Armada (19 page)

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.’