The Snow Driver

Front matter

The

A Complete Novel by Harold Lamb Author of “The Sword of Honor,” “Forward,” etc.

I.—The Man-at-Arms

CHAPTER I

THE MAN-AT-ARMS

UPON a fair day in May, in token of the honor due them for long and valorous service in Flanders, a small group of men were chosen to mount guard at the pavilion of his Majesty King Edward the Sixth of England. They were armigers or esquires-at-arms, and the youngest of their company was placed at the entrance of the pavilion nearest the person of the king.

The name of this armiger was Ralph Thorne. He was selected for this post because, of these survivors of a gallant company, he had done the most in battle.

“Because, sire,” explained the politic Dudley, Duke of Stratford, “he has never failed in the execution of a command. Because, being distant from the court and the eye of his sovereign, he has yet performed deeds of hardihood, suffering thereby sore scathe and wounds.”

This tribute, lightly rendered by my lord duke, was remembered by him in latter years. Verily he had good reason to regret his words and his selection of a sentinel.

For there befell in that hour and in that day of the year 1553 a strange event. And here is the tale of it, justly set down, giving every man his due, and no man more; for it is not the task of the chronicler to praise and dispraise, but to make manifest the truth.

MASTER THORNE walked his post, after receiving signs and orders from my lord, the aforesaid Duke of Stratford. The armiger was not by much the elder of the boy king who lay within the pavilion on a couch covered with a deerskin. He wore the armor of the guards—cuirass and morion—and carried a harquebus on one shoulder.

A slow match in his other hand was kept alight by swinging gently back and forth. Walking slowly from one pole of the entrance to the other, he did not look within. And the grievously sick Edward took no more notice of the sentinel than of the ancient hag who crouched at the head of his divan, shredding herbs in her boney fingers.

Thorne's first hour of duty had not passed before a cannon roared from the river be low the marquee. He had seen the flash before he heard it, and glanced keenly at four ships that were abreast the royal standard.

The court had removed that day from London town to the meadows of Greenwich on the lower Thames. Edward's pavilion was pitched nearest the shore. Across the stream was anchored a galleon that flew from its poop an ensign bearing the triangular cross of Spain.

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

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 hat 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 hath 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 —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 2”

“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 to2”

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 some one 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 bedside 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 .

“So you would make the gipsy the butt of your carelessness?” granted 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 realise 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 bruskly, “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 bis firelock, that the Gipsy 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.

II.—The Signior D'Alaber

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 custodiat 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 acknowledgement 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 any one 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 2, 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 hour glass 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 servant—“have in D'Alaber and his cozening friend. And,” he added under his breath, “may your sainted name sake 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—if2”

“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 can do that—looking down from his looming height on the two noblemen as if he were the solitary spectator of a rare play.

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 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, “save2”

“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 poinard and glanced at Durforth, whose eyes, so dark that they appeared to be without expression, were fixed on him reflectively—“we must try phlebotemy, 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.

“Señores, 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 surprize 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—Parliament2”

“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 gone too far to draw back, unless you would care to make your excuses to the Fox.”

“'Tis the fable of Master Æsop 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 pedlers 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, and2”

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.