Armada (14 page)

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.