Swords From the Sea by Harold Lamb Page A

demanded Chancellor the outspoken.
    "The king," responded Thorne as bluntly, "by my lord of Stratford."
    "Ah," observed Master Renard, "a moment ago you did not deny that Durforth had not the honor of your acquaintance."
    The armiger looked at him silently, bending the slender steel between his fingers, paying no attention to the gash in his shoulder.
    "And as you do not deny it now," the newcomer pointed out, "'tis passing strange that you should name Durforth a traitor. Nay, is a man a traitor because he spills wine in a hedge tavern? Or-and you are a soldado, a bearer of arms-do you hold him doomed because he resents a slight?"
    Still Thorne was silent, alert as if he faced a new antagonist whose speech was no less deadly than the tall man's steel.
    "Lacking other evidence," Renard concluded, "it must appear that you picked a quarrel with Master Durforth, who is embarking upon the king's business. Did anyone lay such command upon you?"
    Thorne perceived at once the shrewdness in this questioning. Renard must have heard from Durforth of the death of D'Alaber. Nothing was more certain than that the Spaniard desired vengeance for the death of his follower. And Renard had several gentlemen in attendance, with a score of men-at-arms within call.
    To make known that Edward was dying and the Papists all but in power might give excuse for a general drawing of weapons in which Chancellor and Sir Hugh, who had no men at their backs, would be slain.
    "'Tis a hanging matter you have embarked upon," resumed Renard lightly, "but-"
    "No 'buts' my lord!" The armiger laughed. "Either I am a murderer, dealing death for so much silver in hand, or I am a gentleman affronted in his cups. If the second, my quarrel is my own affair and you are cursedly inquisitive; if the first, why summon up the bailiffs to hale me into jail, there to await the king's justice."
    "The lad stands upon his rights," assented Chancellor gruffly. "Durforth miscalled him in the tavern. Let him go."
    Cabot had been questioning the surgeon, and now turned, palpably relieved.
    "Aye, no harm has been done to either. The hurts are slight. Come, my masters, a glass of wine. The ships sail before dawn with the tide."
    "I pray you," put in Renard, "come up with me to the manor house, where we shall fare better."
    He spoke briefly to two of his men, and Thorne, who watched them in the deepening dusk, saw them move off toward the tavern and the waiting coach. With a stifled exclamation he strode forward, coming between Chancellor and the old navigator. "Master Cabot, do you know with whom you drink?"
    "Surely," smiled the navigator, "with the Lord Renard, preceptor of the Princess Mary Tudor."
    "And a Spaniard who is no mean cosmographer-who hath no love for us of England."
    Sebastian Cabot was old, and loved quiet better than angry words; moreover he was governor of the Mystery and Company of MerchantsAdventurers of London, newly formed. He had labored greatly to outfit and man the three ships, and the last thing he desired was a quarrel with the powerful envoys from Spain at the court.
    He rested his hand on the arm that Chancellor held out, and made answer not so much to Thorne as to the others who listened in astonishment to the charge of the young armiger.
    "Nay, we would have lacked many things in this venture, had not my Lord Renard given us aid, in weighty advice. He hath been diligent in our council for which we are beholden to him."
    By now they had come to the street where Renard's lackeys with lighted torches awaited them, with the merchants of Orfordnesse and those who had come from the ships. These bowed respectfully to the old navigator, who, leaning upon the arm of the pilot, looked around in benign satisfaction.
    "Gentlemen, it is seemly that we should bid farewell to these navigants in such a pleasant hour."
    The vague unrest that had clouded his lined features at Thorne's accusation disappeared; his eyes brightened and his voice rang out with something of the