Armada

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.’

Father Blackthorne frowned at Robert’s abrupt answer.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Robert said quickly, seeing the priest’s expression in the firelight. ‘It’s just that I need to be back at my ship before the start of the morning watch.’

Robert cursed his lapse. It was better for his confessor to believe that he was fully committed to his task.

‘Let us sit then, Robert. I trust you have much to tell me.’

‘I have, Father. The fleet at Plymouth …’

Suddenly Robert shot up.

‘What …?’ Father Blackthorne began but Robert quietened him with his hand.

‘Someone’s coming. Are you expecting anyone else?’

Father Blackthorne shook his head.

Robert drew his sword. He peered into the darkness and cocked his head slightly in the direction of the noise. He heard it again – the fall of loose stones. Someone was ascending the motte. He sensed Father Blackthorne rise behind but he did not look back, less the glow of the fire rob his night vision. The sky was cloudless but with a new moon the only light came from the blanket of stars that served to frame and highlight any shape that stood against the sky.

‘Sumus omnes.’

Robert did not reply.

‘In manu Dei,’ Father Blackthorne answered. Before Robert could curse him, the silhouettes of two men appeared.

‘Who are you?’ Robert demanded.

‘Put down your sword, boy.’ Robert recognized Clarsdale’s voice.

He sheathed his sword and they stepped into the firelight. Robert looked to the man with Clarsdale. For a moment they stared at each other’s faces.

‘Father?’ Robert whispered incredulously.

‘It is good to see you again, my son.’ Nathaniel extended his hand.

Robert glanced down and took it without thinking.

‘You’re here.’