Armada

CHAPTER 7

25th July 1587. Saint Michael’s Church near Plymouth.

Robert reached out with his hand as his foot slipped on the scree, pausing for a moment near the top of the motte. He looked over his shoulder. The sun was setting behind Saint Michael’s church and the whole building glowed. It was a captivating sight, and Robert’s eyes were drawn to the windows of the nave and the filtered light that shone through the diamond shaped panes onto the field separating the church from the motte. He was suddenly conscious of how visible he was on the exposed hillside, and he continued hastily up the slope.

Robert reached the top and ducked in behind one of the crumbling walls. On the faint breeze he smelled a trace of wood smoke and charred meat and he looked about him, wondering where Father Blackthorne might be hiding.

‘Sumus omnes,’ he said, and smiled as the priest looked out from behind a corner.

‘In the hand of God, Robert,’ he replied, walking forward with his hand outstretched. Robert fell to his knees and Father Blackthorne blessed him.

‘It is good to see you, Robert.’

‘And you, Father. Tell me, have you been able to decide my penance?’

The priest nodded. ‘Come,’ he said, leading Robert back to his smouldering fire.

They sat down. Father Blackthorne glanced across at Robert as he gathered his thoughts. The young man looked haggard and his bloodshot eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Father Blackthorne felt a worm of guilt gnaw at his insides for his delay in easing Robert’s conscience, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that the incredible news he was about to deliver would surely bring the young man happiness.

‘I have prayed for guidance on how you can be absolved of your sin,’ Father Blackthorne began, choosing his words carefully, mindful of Clarsdale’s warning that he would only have one chance to persuade Robert to betray the English fleet. ‘That prayer has led to visions of the suffering that our mother church endures under the yoke of Elizabeth. We must all work to ease that suffering, Robert. Your penance lies in taking up the mantle of that fight.’

Robert shifted uneasily. He had long known that his confessor was sympathetic to the seditious cause of overthrowing Elizabeth but his words suggested that sympathy also extended to deeds.

‘God has chosen one man above all to help us in this struggle,’ the priest continued. ‘One king whose people share our blessed faith. But that king labours in darkness and needs the light of information to allow him to complete God’s will.’

‘The Spanish,’ Robert spat. ‘What information…?’

He stopped as he realized what Father Blackthorne was asking of him.

‘Merciful God, Father, surely you are not asking me to betray…’

Father Blackthorne raised his hand to cut Robert short.

‘Hear me out, my son,’ he said calmly. ‘You have come here to be absolved of the sin you committed in Sagres, but I tell you solemnly, that sin is but a mote to the beam that is the greater sin you commit every day by supporting the heretic Queen who rules this land.’

Robert stood up, his fists balled in anger.

‘You are wrong, Father,’ he hissed. ‘My loyalty to Elizabeth is not a sin —it is my duty as an Englishman. She is our sovereign, regardless of her beliefs.’

‘But her reign, and the blasphemous faith she imposes, threatens the soul of every man in England.’ Father Blackthorne rose and confronted the angry young man.

‘Not mine, Father. My soul is secure in my faith, as are the souls of countless others. I believe that God will not forsake this land. He will save England by opening the eyes of Elizabeth or those of the English monarch who will succeed her.’

Father Blackthorne sighed. Clarsdale had been right about the depth of Robert’s loyalty to the Crown. He had hoped to persuade Robert to help him, then reveal Nathaniel Young’s involvement as a reward. He now knew he would have to use the news about Robert’s father as a lure to convince him. Father Blackthorne firmly believed that Robert’s soul was in jeopardy, as were all Catholics who supported Elizabeth, and he was sorry he could not persuade him otherwise.

‘Sit down, Robert,’ he said gently and he waited patiently for him to comply.

‘I regret you cannot see the danger to your immortal soul, but if that blindness prevents you from helping our cause, then perhaps what I am about to tell you will change your mind and open your heart.’

Robert did not reply. His anger was making him restless, so the priest pressed on hurriedly.

‘I know you have suffered much for your faith by living a lie under an assumed name. God has seen your pain and in his wisdom he has found a way to both ease your misery and offer you a chance to embrace our cause.’

Despite his previous resolve, Robert turned to leave. He could not countenance another treacherous word from his confessor.

Father Blackthorne quickly blustered out the words he had rehearsed so carefully.

‘The Spanish require information on the movements of the English fleet,’ he said rapidly. ‘That information is to be fed to a local nobleman who would then send it on to his contact in Spain.’

‘Enough!’ Robert began to walk away.

‘Wait. That nobleman’s contact in Spain is the Duke of Greyfarne.’

Robert froze.

‘Your father, Robert. Nathaniel Young. He is alive, in exile in Spain.’

‘It cannot be.’ Robert turned slowly around to face Father Blackthorne. ‘You must be… it cannot be. My father?’

‘It’s true, Robert. I did not know myself until only a few days ago.’

‘He’s alive,’ Robert said, almost to himself. ‘All these years.’

‘And still fighting to save England.’

Robert stared at the priest, his mind reeling. His father was in league with the Spanish, with the enemy he was fighting against, the enemy of England. Robert knew he should curse his father for the traitor he was and yet he found he could not. Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, he staggered over to the fire to sit down before his legs gave way.

‘Does my father know you have approached me?’

‘I do not think he knows anything about you, certainly not where you are or what you have become. Clarsdale was surprised to learn of you himself.’

‘Clarsdale?’

Father Blackthorne cursed his slip but quickly reasoned that Robert would soon learn that name regardless.

‘The Duke of Clarsdale. He is your father’s colleague here in England.’

Robert dropped his head into his open palms. He was nauseous and he swallowed hard. He felt like he was staring into an abyss. To step forward meant to become mired in treachery and sedition. But there was a chance to send word to his father, to communicate with him for the first time in nearly twenty years.

He looked up at the man who had been his confessor, his confidant from almost the day his father left England. For the first time, Robert sensed he could not be trusted. Behind the compassionate expression of a priest, Robert now saw the man, as capable as any other of ruthlessness and perfidy. He vowed to remain guarded as he committed himself to his next step.

‘When can I meet Clarsdale?’

Father Blackthorne smiled. ‘Whenever you can release yourself from your ship.’

Robert thought for a moment. ‘Two days.’

‘You will not regret this, Robert,’ Father Blackthorne said, helping him up. ‘God works in ways that astound us all. His hand has guided you and your father together so that you can unite to help restore England to the true faith.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Robert lied, allowing himself to be led to the edge of the ruins. He left the priest with a promise to return within two days.

Scrabbling back down the loose stone on the side of the motte, Robert headed towards the darkened outline of Saint Michael’s. He walked blindly, without seeing the path in front of him, his mind totally consumed by his father’s sudden and unexpected return into his life. A part of him hoped that Father Blackthorne was mistaken, that his father was not working with the Spanish, but his heart knew it was true. In many ways it seemed inevitable.

At twelve years old, his father’s involvement in a violent uprising against Elizabeth and its ultimate failure had changed Robert’s life irrevocably. Now Nathaniel Young’s seditious involvement with Spain was poised to change his life once more. But Robert was no longer a powerless boy. He was a man, and an Englishman at that. He would meet Clarsdale, but he would be damned if he would reveal any knowledge he possessed about the English fleet.

‘Which one of you pox-ridden buggers is Morales?’

Evardo rose slowly, using the cold stone wall behind him for support. He took a half step forward and stopped, looking down at his tattered clothes. His face hardened in disgust. The filthy straw that covered the floor of the prison had clung to him and he brushed it away. He pulled on the cuffs of his doublet and straightened his jerkin. The effort had little effect, but he straightened up and walked purposefully towards the door of the cell.

His fellow Spanish captives, nearly twenty of them in all, were lying listlessly against every wall. Some looked up at him with unseeing eyes as he passed. Nobody gestured nor spoke. They were all dishonoured men and none had sought friendship during the long weeks of captivity. He reached the stout wooden door where at head height a small opening framed the face of a bearded Englishman. He stared at Evardo with open hostility.

‘You Morales?’ he spat.

‘I am Comandante Evardo Alvarez Morales.’

‘Comandante,’ the gaoler laughed. ‘Of what, Spaniard? This here prison?’

With limited English Evardo did not fully understand the taunt, but he recognized the tone. He refused to be baited, lifting his chin slightly to show his disdain. The Englishman growled menacingly and wrenched back the locking bolt.

‘Out,’ he barked, pulling open the door.

Evardo ducked his head through the doorway. The gaoler slammed the door shut and relocked it, then hawked and spat at Evardo’s feet.

‘Follow me, Comandante,’ he sneered, leading him along a dimly lit corridor to a flight of winding steps. They ascended and came out into a high-ceilinged chamber, where an official was sitting behind a wooden table flanked by two guards. The gaoler indicated for Evardo to step forward. The official looked up.

‘State your full name, rank and last command.’

Evardo spoke with as much arrogance as he could muster. He felt nothing but contempt for these verminous commoners and detested being in their power. The official nodded as he tallied the answer spoken by Evardo with the notes he had in front of him.

‘You’re free to go.’

At first Evardo did not understand. He stared at the Englishman, who noticed his perplexed expression.

‘The ransom for your release arrived this morning,’ he explained irritably.

‘How?’ Evardo asked haltingly.

‘The man who brought the money is outside,’ the official said, indicating a door behind him. ‘Now begone with you, before we decide it’s safer to burn all you God-cursed papists.’

Evardo stepped back from the table. Alternating waves of anger and disbelief washed through him and he trembled with the effort of maintaining his self-control. A little over two months had passed since his capture and during that time revenge and hatred for the English had become an unquenchable fire within him. As he stood over this unwary, loathsome Englishman, Evardo was possessed by a powerful urge to throttle him to death. He balled his hands into fists and took a half step forward before reason stopped him. He was free. The plans he had dreamt about over the previous two months and the path he had vowed to take rushed to the front of his mind.

He stepped around the official and in a half-trance walked to the door. The official’s final words echoed in his mind and Evardo wondered who it was that brought the money from Spain. Suddenly he knew who it was. It could only be one man. Evardo’s heart raced with anticipation and joy.

‘Abrahan,’ he whispered as he pushed open the door, eager to see his friend and mentor.

The glare of the sun struck him like an open handed cuff and he brought his arm up to shield his eyes. Four pike-men stood on guard immediately outside the door. One turned around to glance indifferently at Evardo, then turned away again. Evardo saw the guards’ attention was on a group of women standing nearby. Some were crying and wailing and as Evardo watched, one of them staggered forward to plead with the guards.

Evardo looked beyond the group to the wider courtyard. It was an expansive area bounded by grey walls and beyond he could see the rooftops of the surrounding city of London. There were people milling in every direction across the open space but one solitary man caught his attention. He was standing still, directly ahead of him. Evardo squinted against the sunlight, his spirits lifting as he recognized the clothing of a Spaniard. The man stepped forward and Evardo started walking quickly forward to meet him.

Suddenly he stopped, his heart plummeting. It was not Abrahan, it was a Pedro Moreno, a senior servant from his family’s house in Madrid. Moreno was smiling as he ran the last few steps to stand before Evardo.

‘It is good to see you, señor. Truly, I thank the Madonna that you are safe.’

‘It is good to see you too, Pedro,’ Evardo replied reluctantly, before chastising himself for his lack of good grace. He reached out and clasped the servant’s shoulder, smiling gratefully. ‘Yes. I am glad to see you.’

Pedro thanked him but then his expression grew serious. ‘Come, señor,’ he said, looking over Evardo’s shoulder to the guards. ‘We should leave this place.’

Evardo nodded and followed Pedro across the courtyard toward an arched exit in the outer wall.

‘Tell me, Pedro. How did you get here so quickly?’

‘It was señor Miguel,’ Pedro replied with pride. Evardo’s eldest brother, the patriarch of the family. ‘From the moment he heard of your capture he began making arrangements for your release. Within a month he had secured passage for me on the fastest ship from La Coruña, along with diplomatic passes and the full ransom in gold.’

Pedro then began to tell the story of his journey in detail, from Madrid to La Coruña and onward to Dover and London where he was granted an audience with the Spanish ambassador, all on the strength of a letter he carried from Miguel. Evardo listened in silence while inside he burned with shame. Over the previous months he had yearned to be free but now he was faced with the cost of that freedom. How could he face his eldest brother and his family? How could he repay the influence and money spent securing his release?

The answer was immutable. He must secure the command of a galleon. It was the only way he could regain his honour. He would have to ask Miguel to canvass on his behalf. That his release from prison had been arranged so quickly was testament to the wealth and power of the family, but what Evardo was asking would require an altogether more denigrating approach. A new patron would be difficult to secure and Miguel would have to pay a heavy coin for someone to overlook Evardo’s defeat.

Miguel would help him, of that Evardo was sure. He was an honourable man and fiercely protective of the entire family. Therein lay the root of a further humiliation for Evardo. He was wholly willing to descend to the very depths of humility to achieve his goal. It was the price he knew he had to pay if he was to wreak his revenge on the English. But now Miguel too would have to debase himself if Evardo was to succeed. It was a bitter realization. As he followed Pedro out of the prison, Evardo found it impossible to raise his head.

Robert looked out from the porch of the small chapel into the darkness and driving rain. Although he was soaked through the night was warm. He stilled his breathing as he tried to listen for sounds of approach. Father Blackthorne had been gone for nearly ten minutes and Robert was beginning to wonder if he was having difficulty persuading the duke to come out on such a night. He stuck his head out and glanced at the estate house only two hundred yards away. It was in darkness.

The three day journey from Plymouth had been arduous and nerve wracking. It had afforded Robert a glimpse of the life Father Blackthorne was forced to live. They had travelled only at night and Robert had marvelled at the older man’s fortitude and guile. The priest had an established network of Catholic families that would give them shelter but from the outset Robert had insisted that there was to be no contact with anyone until they reached Clarsdale’s estate. Father Blackthorne had baulked at the idea of hiding and sleeping in hedgerows when more comfortable accommodation was available, arguing that Robert had frequently met other Catholics when he attended mass on the motte, but Robert had been adamant and Father Blackthorne had relented.

Robert’s only goal was to make contact with his father. Everything else was a façade for Father Blackthorne’s benefit. While he remained loyal to Elizabeth in his heart, his actions had slipped into the realm of sedition. As a practising Catholic, his faith branded him a traitor, but Robert had always reasoned that to congregate with other Catholics for mass was an act of faith alone, a benign rebellion against the established religion and law of the Crown.

Now however he possessed knowledge of a high ranking traitor. As a loyal Englishman his duty was clear. He should expose Clarsdale for who he was. But to do so was to risk losing perhaps the only chance he had of contacting his father. He could not do it, not yet. For the first time in his life Robert realized his personal aspirations could not be reconciled with his loyalty to Elizabeth. He was walking a traitor’s path.

He had already decided that after contact was made with his father, he would find some way to distance himself from Clarsdale and Father Blackthorne. To do so it was vital that he limit his exposure to the web of sedition that surely surrounded the duke. Robert had insisted that his journey to the estate should remain as secret as possible. He had also told Father Blackthorne that he only wanted to see Clarsdale when they reached his estate, no other person, neither servant nor confederate, and that he was to be addressed as Robert Young at all times. The duke was not to be told his adopted name. It was a thin veil of concealment but one Robert was determined to maintain.

Robert glanced up at the estate house. A single candle was now burning in one of the ground floor windows. The rain had become heavier, pounding on the roof of the porch and cascading over the eaves. Father Blackthorne had argued with Robert one last time before venturing up to the house alone, trying to persuade him to go with him, that he was amongst friends, that it was madness to stay abroad on such a night. Robert had obstinately refused, insisting instead that the duke meet him alone in the solitude of the family chapel.

The light of the candle disappeared, then reappeared a moment later as a door was opened. Two men came out of the house carrying a storm lantern, walking quickly towards the chapel. Robert recognized the gait of Father Blackthorne and stepped out into the deluge to meet them. The man beside the priest looked up as he approached.

‘Damn you to hell, boy,’ he cursed at Robert. ‘What kind of fool are you to insist I come out in this weather to meet you?’

Robert bristled and took a menacing step forward.

‘We should get inside,’ Father Blackthorne exclaimed, eager to forestall any argument between the two men and, brandishing a key he had been given by the butler, he took Robert by the arm and led him to the door of the chapel.

The interior of the chapel resounded with the noise of rain falling on the roof. It was an austere space. The nave was devoid of any furnishing and the walls were bare and unplastered. Robert and Clarsdale followed Father Blackthorne to the altar where he lit the candles from the storm lantern. As the light increased Robert noticed that Clarsdale was staring at him. The duke nodded, as if confirming something.

‘Nathaniel Young’s son,’ he said slowly to himself. ‘You have the look of him.’

‘You’ve met my father?’

‘Yes. About fifteen years ago, in France. It was then the link between us was first established.’

‘What was he…?’ Robert stopped himself short. Clarsdale had not asked to meet him to arrange a reunion and Robert suddenly felt embarrassed by his open enthusiasm to know more about his father.

Clarsdale’s eyes narrowed. His expression remained neutral but inside he smiled maliciously. Robert Young was an open book. His yearning to see his father was wholly evident and Clarsdale felt his confidence rise. The son of Nathaniel Young would be easy to manipulate. Perhaps the father, given the same bait of making contact with his son, would be equally so.

‘Now tell me, Young. Why did you insist that we meet here? Why did you not come up to the house?’

‘I thought it best if no one else knew I was here.’

‘You thought it best,’ Clarsdale scoffed. ‘Do you not trust me, boy?’

‘Of course he does, your grace,’ Father Blackthorne interjected. ‘Robert is merely being cautious.’

Clarsdale snorted derisively. ‘What is your position in the fleet?’

‘I am captain of a galleon, the Retribution,’ Robert replied, explaining how his command had recently been confirmed by his patron, John Hawkins.

Clarsdale glanced at Father Blackthorne and smiled. Robert Young was perfectly placed within the fleet and would be a valuable resource.

‘From this day you must let us know of any new orders the fleet receives. Your contact will be Father Blackthorne,’ Clarsdale said. ‘To begin I want you to compile a full report on the strength of the fleet in Plymouth. If possible include anything you hear about other ships stationed in Portsmouth and Dover. Write nothing down. Your report will be verbal. Have it ready for the rising of the new moon, two weeks from now.’

Robert nodded. ‘It will be done,’ he lied.

‘Then this meeting is over. Any information you have is to be given to Father Blackthorne. He will see it gets to me.’ The duke turned to leave.

‘Wait,’ Robert exclaimed, caught off guard by the abrupt end to the meeting. ‘I want to send a message to my father.’

Clarsdale paused. He looked at Robert then laughed contemptuously.

‘I cannot risk exposing the line of communication for some personal message alone. When your report is complete I will send it to Spain, along with any personal note you wish to send to your father.’

Robert forestalled his protest. His mind was racing. His original goal was now encumbered with a definite act of treason but if he wanted to send a message to his father there was no other way.

Clarsdale noticed Robert’s restraint and again he smiled to himself. An open book. Blinded by his desire to make contact with his father Robert obviously hadn’t realized that they needed him more than he needed them. Clarsdale nodded imperceptibly, satisfied with his earlier decision. It was not the time to tell Robert Young of the news he had only received days before, the news that had initially shaken Clarsdale’s confidence and forced him to rethink his plans. If he was to manipulate events to his ultimate advantage he had to maintain the initiative over both Nathaniel and Robert Young. They could not communicate. If they did Robert would learn what Clarsdale already knew —Nathaniel Young, the Duke of Greyfarne, was coming to England.

Thomas Seeley paced the quarterdeck of the Retribution. His brow was twisted into a scowl and he spun on his heel at the bulwark, muttering under his breath. He was alone, and the crew within eyeshot on the other decks moved quickly to avoid the lash of his tongue. The ship’s bell rang four times, the middle of the afternoon watch, and Seeley scanned the waters surrounding the Retribution before looking to the distant dockside of Plymouth. Tobias Miller was overdue.

The new master’s mate was supposed to have arrived an hour before. Seeley stopped pacing to peer out over the gunwale. In the three weeks since returning to the Retribution, he had been unable to advance his quest to find the Roman Catholic spy on board. To his relief, Captain Varian had not ordered him to end his search, although he had demanded that Seeley moderate his investigation. The veil of suspicion that Seeley had placed over the entire crew was adversely affecting morale. The restraint was proving tiresome, and when Shaw had reported at the beginning of the watch that he too was making no headway, Seeley’s mood had swiftly descended.

‘Quarterdeck ho! Longboat approaching off the larboard beam!’

Seeley spun around. A heavyset man with grey, almost white, hair stood in the bow of the longboat. The sea was windblown and choppy but he was balancing easily, with one leg on the gunwale. Tobias Miller, Seeley thought, remembering when he had first seen him months before.

Miller’s commission had come as no surprise to Seeley. Varian had a sizeable task ahead of him in making the Retribution his own. It was only natural he would want men around him that he knew well and could trust implicitly. Seeley had already assured the captain of his support. It was sincerely meant, for how else could England stand fast against its enemies if the officers of the fleet were not completely loyal to each other? Despite his continued reservations regarding the captain’s commitment to wage total war against the Roman Catholic scourge, he had come to fully respect Varian for his seamanship and bravery.

Seeley heard the longboat thud against the hull and a moment later Miller gained the main deck. He was heavier than Seeley remembered and in the full light of day, he looked older. His eyes darted to every point of the ship before coming to rest on Seeley.

‘Permission to come aboard, Master Seeley,’ he shouted.

‘Granted,’ Seeley replied with a genial nod, indicating for Miller to come up.

Miller moved with a seamless agility up the steps to the quarterdeck, thrusting out his hand as he approached.

Seeley took it. The grip was firm and calloused.

‘Welcome to the Retribution, Master’s Mate.’

‘Glad to be aboard, Master,’ Miller replied.

Seeley searched the words for any sign of insolence, suddenly conscious that he was less than half the age of his new subordinate. He could discern none however, and dismissed Miller to go below and stow his kit.

Seeley watched him leave. Once more he thought of the first time, months before, when he had laid eyes on Miller on board the Spirit at Plymouth docks. The man had lied without hesitation to protect Varian, concocting some tale about a meeting with a local trader. It was a lie that spoke of an instinctive loyalty that came from years of shared hardship and toil. It would be difficult to penetrate the obvious bond between the two men.

But penetrate it he must, for Miller was his direct subordinate now, his right hand man. Seeley needed to know he commanded his loyalty. Moreover, he needed to get the measure of Miller’s faith. With luck he was as committed to eradicating Roman Catholicism as Shaw had proven to be. Seeley whispered a brief prayer that it was so. If he could gain Miller’s trust, then perhaps together they could convince the captain to fully accept the divine task that Seeley believed the Almighty had set them.

‘Quarterdeck ho! Longboat approaching off the larboard beam!’

Seeley darted around in surprise. A second longboat was approaching and Captain Varian was sitting in the bow. Seeley went to the main deck to greet him as the longboat moved swiftly alongside.

‘Welcome back, Captain.’ Seeley wondered where the captain had been for the past week. Knowing Varian, he had taken home leave when they first arrived back in Plymouth.

‘Anything to report, Mister Seeley?’

Seeley quickly listed off the routine activities of the past week; the arrival of a new culverin to replace an aging one, the completion of some maintenance on the starboard bow strake timbers of the hull and finally that the new master’s mate had just arrived.

‘Miller,’ Robert said with a broad smile. ‘Have one of the men seek him out and send him to my cabin.’

‘Yes, Captain.’

‘Any change in our standing orders?’

‘None, Captain. Only that we are to remain at a state of readiness.’

Robert nodded, his brow creasing in thought.

‘What can that mean, Captain?’ Seeley asked, thinking perhaps that during the previous week the captain had had some contact with one of the senior commanders —maybe Hawkins, his patron, and that he had some insight into the need for continued caution. ‘Surely any threat the Armada posed has passed?’

Robert looked to Seeley as if his question had startled him.

‘I don’t know, Thomas. Drake has his reasons. Trust in that.’

‘Yes, Captain,’ Seeley replied. He turned to call a crewman to find Miller.

Robert walked towards his cabin, his thoughts fixed on Seeley’s question. Why hadn’t the standing orders been changed? The smaller ships had been stood down, but the capital ships remained on alert. What did Drake know that had not filtered down to the crews? That Spain planned to invade England had been common knowledge for over a year, but Robert, like everyone else, had believed that plan had been thwarted, at least for the immediate future. Maybe, he thought uneasily, the raid on Cadiz had not bloodied the Spanish as much as they had first supposed. As he reached the door of his cabin the stomp of boots behind him made him turn.

‘Miller,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is good to see you well, old friend.’

‘And you, Captain,’ Miller replied, taking the proffered hand of his commander.

Robert led Miller through the door.

‘Sit down, man.’ Robert poured two tankards of grog. ‘Tell me, what news of the Spirit?’

‘She is in fine fettle, Captain,’ Miller replied with pride. ‘For the past month we have been ferrying supplies along the length of the south coast. From Dover to Portsmouth and here.’

Robert sat straighter in his chair at the mention of Dover and Portsmouth. His initial question had been innocently asked, but he suddenly realized that Miller had first hand knowledge of what capital, and other ships were stationed at each harbour. He hesitated, not wanting to ask the question that had immediately sprung to mind. He needed to contact his father, and Clarsdale’s report was the key. He could give the duke false information, but if his deception was discovered his only chance would be forfeit. Every fibre of his loyalty urged him to expose Clarsdale, while his desire to communicate with his father compelled him to do whatever it took to achieve his goal. He drank deep and the grog seared his throat. He put down his tankard and stared at Miller.

‘Drake keeps us at a state of readiness here in Plymouth,’ he began, the words coming slowly. ‘Is it the same at Portsmouth and Dover?’

‘I believe so, Captain. Certainly the amount of stores we are supplying to the galleons suggests they could be ready to sail with less than a day’s notice.’

Robert nodded. He watched Miller closely for signs that his question had aroused some suspicion but of course there was none. They had been shipmates for too long and Robert knew Miller would never think ill of him. He felt ashamed, but steeled himself. He had made his decision.

‘Tell me about these other galleons.’

Miller began to list off the ships he had seen in Dover and Portsmouth, adding incidental comments that his professional eye had noticed about the condition of each one. He spoke casually, believing the captain’s interest was merely professional curiosity. Robert refilled Miller’s tankard and remained silent as his mind catalogued each piece of information. All the while a part of his consciousness sought to quieten the bitter protest of his loyalty.

Nathaniel Young heard the crash of the surf through the dark. The longboat reared beneath him and accelerated down the swell of a wave. He glanced over his shoulder past the rowers to the running light of the Spanish galleon in the distance. It was faint but visible. Nathaniel looked back to the blackness of the coast. Where was the signal light of his contact? Looking skyward to the darker outline of the two conical hills that marked the rendezvous point, he reassured himself that he was in the right place.

Suddenly a light appeared directly ahead. The longboat reared again and the rowers deftly balanced the hull as the wave carried them forward. They spoke rapidly to each other in Spanish but Nathaniel ignored them, conscious that soon he would hear naught but his mother tongue. He focused on the light ahead. It was a storm lantern and it seemed to be sitting directly on the beach. No one stood within its illumination.

As the boat crashed through the surf, two of the crew jumped out into the waist deep water to guide the boat ashore. The hull touched sand and Nathaniel jumped over the gunwale. His feet touched solid ground and for a moment he stood still, savouring the moment. He strode forward towards the light but stopped short, crouching down and taking up a handful of sand he let it sift through his fingers. He was home.

‘Señor,’ a voice said in the darkness behind him. ‘We will leave you now. God speed.’

‘No, wait,’ Nathaniel commanded. ‘Wait until I am safely away.’

The reply was muttered in gutter Spanish. Nathaniel did not understand the words but he knew their portent. If his contact did not show immediately he would either have to leave with the Spaniards or stay alone. He walked quickly to the storm lantern and stood beside it.

‘I am Nathaniel Young,’ he called into the darkness.

He was answered with silence.

‘Señor, we go.’

Nathaniel spun around to protest but in the whiter shade of the crashing surf he saw the men were already clambering back into the boat. For a heartbeat he thought to follow but he stood resolute. There could be no going back. He looked around in the darkness and picked up the storm lantern, then began to walk further up the beach, pausing as his legs brushed against the marram grass above the storm line. He could go no further. There was little point, for his next move was supposed to be decided by his contact. Where in blazes was he? Surely he lit the storm lantern and placed it on the beach. Why did he then retreat? He was tempted to shout out again, but held his tongue. There was no way of knowing who was abroad and he did not want to attract unwanted attention.

The thought brought home the reality of his situation. He was home. This was England. But it was no longer his. The heretic Queen who controlled this land had branded him a traitor and made him an outcast. He had been reduced to fearing discovery by his own countrymen.

‘Enough!’ he shouted and he walked forward again, oblivious of his course.

‘Nathaniel Young,’ a voice called out. Nathaniel spun around in the direction of the cry.

‘Show yourself.’ Nathaniel’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

‘Stand easy, Young. It is I, Clarsdale.’

Nathaniel breathed with relief, which was quickly replaced by anger. ‘Why did you not show yourself before?’

‘I was wary of the boat load of men who brought you ashore,’ Clarsdale lied as he stepped into the light. ‘I thought for a moment that news of your arrival might have been discovered and those men were here to capture your contact.’

Clarsdale discerned a slight sneer of contempt from Young at his explanation. He ignored it. What did it matter if Young believed he was meek? It was better if Young continued to harbour a low opinion of him. Clarsdale hid his own scorn behind a neutral expression. He had let Young wait alone in the darkness to ensure the Duke of Greyfarne realized that without him he was just that —alone.

Clarsdale had debated coming himself to meet Young at the landing site. It was a significant risk. But if he had sent a servant with orders to escort Young to his estate, there was a chance the exiled duke might countermand those orders and have the servant guide him to another location. For his plan to succeed, Clarsdale had to strictly control Young’s movements from the start.

Clarsdale’s original plan, when Nathaniel Young was still in Spain, was to blackmail the exiled duke into revealing the identity of his contact in the Spanish hierarchy. He had intended to tell him that the agent he had secured was his son and if Young did not comply with his wishes Clarsdale would withhold communication between the two, or better yet, threaten to kill Robert. While Nathaniel Young had been in Spain he could have done nothing to protect his son and would surely have stepped aside and allowed Clarsdale unfettered access to the future masters of England.

But Young’s announcement that he was coming to England had thrown those budding plans into disarray. For all Clarsdale knew, Young was seeking to bypass Clarsdale and set up a direct link with the agent. And as soon as he found out their new ally was his son that idea would surely come of itself.

Then Clarsdale had realized the incredible opportunity that Young’s arrival would grant him. That the Duke of Greyfarne had ended his eighteen-year self-imposed exile spoke of the value Spain placed on the information they sought. Clarsdale had to act, swiftly and decisively. Nathaniel Young was still unaware of his son’s involvement. Whether he used subtle blackmail or manipulation Clarsdale still needed Young to reveal the name of his handler in Spain. Then he would reunite father and son to ensure Robert Young’s commitment to the task.

With the Duke of Greyfarne in England and within his grasp there was no need for Clarsdale to coerce him into stepping aside. There was an easier way now, one that would ensure Clarsdale would become the all important lynchpin for the valuable intelligence. He would simply kill Nathaniel Young.