Armada

Clarsdale nodded and rose once more. The smoke that had diffused in the air swirled around him as he made his way to the fire. Father Blackthorne looked about the room, noticing for the first time that the invasive cold he had felt over the previous weeks was gone, banished by good food and the luxurious surroundings. It was a far cry from the hovels he would soon find himself in.

‘I will say mass at dawn,’ he said, rising to stand beside the duke. ‘Is her grace, your wife, in residence?’

The mention of his wife brought an immediate slur to Clarsdale’s lips but he held his tongue, not wanting to reveal the intimacies of his marriage to the priest.

‘She is in London with her family,’ he said tersely and looked once more into the fire, ending the conversation. Thoughts of her reminded Clarsdale of how much he had sacrificed for the Catholic cause. However, he was compelled to do no less, for such a sacrifice was in his blood. His family title, the Dukedom, was first granted to an ancestor who had fought in the Crusades. That man had answered the call of his pope and his king and had fought gallantly for the Catholic faith. It was an act that successive generations had revered and now that the mantle had passed to him Clarsdale was honour bound to fight for his religion.

Father Blackthorne stared at the duke for a moment longer. Men like Clarsdale represented the last bastion of hope for the true faith in England. His lips were verbalizing some indecipherable thought and his face twisted slightly as if grappling with some unspoken demon. For an instant Father Blackthorne was tempted to intervene, wanting to ease whatever pain the duke might be feeling, but he hesitated, intimidated by Clarsdale’s demeanour. He left the room without another word.

In darkness the priest walked unerringly to the entrance of his sanctuary on the top floor, a secret panel that led under the eaves of the house where a chapel had been constructed for the duke and his household. In that tiny space he lit a single candle and knelt before it. He prayed, and searched for hope in the entreaties he had spoken since youth, asking God for guidance in the way that many of his flock asked him, conscious all the while that his words were spoken in one of the last remaining footholds of the true faith in a realm that was rapidly embracing a path to perdition.

Robert crashed through the door of his tiny cabin and collapsed on the narrow cot, oblivious to the cockroaches that scurried away from his unexpected presence. He was exhausted and his every muscle cried out for the weightlessness of sleep. The storm had finally abated after five relentless days, and the fleet had rendezvoused once more off of Cape Finisterre. Given its severity, the majority of ships had weathered the tempest well and while many of the older vessels needed running repairs, the only loss had been the pinnace Deer.

Now the fleet was once more on course for Lisbon, sailing on a steady tack. Robert had mechanically seen out an extended watch to allow time for Seeley to rest fully, knowing the younger man was closer to collapse. Only upon his return did Robert finally go below. He was too tired to remove his outer clothing. The seawater that had drenched him through during the storm had long since dried out, leaving a salt residue that rubbed his skin raw at the joints.

The stern cabin was tiny, seven feet by five, but it was private, a singular luxury on a galleon and a far cry from the fo’c’sle and gun deck where the majority of the crew slept. Robert’s father had secured him a berth on one of John Hawkins’s ships when he was thirteen years old. As a gentleman’s son he had been taken on as a cabin boy, a servant to the captain and senior officers. He had quickly learned the harsh lessons of life at sea; the brutal discipline meted out for even the smallest infraction and the need for constant vigilance while off duty against the pederasts on board.

Robert found protection amongst those who themselves had sons serving on other ships. They had made sure he received his fair share of rations – even if the rations were weevil-infested biscuits and foul smelling meat and fish stews – taking only his quota of beer as payment. They had taught him all there was to know about working a ship below and above decks, while the officers informally schooled the eager boy in navigation and sail-craft, quickly marking him as an astute pupil.