Armada

CHAPTER 5

6th July 1587. Plymouth, England.

The crew cheered as the anchor splashed down and the Retribution came to rest, her hull swinging around gently with the pull of the incoming tide. The last of the sails were hauled in and with all able hands on deck the galleon was quickly made secure, the men using their last reserves of strength with an alacrity born of hunger and impatience. Robert was on the quarterdeck and as he looked out over the port he smiled. ‘Home,’ he whispered, drinking in the sight of Plymouth docks

The town looked inviting in the warm July sun. The long sweep of the teeming wharfs was crowned by columns of wood smoke from the cooking fires of the houses beyond, while further back the tower of Saint Andrew’s church gazed over all. The babble of daily activity was borne on the light wind, its timbre and pitch unchanged despite the arrival home of the fleet. Robert glanced at the eight other ships surrounding the Retribution, the remnants of the original fleet that had sailed from this port ten weeks before.

After the sack of Sagres, Drake had ordered the fleet to take station off Cape Saint Vincent. They had intercepted dozens of supply ships bearing all manner of materials for the Armada at Lisbon; timbers for ship-building, oars for galleys and galleasses, and hoops and barrel staves for provisioning the enemy fleet. It had been fruitful labour but as the weeks dragged on an enemy more deadly than the Spanish had begun to attack the fleet; pestilence.

The morale of the fleet had died with the first fatality and as more and more fell ill, Robert, like every other captain, had found it increasingly difficult to keep his crew in check. A sudden violent storm precipitated the first flights towards home, with the smaller ships, under the pretence of necessity, turning for England while they still had sufficient crew to sail them. Even the news of a rich prize approaching the Azores, a trading carrack bound for Lisbon from Genoa, could not stem the tide. Men who had rushed fearlessly into battle cowered before the dreaded ship-fever. The crew of the Golden Lion, with the fleet’s second officer, Borough, on board had turned her bow northwards despite the entreaties of their captain.

Where lesser men might have succumbed, Drake had rallied, persuading the remaining crews to sail west to San Miguel. His resolve had been rewarded and a dawn attack by the last nine ships had yielded an enormous prize —the Sao Phelipe, a Portuguese carrack that was one of the Spanish King’s own vessels. After this enormous coup, Drake had been content to end the expedition and the Elizabeth Bonaventure had finally led the bedraggled fleet home.

Of Robert’s command, seven men had been lost to sickness while another thirty were isolated below decks, the men shivering in their hammocks, crying out in delirium, their bodies racked by fever. Some would survive, God would choose who, and Robert murmured a prayer for all. He wondered, like all sailors, what cursed element triggered the dread disease.

‘The ship is secure, Captain,’ Seeley said, coming up to the quarterdeck. His frame was lean and drawn from the rigours of the previous weeks.

‘Very well,’ Robert replied. ‘Have the men stand down. Mister Powell will need to see each of them before any can disembark to make sure none of them have ship-fever.’

The master nodded. He ordered the ship’s surgeon to the main deck, then called the boatswain to come aft.

‘Captain,’ Seeley began, as Shaw arrived, ‘I would like to question the men one last time before they disembark.’

Robert tried to hide his irritation, but he saw the master’s expression change to a frown of annoyance and knew his own face had betrayed him.

Since the discovery of the idols, Seeley’s search for the Catholic on board had been relentless. Every crewman had been subjected many times to Seeley’s questions while Shaw had assisted his efforts, watching the crew in their unguarded moments below decks when off watch. Many of the crew had reacted with fury when they had first heard of the traitor amongst them. They had vowed to help the master hunt him down but Seeley had refused to trust anyone on board. His obstinate suspicion had eventually put the entire crew on edge, exacerbating the fleet-wide scourges of disease and short supplies.

Robert had been on the cusp of ending the hunt many times, but on each occasion he had hesitated, unsure if his motivation was to guard the dwindling morale of his crew or his own safety. The responsibilities of his rank had continually decided the issue, but at the cost of his patience at Seeley’s ever increasing obsession to cleanse the Retribution of treachery. This final request to question the exhausted crew could not be countenanced.

‘This is our last chance,’ Seeley said. ‘Once the traitor goes ashore he is bound to disappear.’

‘We might still catch him, Captain,’ Shaw added, his own enthusiasm for the hunt fuelled by frustration.

‘No,’ Robert said, ‘there will be no further questioning.’

Seeley was about to protest but Robert held up his hand.

‘You are dismissed, Mister Shaw,’ he said to the boatswain. ‘Inform the men of the morning and fore-noon watches that they may go ashore.’

Shaw hesitated for a second before nodding his assent and leaving the quarterdeck.

Robert drew Seeley over to the bulwark. ‘You have done enough, Thomas,’ he said soothingly, taking a different tack, ‘and God has brought us home safe. Be content with that.’

‘But a traitor still walks amongst us,’ Seeley replied vehemently, glancing unconsciously over his shoulder to the assembled men on the main deck.

‘The man you seek might have fallen at Lagos, or may have been one of those who succumbed to fever and was buried at sea.’

Seeley shook his head. ‘I searched all the belongings of every man who died and found nothing, no further evidence.’

He paused for a moment, searching the captain’s face. ‘Don’t you want to catch the traitor?’ he asked accusingly.

Robert felt his temper flare up but he held it in check. ‘Of course I do, Thomas,’ he said, endeavouring to sound sincere, a hard edge to his voice. ‘But I also have a duty to the crew. They have endured much and deserve to be stood down.’

Seeley could not understand the captain’s priorities. How could he allow for even the slightest possibility that the traitor might escape. The captain was Protestant. Did he not feel the fury that burned in Seeley’s chest at the thought of a Roman Catholic spy amongst them?

Seeley understood the hardships the crew had endured. He had felt them too, but such mortal suffering was nothing to the torments that would befall those who did not tirelessly prosecute the heretic. No one could ignore the warning in Revelations; that those who were neither cold nor hot, but lukewarm in their actions, would be spat out by God.

‘Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord,’ he quoted, desperate to persuade the captain to grant him permission. ‘I tell you, Captain, the Roman Catholic fiend is still alive and even now his breath befouls us all. I must be given one last chance.’

‘They are to be given shore leave in watches,’ Robert said coldly, his patience at an end, knowing that Seeley would not relent. ‘I forbid you from questioning them again. Is that understood?’

The corner of Seeley’s mouth twitched in anger and for a moment he stared into Robert’s eyes. ‘Yes, Captain,’ he growled and strode from the quarterdeck.

Robert watched him go below, his own anger burning the back of his throat. He looked out over Plymouth again, trying to recapture the consolation he had felt only minutes before. It was gone. The veneer had been shattered by Seeley and now the thoughts that had haunted him since the attack on Sagres came back once more. ‘God has brought us home safe. Be content with that,’ he had said to Seeley, but the words were as hollow to him as they had been to the master. Home was not Plymouth. Home was twenty miles east, in Brixham. Robert decided that he would travel there the moment he was relieved of his duty.

The enormous estate house stood nestled on the slope of a vale deep in the heart of Devon. Woodland flanked it on both sides while to the front an ornate garden ran down to the small river that flowed along the valley floor. It was a magnificent house with soaring windows that spoke of the wealth of its owner. The surrounding woodlands hid the myriad buildings attached to the estate save for the spire of a family chapel that reached above even the tallest trees.

On the crest of the opposing slope a copse overlooked the valley floor. It was heavily overgrown with bramble bushes and ferns. Just inside its boundary a man stood motionless. He was John Cross, an agent of the Crown who reported directly to one of the Queen’s closest advisors, Sir Francis Walsingham.

With a steady gaze Cross looked across the breadth of the estate buildings and he smiled contemptuously at the overt display of faith that was the family chapel, vowing silently that one day he would visit the chapel and thank God for the demise of its owner.

A loud snort echoed from the trees behind him and Cross spun around. His horse was tethered some twenty yards away. Cross picked up the sounds of approach a moment later and his hand fell to the pistol in his belt. He crouched slightly, his every sense on alert as he tried to read the sound. He saw a flash of dark clothing, and another, and a figure emerged from the dense undergrowth. Cross straightened up slightly, recognizing the man, but he remained wary, his eyes darting around to ensure he was approaching alone.

‘You’re late,’ he cursed.

‘Beg you pardon, sir,’ the man replied penitently. ‘But I couldn’t get here faster. The good weather has every gardener and gamekeeper abroad.’

Cross grunted angrily. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, a reckless amount of time. His discovery could have disastrous consequences. He stared stonily at the older man as he covered the remaining yards. ‘Well?’

‘The priest was last here nearly two months ago. I let him in myself through the kitchen door. He met with the duke in his private study.’

‘Tell me everything you heard,’ Cross said distractedly, expecting to hear little of any import. The duke was a minor threat, a peripheral player. Cross’s surveillance was merely routine.

The man’s name was Nichols, and his family had been in the service of the Duke of Clarsdale for three generations. Nichols was the duke’s butler, while his wife and three sons were also in the employ of the estate, although Cross had never met them, nor knew if they were aware of Nichols’s clandestine activities. The butler relayed the entire conversation between the duke and the priest with remarkable attention to detail. As he spoke, Cross stepped forward instinctively, the substance of the report was more important than he had imagined.

‘This was their only private meeting?’

‘Yes, the priest stayed only one night. The entire household, including the duke, attended mass shortly after dawn the next day. The priest left immediately after.’

Cross noticed how sneeringly Nichols said mass. His hatred for the ceremony was obvious, made more acute by the fact that he had to masquerade as a faithful Roman Catholic. Cross admired the butler. The risks he himself took were significant but in serving the Crown Nichols had placed his entire family in harm’s way.

Cross asked Nichols to repeat the latter half of the conversation, stopping him at points to question him further. The answers were disturbing. Clarsdale’s plan to build a private army to meet a Spanish invasion was troublesome but not critical. Such a force had been part of nearly every plot that involved a foreign power. A pre-emptive gathering of men would be difficult to conceal however, and could be neutralized long before a Spaniard appeared on the horizon. The duke’s request for an informer in the English fleet was a more alarming prospect. This one man had the potential to be more damaging than a thousand men-at-arms. The composition, deployment and strength of the fleet had to remain secret from the Spanish.

Clarsdale’s request also meant he was in more direct contact with the Spanish than Cross had believed. But through which route? There were a number of prominent English traitors working with the Spanish hierarchy in Spain. Any one of them could be Clarsdale’s handler.

‘The priest hasn’t returned since?’ he asked Nichols.

‘No.’

‘When is he due next?’

‘A week after the new moon, perhaps ten days from now.’

Cross nodded. There was a little time.

‘Listen,’ he said, leaning in closer to Nichols. ‘The last of the fleet arrived back in Plymouth three days ago. It is possible the priest will be able to secure his man before he meets with the duke. He will have other news, numbers, maybe even names of the men he has acquired as soldiers. Ignore this information. Concentrate only on finding out the name of the informer.’

Nichols nodded.

‘Now go. I will be here every day at noon for one hour on the week after the priest is due.’

The butler moved away through the undergrowth. Within a minute Cross was left with only the sounds of nature. He looked to the estate house again. Clarsdale was cleverer than he had believed, and far more connected than he had ever suspected. That the duke was secretly a Roman Catholic had been known for some time and when Nichols had quietly made it known to the local Protestant dean that he was willing to spy on Clarsdale, Cross had received the news with only minor interest. He had set up the initial meetings, wary at first of the butler because his information was unsolicited. He had searched for signs of subterfuge at each meeting. He had found none however, and confident of his judgement and experience, he had come to trust the butler, although his information to date had only confirmed what Cross had long held: that the duke was merely a sympathizer and not an active conspirator.

Now all was changed. Walsingham would need to be informed immediately. Cross walked quickly to his horse and mounted her in one fluid sweep, walking her through to the other side of the copse before spurring her to a full gallop out into the open field beyond.

Father Blackthorne stretched out his arms and gazed up at the east facing window. His voice rose above the murmur of his congregation and his words soon dominated the tiny enclosed room. He narrowed his eyes against the white glare of the morning sun streaming through the plain opaque glass. In his imagination, he pictured a beautiful stained glass image depicting the crucifixion of Christ. It was the window in Saint Anne’s, the little church where he had celebrated his first mass as an ordained priest some thirty-five years before. The image was forever close to his heart, a reminder of the times when he had been able to observe his faith in public.

‘Ite missa est,’ he intoned, ending the mass. As the congregation responded, he led them in the last Gospel, striving as always to draw strength from the verses of Saint John, seeking the courage and hope to go on.

Why? To what end? He immediately tried to suppress the thought, angry at himself for questioning his lot. Father Blackthorne was shamed by the unexpected lapse in devotion, the moment of weakness, and yet the voice refused to quieten. For the true faith. But the answer could no longer stifle the gnawing protests from his body and mind at the hardships he was forced to endure; the hunger and deprivation, the constant fear of capture that whittled away his nerve.

Again he tried to recapture the ardour and confidence he had felt in the first years after Elizabeth’s coronation, when he secretly returned to England to fight the reformation of the church. However that was almost three decades ago. He was a young man then, but that strength was gone forever. Now only hope remained. He pushed his doubts to the recesses of his mind as the final words of the service were spoken.

Father Blackthorne blessed himself and, rising slowly, turned to the four people knelt behind him. He nodded to them with a smile and they rose up, coming to him in turn for an individual blessing —Catherine and William Varian first, then their two servants.

The servants immediately took their leave and Father Blackthorne invited the couple to sit once more.

‘That was a beautiful service,’ Catherine said. The tone of her words suggested to Father Blackthorne that she somehow understood, and perhaps shared, his inner fears. He took comfort from the belief.

‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he replied, taking her hand in his, feeling less alone. He saw William glance towards the door. He was a tall man with a full beard and balding pate. When he looked back to the priest, and noticed that his glance had been observed, he coloured slightly. Father Blackthorne smiled.

‘There’s still time, William,’ he said kindly.

‘Forgive me, Father, my mind should not wander to such things in this place.’

‘It’s all right. You must protect your family.’

William nodded and Father Blackthorne reached out with his other hand, placing it on William’s forearm.

The daily Protestant service would begin at 7 a.m. in Brixham town church and William would be expected to attend, as were all the prominent men of the town. It was a duality that Father Blackthorne knew he should condemn but in his heart he could not. William Varian was entirely faithful to the Catholic creed and Father Blackthorne understood that his survival, and the welfare of his family, depended on his outwardly cherishing the Protestant faith.

Catherine was the guardian of his spiritual integrity, maintaining a vigil in the tiny room the family used as a secret chapel while her husband attended Protestant services. There she offered prayers for his soul, begging forgiveness and understanding from God for the weakness of wishing to survive.

As William rose to leave the room, Father Blackthorne stood with him.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he whispered over William’s bowed head.

‘Thank you, Father,’ William said, straightening up his shoulders.

‘Go with God, my son. I will be here when you return to hear your confession.’

William left and Father Blackthorne knelt with Catherine before the table that served as an altar. When in Brixham, he would always pray with her while William risked his soul in the Protestant church, comforting her when tears of guilt overwhelmed her, reminding her that God forgave the penitent. Upon the table stood a crucifix and a simple cup that the family used as a chalice. They were flanked by two candles. Father Blackthorne bowed his head and began to recite the joyful mysteries of the Rosary.

He thought of how each time he returned to a town or village, he found that his flock had diminished further. Not a half-mile away, a congregation was being led by the local vicar with readings from the Common Book of Prayer, and soon their voices would be raised in song, in a church that was once Catholic. Many of the congregation had never known a time when Elizabeth was not on the throne, and for them Protestantism was the natural faith of the realm. The conversion of the older people encompassed myriad reasons —many were unable to withstand the pressure to conform, while others believed they had found a more faithful path to God.

For Father Blackthorne the threat of discovery grew with each willing or unwilling victim of the heresy. He could only hope that none had yet spoken out because of some sense of previously held loyalty. But more and more often, call signs went unanswered and doors that had once been open to him were now firmly shut. Some of the occupants pleaded with him to leave as they feared exposure, while others damned him with the righteous zeal of neophytes. He knew his precarious freedom could not last and he shuddered slightly when he thought of the fate that awaited him should he fall into the hands of the Protestant authorities.

He looked sideways at Catherine. She was the fountainhead of faith for her family, her courage and conviction matched only by that of her husband and children.

He found the courage to go on —‘For them,’ he said silently, answering his previous question with the certainty of realization. He listened intently to Catherine’s responses to his prayers, hearing anew the sincerity with which she spoke and seeing the utter rapture on her face as she gazed upon the crucifix.

As he turned to the window he saw the stained glass image clearer in his mind’s eye than ever before. Where there was faith, there was hope, and in this room, this tiny chapel, the faith of Catherine Varian was all encompassing.

Thomas Seeley stopped for a moment at the wooden gate. His hand played over the weather worn timber as he looked up the gentle slope of the path to the two storey house. Its walls were covered in verdant ivy and the stillness of the scene was one of the visions he had treasured in his memory during the months he had been away. He pushed open the gate, the hinges protesting with a loud creak that drowned out the drone of insects, and he walked up the path, stopping once more before reaching the door.

Seeley looked over his shoulder and took in the familiar view. As so many times before, his eye was drawn to the western edge of the horizon and the large manor house some four miles distant. It was the home of his mother’s cousin, the Marquess of Wenborough. Palatial in size, it was a home befitting the title and wealth of the family and Seeley’s eyes narrowed, his deep seated animosity rising unbidden at the view he had beheld his entire life. The house behind him, his own family home, was an estate cottage, a one-time hunting lodge that his mother’s cousin had granted the Seeley family when their title had been returned by Queen Elizabeth.

That act of charity was an open wound in Seeley’s honour that would not heal. Its pain was sharpened by the knowledge that the Wenborough family had survived the reign of Mary Tudor unscathed by adhering to the changing religion of the monarchy. Their faith swung with the prevailing wind and, under Elizabeth, they were now staunchly Protestant.

But Seeley’s own paternal grandparents had been burned at the stake for their faith ten years before he was born. As a child he had read, with terrified fascination, John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, poring over it secretly in his bed at night. The woodcut prints depicting the executions ordered by Bloody Mary were forever burned into his memory. Even now, in his maturity, they haunted his nightmares, reducing him to effeminate tears of terror each time.

Seeley turned his back on the distant horizon and walked the remaining steps to the front door of his home. It was open and as he stepped inside he met Barker, the senior servant of three, rounding a corner. The older man was momentarily surprised before an unaffected smile transformed his face.

‘Master Thomas. You’re home.’

Seeley smiled. ‘I am, Barker, and it is good to see you well.’

The older man’s smile deepened. He liked the youngest son of the family and was glad to see him safe.

‘Are my parents home?’

‘Your mother is in the garden,’ Barker replied, spinning on his heel to lead Seeley through the house. ‘Your father is in London and is due back in a fortnight.’

Seeley nodded, disappointed that his father was not home, although he had been prepared for such news.

Despite his title his father was obliged to work as a merchant in order to support the family. It was contrary to his birthright but if the family’s fortune was to be rebuilt the offence would have to be borne. Seeley’s two older brothers had taken up the mantle of responsibility on reaching maturity. They, like Seeley, were rarely at home. As Seeley walked through the hallway, he found himself glancing in every direction, taking in the familiar, gathering strength from it.

Seeley’s mother was sitting under the shade of a sprawling oak tree in the back garden and her son was almost upon her before she looked up. She rushed to her youngest son, embracing him fiercely.

‘I prayed for you,’ she whispered through tears.

‘I’m home.’ He held her embrace for a long time before leading her back into the shade.

‘Your father is away,’ she said.

‘Barker said. And my sisters?’

‘They are out walking, but will be returning soon. Oh, it is good to see you, Thomas.’

He reached out and placed a hand on her forearm, reassuring her once more, and they began to talk of inconsequential things with Seeley asking after each member of his family in turn. His mother responded to each question gaily but Seeley sensed her happiness was only a brittle façade and she soon lapsed into silence.

‘I feared for you,’ she said, holding his gaze steadily.

‘I was in God’s care.’

‘We are all in God’s hand,’ she quoted and Seeley nodded solemnly.

‘Was the enterprise successful?’

‘More than we could have hoped,’ Seeley replied proudly. ‘My share of the purse should be significant, enough perhaps for us to increase our holdings. The heretic Spanish have been badly bloodied. Drake is confident that their Armada will not sail this season.’

‘And in your steadfast love you will cut off my enemies, and you will destroy all the adversaries of my soul, for I am your servant,’ his mother recited.

‘Amen,’ Seeley replied but noticed that his mother was crying again.

‘I’m sorry. I should not ask about such things, but…’

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shuddering with each breath she tried to draw. ‘They took everything. That antichrist Philip, and Mary, I pray her soul burns forever in hellfire. They left your father with nothing… and now we… we live…’ Tears overwhelmed her.

Seeley tightened his grip on her forearm, trying to reach her through her grief. He knew he could not. It was a scene he had witnessed too many times, from his youngest days, and the dormant anger within him reared its head once more.

He had never known the life his mother remembered, the life she had enjoyed in her youth and for the brief years after she married Seeley’s father. That social status and wealth had been seared from their grasp by the flames of execution. They had emerged from hiding with the death of Mary Tudor and the ascension of Elizabeth but the lives they had known before were lost forever. Privilege had become strife and over the years their pride was slowly consumed by supplication and labour.

Now his mother was a broken spirit, a shell of a woman, forced to watch her family scatter to the four winds in order to survive. Her loneliness and despair were palpable and Seeley fed off them, using them to fuel the fire of his hatred for the Roman Catholic foe. His thoughts went to the faceless traitor on board the Retribution and how he had slipped through his fingers. It was a bitter failure, one he could not dismiss. Despite Captain Varian’s suggestion that the traitor might be dead, Seeley was more convinced than ever that he was not.

Seeley had stood squarely with his countrymen and taken the fight to the Spaniards. They had destroyed the fleet at Cadiz, sacked the town of Sagres and cleansed its church, and taken dozens of supply ships, severely wounding the Armada. But it was not enough, not while even one Roman Catholic breathed English air. He would cleanse the realm of their heresy. He would do it for his faith, for his Queen, and finally, his other hand reaching forth to draw his mother into an embrace, for his family.

Robert stood in the middle of the street and slowly rubbed his leg. It was throbbing again after the horseback ride from Plymouth over sun-baked roads and he tentatively scratched the tingling skin above and below the wound. He straightened up to look down the length of the hill to the enclosed harbour of Brixham. All manner of fishing craft were moored there, many of them beached in the low tide. Robert tried to pick out his father’s boat from among the larger ones. He could not but he smiled as he thought of the craft in which he had first learned to sail.

Robert had never seen the sea before he came to Brixham when he was twelve. He could still remember the moment when he crested the hill on which the town was built and looked down over the expanse of water. It was a sight he had found both fascinating and fearsome. He vividly recalled the terror he had felt when his adopted father had first taken him to sea to learn his trade. Since that day Robert had come to know and appreciate every facet of the sea, its treachery and power, its beauty and endless opportunity. He had long since come to respect it —although he would never love it as he knew William Varian did.

Robert crossed the street and knocked on the door of the town house. It was one of the larger houses in the town, built in the more affluent area near the top of the hill. Robert looked over the roofs of the smaller houses and hovels beyond. The on-shore breeze carried the stench of habitation and Robert tracked the line of the open sewer running down the centre of the street to the sea. The houses of the poor were miserable hovels but the people were fortunate in their trade. As many as one summer in five could be bad in England, causing widespread crop failure and famine. For the people of Brixham an early winter might curb the fishing season, but it was rare they felt the full wrath of starvation.

The door opened and Robert was greeted by one of the servants who immediately turned on his heel and ran to tell the family that Robert was home. Robert moved into the parlour and smiled as he heard the raised voices of his parents. They rushed into the room together and after Robert managed to disengage himself from his mother’s embrace he heartily shook his father’s hand. His gaze lingered on William for a moment, wondering as always whether his real mother had looked anything like her brother William. She had died in childbirth delivering her firstborn and Robert had never known her.

They sat and Robert asked perfunctorily after the well being of his two older and two younger cousins, three of whom were living nearby. He had never been close to them, and he felt they had always treated him as an outsider. He quickly moved to ask his father about his business. Like most men in Brixham, William Varian was a fisherman. But unlike most he was not the owner of only one boat. He had been left a small inheritance by his father and he had used it to start a business. That initial investment was followed by decades of hard work over which he had amassed a sizable fleet of leased and purchased boats. He now drew a comfortable living trading the catch of his small fleet to the larger inland towns.

After some time, Catherine sensed a change in the direction of the conversation. She left the room to supervise dinner as William began to question Robert on the recent attack on the Spanish mainland. They had heard from Tobias Miller, Robert’s master from the Spirit, that Robert had sailed with Drake after the fleet had departed and William knew only that John Hawkins had ordered the transfer.

William had felt a profound sense of pride when he had heard the news. Spain was England’s greatest threat and to have his son, albeit adopted, in the vanguard against such a foe brought great honour to the family. It was also a testament to his success in imbuing Robert with his beliefs, a task William had begun from the moment he had taken in his sister’s twelve year old only son.

Unswerving loyalty to faith, crown and country were at the core of William’s being. He had been taught such principles by his father, as had his father before him, and whereas William had ensured his own children grew up strong in such beliefs, his tuition of Robert had always been hindered by the fact that the boy’s first twelve years had been spent under the influence of a father who had rebelled against the monarchy.

To subvert the Crown was to place the entire country in jeopardy and William had abhorred this treason. In the time of William’s great-grandfather the nobility had been torn apart by civil war, and out of the maelstrom the House of Tudor had emerged, uniting the factions. It was England’s unity, under a strong monarch, that kept her free. Internal divisions would render her easy prey for the expanding dominant powers on the continent.

Robert outlined the events of the previous ten weeks, drawing William’s concern for his injury when he spoke of Cadiz, and his admiration at Robert’s elevation to the rank of Captain. Robert spoke only briefly on the sack of Sagres, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation that would reignite his guilt. The weeks of skirmishing off Cape Saint Vincent prompted many questions from William and Robert smiled as he savoured the answers.

‘Then it is believed that Spain is thwarted?’ William asked as Robert concluded.

‘At least for this season, maybe even the next. The supplies we captured or destroyed will not easily be replaced.’

‘Where is Drake now?’

‘I believe he travelled to London. The Sao Phelipe was an enormous prize and I warrant Drake wants to present the Queen’s share to her in person.’

William nodded and for a moment was silent.

‘God protect Drake,’ he said solemnly. ‘Despite the error of his beliefs he is one of our greatest hopes of keeping the Spanish horde at bay.’

Robert murmured an agreement. He was glad the Spanish had been defeated, yet for a brief moment, when his father had spoken of Drake’s misguided beliefs, Robert had pictured the crucifix on the chest of the Spanish commander of the Halcón.

‘They share our faith,’ he said simply, looking to his father, hoping for guidance.

‘They do, Robert,’ William replied, ‘but the return of England to the true faith will not be accomplished through Spanish ambition. I trust you know that.’

Robert nodded imperceptibly.

‘Philip may trumpet the Catholic cause but I suspect his pride commands an equal share of his motives,’ William continued. ‘He will not invade England to place a Catholic monarch on the throne and then simply withdraw his army.’

‘But with the death of Mary Stuart surely all hope is gone that an English Catholic monarch will succeed to the throne and we will witness a day when we are free to practise our faith, when I can reclaim…’

Robert stopped short, suddenly realizing that he had unconsciously linked a successful Spanish invasion with the return of his title and family honour.

William sat forward, an angry rebuke rushing to his lips, but he held his tongue. From experience he knew that the balance of loyalties between faith, crown and country was difficult to maintain, particularly at time of national crisis. William had known two such occasions when adherence to one or more tenets of his beliefs had threatened another, almost pushing the balance to the tipping point of collapse.

When the Catholic Mary Tudor had been on the throne she had married Philip of Spain. Her decision had threatened to rob England of its independence by making it part of the Hapsburg Empire, pitting William’s loyalty to faith and crown against his country. Similarly the excommunication of Elizabeth by Pope Pius V had set his faith in opposition to his loyalty to his monarch. On each occasion however William had stuck doggedly to his principles, allowing him to forge a resolution that satisfied both his conscience and his honour.

Now his adopted son was facing a similar challenge in the guise of Spain’s threat to invade. The loyalties that William had taught him were being set in opposition. However, William considered steadfast adherence to one’s beliefs as a mark of courage and fortitude, and he was confident that Robert would eventually find his own resolution.

‘God will bring England back into the Catholic fold in His own good time,’ William said tolerantly. ‘Believe in that, Robert, and until that day give Elizabeth every ounce of your loyalty.’

‘I will,’ Robert replied, troubled by the fact that for a moment he had seen no other way for his family name to be restored than with a successful Spanish conquest.

Without his name he would always be another man’s son. While William Varian had cared for him like one of his own, Robert could still remember the shame he had felt when William had let it be known to the townsfolk of Brixham that Robert’s father had died of the plague. William had refused to reveal Robert’s title and lineage, and at twelve years old Robert had believed this secrecy was motivated by jealousy of his brother-in-law’s superior ancestry. He had hated him for it. Only as he grew older did he understand that the subterfuge was for his own safety, learning by degrees of his father’s part in the Northern Rebellion and his subsequent self-exile into obscurity and death.

It was a past that Robert had always struggled to accept and he desperately regretted the fact that he had never been given an opportunity to confront his father. Robert knew much about the Northern Rebellion and how the nobles had planned to depose Elizabeth in favour of Mary Stuart, but he had always wanted to know why his father had personally taken part, why he had risked everything, his name, his title and the birthright of his only son on a venture that was, at its heart, an act of treason.

‘There is much weighing on your mind,’ William said, reading Robert’s expression. ‘You should speak with Father Blackthorne.’

‘He is here?’

‘Yes,’ William said with a smile. ‘In the chapel. Go and see him before we eat.’

Robert rose and left the room. As he climbed the stairs his pace quickened at the prospect of seeing his old friend. He reached the landing and walked down the corridor leading to the back of the house. To his right were two widely spaced doors and Robert paused between them. The entrance to the chapel was invisible in the wood panelling that ran the length of the wall and Robert took a moment to trace his hand over the joints, searching for the small but distinctive knot that marked the hidden doorway. He found it, but did not enter immediately, suddenly remembering why he had been anxious all these weeks to see the priest. The full measure of his guilt swiftly returned to him. He took a deep breath and pushed firmly on the knot. The lock released with an audible click and the panel hinged inwards. Robert ducked his head to enter.

The chapel had been constructed between two existing rooms, using floor space from both. It was cramped, barely eight feet by ten. Father Blackthorne was kneeling before the altar and he spun around at the sound of the door. He smiled at the sight of Robert and rose to greet him.

‘It is good to see you safely returned from Spain.’

‘My parents told you,’ Robert surmised and Father Blackthorne nodded.

‘Why did you not tell me yourself when we last met at the motte beside Saint Michael’s?’

‘I feared it would anger you,’ Robert replied. ‘I know how you feel about Drake and his kind, and this attack was planned to strike at the heart of Spain.’

‘Your father believes an invasion by Spain will destroy England. But I tell you, Robert, this is God’s plan. Spain may be our worldly enemy but they are our spiritual ally and Philip has the power to restore England to the true faith.’

Robert nodded conciliatorily, not wishing to be drawn into an argument. Father Blackthorne had expressed his beliefs many times before and Robert knew they were unshakable.

‘I am glad to find you here, Father, for I had planned to seek you out. I need absolution.’

‘I understand, Robert. Your participation in the attack on Spain is deeply troubling to me,’ Father Blackthorne replied, misconstruing Robert’s remorse. He indicated for them both to kneel.

‘Drake ordered an attack on a town named Sagres,’ Robert began. He told Father Blackthorne of the desecration of the church and murder of the Spanish priest, sparing no detail in an effort to expunge the guilt from his soul.

Father Blackthorne was deeply shocked and he came off his knees to sit down once more.

‘These are terrible deeds,’ he said, almost to himself, his fingers kneading the cross around his neck. ‘Truly God has turned his back on this country if it has spawned such men. And you, Robert,’ he said, his eyes flashing with anger and shame, ‘what have you become?’

‘I tried to stop them, Father,’ Robert protested. ‘But I could not, not without giving myself away and forfeiting my own life.’

‘Jesus Christ laid down his life for us,’ Father Blackthorne said piously. ‘And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.’

‘Forgive me, Father,’ Robert said, bowing his head low before his confessor.

Father Blackthorne looked down on Robert, his mind in turmoil. Robert’s remorse was clearly evident but Father Blackthorne could not see beyond his own anger. How could Robert have stood by while a minister of God was murdered, while His house was defiled by heretics? Suddenly Father Blackthorne thought of the daily life he led himself, of his clandestine existence and his constant fear of discovery. He remembered the story in Saint John’s gospel, when the Pharisees brought an adulterous woman before Jesus. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ said the Lord. Was he not guilty of the same sin as Robert? The sanctity of the nearby town church was corrupted daily by the services of a heretical congregation and he never once thought to confront them and openly condemn their faith. He was too fearful of the consequences.

He reached out his hand to place it on Robert’s head, ready to absolve him, when another thought stuck him, an undertaking he had made many weeks before. He hesitated, his hand poised in mid-air, his mind racing. William Varian had mentioned that Robert had sailed as a master on one of the galleons, a senior position, one that was surely privy to a great deal of information. Would Robert be willing to share that information? Would he betray the loyalty Father Blackthorne knew William Varian had instilled in him? Robert was clearly anguished by the actions of his compatriots in Sagres. Perhaps now he could be persuaded to fully commit to the cause of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne, if for no other reason than to atone for his lack of action before. The obvious depth of his guilt certainly made him more susceptible to the idea. A sliver of guilt crept into Father Blackthorne’s own mind at the thought of manipulating Robert, but he ignored it, knowing the greater cause needed to be served.

‘I cannot give you absolution,’ he said.

Robert looked up in shock.

‘Not until you have atoned for your sin,’ Father Blackthorne continued. ‘You must make penance before the Lord.’

‘What must I do?’

‘I cannot decide now,’ Father Blackthorne replied, ‘I must pray for an answer. Until then you should return to Plymouth. Look for me in two weeks at the motte beside Saint Michael’s. Are you to stay with this new ship as its master?’

‘I’m Captain now,’ Robert explained, ‘although John Hawkins has yet to confirm that command.’

Father Blackthorne’s pulse quickened. He had not expected this good fortune. A captain of the fleet; the Duke of Clarsdale would be impressed. The panel door behind them clicked open as a servant entered.

‘Master Robert,’ he said, ‘dinner is served. Father, if it pleases you, I shall bring your meal directly to your room.’

They rose and walked towards the door. Father Blackthorne caught a glance at Robert’s pained expression and felt a pang of guilt once more.

‘Do not worry, Robert,’ he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘The Lord will show us a way.’

Robert nodded but took little solace from his confessor’s words. He remained haunted by his sin and his conscience refused to relent. He would return to Plymouth as Father Blackthorne suggested. There he would command the very crewmen and colleagues who had perpetrated the heinous crime that had destroyed his peace. It was an odious task but one which his duty demanded of him. With a heavy heart he left the chapel, his guilt greater than ever.