Armada (15 page)

‘You must go now, Father,’ Clarsdale said, startling the priest. ‘I will have one of my men escort you to the edge of my lands. Will it take you long to reach Plymouth?’

‘Three, maybe four days,’ Father Blackthorne replied, gathering his wits. ‘I plan to meet Robert at our usual place.’

Clarsdale nodded. ‘Then go with God, Father. I will pray for your success.’

‘Thank you, your grace,’ Father Blackthorne replied, slightly taken aback by the duke’s unusually genial farewell. He opened the door and crossed the threshold, then stopped suddenly, his head darting to the right.

‘What is it?’ Clarsdale asked from inside the room.

Father Blackthorne did not answer for a second and stayed still, listening. ‘I …’

He paused. ‘Nothing … it’s nothing.’

He closed the door behind him and walked across the hallway. He glanced back over his shoulder to the study door. Had he been mistaken? It was, after all a large house. Perhaps the noise had come from upstairs. He shrugged his shoulders and continued on. He could have sworn that when he opened the study door he had heard someone fleeing in haste from the hallway. The thought that his conversation with the duke might have been overheard was disquieting but before he could dwell on it further his senses were overwhelmed by the aromas of the kitchen. He hastened his step. The journey ahead would be long and devoid of comfort and he expectantly opened the door to the kitchen.

Robert shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited nervously on the main deck. His eyes were locked on the approaching longboat, and in particular on the individual sitting in the stern. John Hawkins was an austere looking man with a narrow, sombre face and despite his advanced age he looked formidable and strong. For many English sailors he was the embodiment of success and Robert had come to admire and respect him greatly in the years he had spent in his service.

At one time or another in his life Hawkins had been a merchant, a slave-trader and a privateer, but for the last ten years he had been treasurer of the royal fleet. In this position of power and influence he had slowly transformed the English navy. His ambitious building programme had spawned what many believed to be the finest warships afloat, the new ‘race built’ galleons. He had also modernized many of the existing capital ships, revolutionizing them by razing their fore and aft castles. Now the English fleet had a fearsome coterie of warships custom built for the coastal waters of England.

The longboat struck the hull of the
Retribution
with a heavy thud and Hawkins climbed deftly up the rope ladder to the main deck. Robert advanced to meet him with his hand outstretched and Hawkins took it with a firm grip.

‘Welcome aboard,’ Robert said.

‘I should be, it’s my ship,’ Hawkins replied with a smile. ‘How is she, Mister Varian? None the worse for my kinsman’s foray, I hope.’

‘She’s fighting fit,’ Robert replied proudly, calling Seeley and Shaw forward.

‘This is Thomas Seeley, the master, and Johannes Shaw, the boatswain.’

Hawkins reached for Seeley’s hand first. ‘This man I already know. It’s good to see you, Thomas. How is your father?’

‘He’s good, sir,’ Seeley replied.

Hawkins nodded genially and turned to the boatswain.

‘Shaw, eh?’ he said, his eyes narrowing in thought. ‘You look familiar. Are you related to Peter Shaw, the master of the
Hopewell
?’

‘He’s my uncle,’ Shaw replied, pleased that a man of Hawkins’s stature should know one of his family.

‘A good man,’ Hawkins said, nodding slowly. He looked out over the rest of the assembled crew and noticed that many were not looking back at him but at their captain. He turned to Robert.

‘Back to their stations then, Mister Varian,’ he said tersely, ‘and join me if you will.’

Robert nodded to Seeley and the master scattered the crew.

Hawkins led Robert to the poop deck. In the brief seconds it took to ascend to the stern Robert felt his anxiousness rise again. From the day he had been promoted to captain by Drake, he had known that, as a field commission, his promotion would be subject to review once the fleet returned home. He had continually ignored the possibility of fate’s reversal, content instead to believe that his captaincy was official. Over the preceding months he had come to consider the
Retribution
as his own.

This illusion of permanence had been easy to maintain off the coast of Spain and on the return journey home. With a defeated enemy in the wake of the English fleet and the
Retribution
one of only nine ships that had stayed the course, Robert believed he had cause to be optimistic, but with each passing day in the calm of Plymouth harbour his confidence had slowly given way to the inevitable. The captaincy of a galleon such as the
Retribution
was not for a merchant’s son from Brixham. It was a position for a man of higher social status. The sheer injustice made Robert bristle.

Robert believed that command of the
Retribution
would have afforded him, for the first time in his life, a real chance to make a name for himself beyond his already established reputation as a skilled sailor in Hawkins’s merchant fleet. Two years previously, his low social rank had excluded him from Drake’s raid on the Spanish Main in the Caribbean, a lengthy campaign where higher-born men like the previous captain, Morgan, had made their names.

On reaching the poop deck, frustration consumed him. If only he could be given more time to prove his worth to his superiors. Despite his converse religious beliefs he truly felt he was the best man to permanently command the
Retribution
. As Hawkins turned to face him, Robert steeled himself to argue his case. It was surely a lost cause, he knew that, but Robert couldn’t allow his best chance to restore his family name and honour to slip through his grasp without a fight.

‘Mister Varian,’ Hawkins began, but then paused. He turned and walked to the gunwale. ‘What to do with you?’ he said, looking out over the harbour.

‘I don’t understand, sir,’ Robert replied taken aback, his opening argument dying on his lips.

‘Your command, lad, your captaincy of the
Retribution
.’ Hawkins turned once more and walked back to Robert. ‘I know your mettle, Varian, I would not have made you captain of one of my merchantmen, or indeed master of the
Retribution
, if I had not. But then you do a damn fool thing and charge down that Spanish counterattack on the
Halcón
.’

‘Sir?’

‘You brought yourself to the attention of my kinsman, Drake. Then he went and did another damn fool thing and promoted you captain of my ship.’

‘But sir, I …’

Hawkins suddenly smiled and slapped Robert on the shoulder. ‘And now I’m going to do a damn fool thing and confirm that command.’

Robert could not take in the words.

‘I saw strength in you from the beginning and by God you proved me right at Cadiz. Now that Drake has seen it too, the
Retribution
is yours to command.’

‘But how can I, sir?’ Robert said, speaking aloud the thoughts that had most haunted him. He did not pause to gather himself, to think that he was arguing against that which he longed for most. ‘Surely the captaincy must be awarded to someone of a higher social rank?’

Hawkins smiled ruefully. ‘Don’t think I’m not aware of that problem, Varian. In fact I still had my doubts when I came on board. But then I saw something that settled the matter. The men look to you, Varian. They respect you. That counts for a great deal in a captain.’

Robert stayed silent this time, not daring to speak again. As the news began to sink in, he smiled slightly. Hawkins noticed the change and frowned.

‘Be mindful, Varian,’ he warned. ‘I freely confirm Drake’s decision. Although this ship is mine, the
Retribution
remains in the service of the Queen. I will need to convince the Privy Council of the wisdom of my choice. I have Drake’s endorsement, which carries a lot of weight. He too comes from humble origins and commands the entire fleet. You have proved yourself worthy in mine and Drake’s eyes, but now you must put our decision beyond all reproach.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Robert replied solemnly. Did this mean his command remained as precarious as it was before?

Hawkins nodded, satisfied. As he departed the
Retribution
, Robert remained at the gunwale and watched the longboat pull away until it was lost from sight behind another galleon. The captaincy was his, bestowed by Drake and confirmed by Hawkins – but it was still there for the taking by another, until he could fully justify the faith of his commanders.

The crew was his first priority. The
Retribution
was in need of a master’s mate, and Robert immediately thought of Tobias Miller of the
Spirit
. He trusted Miller completely and would need him in the months ahead.

In building the
Retribution
, the shipwrights of England had created a warship that finely balanced a fearsome arsenal of cannon with the sailing abilities of a predator. Robert would need to master that balance if he was to retain his command. The
Retribution
was his, and he silently vowed to do whatever it would take to keep her.

Nichols cursed loudly as he fell heavily for the third time on the wet grass. He looked down at his mud covered breeches and for a brief second wondered how he would explain his appearance should he encounter anyone. He clambered to his feet and continued to run up the hill. The copse was dead ahead, only fifty yards away. He prayed he was not too late, knowing the value of the information he held.

Nichols crashed through the rain soaked undergrowth and stopped suddenly. He cocked his head to listen but his own laboured breathing and the sound of his heart filled his ears. He held his breath to still them but the effort caused him to cough violently.

‘Over here,’ he heard a voice hiss and he pushed towards it. He saw Cross a moment later standing by his horse, seemingly poised to mount. He was looking beyond Nichols into the trees behind him.

‘What news?’ he asked. ‘Has the priest come?’

‘Two days ago,’ Nichols replied.

‘And?’

‘The traitor’s name is Robert Young.’

Cross slammed a fist into his open palm in triumph. ‘Tell me everything.’

Nichols began to speak, recalling the meeting between the duke and Father Blackthorne with his usual attention to detail.

‘The son of Nathaniel Young,’ Cross breathed, putting his hand up to silence the butler. Nathaniel Young was near the top of almost every list Cross had ever seen of prominent traitors who were believed to be active on the continent. But he had never heard of his son, or even knew one existed.

‘You’re sure that is what the priest said?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Nichols replied tetchily, eager to continue his story. His next words caused Cross to interrupt again. ‘Sacred Heart of Jesus. Nathaniel Young is Clarsdale’s contact in Spain?’

Nichols made to reply but Cross indicated for him to continue. Cross barely registered the final part. All he could think of was the contact that had been exposed. Tasked with a mission as important as discovering the movements and strategy of the English navy, Nathaniel Young was surely near the centre of power in Spain. Maybe he even had the ear of Philip himself.

‘The priest did not say what position this Robert Young holds in the navy?’

‘No. And he does not go by that name. Father Blackthorne said he adopted the name of the family who took him in after his father fled into exile.’

‘And the priest did not mention their name?’

‘No,’ Nichols replied irritably. ‘If they had I would already have told you.’

Cross made to reprimand Nichols for his insubordinate tone but he thought better of it. The butler had proved valuable beyond all expectations, and he needed to keep him firmly on side.

Cross turned and walked over to his horse, stroking her mane absentmindedly as he tried to think of the best way forward. Walsingham would have to be informed. That was paramount, but Cross knew his first question would be the one now foremost in his own mind. What was Robert Young’s real name? And what was his position in the navy? This Robert Young might not even be in the navy. He could be an official in Plymouth, one who might be privy to the strategic and tactical plans of the fleet. There was one man who knew who Young really was – the priest – but how to get the information from him? He alone was the contact between Robert Young and Clarsdale. Until the two men met, the priest would have to remain untouched. Cross turned back to Nichols.

‘You have done well. Now go back to the house. The priest is sure to return soon with Robert Young, and when he does you must try your utmost to discover his name, or at least set eyes on him somehow. I am leaving now but I’ll return here in a week. I will be in this copse every second day at noon should you need to find me.’

Nichols nodded and left without another word.

Cross watched him go and waited for the woods to become quiet again before mounting up. Threading his horse through the undergrowth, he stopped on the far side of the copse, his eyes ranging over the mist covered fields beyond. He had set Nichols a task, and prayed for his success, but in the meantime he would try to supplant him. He must travel to Plymouth and try to uncover this traitor’s real identity himself.

25th July 1587. Saint Michael’s Church near Plymouth.

R
obert reached out with his hand as his foot slipped on the scree, pausing for a moment near the top of the motte. He looked over his shoulder. The sun was setting behind Saint Michael’s church and the whole building glowed. It was a captivating sight, and Robert’s eyes were drawn to the windows of the nave and the filtered light that shone through the diamond shaped panes onto the field separating the church from the motte. He was suddenly conscious of how visible he was on the exposed hillside, and he continued hastily up the slope.