Armada

Robert nodded, glad to hear some news. Brixham was only twenty miles from Plymouth but Robert had not been home for over a year, his own career and now a summons from his patron keeping him away. His adoptive father, his uncle, William Varian, was a local gentleman merchant. A successful man, he kept his business profitable by hiding his Catholic faith and openly conforming to the Protestant religion of the majority. It was a secret fraught with danger for Catholics were associated with so many plots to overthrow the Protestant Queen Elizabeth, their faith was synonymous with treachery and foreign influence.

William Varian remained a loyal recusant, a Catholic who nevertheless firmly supported the Queen. It was a belief he had instilled in Robert ever since he took the young boy into his home. Queen Elizabeth was not of their faith, but she was English, and a staunch defender of England’s independence from the foreign powers that lurked across the Channel. For that reason alone, William Varian had taught Robert to be forever loyal to her command.

‘It is near midnight,’ Father Blackthorne said, ‘I must prepare for mass.’

‘Will others come?’ Robert asked.

‘Not many I fear,’ the priest replied. ‘More and more are turning away from the true faith and following the path of the heretic Queen, may she suffer the hell-fires.’

An instinctive defence of Queen Elizabeth rose to Robert’s lips but he remained quiet. He knew that Father Blackthorne did not share his loyalty.

‘Tonight, I will pray for the soul of Queen Mary of the Scots,’ the priest said sadly.

Robert nodded, feeling the pain of her loss anew. Mary Stuart had been the next in line for the throne after Elizabeth and her coronation had had the potential to change everything in Robert’s life.

His decision to remain Catholic went deeper than faith. For Robert it was the only surviving link to his past, a past he could never relinquish, and one he was forced to hide. That concealment had cost him dearly, for without claim to his true birthright he had been forced to make his way in the world without favour or title.

The noise of approach caused Robert to spin around and his hand fell instantly to the hilt of his rapier.

‘Sumus omnes,’ he heard and he responded with the second half of the passphrase.

Three people emerged from behind the wall, a studious looking man with his wife and young daughter. They were followed minutes later by a second group, then another.

As midnight arrived the mass began. Father Blackthorne preached from behind a large flat-topped rock which served as an altar while his congregation knelt on the stone strewn ground. The wind whistled and gusted around them, whipping away the priest’s words but all knew the sermon intimately. As the clouds raced overhead the small group reiterated their faith, speaking outlawed words in the darkness.

The ship’s bell tolled six times and Henry Morgan looked east towards the coming dawn. It was minutes away and he used the half-light to survey the ships at anchor around the Retribution in Plymouth harbour. There were sixteen ships and seven pinnaces in total, an impressive fleet and Morgan felt his heart swell with pride at the sight, not least because his own command was one of the most powerful ships amongst them. The Retribution was a galleon of the new ‘race built’ class, with her fore and aft castles razed, giving her a sleek, spear-like profile. At 450 tons and with a crew of two hundred and twenty, she carried thirty-two guns, and was a fast and agile purpose built warship.

Morgan looked across at the flagship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, anchored nearby. It was one of four galleons contributed to the enterprise by the Queen, and the commander, Francis Drake, had taken it as his own. Morgan searched for Drake on the decks, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He embodied everything that Morgan believed in, his staunch Protestantism and his unswerving loyalty to Queen and country. But the ship was alive with men, both on deck and in the shrouds, and it was impossible to single out one man.

He looked beyond the flagship to the rest of the fleet. All rode easy at their anchors, the gentle pull of the outgoing tide keeping the ships in parallel. Morgan watched as local fishermen sailed their craft between the towering warships, the crews exchanging easy salutes as men near the end of their watch called out to fishermen beginning their day. He felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find Thomas Seeley, the master’s mate, standing beside him.

‘Has the Master returned yet?’ Morgan asked.

‘No, Captain, not yet,’ Seeley replied.

Morgan nodded, keeping his irritation hidden behind a neutral expression. The fore-noon watch would begin within the hour and Varian was officer of the watch.