John Stack - Armada

Robert gained the top of the motte and paused for a moment, listening in the darkness. There was no indication that Father Blackthorne was near at hand. He opened his mouth to utter the password, then hesitated. This was his last chance to pull himself back from the brink of treason. He simply had to walk away. The list of ships he had compiled was in the forefront of his mind, as was the simple message he had composed for his father. If only there was some way to deliver one without the other.

‘ Sumus omnes ,’ he said aloud.

The password was returned by a familiar voice and Robert stepped forward to greet Father Blackthorne, who led him to a shielded fire on the far side of the summit.

‘Would you like me to hear your confession, my son?’ Father Blackthorne asked.

‘No, Father,’ Robert replied sharply. ‘I would sooner tell you my report and be on my way.’

Father Blackthorne frowned at Robert’s abrupt answer.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Robert said quickly, seeing the priest’s expression in the firelight. ‘It’s just that I need to be back at my ship before the start of the morning watch.’

Robert cursed his lapse. It was better for his confessor to believe that he was fully committed to his task.

‘Let us sit then, Robert. I trust you have much to tell me.’

‘I have, Father. The fleet at Plymouth …’

Suddenly Robert shot up.

‘What …?’ Father Blackthorne began but Robert quietened him with his hand.

‘Someone’s coming. Are you expecting anyone else?’

Father Blackthorne shook his head.

Robert drew his sword. He peered into the darkness and cocked his head slightly in the direction of the noise. He heard it again – the fall of loose stones. Someone was ascending the motte. He sensed Father Blackthorne rise behind but he did not look back, less the glow of the fire rob his night vision. The sky was cloudless but with a new moon the only light came from the blanket of stars that served to frame and highlight any shape that stood against the sky.

‘ Sumus omnes .’

Robert did not reply.

‘ In manu Dei ,’ Father Blackthorne answered. Before Robert could curse him, the silhouettes of two men appeared.

‘Who are you?’ Robert demanded.

‘Put down your sword, boy.’ Robert recognized Clarsdale’s voice.

He sheathed his sword and they stepped into the firelight. Robert looked to the man with Clarsdale. For a moment they stared at each other’s faces.

‘Father?’ Robert whispered incredulously.

‘It is good to see you again, my son.’ Nathaniel extended his hand.

Robert glanced down and took it without thinking.

‘You’re here.’

Nathaniel nodded with a smile.

Robert let his father’s hand go. From behind him he heard Father Blackthorne gasp in amazement and the priest rushed forward to greet Nathaniel. Robert stood frozen, his eyes still locked on his father. He had changed so much. He was older, of course, but he was different somehow.

Over eighteen years, Robert had turned his father into the embodiment of all that he had lost – his title, his heritage, the honour of his real name. When Clarsdale had told him he was still alive Robert had grasped at the chance to contact him. In restoring the link between him and his father, he hoped to move closer to redeeming his past. But now he was unexpectedly filled with doubt. Maybe his father was not the key to his redemption. Maybe he was just a man, one whose past actions had already cost Robert his true fate and whose presence in England now threatened to take from him all that he had worked for.

‘I had to come to secure the naval agent we so desperately need,’ Nathaniel said, ‘but I only learned of your involvement after I landed in England.’

Robert barely heard the words his father spoke. Instead he studied him closely and realized suddenly that for too long he had shied away from the obvious truth of the man before him, of what he was, of what he had always been.

‘I was so proud to find out that you were the agent,’ Nathaniel concluded, holding his hand out once more to his son.

Robert recoiled. His father was a traitor of the worst kind. He was not standing tall in the front line of battle, he was skulking in the undergrowth, engaging in espionage in a bid to bring down England from within.

‘You say you are proud?’ he asked coldly.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘To learn that I’m a traitor?’

‘A traitor? A traitor against what?’

‘Against the Crown,’ Robert spat. ‘Against Elizabeth. Against this country.’

‘A collaborator!’ Clarsdale leapt forward, drawing his sword.

Robert reacted instantly, drawing his own blade. He dropped into a defensive posture.

Clarsdale side stepped warily, swishing his sword through a shallow arc. His mind was racing. He felt panic swell up inside him. Robert Young had deceived them. Was he in league with others? Was he an agent of the Crown? Clarsdale’s eyes darted to each side, trying to see into the dark. He had always been so cautious, ensuring that no one outside his trusted staff knew of his religion and his cause. Now he was exposed. He forced himself to remain calm. Maybe Robert Young was alone. Maybe he was simply the loyal recusant the priest claimed he was. Clarsdale clung to that hope, using it to further quell his alarm and he moved slowly to gain a better attack position. Whatever Robert Young was, he had to die.

‘I … I don’t understand,’ Nathaniel stammered. ‘I thought you were Catholic. I thought …’

‘I am Catholic,’ Robert rejoined, his eyes on Clarsdale, ‘but I’m also loyal to my Queen.’

‘You can’t be both,’ Nathaniel retorted, regaining his wits. ‘You cannot be true to your faith and to the heretic Queen.’ He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, trying to see the boy that was once his. He saw only anger, and another emotion, one that affected him deeply – shame.

‘Who are you, Robert?’ he whispered. ‘What have you become?’

‘If you don’t know me it’s because you left when I was just a boy. I am an Englishman and Elizabeth is my Queen. Without your treacherous influence, I have grown up true to my faith, my country and my sovereign.’

‘My treacherous influence?’ Nathaniel uttered. He reached out to his son but Robert shrugged him off angrily. Clarsdale seized the opportunity and lunged forward.

Robert parried Clarsdale’s vicious strike, turning his blade through a column of sparks from the fire. He leapt back and prepared to attack. Father Blackthorne quickly stepped into the shadows but Nathaniel stood motionless as Robert and Clarsdale clashed once more, their blades striking each other in a fury of steel and anger.

Nathaniel gazed at Robert. The brief moment of curiosity and happiness that he had felt when he first saw him was gone. Now there was only turmoil, and worse, a growing anger at what his son had proclaimed. His son’s beliefs were an abomination before God. Elizabeth was the devil’s spawn. She was the standard bearer for the Protestant faith. She had to be overthrown.

Nathaniel’s anger deepened. When he had left Robert with his wife’s brother he had thought that William Varian would keep him true to Catholicism. But Varian had twisted his son’s faith into something despicable, destroying the foundations that Nathaniel had laid. His son was no longer Catholic, not in the true sense, not if he supported the jezebel who was the Queen of England.

The fight intensified and Robert neatly parried a killing strike to his groin before reversing the attack, leaping forward to come inside Clarsdale’s counter strike. The two men came chest to chest, their blades upturned between them. Nathaniel saw the killing urge that possessed them both and with certainty he realized that in the next moments either his ally or his son would die. His sword leapt from its scabbard.