John Stack - Armada

In the moment he had taken to look about the interior in awe de Torres had walked on ahead and Young was forced to quicken his step to catch him. They came to a stop some ten yards short of the King and waited. Young took the chance to study the man who reigned over one of the largest empires in the world. Although his physique was slight, he was a handsome man. Young started involuntarily as Philip glanced at him over his shoulder, his gaze penetrating. The King nodded at de Torres and the two men stepped forward, bowing courteously.

Philip dismissed his priest. ‘Don Rodrigo. We are pleased to see you.’

‘Your majesty is most gracious,’ de Torres replied, turning slightly to Young. ‘May I introduce to you, the Duke of Greyfarne, Nathaniel Young.’

‘Ah yes, our English ally,’ Philip said. ‘We have heard much of you.’

Young bowed his head in gratitude.

‘Thank you, your majesty. I am honoured to hear my humble service has come to your attention.’

‘Yes,’ Philip said, drawing out the word, his mouth twisting slightly, ‘it has indeed been noted. As has your lack of service.’

Young blanched at the softly spoken censure.

‘We remain disappointed that the fleet of the Jezebel, Elizabeth, approached our lands unannounced.’

‘I assure you, your majesty, I am doing all I can to secure good intelligence from Plymouth and Dover.’

‘Your assurance will not redeem our ship, the Sao Phelipe , and its valuable cargo,’ Philip said coldly. ‘Or undo the injury to us.’

‘I will redouble my efforts, your majesty,’ Young stammered, unable to avert his gaze from the King’s withering look.

‘See that you do,’ Philip replied, his eyes darting to de Torres before returning to Young. ‘We have little use for those who enjoy the benefits of our protection while contributing nothing in return.’

The King turned on his heel and walked away, his retinue following discreetly behind him. De Torres and Young bowed deeply to his back and as they rose de Torres set off towards the exit once more. Young followed. He was stunned by the brevity of the meeting and deeply shocked by the King’s abrupt, caustic tone.

‘My God, de Torres. I never expected … What must I do?’

‘Not here,’ de Torres hissed. ‘Sound travels too easily in this place.’

They came out into the courtyard and de Torres led Young to the centre. When he rounded on Young, his expression was furious.

‘Curse you, Englishman. Your failure will ruin us both.’

‘I cannot be held responsible for the lack of response from my contacts in England,’ Young countered defensively.

‘You don’t understand,’ de Torres continued, his voice trembling with rage. ‘I knew the King was angry over the losses caused by Drake but I didn’t realize he held you partly responsible, and therefore me by association.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ Young replied, angrily. ‘I have told his majesty I will redouble my efforts.’

‘His majesty rarely meets with anyone. He communicates and commands through correspondence or sends his advisors. For him to have asked you here in person shows how important he considers this information. You witnessed his reaction. There can be no more delays, no more excuses.’

‘I will communicate with my contacts immediately through our network of couriers. Tell them that this request is of the highest priority.’

‘That is not enough. If the English strike again without warning we will both be ruined. You must take command; see that this agent is put in place without delay.’

‘But that is precisely what I am doing. My communiqué will leave today.’

‘No. You cannot take charge from here. This is too important. You must do more. You must return to England.’

Young was made speechless by de Torres’s demand and he took an involuntary step backwards as if the Spaniard had physically struck him.

‘I will arrange safe passage to the south coast of England,’ de Torres continued, conscious of the gravity of his order but less concerned for Young’s life than fulfilling the King’s orders. ‘From there you must make contact with your people directly.’

‘But I cannot,’ Young stammered. ‘If I am captured my life will be forfeit.’

‘If you do not go, your life as you know it here will be forfeit, as will mine,’ de Torres replied icily. ‘The house you live in, your carriage, the food you eat, the clothes on your back – all are given to you by Spain. You heard his majesty, if you cease to be of use to Spain, then you will no longer enjoy her protection and nothing will shield you from the King’s wrath should you fail him again.’

Young was appalled. The Spaniard had never spoken to him in such a way. Living for so long by another’s leave, he had come to take it for granted. But having witnessed the King’s displeasure in person, he realized for the first time the precariousness of his situation. He was indeed an ally of the Spanish for now, but only for as long as he served a purpose. His previous years of loyal service counted for naught.

The fickle loyalty of de Torres and his King made Young furious but his expression betrayed none of his feelings. There was nothing to be gained from arguing further. He had no choice but to travel to England. He smiled genially and agreed to de Torres’s request. The Spaniard smiled in return and, leading Young from the courtyard, began to talk casually about the arrangements for the journey. It was as if the threats spoken in anger only moments before had never been uttered, but for Young they would not be easily forgotten.

He was bound by faith to the Spanish, that much remained, but he knew now with utter certainty that he was not one of them. The self-deluding veil of patriotism that had clouded his judgement for so long was gone. What should have made his bond to the Spanish unbreakable, his meeting with King Philip, had instead emphasized his status as a foreigner and a refugee. As if from a distance he heard de Torres speaking. He would be sailing to England within the week.

The view from the study window of Clarsdale’s house in the early morning light took in the full width of the elaborate gardens. The trees and shrubs seemed almost haphazard in their placement but upon closer observation Father Blackthorne could see that their arrangement was such that they both concealed and exposed the more delicate plants around them, as well as the line of the stream at the bottom of the garden. The effect was subtle, tempting the visitor to step outside and explore the wonders in each hidden fold of ground.

Father Blackthorne raised his head and looked beyond the garden to the opposite slope of the valley. Save for a number of small copses the ground had been cleared to the horizon line on the crest of the hill. For a moment Father Blackthorne imagined what it would be like to ride on horseback across such unbroken pasture. It was a passion he had not enjoyed for many years; the freedom to race a horse across open countryside in broad daylight.

As a fugitive from the Crown he was forced to travel only at night and often stayed clear of the roads. He slept wherever the dawn found him, sometimes in a dry ditch but more often in the homes or outhouses of his scattered congregants. Travelling by horseback therefore was impractical, for he had no way to hide such a beast if he needed to go to ground quickly and a tethered horse looked incongruous outside the homes of the more impoverished members of his flock.

As the second son of a nobleman, his path into the priesthood had been decided soon after his birth. It was a decision in which he had taken no part but in all his years he had never questioned it, content in the vocation God and his family had chosen for him. He smiled at a fleeting memory, remembering his first horse and the countryside surrounding his home and he was suddenly filled with the belief that one day he would again have the chance to indulge this simple passion.