the other, who awaited his coming with the same indifferent smile.

  This smile stirred Thorne to recklessness; sheer anger made the tears come into his eyes and he attacked incautiously. A thrust of the long rapier through the cloak on his left arm brought him to his senses in time to parry the point that might otherwise have passed into his side.

  D'Alaber was a man of moods. His retainers at the highway gate could have disposed of the troublesome armiger without risk to himself, but he wished it otherwise. He might have shot Thorne with one of the pistols at his belt, yet he chose to rouse the boy and then to spit him with a certain trick of the sword that he fancied.

  The mist hid them from observers, and he could not dally because other riders might come up.

  So he engaged Thorne's blade, parried a hinge at his throat and whirled his point. But when his arm went out, the armiger had caught his blade and turned it aside.

  "A pretty conceit," muttered the squire, "clumsily executed."

  He warded a second riposte, and reined his horse nearer. "You should blindfold me, as well as the hawk."

  Now D'Alaber prided himself on his swordsmanship, which was more than good, and the gibe rankled. It was Thorne's trick to talk when steel was out or lead was flying, and the Spaniard's pride was touched. He had the better horse and determined to end matters at once.

  He saw his chance when Thorne's beast shied. The dying hawk had fluttered into the road and startled the horses, but D'Alaber's was under control at once. He plunged in his spurs and leaned forward. The two rapiers flashed and sang together, and the Arab swerved away. D'Alaber dropped his weapon and clutched the mane of his horse.

  "Por Dios!" he cried faintly.

  Thorne dismounted swiftly and came to his side, helping him to the ground, where the Spaniard lay moaning, one fist pressed under his heart. His breath came jerkily and his eyes stared up into Thorne's. By an effort of will be opened his lips.

  "Tell Master Durforth," he whispered, "on the road a league toward Harwich-tell him D'Alaber is down. The Fox must know. Will you do this?"

  Thorne was silent a moment.

  "Aye, that I will."

  The Spaniard continued to stare at him, and even after the dark eyes held no life in them they seemed to smolder with vindictive rage. Thorne drew the body to one side of the road and tied the Arab's reins to a branch. This done, he mounted again and rode on with furrowed forehead.

  "It likes me not," he mused. "The don was a fellow of Renard's and'tis ill meddling with such. He set upon
me with full intent, and there were none to see it. If I am charged with his taking off-"

  He was riding on the king's business and did not mean to be delayed. But a pledge to a dying man must be kept, and he wanted a glance at this Master Durforth.

  "My lord of Stratford did say that the Spaniards wished us evil, and here is one full of it already, and requited therefore, poor knave. He meant to ride, it would appear, with Durforth, and I must keep his rendezvous for him."

  Some moments later he spurred out of the mist at a crossroads where several men had dismounted, evidently to wait for someone.

  "Is Master Durforth in this company?" he called out, reining in.

  "Aye, so."

  A tall man in a fur-trimmed mantle looked up from his seat under a sign post.

  "A Spaniard did put it upon me to tell you his sorry case. He lies by the hedge, a league toward Greenwich, and his horse is tethered there. It was his wish that a certain Renard should know of it. And so-keep you better company, my master."

  Without waiting, Thorne spurred on and, when the mist closed around the forms of the astonished watchers, bent low in the saddle. A second later a pistol roared behind him and a ball whipped close to his hat. For a while he heard hoofbeats coming after him, then they dwindled as the unseen riders perceived the folly of pursuit in the heavy fog.

  Not until the sun broke through the mist and he could see the road ahead and behind did he allow his horse a breathing spell. Then he jogged on toward Orfordnesse, sorely puzzled.

  Chapter IV

  The Mad Cosmographer

  It is ever the way of crowds to mock what they cannot understand. And the good folk of Orfordnesse were in no wise different from other crowds: children thumbed their noses at old Master Thorne; young men sharp ened their tongues with witticisms at his expense at the White Hart tavern; the elders shook their heads, saying that no good could come of such doings as his, and there was talk of putting him in the pillory. The very dogs of the haven barked at his threadbare heels when he limped to the ale house.

  So that now old Master Thorne rarely showed himself in the village, subsisting no one knew just how, but laboring of nights, as the gleam of a candle in the casement showed. Honest men, it was well known, did not work in the hours of darkness.