and he spat on the body at his feet, knowing that in the confusion the soldier had probably been killed in the crossfire by one of his own comrades.
The gun smoke was clearing slowly and Cross watched the men, silhouetted by torch light, move in every direction amidst the ruins. His ambush had been a disaster. He had thought that by surrounding and surprising the traitors they would submit quickly and quietly. But they had not. Instead they had turned the tables and Cross realized that whatever the outcome now, it would be worse than he had hoped.
‘Cross,’ he heard and Tanner approached with a group of soldiers.
‘Well?’ Cross asked.
‘The bastards shot dead two of our men and another was slain by a sword. Two more have bullet wounds.’
‘And the papists?’ Cross asked angrily, caring little for the soldiers. The fools had brought death upon themselves.
‘We got one,’ Tanner said, indicating over his shoulder.
‘Alive?’
Tanner smiled maliciously. ‘He’s dead.’
Cross brushed past him and walked quickly through the ruins. A group of soldiers was standing in a tight knot around a body.
One, Cross thought furiously. Out of four, and not even that one taken alive.
The soldiers separated as Cross approached, wary of his murderous expression in the torch light. He looked down on the body. The man was lying face down. He had been shot in the back. Cross turned him over with his foot, crouching down to look at the man’s face and unseeing eyes in the orange glow of the torch fires. It was the Duke of Clarsdale.
‘Sir,’ a soldier called and Cross looked up. A soldier staggered towards him, his blood soaked hand covering his nose.
‘Two of ’em got past me over there, sir,’ he burbled, pointing behind him.
Cross was immediately on his feet.
‘Follow me,’ he commanded the assembled soldiers and spun the injured man around, ordering him back to the exact spot. The soldier led them to where he was struck down. Cross shoved him aside and kept going to the edge of the summit. He drew his sword and began to descend, holding his torch out far to his side to scan the ground. The gorse was flattened in places, as if someone had tumbled down the slope. He quickened his descent.
Reaching the base he peered into the blackness beyond the light of his torch. He looked down and noticed a large dark patch in the grass at his feet. He played his torch over it and smiled. Blood. It was not over yet. He turned to the soldiers who had followed him down. There were more than a dozen of them.
‘Spread out along a line,’ he ordered, looking to each man in turn. ‘We can still catch them. But I warn you, I want these men taken alive. If any man fires without my command, I’ll see him whipped within an inch of his life.’
The soldiers nodded darkly and moved off, fanning out on either side of Cross. They advanced quickly, their torch lights sweeping the ground before them. Ahead of them the solid outline of the church of Saint Michael’s stood resolute in the darkness.
‘Enough,’ Father Blackthorne cried out. ‘Please, I can’t go on.’
Robert ignored his protests and dragged him the remaining few feet to the wall of the church. He slumped against it and Father Blackthorne cried out again as he dropped to the ground. Robert glanced over his shoulder. A line of torches was advancing towards them from the motte. There was little time. He crouched down, trying to slow his breathing and regain his strength. Father Blackthorne was weakening quickly and was already a dead weight. Robert looked around him frantically. The graveyard was a maze of tombstones but there was no place to hide. He had to go on. He made to haul Father Blackthorne up again but the priest feebly brushed his hand aside.
‘No, Robert,’ he gasped. ‘Leave me here.’
‘I can’t, Father,’ Robert replied, fearing for his confessor, the man who had been his guide for so long. ‘You know what those men will do to you if you are captured alive.’
‘They cannot hurt me, Robert,’ Father Blackthorne smiled and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m already near death. I feel God’s hand upon me.’
‘There’s still a chance,’ Robert protested, glancing up at the sound of voices approaching. The torches had nearly reached the edge of the graveyard. He looked down at the priest. His face was barely discernible in the darkness but after so many years Robert knew it intimately. He was suddenly overwhelmed by regret. His plan to contact his father had ended in total failure, at a terrible cost.
‘Forgive me,’ Robert said, reaching for the priest’s hand. ‘I used you so I could contact my father. I never thought something like this would happen.’
‘Robert,’ Father Blackthorne whispered fiercely. ‘It is I who should ask for forgiveness.’ He coughed violently and Robert held him as his body shuddered. ‘I was blinded by my ambition,’ he breathed. ‘I betrayed my sacred trust and withheld absolution from you when …’
Robert quietened him, not wanting to hear any more. The soldiers’ voices were growing louder. They were searching the ditch that bordered the edge of the graveyard.
Father Blackthorne drew Robert down.
‘I’m so tired.’ The pressure of his grip on Robert’s hand fell away to nothing. Robert squeezed the lifeless flesh.
‘
Robert stared at the flames and saw the fire that consumed Captain Morgan and his crewmates on the Spanish galleon. Those behind the fire were the enemy and he felt a blind rage build within him. He whipped his sword from his scabbard and took a step forward when suddenly a figure emerged out of the darkness. Before he could react the tip of a blade was at his throat.
‘I should kill you,’ the man said.
Robert’s rage contracted at the sound of the voice. ‘And I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he replied venomously, waiting for the death strike.
It did not come. As the outer reaches of torch light briefly illuminated his father’s face, Robert saw his expression of uncertainty and anger.
‘Go ahead, strike me down,’ Robert hissed. ‘You took my life from me once. Why do you hesitate now?’
The light disappeared and darkness consumed them once more. Robert felt the weight of his sword in his hand. He could hear the sound of approaching voices and his own heart pumping in his ears. The outline of his father filled his vision and for a second he imagined him with the face of Father Blackthorne, his mind consumed with the loss of his confessor.
He felt the blade fall away from his throat. In the corner of his eye he saw nearby headstones awash with the approaching wall of light. They were seconds from discovery. He stared back at the outline of his father’s face. Why did he not strike? Robert remembered the tip of his own blade trembling at the throat of his father.
‘You should go.’
‘I will. But know this, Robert. One day soon I will return with the armies of Spain at my back. On that day you will regret the folly of your misplaced loyalty.’
‘We shall see.’ His killing urge was barely in check as he sidestepped warily away from his father, moving deeper into the darkness. Within a moment his father was lost from sight. Robert turned and began to run as the shouts rang out through the night. They had discovered the body of Father Blackthorne.
CHAPTER 9
3rd December 1587. Barcelona, Spain.
Evardo wept as his eyes beheld the verdant slopes of the mountains that stood stark against the cobalt blue sky – the Serra de Collserola. Nestled beneath them the port of Barcelona slowly came into view. Evardo drank in
