Armada (11 page)

‘The ship is secure, Captain,’ Seeley said, coming up to the quarterdeck. His frame was lean and drawn from the rigours of the previous weeks.

‘Very well,’ Robert replied. ‘Have the men stand down. Mister Powell will need to see each of them before any can disembark to make sure none of them have ship-fever.’

The master nodded. He ordered the ship’s surgeon to the main deck, then called the boatswain to come aft.

‘Captain,’ Seeley began, as Shaw arrived, ‘I would like to question the men one last time before they disembark.’

Robert tried to hide his irritation, but he saw the master’s expression change to a frown of annoyance and knew his own face had betrayed him.

Since the discovery of the idols, Seeley’s search for the Catholic on board had been relentless. Every crewman had been subjected many times to Seeley’s questions while Shaw had assisted his efforts, watching the crew in their unguarded moments below decks when off watch. Many of the crew had reacted with fury when they had first heard of the traitor amongst them. They had vowed to help the master hunt him down but Seeley had refused to trust anyone on board. His obstinate suspicion had eventually put the entire crew on edge, exacerbating the fleet-wide scourges of disease and short supplies.

Robert had been on the cusp of ending the hunt many times, but on each occasion he had hesitated, unsure if his motivation was to guard the dwindling morale of his crew or his own safety. The responsibilities of his rank had continually decided the issue, but at the cost of his patience at Seeley’s ever increasing obsession to cleanse the
Retribution
of treachery. This final request to question the exhausted crew could not be countenanced.

‘This is our last chance,’ Seeley said. ‘Once the traitor goes ashore he is bound to disappear.’

‘We might still catch him, Captain,’ Shaw added, his own enthusiasm for the hunt fuelled by frustration.

‘No,’ Robert said, ‘there will be no further questioning.’

Seeley was about to protest but Robert held up his hand.

‘You are dismissed, Mister Shaw,’ he said to the boatswain. ‘Inform the men of the morning and fore-noon watches that they may go ashore.’

Shaw hesitated for a second before nodding his assent and leaving the quarterdeck.

Robert drew Seeley over to the bulwark. ‘You have done enough, Thomas,’ he said soothingly, taking a different tack, ‘and God has brought us home safe. Be content with that.’

‘But a traitor still walks amongst us,’ Seeley replied vehemently, glancing unconsciously over his shoulder to the assembled men on the main deck.

‘The man you seek might have fallen at Lagos, or may have been one of those who succumbed to fever and was buried at sea.’

Seeley shook his head. ‘I searched all the belongings of every man who died and found nothing, no further evidence.’

He paused for a moment, searching the captain’s face. ‘Don’t you want to catch the traitor?’ he asked accusingly.

Robert felt his temper flare up but he held it in check. ‘Of course I do, Thomas,’ he said, endeavouring to sound sincere, a hard edge to his voice. ‘But I also have a duty to the crew. They have endured much and deserve to be stood down.’

Seeley could not understand the captain’s priorities. How could he allow for even the slightest possibility that the traitor might escape. The captain was Protestant. Did he not feel the fury that burned in Seeley’s chest at the thought of a Roman Catholic spy amongst them?

Seeley understood the hardships the crew had endured. He had felt them too, but such mortal suffering was nothing to the torments that would befall those who did not tirelessly prosecute the heretic. No one could ignore the warning in Revelations; that those who were neither cold nor hot, but lukewarm in their actions, would be spat out by God.

‘
Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord
,’ he quoted, desperate to persuade the captain to grant him permission. ‘I tell you, Captain, the Roman Catholic fiend is still alive and even now his breath befouls us all. I must be given one last chance.’

‘They are to be given shore leave in watches,’ Robert said coldly, his patience at an end, knowing that Seeley would not relent. ‘I forbid you from questioning them again. Is that understood?’

The corner of Seeley’s mouth twitched in anger and for a moment he stared into Robert’s eyes. ‘Yes, Captain,’ he growled and strode from the quarterdeck.

Robert watched him go below, his own anger burning the back of his throat. He looked out over Plymouth again, trying to recapture the consolation he had felt only minutes before. It was gone. The veneer had been shattered by Seeley and now the thoughts that had haunted him since the attack on Sagres came back once more. ‘God has brought us home safe. Be content with that,’ he had said to Seeley, but the words were as hollow to him as they had been to the master. Home was not Plymouth. Home was twenty miles east, in Brixham. Robert decided that he would travel there the moment he was relieved of his duty.

The enormous estate house stood nestled on the slope of a vale deep in the heart of Devon. Woodland flanked it on both sides while to the front an ornate garden ran down to the small river that flowed along the valley floor. It was a magnificent house with soaring windows that spoke of the wealth of its owner. The surrounding woodlands hid the myriad buildings attached to the estate save for the spire of a family chapel that reached above even the tallest trees.

On the crest of the opposing slope a copse overlooked the valley floor. It was heavily overgrown with bramble bushes and ferns. Just inside its boundary a man stood motionless. He was John Cross, an agent of the Crown who reported directly to one of the Queen’s closest advisors, Sir Francis Walsingham.

With a steady gaze Cross looked across the breadth of the estate buildings and he smiled contemptuously at the overt display of faith that was the family chapel, vowing silently that one day he would visit the chapel and thank God for the demise of its owner.

A loud snort echoed from the trees behind him and Cross spun around. His horse was tethered some twenty yards away. Cross picked up the sounds of approach a moment later and his hand fell to the pistol in his belt. He crouched slightly, his every sense on alert as he tried to read the sound. He saw a flash of dark clothing, and another, and a figure emerged from the dense undergrowth. Cross straightened up slightly, recognizing the man, but he remained wary, his eyes darting around to ensure he was approaching alone.

‘You’re late,’ he cursed.

‘Beg you pardon, sir,’ the man replied penitently. ‘But I couldn’t get here faster. The good weather has every gardener and gamekeeper abroad.’

Cross grunted angrily. He had been waiting for nearly an hour, a reckless amount of time. His discovery could have disastrous consequences. He stared stonily at the older man as he covered the remaining yards. ‘Well?’

‘The priest was last here nearly two months ago. I let him in myself through the kitchen door. He met with the duke in his private study.’

‘Tell me everything you heard,’ Cross said distractedly, expecting to hear little of any import. The duke was a minor threat, a peripheral player. Cross’s surveillance was merely routine.

The man’s name was Nichols, and his family had been in the service of the Duke of Clarsdale for three generations. Nichols was the duke’s butler, while his wife and three sons were also in the employ of the estate, although Cross had never met them, nor knew if they were aware of Nichols’s clandestine activities. The butler relayed the entire conversation between the duke and the priest with remarkable attention to detail. As he spoke, Cross stepped forward instinctively, the substance of the report was more important than he had imagined.

‘This was their only private meeting?’

‘Yes, the priest stayed only one night. The entire household, including the duke, attended mass shortly after dawn the next day. The priest left immediately after.’

Cross noticed how sneeringly Nichols said mass. His hatred for the ceremony was obvious, made more acute by the fact that he had to masquerade as a faithful Roman Catholic. Cross admired the butler. The risks he himself took were significant but in serving the Crown Nichols had placed his entire family in harm’s way.

Cross asked Nichols to repeat the latter half of the conversation, stopping him at points to question him further. The answers were disturbing. Clarsdale’s plan to build a private army to meet a Spanish invasion was troublesome but not critical. Such a force had been part of nearly every plot that involved a foreign power. A pre-emptive gathering of men would be difficult to conceal however, and could be neutralized long before a Spaniard appeared on the horizon. The duke’s request for an informer in the English fleet was a more alarming prospect. This one man had the potential to be more damaging than a thousand men-at-arms. The composition, deployment and strength of the fleet had to remain secret from the Spanish.

Clarsdale’s request also meant he was in more direct contact with the Spanish than Cross had believed. But through which route? There were a number of prominent English traitors working with the Spanish hierarchy in Spain. Any one of them could be Clarsdale’s handler.

‘The priest hasn’t returned since?’ he asked Nichols.

‘No.’

‘When is he due next?’

‘A week after the new moon, perhaps ten days from now.’

Cross nodded. There was a little time.

‘Listen,’ he said, leaning in closer to Nichols. ‘The last of the fleet arrived back in Plymouth three days ago. It is possible the priest will be able to secure his man before he meets with the duke. He will have other news, numbers, maybe even names of the men he has acquired as soldiers. Ignore this information. Concentrate only on finding out the name of the informer.’

Nichols nodded.

‘Now go. I will be here every day at noon for one hour on the week after the priest is due.’

The butler moved away through the undergrowth. Within a minute Cross was left with only the sounds of nature. He looked to the estate house again. Clarsdale was cleverer than he had believed, and far more connected than he had ever suspected. That the duke was secretly a Roman Catholic had been known for some time and when Nichols had quietly made it known to the local Protestant dean that he was willing to spy on Clarsdale, Cross had received the news with only minor interest. He had set up the initial meetings, wary at first of the butler because his information was unsolicited. He had searched for signs of subterfuge at each meeting. He had found none however, and confident of his judgement and experience, he had come to trust the butler, although his information to date had only confirmed what Cross had long held: that the duke was merely a sympathizer and not an active conspirator.

Now all was changed. Walsingham would need to be informed immediately. Cross walked quickly to his horse and mounted her in one fluid sweep, walking her through to the other side of the copse before spurring her to a full gallop out into the open field beyond.

Father Blackthorne stretched out his arms and gazed up at the east facing window. His voice rose above the murmur of his congregation and his words soon dominated the tiny enclosed room. He narrowed his eyes against the white glare of the morning sun streaming through the plain opaque glass. In his imagination, he pictured a beautiful stained glass image depicting the crucifixion of Christ. It was the window in Saint Anne’s, the little church where he had celebrated his first mass as an ordained priest some thirty-five years before. The image was forever close to his heart, a reminder of the times when he had been able to observe his faith in public.

‘
Ite missa est
,’ he intoned, ending the mass. As the congregation responded, he led them in the last Gospel, striving as always to draw strength from the verses of Saint John, seeking the courage and hope to go on.

Why? To what end?
He immediately tried to suppress the thought, angry at himself for questioning his lot. Father Blackthorne was shamed by the unexpected lapse in devotion, the moment of weakness, and yet the voice refused to quieten.
For the true faith.
But the answer could no longer stifle the gnawing protests from his body and mind at the hardships he was forced to endure; the hunger and deprivation, the constant fear of capture that whittled away his nerve.

Again he tried to recapture the ardour and confidence he had felt in the first years after Elizabeth’s coronation, when he secretly returned to England to fight the reformation of the church. However that was almost three decades ago. He was a young man then, but that strength was gone forever. Now only hope remained. He pushed his doubts to the recesses of his mind as the final words of the service were spoken.

Father Blackthorne blessed himself and, rising slowly, turned to the four people knelt behind him. He nodded to them with a smile and they rose up, coming to him in turn for an individual blessing – Catherine and William Varian first, then their two servants.

The servants immediately took their leave and Father Blackthorne invited the couple to sit once more.

‘That was a beautiful service,’ Catherine said. The tone of her words suggested to Father Blackthorne that she somehow understood, and perhaps shared, his inner fears. He took comfort from the belief.

‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he replied, taking her hand in his, feeling less alone. He saw William glance towards the door. He was a tall man with a full beard and balding pate. When he looked back to the priest, and noticed that his glance had been observed, he coloured slightly. Father Blackthorne smiled.

‘There’s still time, William,’ he said kindly.

‘Forgive me, Father, my mind should not wander to such things in this place.’

‘It’s all right. You must protect your family.’

William nodded and Father Blackthorne reached out with his other hand, placing it on William’s forearm.

The daily Protestant service would begin at 7 a.m. in Brixham town church and William would be expected to attend, as were all the prominent men of the town. It was a duality that Father Blackthorne knew he should condemn but in his heart he could not. William Varian was entirely faithful to the Catholic creed and Father Blackthorne understood that his survival, and the welfare of his family, depended on his outwardly cherishing the Protestant faith.