Armada

‘Right ye motherless offal,’ Larkin roared. ‘You’re not done yet. I want every gun cleaned out and made ready. Haul ’em in.’

On the quarterdeck Seeley watched the captain emerge from below. He looked satisfied and Seeley tried to anticipate what task he would set the deck crew. He glanced at Miller, but the master’s mate was deep in conversation with the boatswain. Seeley took a moment to study the man.

Over the autumn months he had formed a solid partnership with Miller, learning quickly to trust the older man’s experience. He had submitted to his judgement many times and Seeley could already sense Miller’s influence in how he handled ship operations.

He had had less success, however, in breaching the bond between Varian and Miller. The captain always issued his orders through Seeley but Miller had often second guessed those commands before they were given, knowing intimately how Varian liked to run his ship. Seeley had also learned, to his frustration, that Miller was not a religious man. He was God-fearing, as were all the crew, but he did not hate the Spanish because of their cursed religion. Miller had been a trader for all his life and his enmity towards the Spanish lay in their monopolies and arrogant claims to the new world that were a stranglehold on English commerce.

‘Report, Mister Seeley.’

‘All’s well, Captain. By your order, the sprit mast and sail have been re-rigged.’

Robert nodded and looked forward. In any collision with another ship, the spritsail would invariably be damaged and steering would be badly affected. Robert had wanted to ensure that the men could rig a new spritsail at sea. The sail was unfurled and looked to be correct but Robert decided to take a closer look. He went forward to the fo’c’sle.

The work was flawless. Robert turned to look back along the length of the Retribution and beyond to the western horizon. The winter sun was no more than two hours from the end of its day’s journey. It would soon be time to head back to Plymouth and a dread feeling of unease crept over Robert at the thought. It was the same feeling that had assailed him every day since the night time skirmish on the motte and his mind was filled once more with anxious questions.

Was Clarsdale still alive? Was his father still in England? Had he returned to Spain or had he been captured by the authorities? If he had, then he would surely reveal Robert’s assumed name under torture. Perhaps the authorities were waiting right now in Plymouth for his return. And how had they known of the meeting that night on the motte? Did they also know of Robert’s connection to Father Blackthorne? These were questions that Robert couldn’t answer and they haunted his thoughts by day and his dreams by night. He was being hunted but he couldn’t tell how close his pursuer was.

He had lived with the fear of discovery all his adult life. For weeks, even months, it remained deeply buried within him, but always it was there, rearing its head every time events beyond his control whipped the Protestant population into a frenzy of suspicion and hatred. Seeley was still determined to find the Catholic spy he believed was on board and Robert had heard that the master was questioning barkeepers in the taverns of Plymouth, asking them whether they had ever heard one of their regular customers, in a drunken stupor, refer to themselves as Young.

Seeley’s search was worrying but it paled in comparison to that of the authorities. These were obviously resourceful men. Thoughts of that night on the motte brought Father Blackthorne to mind and Robert’s apprehension twisted into anger. They had killed him in cold blood, an unarmed man, a priest, a man who had never brought harm to another. It was a callous murder and Robert immediately thought of the killing of the Spanish priest during the sack of Sagres.

How could he fight alongside these countrymen? The men in Sagres acted with a depravity and lawlessness that Robert had witnessed before in other sackings. They had been possessed by the ferocity of the moment, but the authorities who attacked the motte had laid their plans with care. Robert had ignited the chaos that started the skirmish and ultimately led to Father Blackthorne being shot but he knew that if they had been taken alive then they would certainly have been tortured and killed. These men answered directly to the council and the Queen. Robert had also pledged his loyalty to Elizabeth. How could he share a bond with countrymen who sought to destroy him?

A shift in the wind brought Robert’s thoughts back to the Retribution. His gaze instinctively ranged over the entire ship. During the previous months he had tried to consume his fears and doubts with work on board the galleon. The relentless training had forged deep within him a connection to the ship and his troubled thoughts eased as he felt the nimble hull respond to the change.

The weather was closing in and he looked to the four points of the compass. It was time to make for port. For a moment, Robert wondered if this would be the day when he would be met by armed soldiers on the dockside at Plymouth. There was little he could do in any event. His fate was in the hands of God. He shouted a course change to the quarterdeck to bring them home.

John Cross raised his head and gazed at the lancet window. The air was still inside the tiny Clarsdale family chapel and Cross allowed the solitude and peace to quieten his mind. He walked slowly to the altar and traced his hand along the smooth polished oak, whispering a prayer of thanks to God. Henceforth the chapel would only bear witness to those who were pure of soul. He gazed around one last time and then walked outside, closing the solid door behind him.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of hoar frost and Cross turned his face from the biting wind, walking towards the estate house. He looked across the valley to the hill opposite and the copse that straddled the crest. It looked cold and forbidding and Cross recalled the many days he had spent hiding there. Resentfully, he looked away.

The brittle grass crunched under his feet as he made his way around to the front door of the house. All was quiet and Cross paused for a moment at the entrance. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The hallway floor was covered in debris and animal droppings and Cross slowly gazed around the large interior space. Everything of value was gone.

All that Clarsdale had owned, his lands and possessions, had been forfeited to the Crown. His title had been revoked and his extended family had all been taken in for extensive questioning, an interrogation that had already caused the death of two of the older family members. The Crown forces had taken the pick of Clarsdale’s possessions but Cross could see numerous signs of vandalism where the local population had come to steal anything that they could. In many places the elaborate wood panelling had been ripped from the wall, no doubt to be used as firewood during the long winter. In such an isolated place there was no chance to defend the house against such marauding. It would only be safe when new owners acquired it from the Crown.

Cross shuffled through the debris and walked into the room that was once Clarsdale’s study. The door was gone, as were some of the window panes and the chill wind made the flotsam of paper that was strewn on the floor rustle and dance with every gust. Cross picked up the torn cover of a book; Christian Thoughts, Volume II. A sardonic smile lingered on his face for a moment before his mouth twisted in anger. He flung the cover into the lifeless hearth and stormed from the room.

He strode around the expanse of the house, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls and hollow rooms. He had come so close, he thought furiously, and the failure of his ambush burned in the pit of his stomach. Walsingham had been beyond rage when he had heard that Nathaniel Young had escaped his grasp. He had been on the brink of dismissing Cross from his post but Cross had convinced his superior that he still had a chance to capture his son Robert Young. Walsingham had eventually agreed but Cross was left in no doubt that his reputation and position had been damaged beyond repair.

He made his way back to the front door and paused on the threshold to glance once more at the gaping doorway of the study. He cursed. The Duke of Clarsdale would have been an invaluable captive, as would the heretic priest, but death had robbed Cross of even those prizes. He had ordered the two corpses to be buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground on the summit of the motte. It was the only measure of revenge he could take and it had brought him little comfort.

Cross left the house and made his way towards his horse. Over the previous months he had scoured the ports of the south coast of England and put all the agents stationed there on the alert for Nathaniel Young, less he try to hire or stow away on a ship departing to the continent. The search had been fruitless and Cross had conceded that the Duke of Greyfarne had either gone into hiding in England, in which case he might never be found, or he had by now found some way off the island of England. Cross’s only remaining lead was the search for Robert Young.