Armada (18 page)

‘Miller,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is good to see you well, old friend.’

‘And you, Captain,’ Miller replied, taking the proffered hand of his commander.

Robert led Miller through the door.

‘Sit down, man.’ Robert poured two tankards of grog. ‘Tell me, what news of the
Spirit
?’

‘She is in fine fettle, Captain,’ Miller replied with pride. ‘For the past month we have been ferrying supplies along the length of the south coast. From Dover to Portsmouth and here.’

Robert sat straighter in his chair at the mention of Dover and Portsmouth. His initial question had been innocently asked, but he suddenly realized that Miller had first hand knowledge of what capital, and other ships were stationed at each harbour. He hesitated, not wanting to ask the question that had immediately sprung to mind. He needed to contact his father, and Clarsdale’s report was the key. He could give the duke false information, but if his deception was discovered his only chance would be forfeit. Every fibre of his loyalty urged him to expose Clarsdale, while his desire to communicate with his father compelled him to do whatever it took to achieve his goal. He drank deep and the grog seared his throat. He put down his tankard and stared at Miller.

‘Drake keeps us at a state of readiness here in Plymouth,’ he began, the words coming slowly. ‘Is it the same at Portsmouth and Dover?’

‘I believe so, Captain. Certainly the amount of stores we are supplying to the galleons suggests they could be ready to sail with less than a day’s notice.’

Robert nodded. He watched Miller closely for signs that his question had aroused some suspicion but of course there was none. They had been shipmates for too long and Robert knew Miller would never think ill of him. He felt ashamed, but steeled himself. He had made his decision.

‘Tell me about these other galleons.’

Miller began to list off the ships he had seen in Dover and Portsmouth, adding incidental comments that his professional eye had noticed about the condition of each one. He spoke casually, believing the captain’s interest was merely professional curiosity. Robert refilled Miller’s tankard and remained silent as his mind catalogued each piece of information. All the while a part of his consciousness sought to quieten the bitter protest of his loyalty.

Nathaniel Young heard the crash of the surf through the dark. The longboat reared beneath him and accelerated down the swell of a wave. He glanced over his shoulder past the rowers to the running light of the Spanish galleon in the distance. It was faint but visible. Nathaniel looked back to the blackness of the coast. Where was the signal light of his contact? Looking skyward to the darker outline of the two conical hills that marked the rendezvous point, he reassured himself that he was in the right place.

Suddenly a light appeared directly ahead. The longboat reared again and the rowers deftly balanced the hull as the wave carried them forward. They spoke rapidly to each other in Spanish but Nathaniel ignored them, conscious that soon he would hear naught but his mother tongue. He focused on the light ahead. It was a storm lantern and it seemed to be sitting directly on the beach. No one stood within its illumination.

As the boat crashed through the surf, two of the crew jumped out into the waist deep water to guide the boat ashore. The hull touched sand and Nathaniel jumped over the gunwale. His feet touched solid ground and for a moment he stood still, savouring the moment. He strode forward towards the light but stopped short, crouching down and taking up a handful of sand he let it sift through his fingers. He was home.

‘
Señor
,’ a voice said in the darkness behind him. ‘We will leave you now. God speed.’

‘No, wait,’ Nathaniel commanded. ‘Wait until I am safely away.’

The reply was muttered in gutter Spanish. Nathaniel did not understand the words but he knew their portent. If his contact did not show immediately he would either have to leave with the Spaniards or stay alone. He walked quickly to the storm lantern and stood beside it.

‘I am Nathaniel Young,’ he called into the darkness.

He was answered with silence.

‘
Señor
, we go.’

Nathaniel spun around to protest but in the whiter shade of the crashing surf he saw the men were already clambering back into the boat. For a heartbeat he thought to follow but he stood resolute. There could be no going back. He looked around in the darkness and picked up the storm lantern, then began to walk further up the beach, pausing as his legs brushed against the marram grass above the storm line. He could go no further. There was little point, for his next move was supposed to be decided by his contact. Where in blazes was he? Surely he lit the storm lantern and placed it on the beach. Why did he then retreat? He was tempted to shout out again, but held his tongue. There was no way of knowing who was abroad and he did not want to attract unwanted attention.

The thought brought home the reality of his situation. He was home. This was England. But it was no longer his. The heretic Queen who controlled this land had branded him a traitor and made him an outcast. He had been reduced to fearing discovery by his own countrymen.

‘Enough!’ he shouted and he walked forward again, oblivious of his course.

‘Nathaniel Young,’ a voice called out. Nathaniel spun around in the direction of the cry.

‘Show yourself.’ Nathaniel’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

‘Stand easy, Young. It is I, Clarsdale.’

Nathaniel breathed with relief, which was quickly replaced by anger. ‘Why did you not show yourself before?’

‘I was wary of the boat load of men who brought you ashore,’ Clarsdale lied as he stepped into the light. ‘I thought for a moment that news of your arrival might have been discovered and those men were here to capture your contact.’

Clarsdale discerned a slight sneer of contempt from Young at his explanation. He ignored it. What did it matter if Young believed he was meek? It was better if Young continued to harbour a low opinion of him. Clarsdale hid his own scorn behind a neutral expression. He had let Young wait alone in the darkness to ensure the Duke of Greyfarne realized that without him he was just that – alone.

Clarsdale had debated coming himself to meet Young at the landing site. It was a significant risk. But if he had sent a servant with orders to escort Young to his estate, there was a chance the exiled duke might countermand those orders and have the servant guide him to another location. For his plan to succeed, Clarsdale had to strictly control Young’s movements from the start.

Clarsdale’s original plan, when Nathaniel Young was still in Spain, was to blackmail the exiled duke into revealing the identity of his contact in the Spanish hierarchy. He had intended to tell him that the agent he had secured was his son and if Young did not comply with his wishes Clarsdale would withhold communication between the two, or better yet, threaten to kill Robert. While Nathaniel Young had been in Spain he could have done nothing to protect his son and would surely have stepped aside and allowed Clarsdale unfettered access to the future masters of England.

But Young’s announcement that he was coming to England had thrown those budding plans into disarray. For all Clarsdale knew, Young was seeking to bypass Clarsdale and set up a direct link with the agent. And as soon as he found out their new ally was his son that idea would surely come of itself.

Then Clarsdale had realized the incredible opportunity that Young’s arrival would grant him. That the Duke of Greyfarne had ended his eighteen-year self-imposed exile spoke of the value Spain placed on the information they sought. Clarsdale had to act, swiftly and decisively. Nathaniel Young was still unaware of his son’s involvement. Whether he used subtle blackmail or manipulation Clarsdale still needed Young to reveal the name of his handler in Spain. Then he would reunite father and son to ensure Robert Young’s commitment to the task.

With the Duke of Greyfarne in England and within his grasp there was no need for Clarsdale to coerce him into stepping aside. There was an easier way now, one that would ensure Clarsdale would become the all important lynchpin for the valuable intelligence. He would simply kill Nathaniel Young.

10th August 1587. Dover, England.

E
vardo spat over the aft as the ship pulled away from the quayside. He turned his back on England and looked to the clear horizon ahead, taking solace from the fact that they were finally away. The journey thus far had not been easy. After leaving the prison grounds in London Pedro had revealed that although he had paid the ransom demanded by the English, he had been forced to pay further bribes to the prison guards and administrator to ensure Evardo’s prompt release.

Pedro had been left virtually penniless and so Evardo had gone directly to the Spanish ambassador in London to seek aid. The ambassador had refused to see him. Evardo had pressed for an audience, demanding to know why he was being rebuffed, when he noticed the contemptuous looks of the ambassador’s staff. No other explanation was needed. He was disgraced, and no senior Spaniard, certainly not an ambassador, wanted to be associated with him.

Evardo had left London and proceeded to Dover, eager to leave England immediately. The journey had taken nearly a week. They had travelled incognito, knowing their nationality made them a target, and had avoided human contact wherever possible. They had hoarded what little money they had. It would be needed to secure passage on a ship. Evardo had little English but he could speak French, and when they needed to buy food they had passed themselves off as French refugees.

Upon reaching Dover they had found the first available French ship sailing for Calais. It was a stinking barque but the French captain had asked few questions of his Spanish passengers, never looking beyond the silver pieces-of-eight that Evardo had given him.

Evardo glanced at the English capital ships as the French barque passed between them. Their lower, sleeker hulls were so different to the towering castles of Spanish galleons. From a distance it was hard to tell what ordnance they carried but it was well known these new ships were heavily armed. Evardo sneered derisively. Such firepower would matter little when they were grappled and boarded. Therein lay their weakness. Evardo looked forward to the day when he would show the English the depth of their folly.

He turned to the horizon as the barque slipped past the outermost ships in Dover harbour. Once in Calais, Evardo planned to make his way to Antwerp, either by boat or overland. There he would find out where the Duke of Parma was encamped with his army and make contact with his brother, Allante, one of the duke’s aides-de-camp. Asking for help would be an ignominious task but it was the only way he could get himself, and Pedro, home to Spain.

Dressed as he was, in tattered rags, it would be humiliating to walk into the camp of the Army of Flanders. Tough, professional and experienced, they were the most feared army in the world. Allante, like his eldest brother Miguel, was sure to help him but as with Miguel, Evardo dreaded the encounter.

He glanced over his shoulder at the diminishing outlines of the English warships and beyond to the mammoth white cliffs that flanked the port of Dover. It was an impressive sight but Evardo drew no pleasure from it. He turned his back once more. England would wait, secure in her conceited confidence, until he returned.

Nathaniel Young stared out the window of the study, captivated by the view. His finger traced the outline of the distant horizon on the glass. The Duke of Clarsdale’s estate was so green. It was the English countryside he had pictured in his mind so many times over the previous two decades, the lush fertile land that was so different to the arid soil of his home in exile.

The door opened behind him and he turned to see Clarsdale and his butler enter. Nathaniel stared at the servant. The man held his gaze for a second before looking away. The butler, Nichols, unnerved him. Nathaniel needed to keep the number of people who knew he was back in England to a minimum.

The night before, Clarsdale had led him from the beach to a quiet back road. A servant, the duke’s groomsman, was waiting there with horses and the three of them had ridden away with as much haste as the darkness allowed. They had arrived at Clarsdale’s estate an hour before dawn and Nathaniel had been shown to a bedroom by the butler, where he found food and warm water waiting for him. Nathaniel had tried to relax in the solitude of his room but he could not. Two wearisome hours passed before Nichols arrived back to escort him to Clarsdale’s study.

‘See that we’re not disturbed, Nichols,’ Clarsdale said. The butler nodded to his master and left the room, closing the door behind him.

‘You trust him?’

Clarsdale glanced at the closed door.

‘I trust all my household staff. Need I remind you, Young, I have survived thirty years of Elizabeth’s reign in the midst of her realm.’

Not safely in exile in some godforsaken foreign land, Clarsdale was tempted to add, but he held his tongue. He could not afford to be at odds with Young, not yet. Since deciding to kill Young Clarsdale had been possessed with an impatience to act, to rid himself of the man who obstructed his path to the Spanish hierarchy, but he knew he had to wait until Young had met his son and secured him as an agent. Only then would the duke be expendable.

‘In any case,’ he added genially. ‘For your safety I have ordered my entire household staff to remain in the house for the duration of your stay.’

Nathaniel nodded in gratitude, although Clarsdale’s assurances meant little to him. It was Clarsdale’s incompetence that had forced his return to England. Nathaniel felt nothing but apprehension when he thought of how much his safety and the success of his mission relied on the duke. Clarsdale bade him sit but he shook his head. Although he felt lightheaded with fatigue he still preferred to stand.

‘So, have you managed to secure an ally to our cause in the navy?’