John Stack - Armada

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.

CHAPTER 7

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

Robert 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.

Robert reached the top and ducked in behind one of the crumbling walls. On the faint breeze he smelled a trace of wood smoke and charred meat and he looked about him, wondering where Father Blackthorne might be hiding.

‘ Sumus omnes ,’ he said, and smiled as the priest looked out from behind a corner.

‘In the hand of God, Robert,’ he replied, walking forward with his hand outstretched. Robert fell to his knees and Father Blackthorne blessed him.

‘It is good to see you, Robert.’

‘And you, Father. Tell me, have you been able to decide my penance?’

The priest nodded. ‘Come,’ he said, leading Robert back to his smouldering fire.

They sat down. Father Blackthorne glanced across at Robert as he gathered his thoughts. The young man looked haggard and his bloodshot eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Father Blackthorne felt a worm of guilt gnaw at his insides for his delay in easing Robert’s conscience, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that the incredible news he was about to deliver would surely bring the young man happiness.

‘I have prayed for guidance on how you can be absolved of your sin,’ Father Blackthorne began, choosing his words carefully, mindful of Clarsdale’s warning that he would only have one chance to persuade Robert to betray the English fleet. ‘That prayer has led to visions of the suffering that our mother church endures under the yoke of Elizabeth. We must all work to ease that suffering, Robert. Your penance lies in taking up the mantle of that fight.’

Robert shifted uneasily. He had long known that his confessor was sympathetic to the seditious cause of overthrowing Elizabeth but his words suggested that sympathy also extended to deeds.

‘God has chosen one man above all to help us in this struggle,’ the priest continued. ‘One king whose people share our blessed faith. But that king labours in darkness and needs the light of information to allow him to complete God’s will.’