Armada

CHAPTER 8

10th August 1587. Dover, England.

Evardo spat over the aft as the ship pulled away from the quayside. He turned his back on England and looked to the clear horizon ahead, taking solace from the fact that they were finally away. The journey thus far had not been easy. After leaving the prison grounds in London Pedro had revealed that although he had paid the ransom demanded by the English, he had been forced to pay further bribes to the prison guards and administrator to ensure Evardo’s prompt release.

Pedro had been left virtually penniless and so Evardo had gone directly to the Spanish ambassador in London to seek aid. The ambassador had refused to see him. Evardo had pressed for an audience, demanding to know why he was being rebuffed, when he noticed the contemptuous looks of the ambassador’s staff. No other explanation was needed. He was disgraced, and no senior Spaniard, certainly not an ambassador, wanted to be associated with him.

Evardo had left London and proceeded to Dover, eager to leave England immediately. The journey had taken nearly a week. They had travelled incognito, knowing their nationality made them a target, and had avoided human contact wherever possible. They had hoarded what little money they had. It would be needed to secure passage on a ship. Evardo had little English but he could speak French, and when they needed to buy food they had passed themselves off as French refugees.

Upon reaching Dover they had found the first available French ship sailing for Calais. It was a stinking barque but the French captain had asked few questions of his Spanish passengers, never looking beyond the silver pieces-of-eight that Evardo had given him.

Evardo glanced at the English capital ships as the French barque passed between them. Their lower, sleeker hulls were so different to the towering castles of Spanish galleons. From a distance it was hard to tell what ordnance they carried but it was well known these new ships were heavily armed. Evardo sneered derisively. Such firepower would matter little when they were grappled and boarded. Therein lay their weakness. Evardo looked forward to the day when he would show the English the depth of their folly.

He turned to the horizon as the barque slipped past the outermost ships in Dover harbour. Once in Calais, Evardo planned to make his way to Antwerp, either by boat or overland. There he would find out where the Duke of Parma was encamped with his army and make contact with his brother, Allante, one of the duke’s aides-de-camp. Asking for help would be an ignominious task but it was the only way he could get himself, and Pedro, home to Spain.

Dressed as he was, in tattered rags, it would be humiliating to walk into the camp of the Army of Flanders. Tough, professional and experienced, they were the most feared army in the world. Allante, like his eldest brother Miguel, was sure to help him but as with Miguel, Evardo dreaded the encounter.

He glanced over his shoulder at the diminishing outlines of the English warships and beyond to the mammoth white cliffs that flanked the port of Dover. It was an impressive sight but Evardo drew no pleasure from it. He turned his back once more. England would wait, secure in her conceited confidence, until he returned.

Nathaniel Young stared out the window of the study, captivated by the view. His finger traced the outline of the distant horizon on the glass. The Duke of Clarsdale’s estate was so green. It was the English countryside he had pictured in his mind so many times over the previous two decades, the lush fertile land that was so different to the arid soil of his home in exile.

The door opened behind him and he turned to see Clarsdale and his butler enter. Nathaniel stared at the servant. The man held his gaze for a second before looking away. The butler, Nichols, unnerved him. Nathaniel needed to keep the number of people who knew he was back in England to a minimum.

The night before, Clarsdale had led him from the beach to a quiet back road. A servant, the duke’s groomsman, was waiting there with horses and the three of them had ridden away with as much haste as the darkness allowed. They had arrived at Clarsdale’s estate an hour before dawn and Nathaniel had been shown to a bedroom by the butler, where he found food and warm water waiting for him. Nathaniel had tried to relax in the solitude of his room but he could not. Two wearisome hours passed before Nichols arrived back to escort him to Clarsdale’s study.

‘See that we’re not disturbed, Nichols,’ Clarsdale said. The butler nodded to his master and left the room, closing the door behind him.

‘You trust him?’

Clarsdale glanced at the closed door.

‘I trust all my household staff. Need I remind you, Young, I have survived thirty years of Elizabeth’s reign in the midst of her realm.’

Not safely in exile in some godforsaken foreign land, Clarsdale was tempted to add, but he held his tongue. He could not afford to be at odds with Young, not yet. Since deciding to kill Young Clarsdale had been possessed with an impatience to act, to rid himself of the man who obstructed his path to the Spanish hierarchy, but he knew he had to wait until Young had met his son and secured him as an agent. Only then would the duke be expendable.

‘In any case,’ he added genially. ‘For your safety I have ordered my entire household staff to remain in the house for the duration of your stay.’

Nathaniel nodded in gratitude, although Clarsdale’s assurances meant little to him. It was Clarsdale’s incompetence that had forced his return to England. Nathaniel felt nothing but apprehension when he thought of how much his safety and the success of his mission relied on the duke. Clarsdale bade him sit but he shook his head. Although he felt lightheaded with fatigue he still preferred to stand.

‘So, have you managed to secure an ally to our cause in the navy?’

A hint of a smile played across Clarsdale’s face before it hardened once more.

‘I have,’ he replied slowly.

‘Who is he? Is he Catholic?’

‘He is. His confessor, Father Blackthorne, recruited him.’

‘And you trust this priest?’

Again Clarsdale bridled at Young’s suspicions but he endeavoured to hide his anger.

‘He is also my priest,’ he explained, his voice trembling slightly, ‘and yes, I trust him.’

Nathaniel nodded and lowered his head in thought.

‘I need to meet this man. Can you arrange it?’

Clarsdale rubbed his chin and pretended to think. He glanced at Young. He looked tired. As the silence drew out Clarsdale decided it was time to play his opening gambit. He shook his head slightly.

‘It can be arranged,’ he said gravely. ‘But I have one concern. The meeting place is someway distant from here and the journey will be dangerous. Should anything happen to you, how do I send the agent’s information to Spain? Who can I contact there?’

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed slightly at Clarsdale’s request. The duke held his gaze. It was a reasonable request, given the danger Nathaniel was in, but despite Clarsdale’s logic, and the fact that he had worked with the duke for years, Nathaniel knew it wouldn’t be wise to mention Don Rodrigo de Torres’s name. The fewer people who knew the entire network the better. Clarsdale might one day be betrayed himself and captured by the Protestant authorities.

‘I cannot give you that name,’ Nathaniel said. ‘And I already have an arrangement with him. My ship will return for me in exactly one month. If I am not there then it is to be assumed that I have been killed or captured. Either way he will presume that this line of communication has been compromised.’

Clarsdale bunched his fists involuntarily. His face darkened in anger and he stalked over to stand beside Nathaniel at the window.

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘It is not a question of trust.’

‘But if you are killed… This source is too important,’ Clarsdale continued. ‘The information he can provide us with will be invaluable to Spain and our cause.’

‘I don’t even know if I can trust this man,’ Nathaniel shot back, angry that Clarsdale was questioning his decision. ‘You know him only through your priest. How many times have you met this man? Once? Twice? How do you know he is not working for that arch-fiend, Walsingham?’

‘Because of who he is,’ Clarsdale retorted, his previously determined strategy forgotten in anger. ‘Because of who his father is.’

‘Who is his father?’ Nathaniel asked dismissively.

‘You are,’ Clarsdale snarled.

Nathaniel blanched and took a step backward.

‘You don’t mean… Robert,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Clarsdale said. ‘Robert Young, son of Nathaniel Young, Duke of Greyfarne.’

‘But… I never thought…’

Nathaniel reached for a chair and sat down. His son, Robert. He had never forgotten him, the boy of twelve he had left at his brother-in-law’s house, but like every memory of England, the picture had been eroded by eighteen years of exile. Eventually he had come to think of his son as gone, lost forever to another life.

Nathaniel felt his throat constrict and he leaned forward to ease his breathing. So many times he had thought of the things he would reclaim when England was once more governed by a Catholic monarch. His lands, his title, his honour, and his family —his only son, Robert. Recovering these things was the driving force in his life, but they were also the substance of his dreams and he had long since learned to bury them deeply to ease his sense of loss. But now, suddenly, he was being given the chance to reclaim a part of his past.

‘I must see him,’ he whispered. ‘Does he know I am your contact?’

‘He knows,’ Clarsdale said coldly. ‘Although he does not know you have come to England. If you want to see him you must reveal the name of your contact in Spain.’

Nathaniel looked up, confused.

‘Now that you know who the agent is,’ Clarsdale continued, ‘you must realize that there is too much at risk should something happen to you. We will never find as reliable an ally as your son.’

Nathaniel stood up once more. His emotions were in turmoil but he was more wary than ever of Clarsdale’s motives.

‘How do I know this man is my son?’ he asked, knowing somehow in his heart that it was true.

‘Are you willing to sacrifice the chance to see him?’

Nathaniel looked past Clarsdale out the window. The sky was darkening under a rolling blanket of grey-black clouds. He looked back at the duke. Perhaps he should tell him of de Torres. As a man he might not trust Clarsdale, but his dedication to the cause was unquestionable. In any case, de Torres could come to no harm simply because Clarsdale knew his name, even if, one day, the duke might be forced to reveal that information to the Protestant authorities.

Nathaniel halted his thoughts, knowing they were leading him the opposite direction to his earlier caution. Clarsdale was blackmailing him, of that there could be no doubt. It was reason enough not to reveal de Torres’s name, and yet, surely such an act on Clarsdale’s part spoke to his belief that the information Robert could provide was more important than any one of them. De Torres certainly felt that way. Indeed King Philip himself considered securing an agent in the navy to be of the highest priority. Clearly Nathaniel should follow their lead, particularly now that his son was the agent and his intelligence would therefore be beyond suspicion. He nodded to himself, deciding that he was being overly cautious.

‘If I should die the man you must seek out in Spain is Don Rodrigo de Torres. He has the ear of the King and will ensure any intelligence finds its way to the right people.’

‘Thank you, Young,’ Clarsdale said earnestly, worried that his face might betray his inner triumph.

‘Now take me to my son,’ Nathaniel demanded.

Clarsdale hesitated for a second. It would be dangerous for him to personally take Young to the rendezvous point on the motte. But, it would expedite his plan. Once father and son had met and Robert Young was fully committed, Clarsdale could dispose of the Duke of Greyfarne at his convenience.

‘There is a small church outside Plymouth, Saint Michael’s,’ Clarsdale explained. ‘Beside it is a motte. Your son will be there at the rising of the new moon, three days from now.’

‘Three days. So we must wait.’

‘No, to avoid detection we must go there by a circuitous route. We leave at sunset.’

Nathaniel nodded. He had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Clarsdale’s conduct in obtaining de Torres’s name had unnerved him. It had been forceful, unwavering, and Nathaniel wondered if Clarsdale’s motives went beyond his concern for the intelligence Robert could provide for Spain.

The thought of his son made him wonder if he would see the boy he had once known in the man he was soon to meet. That he was to be an ally in the cause to overthrow Elizabeth filled Nathaniel with immense pride. Nathaniel glanced at Clarsdale, his suspicions lost in amazement at how God, in his infinite wisdom, had arranged for him to meet his only son. He smiled, unaware that this very meeting would precipitate his own death.

Nichols stepped away from the door and walked quickly across the hallway, slipping round a corner and leaning heavily against the wall. His heart was racing. He had been standing at the duke’s study door far too long for his own safety. At any time he could have been discovered by one of the other servants who would immediately question why he was eavesdropping on the duke’s conversations. In a house filled with people who lived in fear of discovery, suspicion and wariness had become second nature to all.

The conversation between the two traitors had been protracted but Nichols was glad that he had waited. He had the rendezvous point. His problem, however, was how to get that information to Cross. At the arrival of Nathaniel Young, the Duke of Clarsdale had taken the unprecedented step of ordering all his staff to remain confined within the house. Nichols knew he had to comply. After one of his previous meetings with Cross, when he came back to the house with mud-stained trousers, he had drawn awkward questions from the footman and head maid. He had concocted a flimsy excuse about falling while running an errand for the Duke, but the story had sounded unconvincing even to his own ears and he was sure they were still suspicious of that absence.

He would have to wait. There was no other option. His thoughts went to his family, his wife and four children who knew nothing of his activities. It was an innocence that would not protect them if he was caught, despite his wife’s misplaced devotion to the Roman Catholic faith. His only chance was to contact Cross after the two traitorous dukes had left the house on their journey to Plymouth.

Nichols considered the consequences of his actions. If Cross confronted and captured the entire nest of traitors at Saint Michael’s then Clarsdale would finally be exposed and Nichols would have accomplished his task. He would be free, free to practise openly the faith of his Queen, free to show his wife the errors of her faith and save the imperilled souls of his children. It was a glorious prospect, one that he prayed was less than a day away.

Cross pulled the collar of his travelling cloak tighter as the wind gusted through the trees around him. The end of the day was rapidly closing in and as he spied the smoke rising from the chimneys of Clarsdale’s estate house he thought of the warmth of the fire in the distant tavern where he would stay the night. It was nearly time to leave. Cross cursed the long day he had spent in the solitude of the copse waiting for word from Nichols.

A dozen thoughts had occupied his mind during the day, mixing together to reform into new ideas that were examined and dismissed in turn. He was concerned at Nichols’s absence. Had he been discovered? If he had then the plan that Cross had decided on would come crashing down in one fell swoop and the traitors he so desperately wanted to capture would disappear to the safety of Spain.

Cross had been furious when Nichols had told him that Robert Young had already been and gone to Clarsdale’s house. Worse still, Nichols had been given no opportunity to see the traitorous informer and so he remained elusive. Cross’s visit to Plymouth had yielded nothing. There were simply too many people in the fleet and the port town who could be potential spies for the enemy. He had made contact with Walsingham’s local agent there, a man named Francis Tanner, informed him of his search and asked him to keep his ears open, but there was little else he could do.

Cross had also set two men the task of finding the priest. However, he too had disappeared and Cross had come to realize that a man who had managed to remain hidden from the authorities for so long would be nigh on impossible to capture while on the move. The only hope lay in capturing all the traitors when they would inevitably meet. Logically, that meeting place must be Clarsdale’s house and so Cross had returned to the estate to keep watch on the house and wait for further news from Nichols.

That wait was now in its eighth day. Cross had become familiar with the routines of the house, but for some reason today had been slightly different. There was less activity and Cross had come to suspect that something was amiss. The nature of his task sometimes made him see conspiracies and anomalies that were not truly there, yet he remained wary. None of the servants attending their daily tasks seemed to be household staff. The sun touched the rim of the western horizon.

Suddenly the breath caught in Cross’s throat. He remembered a tiny detail, one that he had dismissed at the time, but coupled with the unusual lack of activity might mean something more. Earlier that morning he had seen the outline of a man standing in Clarsdale’s study window. He had thought it was the duke but then another man had appeared beside him. From such a distance it was impossible to see who they were, but Cross could have sworn they were arguing. What if that second man was Robert Young? Or Christ forbid, Cross thought, Nathaniel Young? Nichols had informed him he was coming to England. Perhaps he had arrived and was standing in the house at this very moment.

Cross turned and walked a dozen paces towards his horse. The local sheriff was less than five miles away. He could have the militia here by dawn. Then he stopped in his tracks. Even if he was right, even if Robert or Nathaniel Young was in the house, if he swooped now to capture them the other would escape his grasp. Nathaniel Young was certainly the greater prize, but the son was becoming as dangerous as his father. He needed them both. His plan to catch them all at one time had to remain. He cursed loudly, hating the gamble he was being forced to play.

The sun had fallen below the horizon and the last of its light was poised to follow. Frustration consumed him. He was so close to destroying an entire network of Roman Catholic spies but a gaping chasm of uncertainty separated him from success. As he turned to leave, a movement caught his eye. A man was running away from the house towards the stone bridge that crossed the river. He seemed frantic, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder as he ran. When he reached the bottom of the slope leading to Cross, he vanished behind a fold in the ground, reappearing moments later. It was Nichols.

Robert gained the top of the motte and paused for a moment, listening in the darkness. There was no indication that Father Blackthorne was near at hand. He opened his mouth to utter the password, then hesitated. This was his last chance to pull himself back from the brink of treason. He simply had to walk away. The list of ships he had compiled was in the forefront of his mind, as was the simple message he had composed for his father. If only there was some way to deliver one without the other.

‘Sumus omnes,’ he said aloud.

The password was returned by a familiar voice and Robert stepped forward to greet Father Blackthorne, who led him to a shielded fire on the far side of the summit.

‘Would you like me to hear your confession, my son?’ Father Blackthorne asked.

‘No, Father,’ Robert replied sharply. ‘I would sooner tell you my report and be on my way.’

Father Blackthorne frowned at Robert’s abrupt answer.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Robert said quickly, seeing the priest’s expression in the firelight. ‘It’s just that I need to be back at my ship before the start of the morning watch.’

Robert cursed his lapse. It was better for his confessor to believe that he was fully committed to his task.

‘Let us sit then, Robert. I trust you have much to tell me.’

‘I have, Father. The fleet at Plymouth…’

Suddenly Robert shot up.

‘What…?’ Father Blackthorne began but Robert quietened him with his hand.

‘Someone’s coming. Are you expecting anyone else?’

Father Blackthorne shook his head.

Robert drew his sword. He peered into the darkness and cocked his head slightly in the direction of the noise. He heard it again —the fall of loose stones. Someone was ascending the motte. He sensed Father Blackthorne rise behind but he did not look back, less the glow of the fire rob his night vision. The sky was cloudless but with a new moon the only light came from the blanket of stars that served to frame and highlight any shape that stood against the sky.

‘Sumus omnes.’

Robert did not reply.

‘In manu Dei,’ Father Blackthorne answered. Before Robert could curse him, the silhouettes of two men appeared.

‘Who are you?’ Robert demanded.

‘Put down your sword, boy.’ Robert recognized Clarsdale’s voice.

He sheathed his sword and they stepped into the firelight. Robert looked to the man with Clarsdale. For a moment they stared at each other’s faces.

‘Father?’ Robert whispered incredulously.

‘It is good to see you again, my son.’ Nathaniel extended his hand.

Robert glanced down and took it without thinking.

‘You’re here.’

Nathaniel nodded with a smile.

Robert let his father’s hand go. From behind him he heard Father Blackthorne gasp in amazement and the priest rushed forward to greet Nathaniel. Robert stood frozen, his eyes still locked on his father. He had changed so much. He was older, of course, but he was different somehow.

Over eighteen years, Robert had turned his father into the embodiment of all that he had lost —his title, his heritage, the honour of his real name. When Clarsdale had told him he was still alive Robert had grasped at the chance to contact him. In restoring the link between him and his father, he hoped to move closer to redeeming his past. But now he was unexpectedly filled with doubt. Maybe his father was not the key to his redemption. Maybe he was just a man, one whose past actions had already cost Robert his true fate and whose presence in England now threatened to take from him all that he had worked for.

‘I had to come to secure the naval agent we so desperately need,’ Nathaniel said, ‘but I only learned of your involvement after I landed in England.’

Robert barely heard the words his father spoke. Instead he studied him closely and realized suddenly that for too long he had shied away from the obvious truth of the man before him, of what he was, of what he had always been.

‘I was so proud to find out that you were the agent,’ Nathaniel concluded, holding his hand out once more to his son.

Robert recoiled. His father was a traitor of the worst kind. He was not standing tall in the front line of battle, he was skulking in the undergrowth, engaging in espionage in a bid to bring down England from within.

‘You say you are proud?’ he asked coldly.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘To learn that I’m a traitor?’

‘A traitor? A traitor against what?’

‘Against the Crown,’ Robert spat. ‘Against Elizabeth. Against this country.’

‘A collaborator!’ Clarsdale leapt forward, drawing his sword.

Robert reacted instantly, drawing his own blade. He dropped into a defensive posture.

Clarsdale side stepped warily, swishing his sword through a shallow arc. His mind was racing. He felt panic swell up inside him. Robert Young had deceived them. Was he in league with others? Was he an agent of the Crown? Clarsdale’s eyes darted to each side, trying to see into the dark. He had always been so cautious, ensuring that no one outside his trusted staff knew of his religion and his cause. Now he was exposed. He forced himself to remain calm. Maybe Robert Young was alone. Maybe he was simply the loyal recusant the priest claimed he was. Clarsdale clung to that hope, using it to further quell his alarm and he moved slowly to gain a better attack position. Whatever Robert Young was, he had to die.

‘I… I don’t understand,’ Nathaniel stammered. ‘I thought you were Catholic. I thought…’

‘I am Catholic,’ Robert rejoined, his eyes on Clarsdale, ‘but I’m also loyal to my Queen.’

‘You can’t be both,’ Nathaniel retorted, regaining his wits. ‘You cannot be true to your faith and to the heretic Queen.’ He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, trying to see the boy that was once his. He saw only anger, and another emotion, one that affected him deeply —shame.

‘Who are you, Robert?’ he whispered. ‘What have you become?’

‘If you don’t know me it’s because you left when I was just a boy. I am an Englishman and Elizabeth is my Queen. Without your treacherous influence, I have grown up true to my faith, my country and my sovereign.’

‘My treacherous influence?’ Nathaniel uttered. He reached out to his son but Robert shrugged him off angrily. Clarsdale seized the opportunity and lunged forward.

Robert parried Clarsdale’s vicious strike, turning his blade through a column of sparks from the fire. He leapt back and prepared to attack. Father Blackthorne quickly stepped into the shadows but Nathaniel stood motionless as Robert and Clarsdale clashed once more, their blades striking each other in a fury of steel and anger.

Nathaniel gazed at Robert. The brief moment of curiosity and happiness that he had felt when he first saw him was gone. Now there was only turmoil, and worse, a growing anger at what his son had proclaimed. His son’s beliefs were an abomination before God. Elizabeth was the devil’s spawn. She was the standard bearer for the Protestant faith. She had to be overthrown.

Nathaniel’s anger deepened. When he had left Robert with his wife’s brother he had thought that William Varian would keep him true to Catholicism. But Varian had twisted his son’s faith into something despicable, destroying the foundations that Nathaniel had laid. His son was no longer Catholic, not in the true sense, not if he supported the jezebel who was the Queen of England.

The fight intensified and Robert neatly parried a killing strike to his groin before reversing the attack, leaping forward to come inside Clarsdale’s counter strike. The two men came chest to chest, their blades upturned between them. Nathaniel saw the killing urge that possessed them both and with certainty he realized that in the next moments either his ally or his son would die. His sword leapt from its scabbard.

John Cross stepped through the ditch bordering the graveyard. The chink and rattle of weaponry sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and he glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy outlines of the thirty soldiers who followed him, willing them to quieten their approach. Ahead of them was the looming shape of the motte. It was larger than he had imagined and he cursed the necessity of attacking such a dominating place in darkness.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Francis Tanner was directly behind him. He pointed ahead to the motte and Cross nodded irritably. He was furious with the agent from Plymouth, not because of his unnecessary directions, but because Tanner had told the squad of soldiers before they left Plymouth that their mission tonight was to capture a group of Roman Catholic spies. The news had been like a red rag to a bull. Although Cross had subsequently tried to quell their zeal for the hunt, explaining to them that he needed the traitors captured alive, he knew many of them were baying for blood and would likely ignore his entreaties.

Cross slowed his pace, looking left and right to the extremities of the motte. He estimated it was at least two hundred paces around and more than thirty feet high. He stretched out his arms, indicating to the soldiers to fan out and surround the site, then looked to the summit. The crumbling walls gave it an irregular shape and he felt the dread of indecision in his stomach. If he attacked the ruins, chaos was bound to ensue and some of the traitors might escape. On the other hand, if he waited for them to descend they might not all leave together, or in the same direction. Worse still, if they became aware they were surrounded, they might cause a diversion in one area and escape in another.

Cross drew his sword and allowed the familiar weight to calm him. He reached the base and heard the men shuffle past him as they went to encircle the motte. He looked up the steep slope. The perimeter of the motte at the summit was half that at the base. If his men gained that perimeter then the net would be twice as effective. He nodded to himself and whispered to Tanner. They would advance up the hill. The agent ran off to tell the rest of the men, whispering to each in turn. Cross watched him disappear into the darkness. He tightened his grip on his sword and took to the slope of the motte.

Cross stopped short. There was a clash of steel, and another. It was a faint sound, muffled by distance and the ruins, but it sounded as if men were fighting on the summit. He increased his pace. Had one of the soldiers already reached the summit? Impossible. The fight had to be amongst the men he had come to arrest. But how could that be? Cross was suddenly filled with apprehension. The prize he so desperately wanted was just yards away. He pushed on up the slope, praying that the men he sought would come to no harm.

Robert slashed his blade down, knocking away the point of Clarsdale’s sword. He was breathing heavily and his left hand was dripping with blood from a gash in his forearm, but he was possessed with the strength of his battle lust. He stepped forward again, eager to end the fight.

Clarsdale gave ground, tiring fast. His sword arm was numb and he felt the muscles in his shoulder jar as he parried another strike from a keen opponent half his age.

Robert sensed Clarsdale’s desperation, saw it in his eyes, and pressed home his attack, sweeping his blade through a series of sequenced strikes that turned his weapon into a flurry of steel. Clarsdale blocked each attack but his sword was slowly forced outward, twisting the wrist of his sword hand, weakening his grip and Robert suddenly struck the flat of Clarsdale’s blade with all the momentum of his attack, knocking the sword from his hand. He went in for the kill but his strike was stopped short by another blade. He spun around, his eyes going to his new foe.

‘Lower you sword,’ Nathaniel commanded.

Robert did not move.

‘You cannot kill him,’ Nathaniel warned, keeping his sword charged. His son had chosen to oppose them, he was the enemy and Nathaniel moved around to place himself between Robert and Clarsdale.

‘He’s a traitor,’ Robert said, staring at the darkened features of the man standing before him. ‘So are you, Father, and in running off to seek exile in the midst of this country’s enemies you have revealed yourself to be worse —a coward.’

Nathaniel’s temper slipped beyond the bounds of his control and he lunged forward at the insult. Robert leapt back but he swiftly counter attacked, sweeping his blade in low, trying to draw around to his father’s flank. Nathaniel countered but he gave ground, his balance faltering as Robert extended his assault, thrusting deeply into Nathaniel’s defence, forcing him to react with greater speed.

Robert feigned left and then switched his attack in the last instant. Nathaniel parried and Robert repeated the sequence, feigning left once more. This time Nathaniel was quicker to react, anticipating the ruse and he struck back with a sharp riposte, slicing through the material of Robert’s jerkin. Robert stayed on the offensive, shifting his weight to attack to the left. Nathaniel expected another feint but this time Robert followed through, catching him off guard, his reactions too slow, and Nathaniel instinctively twisted his upper body to avoid the strike, splitting his defence wide open in an instant. Robert immediately reversed his blade and the tip of his sword swept up to his father’s throat.

‘Robert, no!’ a voice cried out.

Robert stayed the blow, holding the tip an inch from Nathaniel’s throat. Father Blackthorne stepped out of the darkness.

‘He’s your father, Robert. You cannot kill him. It is a mortal sin.’

‘He is not my father,’ Robert breathed. ‘He’s a traitor.’

‘And you are not my son,’ Nathaniel spat, his eyes blazing with hatred.

Robert nodded. ‘Then I am absolved.’

‘You men on the summit!’ a voice roared from out of the darkness. ‘You are surrounded. In the name of the Queen, I command you to drop your weapons and step forward.’

Robert leapt back from his father and swung around, charging his sword in the direction of the challenge.

‘You,’ Clarsdale cursed at Robert. ‘You have betrayed us all.’

‘Have a care, Clarsdale,’ Robert warned over his shoulder, ‘less I spill your blood and save the executioner his coin. I have betrayed no one.’

‘Then who has led them here?’ Clarsdale asked, his eyes darting in every direction.

Robert couldn’t answer. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern if they were indeed surrounded. From all sides he heard signs of approach. For a moment he was tempted to surrender. He was innocent, he had done nothing wrong, but no one would believe such a claim, especially once they found out one of the real traitors was his father. He had no choice. He had to escape.

‘There is no place to hide,’ the voice called out. ‘You are surrounded. I order you to step forward!’

Robert glanced at the others. Clarsdale was on the verge of panic. His father had taken up an attacking stance once more and his blade was charged before him. He too was searching the darkness. He noticed Robert was looking at him and their eyes locked for a moment in unspoken hatred. Robert looked away to Father Blackthorne. The priest’s face was a mask of terror.

‘Douse the fire,’ Robert said to his father. ‘Our only chance is to split up and try and slip through the cordon in separate places.’

‘It’s no use, we’re trapped,’ Father Blackthorne whimpered, overwhelmed by the fears that had lived with him for so long.

Robert ignored him and stared at his father, waiting for a response. Nathaniel nodded and stepped forward. He kicked dirt over the fire and the feeble light rapidly gave way to near total darkness. In the corner of his eye Robert saw Clarsdale go to ground. He looked back to his father but he too was gone. Near at hand Robert could see the vague outline of Father Blackthorne. He grabbed him by the arm.

‘Stay close.’ He pulled the priest down into a low crouch as he slipped behind the nearest wall.

‘This is your last warning!’ the voice called out again. ‘Come forward or we will advance!’

Robert crept forward, moving at right angles to the voice. He dragged Father Blackthorne over a wall and raised his head to look about him. A faint light caught his eye and he stared at it for a moment. It was the glow of a slow-burning match, the tiny smouldering flame that was poised to ignite the charge of an arquebus. He looked left and right of it and saw others close by. The cordon was compact and ordered. There was no chance they could simply slip through. Their only chance was to create confusion and hope that a breach would emerge.

‘On my order, prepare to advance,’ the voice called out. ‘Advance!’

Robert drew out his wheellock pistol and took careful aim at the smouldering match. He fired. A man cried out and Robert heard his arquebus fall to the ground.

‘I’m hit,’ the man screamed. From all sides others began to shout in the darkness.

‘The papist bastards have pistols!’

‘Let ’em have it!’

The air was rent with the sound of gunshots. Bullets whizzed over Robert’s head and ricocheted off the walls around him. Another man screamed out in pain, then another, while others shouted in anger as they charged forward.

‘Cease fire!’ a voice roared. ‘God curse you, cease fire!’

The order was ignored and the firing continued sporadically as men reloaded. Robert saw a figure lumbering towards him and stood up to meet the charge. Another bullet flew past him. The soldier saw him and screamed a curse, bringing his sword up. Robert saw the silhouette of his arm against the sky. He reacted on instinct and sidestepped. Their blades clashed and Robert backed off, quickly absorbing the momentum of the soldier’s attack. The ground underfoot was strewn with rubble and the soldier stumbled. Robert whipped his sword around for the killing strike but in the final instant he reversed his thrust and struck his attacker in the face with the pommel of his sword, breaking his nose. The solider cried out and slumped to the ground.

Robert reached out and grabbed Father Blackthorne. The priest staggered to his feet. He called out incoherently, consumed with fear. Robert dragged him forward.

‘Move damn you. We need to go, now.’

He pulled the priest over another low wall. A bullet ricocheted overhead, sending splinters of stone flying through the air. The summit was blanketed in gun smoke and for a moment Robert lost his bearings. He heard the clash of steel nearby and the angry shouts of attackers.

Reaching out with his hand he felt his way forward and began to increase his pace, but ran headlong into a solid wall. The blow stunned him and he tasted blood. He angrily felt along the line of the ruins, dragging Father Blackthorne behind. Suddenly he sensed the fall of the ground beneath his feet. They had reached the edge of the summit. A bullet whistled past, then another, but Robert was already descending. Father Blackthorne grunted behind him and fell forward, crashing into Robert. The two men tumbled down the hill of loose stone and gorse.

Robert swore as he regained his feet. He glanced up at the smoke strewn summit. It was impossible to tell what was happening. One voice was shouting above the others, the voice that had first challenged them. It was calling for an end to the fighting, for order, but chaos had been unleashed and would only end when the last man regained his wits. Robert looked for Father Blackthorne. He was slumped nearby and Robert grabbed him under the shoulder to haul him to his feet. The priest cried out in pain and Robert cursed his screams, fearing they might draw attention. He lost his grip and Father Blackthorne fell backwards onto the grass. Robert made to seize him again but stopped. His hand felt slick and wet. It was covered in blood.

Cross bellowed in rage as the shooting finally ceased. He stepped out from behind the shelter of a wall and called for torches to be lit. A flame appeared in the gun smoke, followed by a dozen more and he stalked over to the nearest one, grabbing it off a soldier before catching him by the collar of his doublet.

‘Find Francis Tanner,’ he snarled. ‘And spread the word. I want a full sweep of the summit. I want those men found.’

The soldier nodded fearfully and moved quickly away. Cross held the torch out and turned slowly. The body of a solider was nearby and he walked over to see he had been shot in the chest.

The skirmish had lasted for five minutes, five long minutes. Cross’s every order to cease fire had been ignored and he spat on the body at his feet, knowing that in the confusion the soldier had probably been killed in the crossfire by one of his own comrades.

The gun smoke was clearing slowly and Cross watched the men, silhouetted by torch light, move in every direction amidst the ruins. His ambush had been a disaster. He had thought that by surrounding and surprising the traitors they would submit quickly and quietly. But they had not. Instead they had turned the tables and Cross realized that whatever the outcome now, it would be worse than he had hoped.

‘Cross,’ he heard and Tanner approached with a group of soldiers.

‘Well?’ Cross asked.

‘The bastards shot dead two of our men and another was slain by a sword. Two more have bullet wounds.’

‘And the papists?’ Cross asked angrily, caring little for the soldiers. The fools had brought death upon themselves.

‘We got one,’ Tanner said, indicating over his shoulder.

‘Alive?’

Tanner smiled maliciously. ‘He’s dead.’

Cross brushed past him and walked quickly through the ruins. A group of soldiers was standing in a tight knot around a body.

One, Cross thought furiously. Out of four, and not even that one taken alive.

The soldiers separated as Cross approached, wary of his murderous expression in the torch light. He looked down on the body. The man was lying face down. He had been shot in the back. Cross turned him over with his foot, crouching down to look at the man’s face and unseeing eyes in the orange glow of the torch fires. It was the Duke of Clarsdale.

‘Sir,’ a soldier called and Cross looked up. A soldier staggered towards him, his blood soaked hand covering his nose.

‘Two of ’em got past me over there, sir,’ he burbled, pointing behind him.

Cross was immediately on his feet.

‘Follow me,’ he commanded the assembled soldiers and spun the injured man around, ordering him back to the exact spot. The soldier led them to where he was struck down. Cross shoved him aside and kept going to the edge of the summit. He drew his sword and began to descend, holding his torch out far to his side to scan the ground. The gorse was flattened in places, as if someone had tumbled down the slope. He quickened his descent.

Reaching the base he peered into the blackness beyond the light of his torch. He looked down and noticed a large dark patch in the grass at his feet. He played his torch over it and smiled. Blood. It was not over yet. He turned to the soldiers who had followed him down. There were more than a dozen of them.

‘Spread out along a line,’ he ordered, looking to each man in turn. ‘We can still catch them. But I warn you, I want these men taken alive. If any man fires without my command, I’ll see him whipped within an inch of his life.’

The soldiers nodded darkly and moved off, fanning out on either side of Cross. They advanced quickly, their torch lights sweeping the ground before them. Ahead of them the solid outline of the church of Saint Michael’s stood resolute in the darkness.

‘Enough,’ Father Blackthorne cried out. ‘Please, I can’t go on.’

Robert ignored his protests and dragged him the remaining few feet to the wall of the church. He slumped against it and Father Blackthorne cried out again as he dropped to the ground. Robert glanced over his shoulder. A line of torches was advancing towards them from the motte. There was little time. He crouched down, trying to slow his breathing and regain his strength. Father Blackthorne was weakening quickly and was already a dead weight. Robert looked around him frantically. The graveyard was a maze of tombstones but there was no place to hide. He had to go on. He made to haul Father Blackthorne up again but the priest feebly brushed his hand aside.

‘No, Robert,’ he gasped. ‘Leave me here.’

‘I can’t, Father,’ Robert replied, fearing for his confessor, the man who had been his guide for so long. ‘You know what those men will do to you if you are captured alive.’

‘They cannot hurt me, Robert,’ Father Blackthorne smiled and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m already near death. I feel God’s hand upon me.’

‘There’s still a chance,’ Robert protested, glancing up at the sound of voices approaching. The torches had nearly reached the edge of the graveyard. He looked down at the priest. His face was barely discernible in the darkness but after so many years Robert knew it intimately. He was suddenly overwhelmed by regret. His plan to contact his father had ended in total failure, at a terrible cost.

‘Forgive me,’ Robert said, reaching for the priest’s hand. ‘I used you so I could contact my father. I never thought something like this would happen.’

‘Robert,’ Father Blackthorne whispered fiercely. ‘It is I who should ask for forgiveness.’ He coughed violently and Robert held him as his body shuddered. ‘I was blinded by my ambition,’ he breathed. ‘I betrayed my sacred trust and withheld absolution from you when…’

Robert quietened him, not wanting to hear any more. The soldiers’ voices were growing louder. They were searching the ditch that bordered the edge of the graveyard.

Father Blackthorne drew Robert down.

‘I’m so tired.’ The pressure of his grip on Robert’s hand fell away to nothing. Robert squeezed the lifeless flesh.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he whispered, making the sign of the cross over the face of his confessor. He stood up and looked to the approaching torches. Half of them had now entered the graveyard. In less than a minute their light would reach the church walls.

Robert stared at the flames and saw the fire that consumed Captain Morgan and his crewmates on the Spanish galleon. Those behind the fire were the enemy and he felt a blind rage build within him. He whipped his sword from his scabbard and took a step forward when suddenly a figure emerged out of the darkness. Before he could react the tip of a blade was at his throat.

‘I should kill you,’ the man said.

Robert’s rage contracted at the sound of the voice. ‘And I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he replied venomously, waiting for the death strike.

It did not come. As the outer reaches of torch light briefly illuminated his father’s face, Robert saw his expression of uncertainty and anger.

‘Go ahead, strike me down,’ Robert hissed. ‘You took my life from me once. Why do you hesitate now?’

The light disappeared and darkness consumed them once more. Robert felt the weight of his sword in his hand. He could hear the sound of approaching voices and his own heart pumping in his ears. The outline of his father filled his vision and for a second he imagined him with the face of Father Blackthorne, his mind consumed with the loss of his confessor.

He felt the blade fall away from his throat. In the corner of his eye he saw nearby headstones awash with the approaching wall of light. They were seconds from discovery. He stared back at the outline of his father’s face. Why did he not strike? Robert remembered the tip of his own blade trembling at the throat of his father.

‘You should go.’

‘I will. But know this, Robert. One day soon I will return with the armies of Spain at my back. On that day you will regret the folly of your misplaced loyalty.’

‘We shall see.’ His killing urge was barely in check as he sidestepped warily away from his father, moving deeper into the darkness. Within a moment his father was lost from sight. Robert turned and began to run as the shouts rang out through the night. They had discovered the body of Father Blackthorne.