Scrabbling back down the loose stone on the side of the motte, Robert headed towards the darkened outline of Saint Michael’s. He walked blindly, without seeing the path in front of him, his mind totally consumed by his father’s sudden and unexpected return into his life. A part of him hoped that Father Blackthorne was mistaken, that his father was not working with the Spanish, but his heart knew it was true. In many ways it seemed inevitable.
At twelve years old, his father’s involvement in a violent uprising against Elizabeth and its ultimate failure had changed Robert’s life irrevocably. Now Nathaniel Young’s seditious involvement with Spain was poised to change his life once more. But Robert was no longer a powerless boy. He was a man, and an Englishman at that. He would meet Clarsdale, but he would be damned if he would reveal any knowledge he possessed about the English fleet.
‘Which one of you pox-ridden buggers is Morales?’
Evardo rose slowly, using the cold stone wall behind him for support. He took a half step forward and stopped, looking down at his tattered clothes. His face hardened in disgust. The filthy straw that covered the floor of the prison had clung to him and he brushed it away. He pulled on the cuffs of his doublet and straightened his jerkin. The effort had little effect, but he straightened up and walked purposefully towards the door of the cell.
His fellow Spanish captives, nearly twenty of them in all, were lying listlessly against every wall. Some looked up at him with unseeing eyes as he passed. Nobody gestured nor spoke. They were all dishonoured men and none had sought friendship during the long weeks of captivity. He reached the stout wooden door where at head height a small opening framed the face of a bearded Englishman. He stared at Evardo with open hostility.
‘You Morales?’ he spat.
‘I am
‘
With limited English Evardo did not fully understand the taunt, but he recognized the tone. He refused to be baited, lifting his chin slightly to show his disdain. The Englishman growled menacingly and wrenched back the locking bolt.
‘Out,’ he barked, pulling open the door.
Evardo ducked his head through the doorway. The gaoler slammed the door shut and relocked it, then hawked and spat at Evardo’s feet.
‘Follow me,
‘State your full name, rank and last command.’
Evardo spoke with as much arrogance as he could muster. He felt nothing but contempt for these verminous commoners and detested being in their power. The official nodded as he tallied the answer spoken by Evardo with the notes he had in front of him.
‘You’re free to go.’
At first Evardo did not understand. He stared at the Englishman, who noticed his perplexed expression.
‘The ransom for your release arrived this morning,’ he explained irritably.
‘How?’ Evardo asked haltingly.
‘The man who brought the money is outside,’ the official said, indicating a door behind him. ‘Now begone with you, before we decide it’s safer to burn all you God-cursed papists.’
Evardo stepped back from the table. Alternating waves of anger and disbelief washed through him and he trembled with the effort of maintaining his self-control. A little over two months had passed since his capture and during that time revenge and hatred for the English had become an unquenchable fire within him. As he stood over this unwary, loathsome Englishman, Evardo was possessed by a powerful urge to throttle him to death. He balled his hands into fists and took a half step forward before reason stopped him. He was free. The plans he had dreamt about over the previous two months and the path he had vowed to take rushed to the front of his mind.
He stepped around the official and in a half-trance walked to the door. The official’s final words echoed in his mind and Evardo wondered who it was that brought the money from Spain. Suddenly he knew who it was. It could only be one man. Evardo’s heart raced with anticipation and joy.
‘Abrahan,’ he whispered as he pushed open the door, eager to see his friend and mentor.
The glare of the sun struck him like an open handed cuff and he brought his arm up to shield his eyes. Four pike-men stood on guard immediately outside the door. One turned around to glance indifferently at Evardo, then turned away again. Evardo saw the guards’ attention was on a group of women standing nearby. Some were crying and wailing and as Evardo watched, one of them staggered forward to plead with the guards.
Evardo looked beyond the group to the wider courtyard. It was an expansive area bounded by grey walls and beyond he could see the rooftops of the surrounding city of London. There were people milling in every direction across the open space but one solitary man caught his attention. He was standing still, directly ahead of him. Evardo squinted against the sunlight, his spirits lifting as he recognized the clothing of a Spaniard. The man stepped forward and Evardo started walking quickly forward to meet him.
Suddenly he stopped, his heart plummeting. It was not Abrahan, it was a Pedro Moreno, a senior servant from his family’s house in Madrid. Moreno was smiling as he ran the last few steps to stand before Evardo.
‘It is good to see you, senor. Truly, I thank the Madonna that you are safe.’
‘It is good to see you too, Pedro,’ Evardo replied reluctantly, before chastising himself for his lack of good grace. He reached out and clasped the servant’s shoulder, smiling gratefully. ‘Yes. I am glad to see you.’
Pedro thanked him but then his expression grew serious. ‘Come, senor,’ he said, looking over Evardo’s shoulder to the guards. ‘We should leave this place.’
Evardo nodded and followed Pedro across the courtyard toward an arched exit in the outer wall.
‘Tell me, Pedro. How did you get here so quickly?’
‘It was senor Miguel,’ Pedro replied with pride. Evardo’s eldest brother, the patriarch of the family. ‘From the moment he heard of your capture he began making arrangements for your release. Within a month he had secured passage for me on the fastest ship from La Coruna, along with diplomatic passes and the full ransom in gold.’
Pedro then began to tell the story of his journey in detail, from Madrid to La Coruna and onward to Dover and London where he was granted an audience with the Spanish ambassador, all on the strength of a letter he carried from Miguel. Evardo listened in silence while inside he burned with shame. Over the previous months he had yearned to be free but now he was faced with the cost of that freedom. How could he face his eldest brother and his family? How could he repay the influence and money spent securing his release?
The answer was immutable. He must secure the command of a galleon. It was the only way he could regain his honour. He would have to ask Miguel to canvass on his behalf. That his release from prison had been arranged so quickly was testament to the wealth and power of the family, but what Evardo was asking would require an altogether more denigrating approach. A new patron would be difficult to secure and Miguel would have to pay a heavy coin for someone to overlook Evardo’s defeat.
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
