Armada

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.

‘You must go now, Father,’ Clarsdale said, startling the priest. ‘I will have one of my men escort you to the edge of my lands. Will it take you long to reach Plymouth?’

‘Three, maybe four days,’ Father Blackthorne replied, gathering his wits. ‘I plan to meet Robert at our usual place.’

Clarsdale nodded. ‘Then go with God, Father. I will pray for your success.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ Father Blackthorne replied, slightly taken aback by the duke’s unusually genial farewell. He opened the door and crossed the threshold, then stopped suddenly, his head darting to the right.

‘What is it?’ Clarsdale asked from inside the room.

Father Blackthorne did not answer for a second and stayed still, listening. ‘I …’

He paused. ‘Nothing … it’s nothing.’

He closed the door behind him and walked across the hallway. He glanced back over his shoulder to the study door. Had he been mistaken? It was, after all a large house. Perhaps the noise had come from upstairs. He shrugged his shoulders and continued on. He could have sworn that when he opened the study door he had heard someone fleeing in haste from the hallway. The thought that his conversation with the duke might have been overheard was disquieting but before he could dwell on it further his senses were overwhelmed by the aromas of the kitchen. He hastened his step. The journey ahead would be long and devoid of comfort and he expectantly opened the door to the kitchen.

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited nervously on the main deck. His eyes were locked on the approaching longboat, and in particular on the individual sitting in the stern. John Hawkins was an austere looking man with a narrow, sombre face and despite his advanced age he looked formidable and strong. For many English sailors he was the embodiment of success and Robert had come to admire and respect him greatly in the years he had spent in his service.

At one time or another in his life Hawkins had been a merchant, a slave-trader and a privateer, but for the last ten years he had been treasurer of the royal fleet. In this position of power and influence he had slowly transformed the English navy. His ambitious building programme had spawned what many believed to be the finest warships afloat, the new ‘race built’ galleons. He had also modernized many of the existing capital ships, revolutionizing them by razing their fore and aft castles. Now the English fleet had a fearsome coterie of warships custom built for the coastal waters of England.

The longboat struck the hull of the Retribution with a heavy thud and Hawkins climbed deftly up the rope ladder to the main deck. Robert advanced to meet him with his hand outstretched and Hawkins took it with a firm grip.

‘Welcome aboard,’ Robert said.

‘I should be, it’s my ship,’ Hawkins replied with a smile. ‘How is she, Mister Varian? None the worse for my kinsman’s foray, I hope.’

‘She’s fighting fit,’ Robert replied proudly, calling Seeley and Shaw forward.

‘This is Thomas Seeley, the master, and Johannes Shaw, the boatswain.’

Hawkins reached for Seeley’s hand first. ‘This man I already know. It’s good to see you, Thomas. How is your father?’

‘He’s good, sir,’ Seeley replied.

Hawkins nodded genially and turned to the boatswain.

‘Shaw, eh?’ he said, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘You look familiar. Are you related to Peter Shaw, the master of the Hopewell?’

‘He’s my uncle,’ Shaw replied, pleased that a man of Hawkins’s stature should know one of his family.

‘A good man,’ Hawkins said, nodding slowly. He looked out over the rest of the assembled crew and noticed that many were not looking back at him but at their captain. He turned to Robert.

‘Back to their stations then, Mister Varian,’ he said tersely, ‘and join me if you will.’

Robert nodded to Seeley and the master scattered the crew.

Hawkins led Robert to the poop deck. In the brief seconds it took to ascend to the stern Robert felt his anxiousness rise again. From the day he had been promoted to captain by Drake, he had known that, as a field commission, his promotion would be subject to review once the fleet returned home. He had continually ignored the possibility of fate’s reversal, content instead to believe that his captaincy was official. Over the preceding months he had come to consider the Retribution as his own.

This illusion of permanence had been easy to maintain off the coast of Spain and on the return journey home. With a defeated enemy in the wake of the English fleet and the Retribution one of only nine ships that had stayed the course, Robert believed he had cause to be optimistic, but with each passing day in the calm of Plymouth harbour his confidence had slowly given way to the inevitable. The captaincy of a galleon such as the Retribution was not for a merchant’s son from Brixham. It was a position for a man of higher social status. The sheer injustice made Robert bristle.