Armada (17 page)

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.