The Snow Driver/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
CATHAY
THE sun was low when Master Cabot landed with his companions. The bent figure clad in dark velvets was unmistakable; the forked white beard had not its like in England. With Sir Hugh, a tall man, florid of face, Cabot drove off to the manor house, leaving Richard Chancellor, master of the Edward, and Durforth of the smallest vessel, the Confidentia, to sup at the tavern.
This was by reason that three of the mariners on the ships had fallen ill and must be put ashore.
Chancellor, a young gentleman, simply clad in gray broadcloth, without a hat on his tawny curls, made plea to the Orfordnesse loiterers to embark in the stead of the sick shipment; but no one volunteered.
Thorne waited until Chancellor, Durforth and his father had taken their seats at the long table in the public room, then seated himself at the far end where they could not see him for the Orfordnesse merchants that crowded to places between. And, while he did full justice to Fulke's mutton and pastry, he listened to the talk, which was all of the voyage.
“'Tis clear,” observed old Master Thorne, “that a northwest passage to Cathay does not exist—at least where we hoped to find it. The Spaniard, Balboa, has sighted the ocean that lies beyond America. Yet no passage by water hath opened out.”
“So,” demanded a merchant, “Sir Hugh ventures to seek it in the northeast?”
“Master Cabot,” put in Durforth with a slight smile, “doth believe that the open sea extends north of the Easterling[1] coast to Cathay.”
The men of Orfordnesse stared at him in amazement. At rare intervals they had seen the small, single-masted vessels of the Easterlings driven on the coast by a tempest, or come to trade cod and whale oil. These dwarfs—for the men from the edge of the known world were no taller than an Englishman's armpit—were dressed always in fish skins and pelts of beasts.
It was said of them that they possessed the power of sorcery, of putting a blight on cattle, of carrying off maidens unresisting, by the lure of their slant eyes. They could foretell the future, and in their own country they rode from place to place on the back of wild deer, called reindeer.
Between this land of the Easterlings and the pole lay the stretch of water called the Ice Sea. But to sail up, beyond the edge of the known world, into this Ice Sea to seek Cathay!
A red-bearded merchant, who had once been blown up to the Shetlands, smiled knowingly.
“Nay, my lords, you embark upon a fantasy! For a hundred and fifty leagues the coast of Norway is a desert land. And know that off this coast there lies a mighty indraught or whirlpool of waters.”
“Malestrand,” assented another.
“So men call it. The currents of all the seas do tend to Malestrand, and there are engulfed with a fearful roaring and rack, whirling down to the depths.”
“'Tis said,” put in the tavern keeper who had lent his ear to the talk, “that whales, feeling themselves drawn toward this whirlpool do cry out most piteously. Aye, as ever was!”
“And ships,” nodded the red beard, “be lost that touch on Malestrand, forby they're spewed out again as bare timbers and planks. From this central in-draft o' the seas the tides have their being.”
To these warnings Master Thorne harkened with small patience, but Durforth, ever smiling and crumbling bread into his empty glass, seemed to be weighing the effect of the tales on his companions.
“So,” he observed at last, “I take it the merchants of Orfordnesse have no will to risk goods on this venture?”
One by one they shook their heads, some swearing with a great oath that here was no mere risk but the certainty of loss. He of the red beard, their spokesman, explained matters.
“For that,” he cried triumphantly, “the Easterlings are able to summon tempests out of the heavens and floes of ice taller than ships to close the channels. Aye, and a more marvelous thing, to arrest the sun in its natural course, so that it hung ever above the rim of the world and there was no night.”
Now for the first time Richard Chancellor spoke quietly.
“The sun will bide where it will, my masters. Our governor, Messer Cabot, doth relate that off the Labrador of America the days are of twenty hours and the night is brighter than in this part of the earth. Storms and ice we may meet and will deal with them, God willing.”
At this the aged Master Thorne blazed out eagerly:
“Well spoken! Sir, in my time I have made shift to draw a true card of the world and, to my thinking, open water extends from Norway to the mighty empire of Cathay.”
Laughter and muttered pleasantries greeted the Mad Cosmographer, but Chancellor glanced at him with interest, and made courteous answer, slowly as was his habit.
“By experience, Master Thorne, we may come at the truth. By my reckoning, if a northeast passage exists, 'twill shorten the voyage to Cathay by two thousand leagues. So”
He laid the dagger, with which he had been cutting slices off the leg of mutton, at the top of his plate and touched the pommel.
“Here, or below here lies Cathay, and the island of Zipangu where all silk comes from.” He ran his finger from the point to the end of the hilt. “Thus may we voyage from England to Cathay by the northeast passage—if one is to be found.”
Then, moving his finger from the point of the dagger, around the plate, he added:
“In this way do the ships of the emperor and the Portingals go to their spicery at the far Indies. As you see, the distance is more than twice as great.”
MASTER THORNE cried approval and lifted his glass, calling upon all present to drink the health of the sea farers, the navigants. The merchants of Orfordnesse responded with an ill grace, and Chancellor, who was a blunt man, eyed them in angry curiosity.
“Your greatest peril,” Thorne remarked, “lies in the cold. Passing the seventh clime, the cold is so great few can suffer it.”
“We will do what men may,” said Chancellor who was the pilot-major.
“By your leave,” put in Durforth, rousing up suddenly, “I hold it folly to go on.”
“And why?”
Chancellor frowned as if an old point of debate had arisen.
“Master Thorne hath the right of it; the lands at the pole are uninhabitable.”
“Nay,” the cosmographer corrected him, “I said you must guard against the cold. Our fathers held that the lands under the Equinoctial[2] Line were full of an unendurable heat, yet hath experience proven them both fair and pleasant. There is no land uninhabitable, no sea innavigable!”
Durforth emptied the crumbs from his glass with a gesture of irritation.
“Words! As advisor of the council, I say, Chancellor, that we must bide another season. 'Tis now hard upon midsummer, so greatly have we been delayed. 'Twill be the season of autumnal storms when we pass north of Norway. If you and Sir Hugh—who knoweth little of the seas—will not wait another year,at least send to the court and learn the wishes of his majesty.”
Now, hearing this, Ralph Thorne pushed aside his plate and stood up, waiting until he caught Durforth's eye. The ship's captain started slightly and his jaw set, so that his pointed black beard seemed to jut forward.
“It is known to me,” observed the armiger when silence fell, “that his majesty doth pray for the success of this venture. And any man who puts an impediment in the way of this voyage is a traitor, no less. Who saith otherwise, lies.”
“I will venture where any man dare set foot,” cried Cornelius Durforth and beat upon the table with his knotted fist.
No one, seeing the muscles set in his sun tanned face, doubted that he was capable of making good his words.
“Do not spill the wine,” put in Ralph Thorne, his hand on his glass. “And do not bring in question again the wishes of the king, which you should know as well as I.”
Durforth frowned at the youth and went on without heeding him.
“Ill luck dogs us this season. The ships had the wind over the hawse standing down the Thames, and three of our mariners be taken sick. These be portents. Turn back, say I.”
Again he smote the table until the jugs and glasses leaped and clattered.
“I pray you,” said the armiger softly, “do not spill the wine.”
“Still your springald's tongue when elders speak!” cried his father angrily.
“Will you bide for word from the king?” Durforth demanded of the pilot-major.
“Sir Hugh will not, nor will I hang back. If it is not God's will we win to Cathay this season, we may yet find new lands and Christian princes to offer us haven.”
The ship's master, fingering the gold chain at his throat, shrugged, and the silence that fell upon them was broken by Ralph Thorne.
“Do not spill the wine again, sir.”
Anger glowed in Durforth's dark eyes.
“Your loutish words, sir, hint at the manner of your birth. Was it in a ditch, or perhaps a gutter that you first looked upon the world?”
The youth from the court raised his glass in his fingers and tossed its contents into the face of the ship master who sat across the table from him.
“Nay, my lord, this should be evidence that I have not learned manners from the Fox.”
Durforth gained his feet, and, wiping the liquid from his cheeks, found no words to reply. His hand groped for his sword hilt and he whipped the blade clear, kicking back the chair upon which he had sat. The armiger drew his rapier and placed it, point to pommel, against the quivering weapon of the older man.
“Art' content, Master? Our swords be of a length.”
“By the eyes of , would you stand against me, Thorne?”
“Aye, so, unless,” the youth made response gravely, “you are pleased to confess to this company the manner in which you learned my name.”
Fleetingly Durforth glanced from the cosmographer to his son, and Master Thorne answered the unspoken question.
“Lad,” his old voice quavered with anxiety, “what is this?”
Then, beholding the settled purpose, stern in the youth's face, he flew into a rage at the unforseen quarrel.
“Better you had died in the gutter, than thus to affront honorable gentlemen. Nay, you are no son of mine.”
“'Tis the cosmographer's whelp!” cried an Orfordnesse man. “Have him to the dogs!”
But Durforth swore a great oath and announced that however the villain had been whelped, he would put him into the earth before an hour had passed, and summoned Chancellor to act as his second.
“'Tis clear, my lord,” cried the armiger, “that you have profited from the teaching of Master Fox. Nay, I have no second, so must perform the office myself—not for the first time. Beside the inn is a fair meadow, and the evening light is good.”
NOW at the second mention of the Fox, Chancellor looked thoughtfully at the youth, as if he would ask a question. But, meeting with no sign of understanding, he turned away, palpably puzzled. The surgeon from the fleet was at the tavern and accompanied them to the clear stretch of grass that Ralph Thorne pointed out.
The red bearded merchant was selected to give the word that would set the two men against each other. Ralph stripped him self to his shirt and stood for a moment to let the breeze cool his forehead.
Chancellor and the surgeon were arguing with Durforth in lowered voices, seeking to have the quarrel patched up before harm was done, pointing out that Thorne was scarce a man grown, but Durforth would have none of them.
And Thorne, listening to the break and wash of the swell on the beach where he had played many a time not so long since, now had eyes only for the stalwart figure that loomed in its white shirt over against the trees.
“Begin, gentlemen,” quoth the red beard.
Durforth stepped toward his antagonist, his point advanced, the dagger in his left hand gripped at his hip. The armiger took time to salute him, smiling, and this seemed to anger the ship master who lunged and sprang in, his dagger flashing.
Engaging and parrying the sword, Thorne stepped aside from the dagger thrust, half turning as he did so. For a moment the two blades slithered together as the swordsmen felt each other out. Durforth was in no mood for this and leaped in, grunting, for his antagonist had turned his sword aside and avoided the dagger thrust again.
This time the armiger stepped clear, lowering his point. “Guard yourself better, Durforth, or I will spoil you.”
He had not used his poniard yet, but as Durforth thrust powerfully, he locked sword hilts, and stabbed at the man's heart. Durforth was quick to see the dagger flash, and his own poniard went at Thorne's throat.
There was no parrying and no avoiding the double cuts. But Durforth swayed to the right as he struck, so that the armiger's dagger missed his heart, ripping through his side instead. And Durforth's poniard, instead of entering the youth's throat, grated against the collarbone and caught in the shoulder muscles.
They drew their daggers clear, and Thorne, feeling his left arm grow numb, let his own fall to the grass.
“A cool head, I vow,” muttered the surgeon, calling Chancellor's attention to this. “He may not strike a good blow with his left, and so presses the tall fellow with his sword. Ha!”
Durforth, feeling the blood drain from his wound had advanced to the attack again, his dark eyes venomous. But Thorne's rapier coiled over his blade and forced him to give ground. Back and back he went, to the side of the field where they had entered. All his skill was bent to the task of guarding his life, for he was given no further chance to use the poniard.
“A moment ago,” quoth the surgeon critically, “the lad would have exchanged his throat for a blow, but now—a rare sword, he. Give you odds, sir, he slays the black beard.”
It fell out otherwise. Figures appeared in the dusk, running from the tavern, voices cried out and the ringing of steel ceased. Two gentlemen who came upon the scene had struck up the weapons of the antagonists, and between them stood a form there was no mistaking.
“In the king's name, have done!”
Master Cabot's thin voice was rife with anxiety. He breathed hard, having come in haste when he heard at the inn of the duel that was to be fought. With him were others in a green livery, and one especially, who, attired in all the splendor of costly sables and seal skin with a massy chain of gold around his throat, kept in the center of the newcomers as by right and stared about him thoughtfully, pinching his lip between thumb and forefinger.
Durforth dashed the sweat from his eyes and flung down his weapons, calling upon the surgeon to bind his hurt, but Thorne confronted Cabot sword in hand, quivering with anger.
“Sir, by what right do you come between us?”
The old navigator leaned on his stick composedly.
“Tush, lad, is the voyage to Cathay not a greater thing than thy wildfire temper? I can not have Master Durforth spoiled for the venture, nay he knoweth, above all others, the proper course to round Norway. Amend thy quarreling and cry quits.”
“Never!” broke in Thorne.
Cabot fingered his long beard, frowning.
“Thy father came to me at the manor house, and did ask that the duel be stopped, for like the loyal Englishman he is, he hath the success of the venture at heart.”
“Nay, your Durforth hath earned his death.”
“How?”
Thorne opened his lips to reply, but beholding the new arrival who stood apart among the men in livery, he kept silence while the company in the meadow scanned him curiously.
“I may not say, at this moment.”
Hearing this, Durforth, who had been bending over the bandage on his side, smiled and sheathed the sword that the surgeon handed him.
“You are discreet—a trifle late, my young hotspur.”
“Here is a riddle,” murmured Sebastian Cabot. “A youth who proclaims a just quarrel and a man grown who admits of none. Stay! Knowest thou this springald, Master Durfortb?”
“Not I. His face is strange to me.”
“Perhaps, gentlemen,” observed a level voice, “I can rede ye this riddle."
“Aye, we may well profit by thy wisdom, Renard,” assented Cabot. “And so shall I be twice thy debtor, since thou hast been at the pains to come from London hither with a coach for my conveyance from the coast.”