Swords From the Sea

by Harold Lamb

  This ship had entered the river some time since, and the nobles in attendance on Edward remarked that it fired no salute when the king's standard was raised. This omission was set down to the absence of the captain or neglect or more probably to the intolerant pride of the Spaniards.

  But the cannon had been fired from one of three vessels coming down the Thames. Ignorant as he was at that time of ships, Thorne saw only that they were merchant craft, stoutly built, no more than half the tonnage of the Spaniard. As they passed between him and the galleon he noticed that the mainmast of the leader came no higher than the Spaniard's mizzen.

  The ship that had fired the salute bore an admiral's colors and devices painted on the after-castle, also on the wooden shields that lined the rail. From the green and white coloring, and the Cross of St. George on the banner, he knew that they were English.

  "Are they come at last?" cried Edward from within. Raising himself on an elbow, he added eagerly, "I pray you of your courtesy Sir Squire, tell me what ships go out with the tide."

  Turning about, Thorne lowered the muzzle of his harquebus to the earth and knelt.

  "Three tall and goodly vessels, may it please your majesty, having the Tudor colors."

  "'Tis Sir Hugh's admiral ship," amended the duke, who had come to the entrance to look out, "and the two consorts."

  The boy on the couch tried in vain to catch a glimpse of the river, and sank back with a sigh. Under his transparent skin blue veins showed. Then a sudden attack of coughing sent a flush even to his forehead. The duke, who was the only noble in attendance, hastened to the old woman and took a cup from her hand, pressing it upon his royal patient.

  "Nay, Dudley, nay-" Edward coughed-"I am better without these drafts. So, doth Sir Hugh truly fare forth into the sea?"

  "Sir Hugh Willoughby-" the chamberlain bowed-"and Master Richard Chancellor have weighed anchor. You will remember, sire," he ran on officiously, "that they are resolved to seek a passage to Cathay and the new world, America. They will lay their course to the northeast, endeavoring to sail beyond the Christian shores, through the Ice Sea and so south to Cathay."

  "Faith, my lord duke," smiled the king, "the Spaniards and Portugals have left us nowhither else to sail. The Pope at Rome bath divided the known world between them."*

  A fanfare of trumpets at the shore acknowledged the salute, and Edward lifted his head impatiently.

  "Am I not to see them? I warrant you, 'tis a brave sight. Sir Squire, thou'rt stout and stalwart; can'st bear our poor body from this tent?"

  "That can I," cried the armiger quickly, and would have laid aside his harquebus, but hesitated.

  Edward was ever quick to read the thoughts of those who were near him. He studied the sentinel attentively, taking notice of the wide shoulders, the thews of neck and wrists, dwelling a second on the freckled, sunburned cheeks, still lean from convalescence.

  Thorne was no more than eighteen, the king sixteen. Yet in the poise of the head, in the quick gray eyes of the squire-at-arms was manifest the surge of life and health.

  "Your thoughts run to grave matters, good youth," Edward said at once. "You are charged to keep your post and weapon. Nay, lay it aside, at my bidding."

  Thorne bowed and placed his firelock against the pavilion wall. Then, advancing to the couch, he put an arm under Edward's knees and shoulders and lifted him easily. The slight form of the sick boy in its black velvet cassock seemed no weightier than straw.

  At the entrance the king urged him to go forward a few paces so that he could look up and down the river.

  "Look, Dudley," Edward cried, "the Spaniard overtops Sir Hugh's ship."

  "But yonder craft from Seville," the noble pointed out, "is a galleon fashioned for war. The ships that bear the colors of your majesty were built for the merchant adventures."

  "Then, Dudley," cried the boy, "they were stanchly built of seasoned and honest oak."

  "True. In the time of your majesty's illustrious grandsire and good King Harry, your father-whom may God save and assoil-no three ships could be got together, but one would be Venetian and one Dutch."

  He turned to wave back angrily the throng of soldiery and attendants that had presumed to draw near the pavilion, hoping for a word or a look from the sick boy who was beloved by kitchen knave and noble of the realm alike. Strict orders had been issued by Stratford and those who had the care of the king's person that no one should approach within arrow flight. For this reason the picked guards had been stationed.

  But Edward's eyes were on the passing ships wistfully. Here were men faring from the known seas into the unknown. Here were ships built and furnished and manned in England, going forth to discover a new route to the Indies, to bring to England some part of the trade with Cathay and the new world that had swelled the power of Spain and Portugal.*

  He watched the burly shipmen in their blue tabards, laboring at the oars of the boats that were towing the vessels. When they became aware of the king they roared out a cheer and pulled the harder. Others climbed up the shrouds to stare and wave a greeting, and a tall man on the poop of the last ship doffed his cap and bowed low.

  "Now, by St. Martin," exclaimed Edward, "I should know that graybeard."

  "Sire, your eyes are as keen as your memory is unfailing," responded Stratford after a moment's hesitation. "That venerable ship's captain is the notable navigant and cosmographer-"

  "Sebastian Cabot, the Venetian. I know him well, Dudley. And my memory of which you prate tells me his age is fourfold my own. Yet is he strong and hale enough to-"

  The boy's lips quivered and were silent. Thorne the armiger turned his head to gaze at a falcon hovering over the rushes on the far bank of the river, so that he might not behold his sovereign's distress.

  "Sire?"

  The duke bent closer, and pursed his thin lips.

  "Master Cabot or Cabota," he added, "is indeed past his prime. 'Tis a mere courtesy that he stands on yonder deck. For-by he is governor of the Mystery and Company of Merchants-Adventurers, for the discovery of places and dominions unknown, he sails with the ships as far as the haven of Orfordnesse on the Suffolk coast. There Cabot leaves them. He is too aged to attempt the voyage into the Ice Sea. Ha, Sirrah Squire, bear your royal burden into the pavilion from which you should never have advanced. He is ailing!"

  Edward was coughing, flecks of blood showing on his pallid lips. His eyes closed and he lay voiceless a moment on the couch. When he spoke it was in so low a whisper that nobleman and armiger both bent lower to catch the words-Thorne expecting that the king might have some command for him.

  "Nay, Dudley. Of what avail to guard the body when life itself is leaving me?" With an effort he opened his eyes and made shift to smile. "My lungs are in consumption, the priests say. Good youth, we trust we have not wearied you. Edward will never again rise from his bed."

  Both the listeners started. Thorne had heard frequently of the feebleness of the boy, although he had not looked to find him so wasted away. To hear that Edward expected to die was a shock. Few men were victors in the long battle with the white plague. Stratford took no pains to conceal his anger that the sentinel should have heard the words of the king.

  "To your post!" he whispered, drawing the youth back from the couch, where Edward was wracked by another fit of coughing. "Keep your ears to yourself, or the provost's knife will e'en trim them to a proper size. Ha-your weapon has been taken."

  The harquebus was not where Thorne had placed it, nor was it to be seen in the pavilion. He searched the tent with his eyes, and flushed hotly, realizing that he had allowed someone to steal his firelock while on duty.

  He was more than a little puzzled as to how it had been done. The officers of the household and some soldiers had pressed to the entrance of the marquee when he carried Edward forth, but he had noticed no one step within. Perforce, he had not been able to watch the weapon while he stood outside.

  Stratford, he knew, had not taken the harquebus. The hag by the bedsi
de sat as before, fumbling with her herbs. Her wrinkled face, brown and dry as a withered apple, was empty of all expression. Certainly the firelock was not concealed under her kirtle.

  "So you would make the Gypsy the butt of your carelessness?" grunted the duke. "Have you aught to say, before I make a charge to your officers that you have suffered your arms to be taken from you while on duty?"

  "I say this."

  Thorne drew the sword that hung from its sling at his hip and took his station at the entrance.

  "My lord, if any man seeks to cross my post unbidden he shall taste steel instead of lead."

  "Humph! The young cock can crow. What more?"

  The gray eyes of the youngster narrowed and he kept silence. Although the fault had not been his, he could make no explanation. Stratford, an experienced soldier and a martinet, had no reason to make a charge against him. The duke, however, was irritated by the appointment of the Flanders veterans over his own yeomen and the officers of the household.

  "What more?" he repeated sharply.

  The second question required an answer, and a bleak look overspread the countenance of the armiger, drawing sharp lines about eyes and chin.

  "My lord of Stratford, the command of his majesty was heard by your lordship. He bade me put down my weapon and carry him forth."

  "Ha! Master Thorne, you have yet to serve your apprenticeship as a bearer-of-arms at court. To gratify the whim of a boy you made naught of your orders. You were placed here not to act a playmate or to seek royal favor, but to guard the life of your prince. What if you had been attacked by yonder canaille? Body of me!"

  This time Thorne kept silent. The nobleman's blame was unjust, but there was enough truth in it to make the armiger realize that his offense would be held unpardonable if Stratford chose to press a charge against him. True, he might appeal to the king, who was honorary captain of the guards.

  But Edward lay passive on his couch, forgetful of sentinel or nobleman.

  Stratford paced the pavilion, hands thrust into his sword-belt, and came to a stop by Thorne. Seeing that Edward was asleep, he said in a whisper:

  "When you are relieved, go to your quarters. Abide there without speaking to anybody of what you have seen or heard in this place. A soldier on duty," he added brusquely, "may not give out what has come under his eye on his post. Can you do that?"

  It was long after the armiger had left with his companions of the guard, but without his firelock, that the Gypsy drew from beneath the couch where it had been hidden by the deerskin the harquebus that she had stolen.

  Unseen by Stratford and unnoticed by the new sentinel, she slipped the short weapon under her ragged mantle and slouched from the pavilion. She had stolen as naturally as a crow picks up something that catches its eye.

  The superstition of high noblemen had invoked her to try to save the life of a dying ruler with her simples, and shrewder than they who had called her forth, she fled with what she could snatch before Edward should die.

  Meanwhile the three ships had passed out of sight down the Thames, and out of the minds of the courtiers who talked of changes that were to come, and fortunes to be made and lost. But Edward still dwelt upon the glimpse he had had of the voyagers.

  Chapter II

  The Signior d'Alaber

  My Lord of Stratford sat late at table the evening he summoned Ralph Thorne to his quarters and looked long upon the flagon, both Rhenish and Burgundy. He had a hard, gray head for drink. It helped him make decisions, a vexatious necessity of late.

  In a long chamber gown he sat at his ease, a pair of barnacles on his nose and a book printed in the new manner from black letters on his knees. My lord had excellent eyesight and did not need the spectacles; and, although he was not scholar enough to read the book, he firmly believed that it was a mistake to be found doing nothing.

  "Master Thorne," he greeted the armiger, "there is a saying- Quis cus- todiat ipsos custodies? Who shall watch the watchmen themselves?"

  He put aside the volume and cleared his throat.

  "I have been at some pains to learn who you are."

  Thorne bowed acknowledgment in silence. He had no patron at court, and the duke was powerful. He had entered upon his duties in the guards with high hopes. In the camps over the sea the name and character of the boy king had aroused the loyalty of the lads who were beginning their military service in the petty wars of the lowlands, and they had waited anxiously for the time when they could appear at their own court.

  Now, lacking anyone to take his part and with Edward unapproachable, a word from Stratford could disgrace him or restore him to honest service.

  "Your father, sirrah, is Master Robert Thorne, who once rendered yeoman aid to his country by bringing out of Spain a mappamundi* faithfully drawn. He is known as the Cosmographer, and he dwells on the coast at Orfordnesse."

  Again the squire bowed assent.

  "You have a reputation. 'Tis said you use a sword like a fiend out of , which is to say with skill but little forethought. You have been in more broils than any dozen of your fellows. Once, I hear, you presumed to go forth alone in the guise of a wherryman. So habited, you ventured rashly to row armed men across a river within the hostile camp."

  "My lord, we had need of information."

  "So it was said. But you forgot your part of a spy and fought a knight of the Burgundian party in the skiff. The matter ended with your placing the Burgundian adrift, fully armed as he was, a nosegay in his hands and candles lighted at his head. In this guise he was discovered by his friends, who buried the body."

  "'Twas fairly fought between us, my lord, in the boat. He had the worst. It would have been foul shame to throw an honorable foeman into the water."

  The man at the table paused to snuff the candles that stood on either hand and to glance curiously at the youth, his visitor. To draw steel on an adversary in full armor in a small skiff was a thing seldom done, and Thorne had not despoiled the body.

  "Stap my vitals!" he laughed. "You have a queer head on you. Now thank Sts. Matthew and Mark and your patron of that fellowship that it has pleased Edward to stand your friend."

  Thorne flushed with pleasure and strode forward to the table.

  "Grant me but the chance to serve the king's majesty!"

  "Humph! As a spy you are not worth your salt. But the king is minded to send you upon a mission."

  He glanced upward fleetingly and saw only eagerness in the boy's clear eyes.

  "You have learned to handle your sword, but not to handle men. You will want seasoning. The king is pleased to lay command upon you to journey to Orfordnesse and there await the setting out of Sir Hugh's fleet. Do aught that within you lies to aid Sir Hugh in his venture. Your prince hath the matter much at heart.

  "Take a horse from my stables, and here-" Stratford signed to one of his servitors who stood by the buffet-"is a small purse for your needs."

  Thorne, who had not one silver piece to jingle against another, accepted the gift with a bow.

  Stratford hesitated, then rose and came around the table.

  "Hark in your ear, young sir. The Spaniards who hold the sea would be well pleased to spoil this venture of Sir Hugh's. Watch your fellow travelers well upon the road and keep your sword loosened in scabbard. Be silent as to this mission, and hasten not back, but return at leisure with Master Cabot. Greet your father well for me."

  "A good night to you, my lord. And accept the thanks of the Thornes."

  Stratford smiled.

  "Body o' me! 'Tis said the Thornes are more generous with blows than thanks. A good night, young sir."

  He waited until the armiger had left the room, then went to the door and, closing it, shot home the bolt himself. Idly he turned the hourglass in which the sands had run out.

  "Another hour brings other guests. Well, 'tis an easy road to a boy's heart to promise him danger i' the wind. Paul-" he nodded at the ser- vant-"have in D'Alaber and his cozening friend. And," he added under his breath, "may
your sainted namesake grant that young Thorne's wit be dull as his sword point is sharp."

  The two men who entered the cabinet of my lord Duke of Stratford were dressed in the height of fashion, and one, who wore a doublet of green silk, who bore in his left hand a high-crowned and plumed hat, bowed with all the grace of an accomplished courtier, his cloak draped over the end of a long Spanish rapier. He had the small features of a woman, utterly devoid of color.

  "Ah, signior," exclaimed Stratford as soon as the door closed upon Paul, "you are behind your time. I have been awaiting your ship this se'nnight."

  "From the secrecy with which I am received," responded the young D'Alaber in excellent English, "it would seem that I am before my time."

  And, turning his back rudely on his host, he walked up to a long Venetian mirror, fingering the ruff at his throat.

  "Is the Fox in London, my lord?" he demanded, turning sharply on Stratford, his sleepy eyes downcast yet missing no shade of expression in the nobleman.

  "Renard has taken coach to Orfordnesse."

  "And why?"

  "Signior," said Stratford slowly, and more respectfully than the younger man of lesser rank had addressed him, "who knows? Perhaps the Fox prefers not to be in London when-if-"

  "Edward dies," amended the Spaniard coolly.

  The duke started and glanced uneasily at the closed door. Then he poured out with his own hand a measure of Burgundy into a gold goblet on the table. This he offered to D'Alaber, who glanced at it quizzically and waited until he was certain that his host would drink from the same flagon.

  "To the happy alliance between our two peoples!" cried Stratford, gulping down his wine. "Nay, do you fancy the goblet, D'Alaber? Then, I pray you, keep the thing."

  The Spaniard turned it in his fingers indifferently and handed it to the other man, who made less ado about thrusting it into the breast of his robe, first weighing it in his great fist covetously.

  He wore the dull damask of a merchant, yet his sword with its inlaid hilt was costly. He stood utterly still-and few men do that-looking down from his looming height on the two noblemen as if he were the solitary spectator of a rare play.