Armada (4 page)

Robert heard the cries of alarm and looked up. His brief elation for the recovery of the
Retribution
’s course was immediately forgotten. Shaw clung to the ratlines at the edge of the shrouds with his right hand while Foster hung by his left hand beneath him. The sailor flailing his legs in panic and his free hand clawed at Shaw’s wrist as if trying to drag him down. Robert reacted without thought, racing down to the main deck and the base of the shrouds, shouldering past the crewmen who stared in horror at the men above, many of them shouting hopeless counsel. He jumped up onto the bulwark and climbed up the shrouds, his eyes darting between his feet and hands to the men hanging above him.

The wind tore at his body, the rain lashed his face and Robert blinked rapidly to try to clear his vision. Foster’s screams came to his ears, desperate cries that even the howling gale could not hide. He could also hear Shaw’s entreaties, trying to quell Foster’s panic, yelling at him to grab the underside of the shrouds with his free hand. But Foster was oblivious to all help, his fear-ridden instincts controlling him and he clung to Shaw’s left hand.

‘Shaw!’ Robert called as he approached. The boatswain looked to him for the first time. His face was mottled red with exertion, his eyes wild, and Robert could see the muscles of his arm tremble with the effort of holding himself to the ratlines and Foster from his death.

The
Retribution
bucked through the crest of a larger wave, its bow coming up short for a heartbeat before driving through into the trough, the rhythm of the galleon’s roll spoiled by a larger wave. All three men were caught unawares and their weight was thrown forward. Robert tightened his grip and held his footing but in that instant Shaw’s feet slipped and he swung around the edge of the shrouds. His right hand held firmly on the ratline but Foster was wrenched from his left and the sailor screamed as he fell through the rain to slam into the main deck forty feet below.

Robert scrabbled the last few feet to Shaw, his eyes locked on the boatswain’s precarious grip on the ratlines. Shaw swung out over the deck, his own gaze fixed on the shattered body of Foster below, while the constant waves mercifully washed the deck of blood.

‘Hold fast,’ Robert shouted and again the boatswain looked to him, this time his eyes betraying his fear.

‘I can’t …’ he shouted and Robert reached out desperately as he saw the boatswain’s grasp fail.

He grabbed Shaw’s hand just as his grip gave way. The weight of the boatswain slammed Robert into the shrouds. A searing pain ripped through his shoulder. Shaw dangled beneath him, re-enacting the last moments of Foster’s life. The boatswain reached up with his other hand and grabbed Robert’s wrist. His nails tore his flesh, trying to find purchase. Robert held firm, keeping his own body weight centred as the roll of the ship increased the swing of the boatswain’s body.

‘The ratlines,’ Robert hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Your other hand, man. Grab the ratlines.’

The boatswain’s face was a mask of terror. Robert felt the first weakness of his own grip on the ratlines as the boatswain swung through another pendulum’s arc.

‘Shaw!’ he screamed, the anger in his voice reaching the boatswain. ‘Grab the ratlines or you’re a dead man.’

Shaw nodded and Robert saw the fear in the boatswain’s eyes turn to determination.

‘Wait for the pitch,’ he shouted. As the
Retribution
crested a wave, the boatswain released his left hand and reached out for the underside of the shrouds. He missed but on the return swing his fingertips caught their outer edge. His hand clasped the rope, clinging to it.

‘Pull!’ Robert shouted. He used the last of his strength to heave the boatswain up, their hands releasing each other without command as each took their own grip on ropes. The boatswain was now swinging two handed beneath the shrouds and Robert reached out to grab his tunic, pulling him in to allow him to get his feet onto the ratlines. He climbed around to the outside and the two men clung to the ropes side by side, their laboured breaths whipped away by the wind and rain, while the all pervasive roar of the storm smothered the sounds of the cheering crew on the deck below.

Father Blackthorne moved slowly towards the halo of soft light surrounding the single candle framed in the window. He paused, wary as always of a trap, his caution almost second nature after years in hiding. The night was quiet save for the sounds of nature; the scurry of a small animal in the undergrowth, the screech of an owl, but still the priest hesitated, his breathing shallow as he strained for the sounds of some larger predator. His hand slipped inside his cassock and enfolded the crucifix hanging there. He silently mouthed a Latin prayer before stepping forward once more.

He crossed the courtyard and stopped at the door to the kitchen, knocking lightly as he glanced over his shoulder, conscious that he was now standing in the pool of light from the candle-lit window. The door opened a fraction and a man’s face appeared, furtive eyes betraying a moment of apprehension before he recognized the priest, smiling as he opened the door wider to allow him to enter. The priest ducked in and the door was closed and locked, the mechanism of the bolt unnaturally loud in the confines of the room.

The draught from the closing door had set the flame of the candle dancing and the kitchen came alive with moving shadows before the light settled once more, its soft glow allowing Father Blackthorne to feel more at ease. He turned to the man beside him and placed his hand on the servant’s expectantly bowed head.

‘
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,’ he intoned.

‘Amen,’ the man replied. He looked up. ‘You must be hungry, Father,’ he said, ushering the priest to the table in the middle of the room.

Father Blackthorne sat down, his eyes poring ravenously over the table before him. The servant brought the lighted candle from the window sill to the table and the priest moaned involuntarily as he saw the feast in detail. He had not seen food like it in weeks and he reached out to pull the leg off a cold capon as the servant poured him a goblet of wine. He ate quickly, conscious that time was short, ignoring the servant who sat silently across from him.

‘I beg your forgiveness, Father,’ the servant said tentatively after five minutes, ‘but the Duke will be waiting.’

Father Blackthorne made to dismiss the reminder but held his tongue, knowing it would serve no purpose and that the duke’s good favour was all important. He stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, belching softly with regret as he looked over the table of food once more. Its abundance was in stark contrast to the meagre offerings the poorer Catholics would give him in the weeks between now and his next visit to the duke’s residence.

The servant picked up the candle and led the priest from the kitchen, taking him along one of the servants’ passageways that emerged into the entrance hall of the estate house. All was in darkness. The two men crossed the flagstone floor in an orb of light and the feeble glow from the candle seemed to augment the vastness of the vaulted ceiling above them. Their footfalls echoed in the silence. They came to a door and the servant knocked. His hand was already on the handle as the command to enter was given.

Father Blackthorne entered alone. He felt anxious, as was often the case in the presence of his patron. The room was a small study, its walls lined with shelves holding innumerable books and the priest looked at them admiringly, conscious of their value. The Duke of Clarsdale was standing in front of the remains of a small fire in the hearth. He was surrounded in a thin haze of smoke from the downdraught in the chimney and his back was arched slightly as he outstretched his hands towards the heat. He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders and his iron grey hair gave twenty years to his middle age. He did not move as the priest crossed the room towards him, and Father Blackthorne’s eyes were drawn to the two Irish wolfhounds curled up at the edge of the hearth. Their heads turned to track the priest across the room before falling once more onto their extended legs.

‘I expected you quite some time ago,’ Clarsdale said.

‘It is becoming more and more difficult for me to travel,’ the priest explained.

Clarsdale murmured a reply and the room became silent once more.

‘It is becoming more difficult for us all,’ he said after a pause.

‘It is through our hardships that we are redeemed,’ Father Blackthorne replied, stepping closer to the duke.

Clarsdale did not reply immediately.

‘I was thinking of the men who were martyred last September,’ he said to the fire, a hard edge to his voice.

‘They are already with God,’ Father Blackthorne said reassuringly, although he shuddered involuntarily as he thought of their fate.

The Babington plot, so named after the most prominent of the conspirators, had been exposed six months before. Father Blackthorne had only heard rumours of it before its discovery, but he had long suspected that the Duke of Clarsdale had possessed some greater knowledge, even if he had not been directly involved. The conspirators had been sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered and such was the brutality and suffering of those first executed, the Queen herself had blanched and ordered the others to be hanged until dead before they were disembowelled.

‘They may be with God, Father, for their sacrifice,’ Clarsdale cursed, ‘but they should be suffering hellfire for their stupidity.’

Father Blackthorne recoiled with shock at the vehemence of the duke’s words and crossed himself.

‘I have learned that Walsingham knew of their plot months before and was playing them like fools in order to expose Mary Stuart,’ Clarsdale continued, turning to the priest for the first time, his face a mask of belligerence. ‘So now we have lost our last hope of placing a legitimate Catholic monarch on the throne of England.’

Father Blackthorne nodded. ‘Her death is a tragedy,’ he said in lament, ‘may her soul rest in God’s peace. Many of my flock have already lost hope and have cast their mortal souls aside by turning their backs on the true faith.’

‘Your flock,’ Clarsdale scoffed as he moved to sit down and the wolfhounds became alert once more as their master swept by. ‘They are sheep indeed, Father, mere peasants who will follow whoever holds power over the realm.’

‘But we need those people,’ Father Blackthorne argued. ‘We must maintain a wellspring of faith.’

Clarsdale made to retort but he relented, conscious that despite his outward offhand treatment of the priest and his flock, he needed both if he was to retain any chance of fulfilling his solemn vocation of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne. The priest had spoken of his flock as a wellspring of faith, but Clarsdale saw them as a potential wellspring of power, albeit one that was dwindling fast.

Elizabeth’s popularity and the constant threats against her person, supported by foreign powers, were combining to create a kind of nationalism that Clarsdale had never witnessed before. She was weaving a spell over the populace, creating a solidarity and support for her reign that would defeat his cause before it could ever come close to fruition. With Mary Stuart dead, the only alternative was to place a foreign monarch on the throne. It was a sacrifice that Clarsdale was willing to take for his faith, but he was no longer confident the majority would support such a ruler after Elizabeth. Time was of the essence. He indicated for the priest to sit opposite him.

‘It is common knowledge that the Spanish plan to invade,’ the duke began, lowering his voice instinctively although he was confident of the loyalty of every person within his household. ‘When they land they must be met by those who support their cause.’

The priest nodded, his lips mouthing a silent prayer for the coming of that day.

‘These men must be trained soldiers, armed men of substance and valour, not peasants bearing scythes and forks.’

Again the priest nodded. ‘I know of many amongst those who attend my ceremonies,’ he said.

‘Good,’ the duke replied. ‘You must speak to them, ensure they are prepared.’

The duke leaned back in his chair and reached out with his hand to rub the head of one of his dogs, the wolfhound responding with a contented growl.

‘There is one other thing, Father,’ Clarsdale said. ‘The Spanish are assembling a fleet, an Armada, to sail to England, but they desperately lack intelligence on the strength, disposition and readiness of the English royal fleet.’

Father Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed. If Clarsdale could command direct access to the Spanish then the duke was considerably closer to the centre of Catholic resistance in England than he had realized.

‘The ships that were assembled at Plymouth have already sailed, but I have heard only rumours as to their destination,’ the duke continued. ‘I need a sailor of rank to keep me informed, in advance, of the fleet’s plans.’

Father Blackthorne looked into the middle distance as he called to mind those men he knew at Plymouth. One sprang to mind but he dismissed him straight away, knowing he was merely the captain of a merchantman.

‘I will find you such a man,’ he said to the duke, unsure of who that man would be, but unwilling to disappoint his patron.

Clarsdale nodded and rose once more. The smoke that had diffused in the air swirled around him as he made his way to the fire. Father Blackthorne looked about the room, noticing for the first time that the invasive cold he had felt over the previous weeks was gone, banished by good food and the luxurious surroundings. It was a far cry from the hovels he would soon find himself in.

‘I will say mass at dawn,’ he said, rising to stand beside the duke. ‘Is her grace, your wife, in residence?’

The mention of his wife brought an immediate slur to Clarsdale’s lips but he held his tongue, not wanting to reveal the intimacies of his marriage to the priest.

‘She is in London with her family,’ he said tersely and looked once more into the fire, ending the conversation. Thoughts of her reminded Clarsdale of how much he had sacrificed for the Catholic cause. However, he was compelled to do no less, for such a sacrifice was in his blood. His family title, the Dukedom, was first granted to an ancestor who had fought in the Crusades. That man had answered the call of his pope and his king and had fought gallantly for the Catholic faith. It was an act that successive generations had revered and now that the mantle had passed to him Clarsdale was honour bound to fight for his religion.