John Stack - Armada

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?’

A hint of a smile played across Clarsdale’s face before it hardened once more.

‘I have,’ he replied slowly.

‘Who is he? Is he Catholic?’

‘He is. His confessor, Father Blackthorne, recruited him.’

‘And you trust this priest?’

Again Clarsdale bridled at Young’s suspicions but he endeavoured to hide his anger.

‘He is also my priest,’ he explained, his voice trembling slightly, ‘and yes, I trust him.’

Nathaniel nodded and lowered his head in thought.

‘I need to meet this man. Can you arrange it?’

Clarsdale rubbed his chin and pretended to think. He glanced at Young. He looked tired. As the silence drew out Clarsdale decided it was time to play his opening gambit. He shook his head slightly.

‘It can be arranged,’ he said gravely. ‘But I have one concern. The meeting place is someway distant from here and the journey will be dangerous. Should anything happen to you, how do I send the agent’s information to Spain? Who can I contact there?’

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed slightly at Clarsdale’s request. The duke held his gaze. It was a reasonable request, given the danger Nathaniel was in, but despite Clarsdale’s logic, and the fact that he had worked with the duke for years, Nathaniel knew it wouldn’t be wise to mention Don Rodrigo de Torres’s name. The fewer people who knew the entire network the better. Clarsdale might one day be betrayed himself and captured by the Protestant authorities.

‘I cannot give you that name,’ Nathaniel said. ‘And I already have an arrangement with him. My ship will return for me in exactly one month. If I am not there then it is to be assumed that I have been killed or captured. Either way he will presume that this line of communication has been compromised.’

Clarsdale bunched his fists involuntarily. His face darkened in anger and he stalked over to stand beside Nathaniel at the window.

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘It is not a question of trust.’

‘But if you are killed … This source is too important,’ Clarsdale continued. ‘The information he can provide us with will be invaluable to Spain and our cause.’

‘I don’t even know if I can trust this man,’ Nathaniel shot back, angry that Clarsdale was questioning his decision. ‘You know him only through your priest. How many times have you met this man? Once? Twice? How do you know he is not working for that arch-fiend, Walsingham?’

‘Because of who he is,’ Clarsdale retorted, his previously determined strategy forgotten in anger. ‘Because of who his father is.’

‘Who is his father?’ Nathaniel asked dismissively.

‘You are,’ Clarsdale snarled.

Nathaniel blanched and took a step backward.

‘You don’t mean … Robert,’ he whispered.

‘Yes,’ Clarsdale said. ‘Robert Young, son of Nathaniel Young, Duke of Greyfarne.’

‘But … I never thought …’

Nathaniel reached for a chair and sat down. His son, Robert. He had never forgotten him, the boy of twelve he had left at his brother-in-law’s house, but like every memory of England, the picture had been eroded by eighteen years of exile. Eventually he had come to think of his son as gone, lost forever to another life.

Nathaniel felt his throat constrict and he leaned forward to ease his breathing. So many times he had thought of the things he would reclaim when England was once more governed by a Catholic monarch. His lands, his title, his honour, and his family – his only son, Robert. Recovering these things was the driving force in his life, but they were also the substance of his dreams and he had long since learned to bury them deeply to ease his sense of loss. But now, suddenly, he was being given the chance to reclaim a part of his past.

‘I must see him,’ he whispered. ‘Does he know I am your contact?’

‘He knows,’ Clarsdale said coldly. ‘Although he does not know you have come to England. If you want to see him you must reveal the name of your contact in Spain.’

Nathaniel looked up, confused.

‘Now that you know who the agent is,’ Clarsdale continued, ‘you must realize that there is too much at risk should something happen to you. We will never find as reliable an ally as your son.’

Nathaniel stood up once more. His emotions were in turmoil but he was more wary than ever of Clarsdale’s motives.

‘How do I know this man is my son?’ he asked, knowing somehow in his heart that it was true.

‘Are you willing to sacrifice the chance to see him?’

Nathaniel looked past Clarsdale out the window. The sky was darkening under a rolling blanket of grey-black clouds. He looked back at the duke. Perhaps he should tell him of de Torres. As a man he might not trust Clarsdale, but his dedication to the cause was unquestionable. In any case, de Torres could come to no harm simply because Clarsdale knew his name, even if, one day, the duke might be forced to reveal that information to the Protestant authorities.

Nathaniel halted his thoughts, knowing they were leading him the opposite direction to his earlier caution. Clarsdale was blackmailing him, of that there could be no doubt. It was reason enough not to reveal de Torres’s name, and yet, surely such an act on Clarsdale’s part spoke to his belief that the information Robert could provide was more important than any one of them. De Torres certainly felt that way. Indeed King Philip himself considered securing an agent in the navy to be of the highest priority. Clearly Nathaniel should follow their lead, particularly now that his son was the agent and his intelligence would therefore be beyond suspicion. He nodded to himself, deciding that he was being overly cautious.