John Stack - Armada

Robert ignored his protests and dragged him the remaining few feet to the wall of the church. He slumped against it and Father Blackthorne cried out again as he dropped to the ground. Robert glanced over his shoulder. A line of torches was advancing towards them from the motte. There was little time. He crouched down, trying to slow his breathing and regain his strength. Father Blackthorne was weakening quickly and was already a dead weight. Robert looked around him frantically. The graveyard was a maze of tombstones but there was no place to hide. He had to go on. He made to haul Father Blackthorne up again but the priest feebly brushed his hand aside.

‘No, Robert,’ he gasped. ‘Leave me here.’

‘I can’t, Father,’ Robert replied, fearing for his confessor, the man who had been his guide for so long. ‘You know what those men will do to you if you are captured alive.’

‘They cannot hurt me, Robert,’ Father Blackthorne smiled and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m already near death. I feel God’s hand upon me.’

‘There’s still a chance,’ Robert protested, glancing up at the sound of voices approaching. The torches had nearly reached the edge of the graveyard. He looked down at the priest. His face was barely discernible in the darkness but after so many years Robert knew it intimately. He was suddenly overwhelmed by regret. His plan to contact his father had ended in total failure, at a terrible cost.

‘Forgive me,’ Robert said, reaching for the priest’s hand. ‘I used you so I could contact my father. I never thought something like this would happen.’

‘Robert,’ Father Blackthorne whispered fiercely. ‘It is I who should ask for forgiveness.’ He coughed violently and Robert held him as his body shuddered. ‘I was blinded by my ambition,’ he breathed. ‘I betrayed my sacred trust and withheld absolution from you when …’

Robert quietened him, not wanting to hear any more. The soldiers’ voices were growing louder. They were searching the ditch that bordered the edge of the graveyard.

Father Blackthorne drew Robert down.

‘I’m so tired.’ The pressure of his grip on Robert’s hand fell away to nothing. Robert squeezed the lifeless flesh.

‘ In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti ,’ he whispered, making the sign of the cross over the face of his confessor. He stood up and looked to the approaching torches. Half of them had now entered the graveyard. In less than a minute their light would reach the church walls.

Robert stared at the flames and saw the fire that consumed Captain Morgan and his crewmates on the Spanish galleon. Those behind the fire were the enemy and he felt a blind rage build within him. He whipped his sword from his scabbard and took a step forward when suddenly a figure emerged out of the darkness. Before he could react the tip of a blade was at his throat.

‘I should kill you,’ the man said.

Robert’s rage contracted at the sound of the voice. ‘And I should have killed you when I had the chance,’ he replied venomously, waiting for the death strike.

It did not come. As the outer reaches of torch light briefly illuminated his father’s face, Robert saw his expression of uncertainty and anger.

‘Go ahead, strike me down,’ Robert hissed. ‘You took my life from me once. Why do you hesitate now?’

The light disappeared and darkness consumed them once more. Robert felt the weight of his sword in his hand. He could hear the sound of approaching voices and his own heart pumping in his ears. The outline of his father filled his vision and for a second he imagined him with the face of Father Blackthorne, his mind consumed with the loss of his confessor.

He felt the blade fall away from his throat. In the corner of his eye he saw nearby headstones awash with the approaching wall of light. They were seconds from discovery. He stared back at the outline of his father’s face. Why did he not strike? Robert remembered the tip of his own blade trembling at the throat of his father.

‘You should go.’

‘I will. But know this, Robert. One day soon I will return with the armies of Spain at my back. On that day you will regret the folly of your misplaced loyalty.’

‘We shall see.’ His killing urge was barely in check as he sidestepped warily away from his father, moving deeper into the darkness. Within a moment his father was lost from sight. Robert turned and began to run as the shouts rang out through the night. They had discovered the body of Father Blackthorne.

CHAPTER 9

3rd December 1587. Barcelona, Spain.

Evardo wept as his eyes beheld the verdant slopes of the mountains that stood stark against the cobalt blue sky – the Serra de Collserola. Nestled beneath them the port of Barcelona slowly came into view. Evardo drank in every aspect, every detail, filling his heart and replenishing his spirit. For a moment he was the young boy he once was, returning from his first trade voyage across the vast Atlantic, seeing his homeland again after too long an absence.

The journey from Parma’s camp had taken nearly four months. After a month’s delay in Antwerp they had travelled overland along the Spanish Road, the trade and military route that led from the battlefields of the Spanish Netherlands through the heart of Europe to northern Italy. Evardo had sought to take the faster route home by sea along the English Channel, but Allante had insisted he take the safer course. Evardo had been obliged to concede, knowing he had little choice. The overland journey had ended in Genoa and from there Evardo and Pedro had embarked on a military galley bound for home.

The galley swept along the sea lane, its sleek hull threading a path through the slower moving trading vessels under sail, the helmsman altering his course to give way to the less manoeuvrable vessels in the age old tradition observed by all at sea. Evardo studied each ship in turn as they sped past. They hailed from every corner of the Mediterranean and beyond to the Atlantic coasts of Portugal and France. United by the common principles of trade, they also shared a faith that was the wellspring of an empire and Evardo was overwhelmed with a sense of belonging.

Warships were conspicuous by their absence amongst the profusion of sea craft and Evardo wondered if the preparations for an Armada were still continuing apace in the distant port of Lisbon. He recalled the many conversations he had had with Allante about the planned invasion of England during his month-long stay in Parma’s camp. His brother had spoken of Parma’s constant frustration over the lack of secrecy surrounding the enterprise and Evardo had noticed that even the civilian camp followers argued openly about the best way to tranship the Army of Flanders to the English coast. By necessity Parma would have to divide his available forces and leave sufficient men in the Netherlands to defend those cities already conquered. But Allante had whispered that despite this division the planned invasion force would consist of 30,000 men and 500 horse. It was a staggering amount. Evardo had prayed nightly for the deliverance of such a host.

Allante had gone on to tell Evardo in confidence of the latest plans. Initially Parma had wanted to launch his own surprise invasion from the Flemish coast to the English coastline of Kent and had cared little for the alternative strategy of a supporting invasion force launched from Spain using an Armada. His Army of Flanders was the finest in the world and would be in London long before the Marquis of Santa Cruz, or any other noble, could assemble and launch a fleet.

Now however the element of surprise had been lost. Without a following wind Parma’s invasion force might take ten to twelve hours to cross the Channel. Even in the best of conditions the crossing would take eight and during that time the flat bottomed transports would be easy prey for English galleons. Correspondence from Spain spoke of diversionary landings in Ireland, of securing a safe anchorage on the Isle of Wight before any invasion could begin, but these tactics were now incidental to the new crux of the strategy. Parma needed the Armada to defend his crossing of the narrow straits of Dover.