Adventure Magazine Cover, March 20, 1925 — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Snow Driver 7 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. Mean- while Parliament, ignorant of the true con- dition 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 thought- fully. ‘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?” “T 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 satisfacticn. 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 re- ceived 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 com- pany with Renard. ODurforth, 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 fleet- ingly 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 Dur- forth 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 GomiiGcdoo (©