John Stack - Armada

John Cross stepped through the ditch bordering the graveyard. The chink and rattle of weaponry sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and he glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy outlines of the thirty soldiers who followed him, willing them to quieten their approach. Ahead of them was the looming shape of the motte. It was larger than he had imagined and he cursed the necessity of attacking such a dominating place in darkness.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Francis Tanner was directly behind him. He pointed ahead to the motte and Cross nodded irritably. He was furious with the agent from Plymouth, not because of his unnecessary directions, but because Tanner had told the squad of soldiers before they left Plymouth that their mission tonight was to capture a group of Roman Catholic spies. The news had been like a red rag to a bull. Although Cross had subsequently tried to quell their zeal for the hunt, explaining to them that he needed the traitors captured alive, he knew many of them were baying for blood and would likely ignore his entreaties.

Cross slowed his pace, looking left and right to the extremities of the motte. He estimated it was at least two hundred paces around and more than thirty feet high. He stretched out his arms, indicating to the soldiers to fan out and surround the site, then looked to the summit. The crumbling walls gave it an irregular shape and he felt the dread of indecision in his stomach. If he attacked the ruins, chaos was bound to ensue and some of the traitors might escape. On the other hand, if he waited for them to descend they might not all leave together, or in the same direction. Worse still, if they became aware they were surrounded, they might cause a diversion in one area and escape in another.

Cross drew his sword and allowed the familiar weight to calm him. He reached the base and heard the men shuffle past him as they went to encircle the motte. He looked up the steep slope. The perimeter of the motte at the summit was half that at the base. If his men gained that perimeter then the net would be twice as effective. He nodded to himself and whispered to Tanner. They would advance up the hill. The agent ran off to tell the rest of the men, whispering to each in turn. Cross watched him disappear into the darkness. He tightened his grip on his sword and took to the slope of the motte.

Cross stopped short. There was a clash of steel, and another. It was a faint sound, muffled by distance and the ruins, but it sounded as if men were fighting on the summit. He increased his pace. Had one of the soldiers already reached the summit? Impossible. The fight had to be amongst the men he had come to arrest. But how could that be? Cross was suddenly filled with apprehension. The prize he so desperately wanted was just yards away. He pushed on up the slope, praying that the men he sought would come to no harm.

Robert slashed his blade down, knocking away the point of Clarsdale’s sword. He was breathing heavily and his left hand was dripping with blood from a gash in his forearm, but he was possessed with the strength of his battle lust. He stepped forward again, eager to end the fight.

Clarsdale gave ground, tiring fast. His sword arm was numb and he felt the muscles in his shoulder jar as he parried another strike from a keen opponent half his age.

Robert sensed Clarsdale’s desperation, saw it in his eyes, and pressed home his attack, sweeping his blade through a series of sequenced strikes that turned his weapon into a flurry of steel. Clarsdale blocked each attack but his sword was slowly forced outward, twisting the wrist of his sword hand, weakening his grip and Robert suddenly struck the flat of Clarsdale’s blade with all the momentum of his attack, knocking the sword from his hand. He went in for the kill but his strike was stopped short by another blade. He spun around, his eyes going to his new foe.

‘Lower you sword,’ Nathaniel commanded.

Robert did not move.

‘You cannot kill him,’ Nathaniel warned, keeping his sword charged. His son had chosen to oppose them, he was the enemy and Nathaniel moved around to place himself between Robert and Clarsdale.

‘He’s a traitor,’ Robert said, staring at the darkened features of the man standing before him. ‘So are you, Father, and in running off to seek exile in the midst of this country’s enemies you have revealed yourself to be worse – a coward.’

Nathaniel’s temper slipped beyond the bounds of his control and he lunged forward at the insult. Robert leapt back but he swiftly counter attacked, sweeping his blade in low, trying to draw around to his father’s flank. Nathaniel countered but he gave ground, his balance faltering as Robert extended his assault, thrusting deeply into Nathaniel’s defence, forcing him to react with greater speed.

Robert feigned left and then switched his attack in the last instant. Nathaniel parried and Robert repeated the sequence, feigning left once more. This time Nathaniel was quicker to react, anticipating the ruse and he struck back with a sharp riposte, slicing through the material of Robert’s jerkin. Robert stayed on the offensive, shifting his weight to attack to the left. Nathaniel expected another feint but this time Robert followed through, catching him off guard, his reactions too slow, and Nathaniel instinctively twisted his upper body to avoid the strike, splitting his defence wide open in an instant. Robert immediately reversed his blade and the tip of his sword swept up to his father’s throat.

‘Robert, no!’ a voice cried out.

Robert stayed the blow, holding the tip an inch from Nathaniel’s throat. Father Blackthorne stepped out of the darkness.

‘He’s your father, Robert. You cannot kill him. It is a mortal sin.’

‘He is not my father,’ Robert breathed. ‘He’s a traitor.’

‘And you are not my son,’ Nathaniel spat, his eyes blazing with hatred.

Robert nodded. ‘Then I am absolved.’

‘You men on the summit!’ a voice roared from out of the darkness. ‘You are surrounded. In the name of the Queen, I command you to drop your weapons and step forward.’

Robert leapt back from his father and swung around, charging his sword in the direction of the challenge.

‘You,’ Clarsdale cursed at Robert. ‘You have betrayed us all.’

‘Have a care, Clarsdale,’ Robert warned over his shoulder, ‘less I spill your blood and save the executioner his coin. I have betrayed no one.’

‘Then who has led them here?’ Clarsdale asked, his eyes darting in every direction.

Robert couldn’t answer. He peered into the darkness, trying to discern if they were indeed surrounded. From all sides he heard signs of approach. For a moment he was tempted to surrender. He was innocent, he had done nothing wrong, but no one would believe such a claim, especially once they found out one of the real traitors was his father. He had no choice. He had to escape.

‘There is no place to hide,’ the voice called out. ‘You are surrounded. I order you to step forward!’

Robert glanced at the others. Clarsdale was on the verge of panic. His father had taken up an attacking stance once more and his blade was charged before him. He too was searching the darkness. He noticed Robert was looking at him and their eyes locked for a moment in unspoken hatred. Robert looked away to Father Blackthorne. The priest’s face was a mask of terror.

‘Douse the fire,’ Robert said to his father. ‘Our only chance is to split up and try and slip through the cordon in separate places.’

‘It’s no use, we’re trapped,’ Father Blackthorne whimpered, overwhelmed by the fears that had lived with him for so long.

Robert ignored him and stared at his father, waiting for a response. Nathaniel nodded and stepped forward. He kicked dirt over the fire and the feeble light rapidly gave way to near total darkness. In the corner of his eye Robert saw Clarsdale go to ground. He looked back to his father but he too was gone. Near at hand Robert could see the vague outline of Father Blackthorne. He grabbed him by the arm.