Armada

CHAPTER 6

14th July 1587. El Escorial, Spain.

Nathaniel Young mopped his brow with his handkerchief. The heat in the expansive Patio de los Reyes was oppressive and despite the elevated site of the Escorial Palace no breeze could penetrate beyond the solid wall of five storey buildings that marked the boundaries of the courtyard. He waited in a shaded corner and paced a wide circle, glancing at the edifice of the basilica which was adorned with statues of the kings from whence the courtyard drew its name.

The summons had come unexpectedly and Young cursed his unpreparedness. Upon arriving in Madrid, he had been told to continue on the additional twenty-eight miles to the magnificent palace where Philip now spent most of his time and from where he ruled the vastness of his empire. That the King had requested a personal audience was auspicious. Young had never met Philip, despite the longevity of his exile in Spain and his almost constant contact with one or other of the King’s personal advisors.

The sudden change made Young nervous, not least because he was about to meet one of the most powerful men in the world. He was also being presented with an incredible opportunity to advance. Drake’s attack on Cadiz and his piracy off the coast of Portugal had raised the tempo of the conflict. Why else therefore would Philip have summoned him here, if not to consult with him directly and garner his advice on Drake and other matters of national interest relating to England? For the first time Young was about to penetrate the possessive circle of advisors and speak directly to the monarch and as he paced the courtyard he steeled his determination to make a good first impression.

Movement caught his eye and he saw Don Rodrigo de Torres beckon to him from the entrance of the basilica. He hurried across the courtyard, closing his eyes slightly against the glare of sunlight that reflected off every surface.

‘We must hurry, your grace,’ de Torres said as he led Young inside.

The narthex of the basilica was cool and dark, but beyond the interior opened out into a huge space dominated by a dome above the crossing. Light poured in through the windows of the cupola, illuminating the magnificent frescoes and intricate reredos and emphasizing the incredible height of the building. Mass had just ended and Young could see Philip standing at the top of the church speaking with a priest.

In the moment he had taken to look about the interior in awe de Torres had walked on ahead and Young was forced to quicken his step to catch him. They came to a stop some ten yards short of the King and waited. Young took the chance to study the man who reigned over one of the largest empires in the world. Although his physique was slight, he was a handsome man. Young started involuntarily as Philip glanced at him over his shoulder, his gaze penetrating. The King nodded at de Torres and the two men stepped forward, bowing courteously.

Philip dismissed his priest. ‘Don Rodrigo. We are pleased to see you.’

‘Your majesty is most gracious,’ de Torres replied, turning slightly to Young. ‘May I introduce to you, the Duke of Greyfarne, Nathaniel Young.’

‘Ah yes, our English ally,’ Philip said. ‘We have heard much of you.’

Young bowed his head in gratitude.

‘Thank you, your majesty. I am honoured to hear my humble service has come to your attention.’

‘Yes,’ Philip said, drawing out the word, his mouth twisting slightly, ‘it has indeed been noted. As has your lack of service.’

Young blanched at the softly spoken censure.

‘We remain disappointed that the fleet of the Jezebel, Elizabeth, approached our lands unannounced.’

‘I assure you, your majesty, I am doing all I can to secure good intelligence from Plymouth and Dover.’

‘Your assurance will not redeem our ship, the Sao Phelipe, and its valuable cargo,’ Philip said coldly. ‘Or undo the injury to us.’

‘I will redouble my efforts, your majesty,’ Young stammered, unable to avert his gaze from the King’s withering look.

‘See that you do,’ Philip replied, his eyes darting to de Torres before returning to Young. ‘We have little use for those who enjoy the benefits of our protection while contributing nothing in return.’

The King turned on his heel and walked away, his retinue following discreetly behind him. De Torres and Young bowed deeply to his back and as they rose de Torres set off towards the exit once more. Young followed. He was stunned by the brevity of the meeting and deeply shocked by the King’s abrupt, caustic tone.

‘My God, de Torres. I never expected… What must I do?’

‘Not here,’ de Torres hissed. ‘Sound travels too easily in this place.’

They came out into the courtyard and de Torres led Young to the centre. When he rounded on Young, his expression was furious.

‘Curse you, Englishman. Your failure will ruin us both.’

‘I cannot be held responsible for the lack of response from my contacts in England,’ Young countered defensively.

‘You don’t understand,’ de Torres continued, his voice trembling with rage. ‘I knew the King was angry over the losses caused by Drake but I didn’t realize he held you partly responsible, and therefore me by association.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ Young replied, angrily. ‘I have told his majesty I will redouble my efforts.’

‘His majesty rarely meets with anyone. He communicates and commands through correspondence or sends his advisors. For him to have asked you here in person shows how important he considers this information. You witnessed his reaction. There can be no more delays, no more excuses.’

‘I will communicate with my contacts immediately through our network of couriers. Tell them that this request is of the highest priority.’

‘That is not enough. If the English strike again without warning we will both be ruined. You must take command; see that this agent is put in place without delay.’

‘But that is precisely what I am doing. My communiqué will leave today.’

‘No. You cannot take charge from here. This is too important. You must do more. You must return to England.’

Young was made speechless by de Torres’s demand and he took an involuntary step backwards as if the Spaniard had physically struck him.

‘I will arrange safe passage to the south coast of England,’ de Torres continued, conscious of the gravity of his order but less concerned for Young’s life than fulfilling the King’s orders. ‘From there you must make contact with your people directly.’

‘But I cannot,’ Young stammered. ‘If I am captured my life will be forfeit.’

‘If you do not go, your life as you know it here will be forfeit, as will mine,’ de Torres replied icily. ‘The house you live in, your carriage, the food you eat, the clothes on your back —all are given to you by Spain. You heard his majesty, if you cease to be of use to Spain, then you will no longer enjoy her protection and nothing will shield you from the King’s wrath should you fail him again.’

Young was appalled. The Spaniard had never spoken to him in such a way. Living for so long by another’s leave, he had come to take it for granted. But having witnessed the King’s displeasure in person, he realized for the first time the precariousness of his situation. He was indeed an ally of the Spanish for now, but only for as long as he served a purpose. His previous years of loyal service counted for naught.

The fickle loyalty of de Torres and his King made Young furious but his expression betrayed none of his feelings. There was nothing to be gained from arguing further. He had no choice but to travel to England. He smiled genially and agreed to de Torres’s request. The Spaniard smiled in return and, leading Young from the courtyard, began to talk casually about the arrangements for the journey. It was as if the threats spoken in anger only moments before had never been uttered, but for Young they would not be easily forgotten.

He was bound by faith to the Spanish, that much remained, but he knew now with utter certainty that he was not one of them. The self-deluding veil of patriotism that had clouded his judgement for so long was gone. What should have made his bond to the Spanish unbreakable, his meeting with King Philip, had instead emphasized his status as a foreigner and a refugee. As if from a distance he heard de Torres speaking. He would be sailing to England within the week.

The view from the study window of Clarsdale’s house in the early morning light took in the full width of the elaborate gardens. The trees and shrubs seemed almost haphazard in their placement but upon closer observation Father Blackthorne could see that their arrangement was such that they both concealed and exposed the more delicate plants around them, as well as the line of the stream at the bottom of the garden. The effect was subtle, tempting the visitor to step outside and explore the wonders in each hidden fold of ground.

Father Blackthorne raised his head and looked beyond the garden to the opposite slope of the valley. Save for a number of small copses the ground had been cleared to the horizon line on the crest of the hill. For a moment Father Blackthorne imagined what it would be like to ride on horseback across such unbroken pasture. It was a passion he had not enjoyed for many years; the freedom to race a horse across open countryside in broad daylight.

As a fugitive from the Crown he was forced to travel only at night and often stayed clear of the roads. He slept wherever the dawn found him, sometimes in a dry ditch but more often in the homes or outhouses of his scattered congregants. Travelling by horseback therefore was impractical, for he had no way to hide such a beast if he needed to go to ground quickly and a tethered horse looked incongruous outside the homes of the more impoverished members of his flock.

As the second son of a nobleman, his path into the priesthood had been decided soon after his birth. It was a decision in which he had taken no part but in all his years he had never questioned it, content in the vocation God and his family had chosen for him. He smiled at a fleeting memory, remembering his first horse and the countryside surrounding his home and he was suddenly filled with the belief that one day he would again have the chance to indulge this simple passion.

The door of the study opened and the Duke of Clarsdale swept into the room followed by Nichols, who held the door.

‘Make sure we are not disturbed,’ the duke said tersely and the butler withdrew.

Clarsdale’s face was flushed and he was breathing deeply. He had ridden hard from the boundary of his land upon hearing of Father Blackthorne’s arrival. He indicated for the priest to be seated without courtesy or delay.

‘Where have you been?’ Clarsdale began angrily. ‘I had thought you captured it has been so long.’

‘I bring good news, your grace,’ Father Blackthorne replied, trying to forestall any argument, conscious that when they had last met he had given the duke the impression that his search for a sailor of rank who could aid their cause would be brief.

‘It had better be,’ Clarsdale warned. ‘In the past two months I have received two messages…’

He stopped abruptly and silently cursed his lack of self control. He was revealing too much in telling the priest about any contact with his counterpart in Spain. Both messages had been from Nathaniel Young concerning his lack of progress in securing a naval agent, the second even more abrupt than the first. The criticism of his ability was deeply offensive to Clarsdale, particularly as it came from a penniless, exiled duke. He held Father Blackthorne solely responsible for their failure thus far and was sorely tempted to share the offensive communiqués with him.

‘What is this news?’ he asked curtly.

‘I have secured many men who are willing to support a Spanish landing on the south coast,’ Father Blackthorne began enthusiastically. ‘Most of them possess their own weapons and at least a quarter of them have access to a horse.’

‘But what of my request for an agent in the fleet?’

Father Blackthorne smiled and sat forward. ‘I believe I have found you such a man.’

Clarsdale mirrored the priest’s movements and leaned in, his face expectant. ‘Who is he?’

‘His real name is Robert Young. His father was the Duke of Greyfarne, who took part in the Northern Rebellion in 1569. I believe he subsequently died in exile but before he fled England he placed his son in the care of another family. The boy adopted their surname and to this day his real identity remains a secret.’

The breath caught in Clarsdale’s throat at the mention of the Duke of Greyfarne. With an enormous effort of will Clarsdale kept his natural reaction in check and remained outwardly composed, while inside he rejoiced at his good fortune. He noticed the priest was staring at him and realized he had allowed a silence to draw out. He quickly gathered his thoughts.

‘This family he lives with. You know them?’

‘Yes, and they might pose a problem. They are loyal recusants and Robert is heavily influenced by his adoptive father.’

‘Loyal recusants,’ Clarsdale spat. The name was an abomination, a contradiction in terms. Clarsdale considered such people to be fools.

‘So you have not yet approached this man?’

‘No, but I believe I have the means to secure what we need. I am withholding absolution for a grave sin he has committed.’

Clarsdale was surprised by the priest’s unscrupulous approach. The act itself did not shock him, but he had not believed the priest would stoop to such levels. The revelation gave him new confidence in Father Blackthorne and a sense that perhaps he could be trusted to a greater degree.

He considered the priest’s approach. It had merit, but Clarsdale was unconvinced it was enough and his natural caution made him wary. The priest would need a more persuasive lure than this. Clarsdale weighed up the risk involved in revealing the truth to him against the prize of securing Nathaniel Young’s lost son as an agent. He decided in an instant.

‘You will only have one chance to approach Robert Young,’ he began. ‘If his misguided loyalty to Elizabeth runs too deep he could reject your proposal, regardless of his remorse for his actions, and immediately turn you over to the authorities.’

‘Never!’ Father Blackthorne protested.

‘You cannot be sure, despite what you think.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’

Clarsdale stood up and walked over to the window. ‘In sharing this information with you, Father, I am risking a great deal. But I assure you it will be enough to secure Robert Young’s cooperation and loyalty.’

Father Blackthorne stood up, perplexed.

Clarsdale turned to face him. ‘Robert Young’s father did not die in exile as many believe. He is alive and currently living in Spain.’

‘But how… how do you know this?’ Father Blackthorne stammered, deeply shocked by the news. His thoughts went to the twelve-year-old boy he had first met all those years ago in Brixham, and the years of anguish he knew Robert had suffered for the loss of his father, his family and his name.

‘My contact in Spain,’ Clarsdale went on. ‘The man who seeks information on the fleet. It is the Duke of Greyfarne —Nathaniel Young.’

‘Merciful God,’ Father Blackthorne whispered. ‘Robert’s father.’

‘The very same,’ Clarsdale smiled, although it did not reach his eyes. The recruitment of Robert Young would be a considerable achievement, one certainly worthy of great reward. The Spanish would soon invade England. This was inevitable, regardless of any delay Drake’s recent attacks might have caused. When they did invade, Clarsdale was determined he would benefit directly from the reign of whatever monarch they placed on the throne. To ensure such favour he needed to increase his value in the eyes of the Spanish. The recruitment of Robert Young would significantly advance that goal. The only obstruction was Nathaniel Young. As the bearer of each report to the Spanish, he would be first to claim any prize.

Clarsdale looked out the window at the land he possessed and all he risked daily for his faith. He was the seventh duke, a lineage that had remained unbroken despite the Tudors’s anarchic reign. Sadly, his wife had borne him no children. Upon his death the title he so dearly loved would pass to his younger brother, a man he despised and the father of a prodigious brood.

On two occasions he had asked Rome for an annulment of his marriage so that he could remarry and father an heir with another woman. The first application had been made purely on the grounds of cold practicality while the second, years later, was an impassioned plea that included a pointed reference to his courageous service to the Catholic faith. Both claims had been dismissed. Clarsdale had often thought how much easier it might have been if his marriage had been Church of England and he had had the option to apply directly to the Crown.

He nodded to himself, his gaze sweeping over his land one last time: it was time to claim a measure of material reward, as well as the place in Heaven his actions had assuredly gained him. He had sacrificed much for his faith. Once Robert Young had been recruited he would find a way to bypass Nathaniel Young completely and communicate directly with a senior Spanish courtier, or with luck, one of King Philip’s personal advisors. Then the Duke of Greyfarne would no longer hold sway over his destiny, and the reward he sought would be seen as no more than his due. He turned and looked to Father Blackthorne, who was lost in his own thoughts.

‘You must go now, Father,’ Clarsdale said, startling the priest. ‘I will have one of my men escort you to the edge of my lands. Will it take you long to reach Plymouth?’

‘Three, maybe four days,’ Father Blackthorne replied, gathering his wits. ‘I plan to meet Robert at our usual place.’

Clarsdale nodded. ‘Then go with God, Father. I will pray for your success.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ Father Blackthorne replied, slightly taken aback by the duke’s unusually genial farewell. He opened the door and crossed the threshold, then stopped suddenly, his head darting to the right.

‘What is it?’ Clarsdale asked from inside the room.

Father Blackthorne did not answer for a second and stayed still, listening. ‘I…’

He paused. ‘Nothing… it’s nothing.’

He closed the door behind him and walked across the hallway. He glanced back over his shoulder to the study door. Had he been mistaken? It was, after all a large house. Perhaps the noise had come from upstairs. He shrugged his shoulders and continued on. He could have sworn that when he opened the study door he had heard someone fleeing in haste from the hallway. The thought that his conversation with the duke might have been overheard was disquieting but before he could dwell on it further his senses were overwhelmed by the aromas of the kitchen. He hastened his step. The journey ahead would be long and devoid of comfort and he expectantly opened the door to the kitchen.

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited nervously on the main deck. His eyes were locked on the approaching longboat, and in particular on the individual sitting in the stern. John Hawkins was an austere looking man with a narrow, sombre face and despite his advanced age he looked formidable and strong. For many English sailors he was the embodiment of success and Robert had come to admire and respect him greatly in the years he had spent in his service.

At one time or another in his life Hawkins had been a merchant, a slave-trader and a privateer, but for the last ten years he had been treasurer of the royal fleet. In this position of power and influence he had slowly transformed the English navy. His ambitious building programme had spawned what many believed to be the finest warships afloat, the new ‘race built’ galleons. He had also modernized many of the existing capital ships, revolutionizing them by razing their fore and aft castles. Now the English fleet had a fearsome coterie of warships custom built for the coastal waters of England.

The longboat struck the hull of the Retribution with a heavy thud and Hawkins climbed deftly up the rope ladder to the main deck. Robert advanced to meet him with his hand outstretched and Hawkins took it with a firm grip.

‘Welcome aboard,’ Robert said.

‘I should be, it’s my ship,’ Hawkins replied with a smile. ‘How is she, Mister Varian? None the worse for my kinsman’s foray, I hope.’

‘She’s fighting fit,’ Robert replied proudly, calling Seeley and Shaw forward.

‘This is Thomas Seeley, the master, and Johannes Shaw, the boatswain.’

Hawkins reached for Seeley’s hand first. ‘This man I already know. It’s good to see you, Thomas. How is your father?’

‘He’s good, sir,’ Seeley replied.

Hawkins nodded genially and turned to the boatswain.

‘Shaw, eh?’ he said, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘You look familiar. Are you related to Peter Shaw, the master of the Hopewell?’

‘He’s my uncle,’ Shaw replied, pleased that a man of Hawkins’s stature should know one of his family.

‘A good man,’ Hawkins said, nodding slowly. He looked out over the rest of the assembled crew and noticed that many were not looking back at him but at their captain. He turned to Robert.

‘Back to their stations then, Mister Varian,’ he said tersely, ‘and join me if you will.’

Robert nodded to Seeley and the master scattered the crew.

Hawkins led Robert to the poop deck. In the brief seconds it took to ascend to the stern Robert felt his anxiousness rise again. From the day he had been promoted to captain by Drake, he had known that, as a field commission, his promotion would be subject to review once the fleet returned home. He had continually ignored the possibility of fate’s reversal, content instead to believe that his captaincy was official. Over the preceding months he had come to consider the Retribution as his own.

This illusion of permanence had been easy to maintain off the coast of Spain and on the return journey home. With a defeated enemy in the wake of the English fleet and the Retribution one of only nine ships that had stayed the course, Robert believed he had cause to be optimistic, but with each passing day in the calm of Plymouth harbour his confidence had slowly given way to the inevitable. The captaincy of a galleon such as the Retribution was not for a merchant’s son from Brixham. It was a position for a man of higher social status. The sheer injustice made Robert bristle.

Robert believed that command of the Retribution would have afforded him, for the first time in his life, a real chance to make a name for himself beyond his already established reputation as a skilled sailor in Hawkins’s merchant fleet. Two years previously, his low social rank had excluded him from Drake’s raid on the Spanish Main in the Caribbean, a lengthy campaign where higher-born men like the previous captain, Morgan, had made their names.

On reaching the poop deck, frustration consumed him. If only he could be given more time to prove his worth to his superiors. Despite his converse religious beliefs he truly felt he was the best man to permanently command the Retribution. As Hawkins turned to face him, Robert steeled himself to argue his case. It was surely a lost cause, he knew that, but Robert couldn’t allow his best chance to restore his family name and honour to slip through his grasp without a fight.

‘Mister Varian,’ Hawkins began, but then paused. He turned and walked to the gunwale. ‘What to do with you?’ he said, looking out over the harbour.

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Robert replied taken aback, his opening argument dying on his lips.

‘Your command, lad, your captaincy of the Retribution.’ Hawkins turned once more and walked back to Robert. ‘I know your mettle, Varian, I would not have made you captain of one of my merchantmen, or indeed master of the Retribution, if I had not. But then you do a damn fool thing and charge down that Spanish counterattack on the Halcón.’

‘Sir?’

‘You brought yourself to the attention of my kinsman, Drake. Then he went and did another damn fool thing and promoted you captain of my ship.’

‘But sir, I…’

Hawkins suddenly smiled and slapped Robert on the shoulder. ‘And now I’m going to do a damn fool thing and confirm that command.’

Robert could not take in the words.

‘I saw strength in you from the beginning and by God you proved me right at Cadiz. Now that Drake has seen it too, the Retribution is yours to command.’

‘But how can I, sir?’ Robert said, speaking aloud the thoughts that had most haunted him. He did not pause to gather himself, to think that he was arguing against that which he longed for most. ‘Surely the captaincy must be awarded to someone of a higher social rank?’

Hawkins smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t think I’m not aware of that problem, Varian. In fact I still had my doubts when I came on board. But then I saw something that settled the matter. The men look to you, Varian. They respect you. That counts for a great deal in a captain.’

Robert stayed silent this time, not daring to speak again. As the news began to sink in, he smiled slightly. Hawkins noticed the change and frowned.

‘Be mindful, Varian,’ he warned. ‘I freely confirm Drake’s decision. Although this ship is mine, the Retribution remains in the service of the Queen. I will need to convince the Privy Council of the wisdom of my choice. I have Drake’s endorsement, which carries a lot of weight. He too comes from humble origins and commands the entire fleet. You have proved yourself worthy in mine and Drake’s eyes, but now you must put our decision beyond all reproach.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Robert replied solemnly. Did this mean his command remained as precarious as it was before?

Hawkins nodded, satisfied. As he departed the Retribution, Robert remained at the gunwale and watched the longboat pull away until it was lost from sight behind another galleon. The captaincy was his, bestowed by Drake and confirmed by Hawkins —but it was still there for the taking by another, until he could fully justify the faith of his commanders.

The crew was his first priority. The Retribution was in need of a master’s mate, and Robert immediately thought of Tobias Miller of the Spirit. He trusted Miller completely and would need him in the months ahead.

In building the Retribution, the shipwrights of England had created a warship that finely balanced a fearsome arsenal of cannon with the sailing abilities of a predator. Robert would need to master that balance if he was to retain his command. The Retribution was his, and he silently vowed to do whatever it would take to keep her.

Nichols cursed loudly as he fell heavily for the third time on the wet grass. He looked down at his mud covered breeches and for a brief second wondered how he would explain his appearance should he encounter anyone. He clambered to his feet and continued to run up the hill. The copse was dead ahead, only fifty yards away. He prayed he was not too late, knowing the value of the information he held.

Nichols crashed through the rain soaked undergrowth and stopped suddenly. He cocked his head to listen but his own laboured breathing and the sound of his heart filled his ears. He held his breath to still them but the effort caused him to cough violently.

‘Over here,’ he heard a voice hiss and he pushed towards it. He saw Cross a moment later standing by his horse, seemingly poised to mount. He was looking beyond Nichols into the trees behind him.

‘What news?’ he asked. ‘Has the priest come?’

‘Two days ago,’ Nichols replied.

‘And?’

‘The traitor’s name is Robert Young.’

Cross slammed a fist into his open palm in triumph. ‘Tell me everything.’

Nichols began to speak, recalling the meeting between the duke and Father Blackthorne with his usual attention to detail.

‘The son of Nathaniel Young,’ Cross breathed, putting his hand up to silence the butler. Nathaniel Young was near the top of almost every list Cross had ever seen of prominent traitors who were believed to be active on the continent. But he had never heard of his son, or even knew one existed.

‘You’re sure that is what the priest said?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Nichols replied tetchily, eager to continue his story. His next words caused Cross to interrupt again. ‘Sacred Heart of Jesus. Nathaniel Young is Clarsdale’s contact in Spain?’

Nichols made to reply but Cross indicated for him to continue. Cross barely registered the final part. All he could think of was the contact that had been exposed. Tasked with a mission as important as discovering the movements and strategy of the English navy, Nathaniel Young was surely near the centre of power in Spain. Maybe he even had the ear of Philip himself.

‘The priest did not say what position this Robert Young holds in the navy?’

‘No. And he does not go by that name. Father Blackthorne said he adopted the name of the family who took him in after his father fled into exile.’

‘And the priest did not mention their name?’

‘No,’ Nichols replied irritably. ‘If they had I would already have told you.’

Cross made to reprimand Nichols for his insubordinate tone but he thought better of it. The butler had proved valuable beyond all expectations, and he needed to keep him firmly on side.

Cross turned and walked over to his horse, stroking her mane absentmindedly as he tried to think of the best way forward. Walsingham would have to be informed. That was paramount, but Cross knew his first question would be the one now foremost in his own mind. What was Robert Young’s real name? And what was his position in the navy? This Robert Young might not even be in the navy. He could be an official in Plymouth, one who might be privy to the strategic and tactical plans of the fleet. There was one man who knew who Young really was —the priest —but how to get the information from him? He alone was the contact between Robert Young and Clarsdale. Until the two men met, the priest would have to remain untouched. Cross turned back to Nichols.

‘You have done well. Now go back to the house. The priest is sure to return soon with Robert Young, and when he does you must try your utmost to discover his name, or at least set eyes on him somehow. I am leaving now but I’ll return here in a week. I will be in this copse every second day at noon should you need to find me.’

Nichols nodded and left without another word.

Cross watched him go and waited for the woods to become quiet again before mounting up. Threading his horse through the undergrowth, he stopped on the far side of the copse, his eyes ranging over the mist covered fields beyond. He had set Nichols a task, and prayed for his success, but in the meantime he would try to supplant him. He must travel to Plymouth and try to uncover this traitor’s real identity himself.