John Stack - Armada

‘The Spanish,’ Robert spat. ‘What information …?’

He stopped as he realized what Father Blackthorne was asking of him.

‘Merciful God, Father, surely you are not asking me to betray …’

Father Blackthorne raised his hand to cut Robert short.

‘Hear me out, my son,’ he said calmly. ‘You have come here to be absolved of the sin you committed in Sagres, but I tell you solemnly, that sin is but a mote to the beam that is the greater sin you commit every day by supporting the heretic Queen who rules this land.’

Robert stood up, his fists balled in anger.

‘You are wrong, Father,’ he hissed. ‘My loyalty to Elizabeth is not a sin – it is my duty as an Englishman. She is our sovereign, regardless of her beliefs.’

‘But her reign, and the blasphemous faith she imposes, threatens the soul of every man in England.’ Father Blackthorne rose and confronted the angry young man.

‘Not mine, Father. My soul is secure in my faith, as are the souls of countless others. I believe that God will not forsake this land. He will save England by opening the eyes of Elizabeth or those of the English monarch who will succeed her.’

Father Blackthorne sighed. Clarsdale had been right about the depth of Robert’s loyalty to the Crown. He had hoped to persuade Robert to help him, then reveal Nathaniel Young’s involvement as a reward. He now knew he would have to use the news about Robert’s father as a lure to convince him. Father Blackthorne firmly believed that Robert’s soul was in jeopardy, as were all Catholics who supported Elizabeth, and he was sorry he could not persuade him otherwise.

‘Sit down, Robert,’ he said gently and he waited patiently for him to comply.

‘I regret you cannot see the danger to your immortal soul, but if that blindness prevents you from helping our cause, then perhaps what I am about to tell you will change your mind and open your heart.’

Robert did not reply. His anger was making him restless, so the priest pressed on hurriedly.

‘I know you have suffered much for your faith by living a lie under an assumed name. God has seen your pain and in his wisdom he has found a way to both ease your misery and offer you a chance to embrace our cause.’

Despite his previous resolve, Robert turned to leave. He could not countenance another treacherous word from his confessor.

Father Blackthorne quickly blustered out the words he had rehearsed so carefully.

‘The Spanish require information on the movements of the English fleet,’ he said rapidly. ‘That information is to be fed to a local nobleman who would then send it on to his contact in Spain.’

‘Enough!’ Robert began to walk away.

‘Wait. That nobleman’s contact in Spain is the Duke of Greyfarne.’

Robert froze.

‘Your father, Robert. Nathaniel Young. He is alive, in exile in Spain.’

‘It cannot be.’ Robert turned slowly around to face Father Blackthorne. ‘You must be … it cannot be. My father?’

‘It’s true, Robert. I did not know myself until only a few days ago.’

‘He’s alive,’ Robert said, almost to himself. ‘All these years.’

‘And still fighting to save England.’

Robert stared at the priest, his mind reeling. His father was in league with the Spanish, with the enemy he was fighting against, the enemy of England. Robert knew he should curse his father for the traitor he was and yet he found he could not. Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, he staggered over to the fire to sit down before his legs gave way.

‘Does my father know you have approached me?’

‘I do not think he knows anything about you, certainly not where you are or what you have become. Clarsdale was surprised to learn of you himself.’

‘Clarsdale?’

Father Blackthorne cursed his slip but quickly reasoned that Robert would soon learn that name regardless.

‘The Duke of Clarsdale. He is your father’s colleague here in England.’

Robert dropped his head into his open palms. He was nauseous and he swallowed hard. He felt like he was staring into an abyss. To step forward meant to become mired in treachery and sedition. But there was a chance to send word to his father, to communicate with him for the first time in nearly twenty years.

He looked up at the man who had been his confessor, his confidant from almost the day his father left England. For the first time, Robert sensed he could not be trusted. Behind the compassionate expression of a priest, Robert now saw the man, as capable as any other of ruthlessness and perfidy. He vowed to remain guarded as he committed himself to his next step.

‘When can I meet Clarsdale?’

Father Blackthorne smiled. ‘Whenever you can release yourself from your ship.’

Robert thought for a moment. ‘Two days.’

‘You will not regret this, Robert,’ Father Blackthorne said, helping him up. ‘God works in ways that astound us all. His hand has guided you and your father together so that you can unite to help restore England to the true faith.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Robert lied, allowing himself to be led to the edge of the ruins. He left the priest with a promise to return within two days.

Scrabbling back down the loose stone on the side of the motte, Robert headed towards the darkened outline of Saint Michael’s. He walked blindly, without seeing the path in front of him, his mind totally consumed by his father’s sudden and unexpected return into his life. A part of him hoped that Father Blackthorne was mistaken, that his father was not working with the Spanish, but his heart knew it was true. In many ways it seemed inevitable.

At twelve years old, his father’s involvement in a violent uprising against Elizabeth and its ultimate failure had changed Robert’s life irrevocably. Now Nathaniel Young’s seditious involvement with Spain was poised to change his life once more. But Robert was no longer a powerless boy. He was a man, and an Englishman at that. He would meet Clarsdale, but he would be damned if he would reveal any knowledge he possessed about the English fleet.

‘Which one of you pox-ridden buggers is Morales?’

Evardo rose slowly, using the cold stone wall behind him for support. He took a half step forward and stopped, looking down at his tattered clothes. His face hardened in disgust. The filthy straw that covered the floor of the prison had clung to him and he brushed it away. He pulled on the cuffs of his doublet and straightened his jerkin. The effort had little effect, but he straightened up and walked purposefully towards the door of the cell.

His fellow Spanish captives, nearly twenty of them in all, were lying listlessly against every wall. Some looked up at him with unseeing eyes as he passed. Nobody gestured nor spoke. They were all dishonoured men and none had sought friendship during the long weeks of captivity. He reached the stout wooden door where at head height a small opening framed the face of a bearded Englishman. He stared at Evardo with open hostility.

‘You Morales?’ he spat.

‘I am Comandante Evardo Alvarez Morales.’

‘ Comandante ,’ the gaoler laughed. ‘Of what, Spaniard? This here prison?’

With limited English Evardo did not fully understand the taunt, but he recognized the tone. He refused to be baited, lifting his chin slightly to show his disdain. The Englishman growled menacingly and wrenched back the locking bolt.

‘Out,’ he barked, pulling open the door.

Evardo ducked his head through the doorway. The gaoler slammed the door shut and relocked it, then hawked and spat at Evardo’s feet.

‘Follow me, Comandante ,’ he sneered, leading him along a dimly lit corridor to a flight of winding steps. They ascended and came out into a high-ceilinged chamber, where an official was sitting behind a wooden table flanked by two guards. The gaoler indicated for Evardo to step forward. The official looked up.