Armada

CHAPTER 10

9th April 1588. Lisbon, Portugal.

Evardo paced through the extended shadows in the small courtyard, his hand held loosely on the hilt of his sword. As he turned on his heel, he glanced at the stout wooden door on the east face. It remained firmly closed and Evardo wondered impatiently how much longer he would have to wait. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. After so long, he could suffer a further few minutes.

Passing through the centre of the courtyard he heard a clamour from outside and he looked to the arched entranceway that led to the docks. Men were rushing past the opening, many carrying provisions and arms, while heavily laden carts were being driven along the docks, whip cracks splitting the air. Evardo felt a rush of excitement and he gazed at the fraction of Lisbon harbour that was framed in the archway. It was choked with all manner of ships and Evardo felt his chest swell with pride.

Drake’s attack on Cadiz had severely wounded the Armada. His marauding had kept the squadrons apart and distracted the Empire with fears for the treasure fleets. Lesser nations would have lost their resolve in the face of such adversity but Spain had rallied magnificently. Preparations for the divine crusade had never ceased and now the Armada was once more a vital, living thing.

During his absence the Armada had been poised to sail a number of times, but supply problems and the winter months had forced delays. With shame, Evardo had thanked God for those setbacks, for despite their effects on Spain’s plans, the opportunity to fulfil his vow still remained.

Since his return to Spain almost four months before, his brother Miguel had worked tirelessly to secure Evardo a new command. His initial efforts however had been blocked by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, the commander of the Armada and owner of the Halcón. Then in February, to Evardo’s secret joy, Santa Cruz had died. The King had swiftly ordered another man into the breach, Don Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, one of the highest ranked nobles in the land. Unfettered by the marquis’s veto, Miguel was finally successful in securing a commission for his brother.

Evardo turned away from the archway and began pacing again. The heat of the day was rising and he moved deeper into the shadows. He glanced again at the closed door. He had been summoned to this place twice over the past week, both times to meet his new patron Diego Flores de Valdés, the commander of the squadron of Castile. On the previous occasion he had met Medina Sidonia.

The duke was an imposing figure and although he was not the warrior that Santa Cruz had been he was a brilliant administrator. At the time of Santa Cruz’s death in February the Armada had been languishing in a mire of supply problems and a chaotic schedule that was struggling to combine the diverse ships and ordinance that had been gathered from throughout the Empire. Medina Sidonia had worked tirelessly from his first day in command and under his firm hand the Armada had made a miraculous leap forward. The number of ships in the fleet had increased from 104 to 130 and the number of troops sailing had doubled to almost 19,000.

Many problems still remained however. De Valdés had shared some of them with Evardo, but he had not yet named the ship he was to command. Evardo had been forced to wait impatiently over the previous days, eager to encounter and solve the problems that surely awaited him on his new ship. The door finally opened and Evardo walked quickly towards it as an orderly came out to call him. After the heat of the courtyard, the interior was cool and Evardo removed his broad-brimmed hat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Evardo sidestepped his way around tight knots of conversation and frantic runners as he followed the orderly to de Valdés’s office. A cursory knock on the door was followed by the command to enter and Evardo went inside alone.

Diego Flores de Valdés was seated in a high backed chair. He was nearly sixty years old but his dense black hair and moustache gave him the air of a younger man. He was an expert on naval tactics and had been personally appointed to the enterprise by the King to act as one of Medina Sidonia’s principal staff officers. Evardo nodded to him in welcome and then looked to the other man standing beside de Valdés, recognizing him immediately. He was Juan Martínez de Recalde, commander of the squadron of Biscay and second-in-command of the Armada. He was known as a cantankerous man, especially when plagued by his sciatica, but he was also respected as one of the most experienced naval officers in Spain. Evardo nodded to him in turn. De Recalde did not return the courtesy.

‘Comandante Morales,’ de Valdés began, looking down at the sheaves of paper that covered his desk. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘Morales,’ de Recalde repeated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘The comandante who surrendered his ship at Cadiz?’

Evardo bristled at the remark but held his tongue. It would not benefit him to argue with such a high ranking officer and in any case it was not the first time he had been harangued over his role at Cadiz since returning to Spain. The whole country seemed to be looking for people to blame for that defeat and he had encountered disdainful stares and whispered conversations at every turn. On each occasion however he had striven to ignore them, concentrating instead on his objective. He looked at de Recalde out of the corner of his eye. The commander could have his opinion. Evardo’s commission had come at de Valdés’s request and had been approved by Medina Sidonia. He did not need de Recalde’s good graces.

‘I heard you gave up your sword in the midst of battle,’ de Recalde taunted, stepping forward from behind the desk. ‘I hope you will not repeat that act when we meet the English again.’

‘I defended my ship until the fight was lost,’ Evardo retorted angrily, his decision to remain silent forgotten. He took a half-step towards de Recalde. ‘I demand that you tell me who told you such a lie.’

De Recalde stepped up to Evardo and stared menacingly into the younger man’s eyes.

‘You can demand nothing of me, Morales. But if you must know, the man who told me of your surrender is the master of my flagship, the San Juan, Abrahan Delgado Vargas.’

The colour drained from Evardo’s face.

‘Abrahan?’ he whispered incredulously.

‘And I take Vargas at his word,’ de Recalde continued. ‘I’ve known the man forty years. We were fighting English pirates when you were still feeding at your mother’s pezón.’

‘Juan Martínez,’ de Valdés said abruptly, rising from his chair, anxious to put an end to the conversation. De Recalde was pushing Morales too hard. The last thing he needed was the irascible commander duelling with one of his comandantes. ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of allowing me to address my officer.’

De Recalde glanced over his shoulder at de Valdés. He grunted a reply and looked at Evardo one last time before brushing past him to leave the room.

‘He is a hard man, Morales,’ de Valdés said, indicating the door. ‘But you must not let such words affect you. Your brother has explained to me what happened at Cadiz, and in any case I knew your father and admired him greatly. I would trust any son of his in battle and your record before Cadiz was exemplary.’

Evardo nodded in gratitude, although de Valdés’s words gave him scant comfort.

‘I have decided on a ship for you,’ his patron said, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Given your previous duty in the Flota de Indias, I am giving you command of one of the ships of the Indian Guard, the 530 ton galleon, Santa Clara. Here is confirmation of your commission.’

Evardo took the proffered paper.

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said distractedly, his mind still on Abrahan. That others believed him a coward angered him, but Evardo had already decided their disparagement would not distract him from his duty. In any case, they were strangers and he was not responsible for their thoughts.

But Abrahan was different. Evardo had been angry at his mentor for how he had spoken to him after Cadiz, but he had nursed the hope that after so many months Abrahan might have seen the error of his judgment. Evardo had tried to find him upon his return to Spain. He had gone to Cadiz to learn the fate of the Halcón’s crew and was told that apart from those held for ransom, the English had released all their Spanish prisoners when they left the port. But Abrahan had not returned home and Evardo’s search had stalled.

Now he had found Abrahan, but it was a bitter revelation. His mentor was still ashamed of him. He glanced down at his commission. Santa Clara. He repeated the name. A galleon command. It was what he had wished for and he silently recited a brief prayer of thanks before looking back to de Valdés.

‘Thank you, señor,’ he said again, this time earnestly, and left the room.

Evardo stood outside the door for a moment. The corridor was as busy as before with men rushing in every direction. Evardo walked through them, his pace increasing with every stride. He went along the courtyard and out onto the docks.

The harbour was a confusion of hulls, masts and rigging with pennants of every hue fluttering on the light breeze. The Santa Clara was there somewhere, hidden amongst the multitude. Evardo went in search of a skiff to take him to his new command. There was much to do. The fleet would be sailing within weeks and Evardo had but a short time to ready himself for the battle to come. He had to prove himself to his new crew, to the commanders who doubted his courage, and to his mentor. He could not ask for his honour to be restored —he must win it back.

Robert opened the door to the fo’c’sle and stepped inside. The air was rank with the smell of faeces and stale sweat. He covered his mouth and nose with his hand and looked around the near pitch darkness. The portholes had been sealed tight to protect the men inside from further exposure to whatever foul air had infected them. Powell, the ship’s surgeon, was crouched over one of the men, bleeding him. Another moaned nearby and Robert heard the liquid rush as the man’s bowels voided. He caught the surgeon’s eye and motioned for him to come out onto the main deck. Robert slipped out through the door again and went immediately to the bulwark. Only then did he exhale and gulp in the clean salt laden air of Plymouth harbour.

‘Yes, Captain?’ he heard and turned around.

‘Well, Mister Powell?’ He had already deduced the answer from what he had seen.

‘It’s the flux, Captain. Four cases so far but I’ll warrant we’ll have a dozen more by tomorrow. I’ve instructed the swabber to clean out all the upper decks and the liar is giving the head another going over.’

Robert nodded, agreeing with the surgeon’s orders. He briefly recalled his stint as a liar when he was a ship’s boy, a task given to the first crewman caught uttering a lie at the beginning of each week. Seconded to the swabber for seven days he was always given the loathsome task of cleaning the latrine under the beakhead.

Robert cursed. The men had been on board too long, eating rations that, when they came, were never enough. On the cramped decks of the Retribution it was only a matter of time before the thin veil between health and pestilence was torn. Worse still, Plymouth and the entire south coast of England was now rife with rumours that the Spanish were poised to put to sea. They had overcome the setbacks of the previous year and had drawn their forces together from every port in the Spanish Empire to gather the largest and most powerful fleet ever assembled. The Retribution could not be stood down. There would be no leave for the crew.

‘We should lay to, Captain, and fire wet broom in the holds. That would smoke the cursed pestilence out.’

Robert shook his head. ‘Just try and keep them alive, Mister Powell. I’ll see to it that they get the best of the rations we have.’

‘Yes, Captain.’ Powell sighed, wiping his filth stained hands on the folds of his apron, and returned to the fo’c’sle.

Robert walked along the gunwale to one of the swivel mounted falcons. His hand traced around the mounting. It was the one part of his supplies that were not being consumed while the fleet lay in wait; shot and gunpowder, over fifty rounds per gun. The rations for the men, however, were in a diabolical state. To ensure supplies were not pilfered or squandered they were being issued to the fleet on a month to month basis, but their arrival was erratic at best and delays were commonplace. Robert, like every captain, feared that if the Spanish arrived off the English coast near the end of a ration cycle, the Retribution would go into battle with little or no food or fresh water.

Robert brought his hand to his chest to recite a prayer of hope. He clenched his hand into a fist and for a moment wished that he had a crucifix within his grip. He had been in Plymouth town the evening before and had witnessed first hand the palpable fear that stalked the populace. Their naked terror had steeled his determination for the fight ahead. Regardless of Spain’s quest to restore England to Catholicism, the Spanish were the enemy. Although their success would allow Robert to freely practise his faith and perhaps even regain his family’s title, they had no right to threaten the sovereignty of his country. Robert reached out to touch the cold barrel of the falcon.

The Spanish Armada had to be defeated at sea. It was England’s only chance. Robert had come to realize that fact, as had many of the commanders in the fleet. He had seen the local militia, the husbandmen and traders who had been conscripted to oppose any landing in Devon. Many of them were armed only with bows and their ranks were continually being depleted as men deserted to tend to their fields. It was a situation that doubtless was repeated along the entire length of the south coast. Robert dreaded to think how these men would fare against trained soldiers. Some six thousand soldiers, around half of England’s professional army, were in the Spanish Netherlands fighting the cause of the rebels. Six thousand more had been sent to secure England’s border with Scotland to guard against an attack that might be triggered by the Spanish invasion. If the Spanish landed all would be lost. Parma’s Army of Flanders could march an incredible ten miles a day and like wildfire on dry scrub they would sweep aside any local militia bands and descend upon London.

‘Captain.’ Seeley strode up to Robert. ‘Shaw has just returned from shore with good news. A Roman Catholic spy has been uncovered in the office of the Clerk of Ships.’

Robert’s lips tightened into a thin line. The crew of the Retribution were facing innumerable challenges and yet Seeley was still focused on the threat of Catholic spies. He had even widened his coterie of investigators on board to include the boatswain’s mate and the surgeon.

‘He might have some information as to the true identity of Young,’ Seeley continued. ‘Permission to go ashore to attend his interrogation.’

Robert tried to think of some reason to refuse Seeley permission but he could not. He nodded curtly and Seeley called for the coxswain to man the longboat.

‘Thomas, wait,’ Robert called. ‘I will accompany you.’

They descended into the longboat and shoved off. Robert sat alone in the bow. His decision to accompany Seeley had been made on impulse. He could think of no reason why someone in the office of the Clerk of Ships would know his secret but he reasoned it was better that he should witness anything that might be said. In any case he would have a better chance, however minute, of escaping on land.

The threat of invasion had whipped the population into a frenzy of anti-Catholicism. Fearing any uprising of English Catholics the Privy Council had already ordered the internment of known leading Catholics in Wisbech Castle in Cambridgeshire, and the populace, in terror of the Spanish Inquisition, were openly calling for their execution. The older people still remembered Bloody Mary. The Catholics had shown little mercy for Protestants when they were in power. Now that the tables were reversed the Catholics could expect little mercy.

The longboat reached the docks and Seeley led the way to the garrison. A guard directed them to the prison block. They crossed the inner courtyard to an iron-studded wooden door. It led into a guard room where two men were seated at a table.

‘I am Master Seeley and this is Captain Varian of the Retribution. You have a Roman Catholic prisoner here. We need to see him.’

One of the guards stood up slowly. He looked them up and down and then walked over to the inner door. Taking a ring of keys from his belt he unlocked it and motioned them through.

The corridor beyond was windowless and was lit by torches. A series of doors ran along one side. Only the furthest one was open and Robert followed Seeley towards it as the door to the guard room was locked behind them. A terrible scream pierced the still air, turning the blood in Robert’s veins to ice. They entered the room. It was a small airless space and was dominated by a single object in the middle of the room.

Three men stood around it, but Robert barely saw them. His eyes were fixed on the man stretched out on the rack. His ankles and wrists were bloodied and torn by the bonds that held him fast to the rollers at both ends. His limbs were grotesquely extended and his skin had been badly burned in numerous places. He had blacked out from the pain. The smell of faeces and sweat and seared flesh was overpowering. Robert looked at the sweat stained face of the prisoner and his stomach lurched. He knew him. He was one of the locals who had attended mass on the motte beside Saint Michael’s when Robert had first met Father Blackthorne there, the man who had come with his wife and young daughter. Robert backed away towards the door.

‘Who are you?’ one of the men spat.

Seeley told him.

‘I’m Browne, Sergeant at arms. If you’ve come for the interrogation you’re too late. The local agent, Tanner, and his men have already come and gone.’

‘Who is he?’ Seeley asked, unable to look away from the rack. He had only ever seen pictures of the device in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.

‘His name’s Bailey. He’s a scribe in the Clerk’s office.’

‘What has he told you?’ Robert asked.

‘Plenty,’ the sergeant replied with a cold smile. ‘He’s a traitor alright, a stinking papist. He was found in the Ordnance office, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. They suspect he was looking for the artillery manifests for the fleet. When he was challenged he panicked and tried to flee. They searched him and found he was wearing a crucifix under his doublet. That’s when they brought him to us. He claims he’s not a spy, the lying bastard, just a recusant. He gave us the names of some other Roman Catholic families in the area, and the name of his papist priest, a Father Blackthorne. Tanner said he already knew that name and that the priest was dead. He’s out tracking down the other families now and we already have his wife and daughter locked up.’

‘Did he mention the name Young?’ Seeley asked

Browne thought for a second and then shook his head.

‘Sergeant, I need to know if this man knows another Roman Catholic named Young.’

Browne took a torch down from the wall and brought it over to the rack, twisting it slightly in his hand to ensure the flame was strong. He thrust it into Bailey’s side. Bailey surfaced from unconsciousness with an ear-piercing scream. He fought his bonds but he couldn’t move and the struggle increased the pain in his tortured joints. He shouted incoherently.

‘Shut up, you treacherous whoreson,’ Browne shouted. ‘This officer wants to ask you a question.’

Bailey continued to speak. He started begging for mercy, his head jerking from side to side.

‘Do you know a man named Young?’ Seeley shouted.

Bailey seemed not to hear and again Browne stabbed at him with the torch. His screams filled the room.

‘Do you know what name Young uses?’ Seeley shouted, appalled by what he saw, the torture sickening him. He steeled his nerve. Bailey was a Roman Catholic, a heretic, an abomination before God.

‘No,’ Bailey cried. ‘I don’t know, please!’

‘Give him another twist,’ Browne said and the two men took a grip on the handles.

They put their weight behind the lever. Bailey’s screams reached a higher pitch and Seeley watched in grim fascination as the pawl of the ratchet moved along the length of a tooth. There was a loud popping sound as something inside Bailey’s arm snapped and as the pawl slotted into place the room went quiet. Bailey had blacked-out again.

‘Get a bucket of water to wake him up,’ Browne ordered.

‘No,’ Robert said. ‘Enough. He doesn’t know the man you’re looking for, Thomas.’

Seeley’s eyes were on Bailey’s face. It was twisted in agony. He felt a twinge of pity and he angrily suppressed his leniency. God and righteousness were on his side. He had to be strong.

‘Get the water,’ he said to the sergeant.

Robert turned and left the room. He hammered on the guard room door and went out to the courtyard. He could barely breathe. He was sure Bailey knew nothing of his real identity but he felt nauseous with fear. He had witnessed the fate that surely awaited him if he was ever caught, and if he survived the torture, he would be burned at the stake, with men like Seeley igniting the pyre.

Robert walked unsteadily back towards the docks. The Spanish were coming. It was inevitable, but Robert also hoped it would be soon. He had enemies on two fronts. To his rear the authorities were hunting Robert Young while to his fore the Spanish sought to crush him and his countrymen. Only in battle would he attain the clarity of facing a single enemy.

Evardo slowly paced the main deck of the Santa Clara, his gaze ceaselessly ranging over the entire ship as he watched the crew at work. She was a fine galleon, not five years old and had been built in Cantabria, the birthplace of over half the fighting ships of the Armada. Designed for transatlantic trade voyages the galleon had a massive hold over which ran a single gun deck high above the water line.

The crew were swarming everywhere and the air was charged with excitement. The expedition’s banner had recently been consecrated and it hung from every masthead in the fleet, a flag adorned with the royal arms and depictions of the Virgin Mary and the Crucifixion superimposed on red diagonals. A general fleet muster had been held. Everything was ready. The mighty Armada waited only on a fair breeze to take them out of the mouth of the Tagus.

Evardo stopped pacing and looked to the quarterdeck as the sailing captain, Arnaldo Ramos Mendez, shouted an order to the men working in the rigging of the mainmast. He was a hard taskmaster but Evardo had already come to appreciate his skill and efficiency and the manner in which he commanded the eighty-six sailors on board. Evardo’s first impressions of the other three captains on board were equally positive but like all comandantes, his main concern was how his four direct subordinates would work together.

Upon assuming command Evardo had immediately determined the social rank of each. All four were near equals, which would foster cooperation, but more importantly Evardo’s lineage was superior to them all, thus legitimizing his command, not only for the four captains but for the entire crew.

The two military captains, each commanding a 100-strong company of soldiers, were new to the Santa Clara. Francisco Alvarado, the older of the two, was a veteran of the Dutch revolt and the brief war against Portugal. He was lean and wiry, a career soldier who spoke openly of his ambition to lead a command under Parma in the invasion of England. He was brash and flamboyant, but was known to be steadfast in battle.

Hernán de Córdoba, the second military captain, was a heavyset man with a shaven pate. He was deeply religious and had sworn a vow of temperance while in the service of God and his King. For the past three years he had led a company of soldiers on a galley in the waters surrounding Italy, fighting an almost continuous battle against the scourge of Muslim raiders on the trade routes of the Empire. He was obdurate and was an ardent believer in the strict military discipline that was the backbone of every Spanish company.

Two thirds of the soldiers on board the Santa Clara were raw recruits, levied from Spain and Portugal. The remainder were veterans and hailed from every corner of the Empire. They were richly attired, with no two men dressed alike. Their jerkins and breeches were of every hue, bright garish colours with elaborate braiding and embroidery, while almost every hat was festooned with plumes of feathers.

Evardo had impressed upon each of his captains the need for a shared sense of purpose, particularly between sailors and soldiers. Given their calibre he was also concerned about what his men might have heard of his defeat at Cadiz, and from the moment he had stepped on board five weeks before he had constantly been on guard for any remark that might be construed as disrespectful, knowing he had to stamp out any insubordination until he had a chance to prove himself.

He left the main deck and went below. The gun deck was cramped and he stepped over the long trails of the gun carriages as he made his way aft, his eyes looking left and right at each cannon. Because the gun deck was high above the water line, for stability the cannons were of medium calibres. Nevertheless the Santa Clara had a considerable arsenal under the command of the gunners’ captain, Diego Suárez. Like Mendez, Suárez had been with the Santa Clara since she had first been launched. He was a keen advocate of artillery warfare, a fledgling concept in the Spanish fleet, and since the Santa Clara had arrived in Lisbon he had successfully lobbied the fleet quartermasters for two additional media culebrinas, bringing the total numbers of guns on board to twenty-six.

The biggest of these were the two Italian and six Spanish bronze media culebrinas which fired 10 pound iron shots, and four medio cañón pedreros, firing a 7 pound stone shot that would shatter on impact, devastating a tightly packed deck. Before battle each gun would be loaded with the assistance of soldiers who would then report back to their posts in the fore and aft castles and the fighting tops. The guns would be lashed to the hull and although the Santa Clara carried a considerable store of powder and shot the guns would only be fired once for each attack, just moments before the Santa Clara would close on a ship for boarding, thereby causing the maximum of casualties and confusion amongst the enemy.

Gunnery tactics were continually evolving and Evardo, like every other comandante, was well aware of the English navy’s prowess in this area. If allowed to command the weather gauge they would sweep in, firing their heavy bow chasers, followed by their broadsides and stern guns, before retreating to windward to reload. It would be a fearsome attack, one the Santa Clara might have to endure, but in centuries of naval warfare boarding was the proven method of securing an enemy ship in battle, one that the Spanish had perfected over generations.

If the English wished to defeat the Spanish Armada they would have to close and board, thus putting themselves within reach and Evardo smiled involuntarily as he thought of that moment, that brief second after the broadside was fired into an enemy ship, when his entire crew would be poised to follow his command to board. Nearly a third of the soldiers on board were armed with muskets while the remainder carried arquebuses. From the towering castles of the Santa Clara they would bring down a rain of hellfire upon the English while others fired the two swivel-mounted falconetes and twelve wrought iron breech loading falcon pedreros. Ceramic pots filled with gunpowder, spirits and resin, would be set with lighted fuses and cast into any knots of resistance while the dreaded bombas, wooden tubes filled with gunpowder and grapeshot, would scatter the enemy and clear them from the gunwales.

Only then would Evardo give the order. The enemy ship would be secured with grappling hooks, sealing the fate of the English crew, and with a war-cry that Evardo could almost hear, the crew of the Santa Clara would storm over the gunwales, cutting down any who stood in their way, cleansing the ship of its heretic crew.

Again Evardo smiled, only now it was a cold sneer that did not reach his eyes. In his mind he was leading his men onto the Retribution and before him stood the man who had come to symbolize his fight against the English, Robert Varian. He would be the first to fall. But he would not be the last. The battle would not end until the English fleet had been swept from the Channel, until the Army of Flanders had made their crossing and the Armada was sailing up the Thames estuary. Only then would victory be assured, for God and Spain.

‘Patache approaching off the starboard beam,’ Evardo heard and he went aloft to see the approaching ship. It was small boat, lightly armed with only fifty men on board. It was one of a squadron of such craft that carried dispatches and supplies between the larger vessels. The patache came alongside and Evardo’s commander, de Valdés, came on board followed by four men, one of them a priest.

‘Comandante Morales,’ de Valdés said, moving aside to allow the others to step forward. ‘I would like to introduce you to some guests of his majesty’s Armada who will be sailing with you on the Santa Clara.’

Evardo nodded genially and looked to the four men. He had expected this arrival for he had learned from other comandantes that such guests were sailing on nearly every ship of the fleet.

‘This is Padre Ignacio Garza,’ de Valdés began, indicating the priest. ‘He will conduct mass for the ship’s company once a week and tend to the spiritual needs of your crew.’

‘You are most welcome, Padre Garza,’ Evardo said sincerely and bowed his head to receive a simple blessing from the priest. He took strength from the Latin words of the benediction and recited in his mind the exhortation, written by a Jesuit in Lisbon, that had been circulated throughout the fleet; ‘We are not going on a difficult enterprise, because God our Lord, whose cause and most holy faith we defend, will go ahead, and with such a Captain we have nothing to fear.’

God supported the Armada’s mission to restore Catholic rule to England. King Philip and Medina Sidonia had declared this fact in every communiqué and Pope Sixtus V had issued a special indulgence to all who sailed in the Spanish fleet.

‘These two gentlemen,’ de Valdés continued, ‘are Irish nobles, Maurice Fitzgibbon and Diarmuid McCarthy. They were forced to flee their native land after the defeat of the Earl of Desmond’s glorious rebellion.’

Evardo nodded to both men and welcomed them to the Santa Clara. They replied in deplorable Spanish and seemed ill at ease on board ship but Evardo could see they possessed the wariness of hardened fighters. They would not be a burden in the battle ahead.

‘And finally,’ de Valdés said, indicating the last man, ‘I would like to introduce his grace, the Duke of Greyfarne, Nathaniel Young.’

Evardo nodded courteously.

‘Welcome on board, your grace.’

The duke replied in near flawless Spanish but his accent jarred and Evardo hid his innate dislike for the Englishman behind a genial smile.

‘The Duke will act as one of the interpreters and guides for the invasion army,’ de Valdés explained, ‘and will also assist you in the interrogation of any prisoners you take in battle.’

Again Evardo nodded and he called for Mendez to find suitable accommodation for the four men. De Valdés took his leave and his patache slid away from the hull of the Santa Clara. Evardo watched it leave, his thoughts on his new passengers. The priest was truly welcome. Perhaps too the Irishmen, for they could prove valuable in battle. But the Englishman?

Evardo looked to the companionway leading below decks. He tried to separate the man’s nationality from his faith. It was difficult, but Evardo was reminded of the attitude he had tried to impress upon his captains. Everyone on board the Santa Clara shared a common purpose, and whatever their individual motives they all sought the defeat of the Crown forces of England. It was enough. Evardo resolved to think of the duke not as an Englishman, but as a fellow Catholic.

Nathaniel took the small rolled blanket from under his arm and cast it on the low cot. He glanced over his shoulder at the two Irishmen who shared the tiny cramped cabin with him. They were speaking together in Gaelic and the lyrical guttural tones of the language set Nathaniel’s frustration and anger on edge. He looked down at the blanket. Apart from the clothes he was wearing, and the pieces of eight in the purse hanging from his side, the blanket contained all his worldly possessions —some personal items and a family copy of the Latin bible.

For years Nathaniel had listened to rumours and plans for this great fleet. He had spent many months in Lisbon harbour watching it grow from its infancy into a fledgling power. He had foreseen the day it would take to the seas and had pictured himself on the quarterdeck of the San Martin, the flagship of Medina Sidonia, in conference with the duke and his senior officers. Never once had he dreamt that he would hold such a lowly place in its ranks, cast aside to some anonymous galleon. He felt old and defeated. His life’s endeavours had come to naught.

That night at the motte had brought him to this point. He thought of Robert and looked to the sword hanging by his side, the sword with which he had almost killed his only son, and he wondered if given the chance again he would strike him down. He could have been the one who betrayed them to the authorities that night, although Nathaniel was also suspicious of Clarsdale. The duke had insisted on knowing de Torres’s name. Perhaps he was in league with the Protestants? Nathaniel had not returned to Clarsdale’s estate after the attack, so there was no way to know the truth. Not until he returned to England and confronted Clarsdale.

After the ambush Nathaniel had fled back to his prearranged rendezvous point on the coast. Clarsdale knew of the arrangement; the scheduled return of a Spanish galleon after one month. If the duke had been captured or was in league with the authorities, then he would surely lead them to the coast, but Nathaniel could think of no other way to leave the country without being detected and so he had resolved himself to wait. The three weeks had been an eternity of fear and deprivation. Nathaniel had been forced to live like a savage out in the open, stealing what food he could from the local farms, all the while waiting for the authorities to swoop down and capture him. But they had not come and the Spanish galleon had returned as arranged, picking up their sole passenger off the isolated beach in the dead of night.

Upon returning to Spain Nathaniel had been forced to wait endless weeks for a meeting with de Torres. The Spaniard had finally granted him an audience, but only to tell Nathaniel that he was no longer of any use to the Spanish Empire and he was to remove himself from the court at Madrid. Nathaniel had pleaded, no begged, de Torres for a reprieve, requesting only that he be allowed to sail with the Armada. The Spaniard had relented, but Nathaniel had seen the disgust in de Torres’s eyes. He was struck by a wave of nausea as he recalled his humiliation.

Nathaniel felt the deck shift beneath him and heard the crew of the Spanish galleon cheer. In the distance a single cannon boomed, a signal for the fleet to form up. The Armada was under sail. Nathaniel went quickly back on deck. The rigging was alive with men. One after another the sails unfurled with a crack as the wind took hold of the ship. The galleon continued to turn under his feet and Nathaniel looked aft to the land behind. The soil of the Spanish Empire. With God’s grace, he prayed, he would never see it again.

He could never come back to Spain, there was nothing for him here. His whole world consisted of England. With the help of these strangers he would soon be back in his native land, but he felt no loyalty to the Spaniards he sailed with. Loyalty was based on reciprocity and Spain had turned its back on Nathaniel Young.

His years of faithful service had been forgotten, cast aside, and while in the fight to come he would still give the Spanish every assistance, the alliance would be temporary. His fall from favour had revealed the truth of his position in his adopted country. Even after twenty years he was still an outsider, an Englishman, and for the first time in many years Nathaniel felt a longing for his country that went beyond his quest to see a Catholic monarch on the throne.

When the Spanish seized power from Elizabeth and her cursed Privy Council he would endeavour to have his title restored by the Spanish authorities. But thereafter, he vowed, he would strive to rid England of the invaders. He could do little else, for he was an Englishman, and England was his home.