Armada

But what was the God-cursed traitor’s real name? And where was he now? If he had gone into hiding with his father then he too might never be found. It was a frustrating thought but at least, Cross accepted, the danger of him acting as an informer would be neutralized. Perhaps he was braver than that, or a fanatic as many of these religious zealots were. He might have returned to Plymouth and taken up his post to continue his mission. Perhaps he had other contacts besides Clarsdale and the priest and was, at this moment, passing messages to his traitorous father in Spain.

The thought made Cross hasten his step and he mounted his horse and spurred him into a gallop over the hard ground. The ambush would have made Robert Young more wary, that much was certain, but no man could remain invisible whose very mission called for a position of prominence and importance. Cross was confident he would find him eventually and regain his reputation and standing amongst those who stood for loyalty to the Crown and the Protestant faith.

CHAPTER 10

9th April 1588. Lisbon, Portugal.

Evardo paced through the extended shadows in the small courtyard, his hand held loosely on the hilt of his sword. As he turned on his heel, he glanced at the stout wooden door on the east face. It remained firmly closed and Evardo wondered impatiently how much longer he would have to wait. The thought brought a wry smile to his face. After so long, he could suffer a further few minutes.

Passing through the centre of the courtyard he heard a clamour from outside and he looked to the arched entranceway that led to the docks. Men were rushing past the opening, many carrying provisions and arms, while heavily laden carts were being driven along the docks, whip cracks splitting the air. Evardo felt a rush of excitement and he gazed at the fraction of Lisbon harbour that was framed in the archway. It was choked with all manner of ships and Evardo felt his chest swell with pride.

Drake’s attack on Cadiz had severely wounded the Armada. His marauding had kept the squadrons apart and distracted the Empire with fears for the treasure fleets. Lesser nations would have lost their resolve in the face of such adversity but Spain had rallied magnificently. Preparations for the divine crusade had never ceased and now the Armada was once more a vital, living thing.

During his absence the Armada had been poised to sail a number of times, but supply problems and the winter months had forced delays. With shame, Evardo had thanked God for those setbacks, for despite their effects on Spain’s plans, the opportunity to fulfil his vow still remained.

Since his return to Spain almost four months before, his brother Miguel had worked tirelessly to secure Evardo a new command. His initial efforts however had been blocked by the Marquis of Santa Cruz, the commander of the Armada and owner of the Halcon. Then in February, to Evardo’s secret joy, Santa Cruz had died. The King had swiftly ordered another man into the breach, Don Alonso Perez de Guzman, the Duke of Medina Sidonia, one of the highest ranked nobles in the land. Unfettered by the marquis’s veto, Miguel was finally successful in securing a commission for his brother.

Evardo turned away from the archway and began pacing again. The heat of the day was rising and he moved deeper into the shadows. He glanced again at the closed door. He had been summoned to this place twice over the past week, both times to meet his new patron Diego Flores de Valdes, the commander of the squadron of Castile. On the previous occasion he had met Medina Sidonia.

The duke was an imposing figure and although he was not the warrior that Santa Cruz had been he was a brilliant administrator. At the time of Santa Cruz’s death in February the Armada had been languishing in a mire of supply problems and a chaotic schedule that was struggling to combine the diverse ships and ordinance that had been gathered from throughout the Empire. Medina Sidonia had worked tirelessly from his first day in command and under his firm hand the Armada had made a miraculous leap forward. The number of ships in the fleet had increased from 104 to 130 and the number of troops sailing had doubled to almost 19,000.

Many problems still remained however. De Valdes had shared some of them with Evardo, but he had not yet named the ship he was to command. Evardo had been forced to wait impatiently over the previous days, eager to encounter and solve the problems that surely awaited him on his new ship. The door finally opened and Evardo walked quickly towards it as an orderly came out to call him. After the heat of the courtyard, the interior was cool and Evardo removed his broad-brimmed hat, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The corridors were bustling with activity. Evardo sidestepped his way around tight knots of conversation and frantic runners as he followed the orderly to de Valdes’s office. A cursory knock on the door was followed by the command to enter and Evardo went inside alone.

Diego Flores de Valdes was seated in a high backed chair. He was nearly sixty years old but his dense black hair and moustache gave him the air of a younger man. He was an expert on naval tactics and had been personally appointed to the enterprise by the King to act as one of Medina Sidonia’s principal staff officers. Evardo nodded to him in welcome and then looked to the other man standing beside de Valdes, recognizing him immediately. He was Juan Martinez de Recalde, commander of the squadron of Biscay and second-in-command of the Armada. He was known as a cantankerous man, especially when plagued by his sciatica, but he was also respected as one of the most experienced naval officers in Spain. Evardo nodded to him in turn. De Recalde did not return the courtesy.

‘Comandante Morales,’ de Valdes began, looking down at the sheaves of paper that covered his desk. ‘Thank you for coming so promptly.’

‘Morales,’ de Recalde repeated with a contemptuous sneer. ‘The comandante who surrendered his ship at Cadiz?’

Evardo bristled at the remark but held his tongue. It would not benefit him to argue with such a high ranking officer and in any case it was not the first time he had been harangued over his role at Cadiz since returning to Spain. The whole country seemed to be looking for people to blame for that defeat and he had encountered disdainful stares and whispered conversations at every turn. On each occasion however he had striven to ignore them, concentrating instead on his objective. He looked at de Recalde out of the corner of his eye. The commander could have his opinion. Evardo’s commission had come at de Valdes’s request and had been approved by Medina Sidonia. He did not need de Recalde’s good graces.

‘I heard you gave up your sword in the midst of battle,’ de Recalde taunted, stepping forward from behind the desk. ‘I hope you will not repeat that act when we meet the English again.’

‘I defended my ship until the fight was lost,’ Evardo retorted angrily, his decision to remain silent forgotten. He took a half-step towards de Recalde. ‘I demand that you tell me who told you such a lie.’

De Recalde stepped up to Evardo and stared menacingly into the younger man’s eyes.

‘You can demand nothing of me, Morales. But if you must know, the man who told me of your surrender is the master of my flagship, the San Juan, Abrahan Delgado Vargas.’

The colour drained from Evardo’s face.

‘Abrahan?’ he whispered incredulously.

‘And I take Vargas at his word,’ de Recalde continued. ‘I’ve known the man forty years. We were fighting English pirates when you were still feeding at your mother’s pezon.’

‘Juan Martinez,’ de Valdes said abruptly, rising from his chair, anxious to put an end to the conversation. De Recalde was pushing Morales too hard. The last thing he needed was the irascible commander duelling with one of his comandantes. ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of allowing me to address my officer.’

De Recalde glanced over his shoulder at de Valdes. He grunted a reply and looked at Evardo one last time before brushing past him to leave the room.

‘He is a hard man, Morales,’ de Valdes said, indicating the door. ‘But you must not let such words affect you. Your brother has explained to me what happened at Cadiz, and in any case I knew your father and admired him greatly. I would trust any son of his in battle and your record before Cadiz was exemplary.’

Evardo nodded in gratitude, although de Valdes’s words gave him scant comfort.

‘I have decided on a ship for you,’ his patron said, picking up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Given your previous duty in the Flota de Indias, I am giving you command of one of the ships of the Indian Guard, the 530 ton galleon, Santa Clara. Here is confirmation of your commission.’

Evardo took the proffered paper.