Armada

Cross noticed how sneeringly Nichols said mass. His hatred for the ceremony was obvious, made more acute by the fact that he had to masquerade as a faithful Roman Catholic. Cross admired the butler. The risks he himself took were significant but in serving the Crown Nichols had placed his entire family in harm’s way.

Cross asked Nichols to repeat the latter half of the conversation, stopping him at points to question him further. The answers were disturbing. Clarsdale’s plan to build a private army to meet a Spanish invasion was troublesome but not critical. Such a force had been part of nearly every plot that involved a foreign power. A pre-emptive gathering of men would be difficult to conceal however, and could be neutralized long before a Spaniard appeared on the horizon. The duke’s request for an informer in the English fleet was a more alarming prospect. This one man had the potential to be more damaging than a thousand men-at-arms. The composition, deployment and strength of the fleet had to remain secret from the Spanish.

Clarsdale’s request also meant he was in more direct contact with the Spanish than Cross had believed. But through which route? There were a number of prominent English traitors working with the Spanish hierarchy in Spain. Any one of them could be Clarsdale’s handler.

‘The priest hasn’t returned since?’ he asked Nichols.

‘No.’

‘When is he due next?’

‘A week after the new moon, perhaps ten days from now.’

Cross nodded. There was a little time.

‘Listen,’ he said, leaning in closer to Nichols. ‘The last of the fleet arrived back in Plymouth three days ago. It is possible the priest will be able to secure his man before he meets with the duke. He will have other news, numbers, maybe even names of the men he has acquired as soldiers. Ignore this information. Concentrate only on finding out the name of the informer.’

Nichols nodded.

‘Now go. I will be here every day at noon for one hour on the week after the priest is due.’

The butler moved away through the undergrowth. Within a minute Cross was left with only the sounds of nature. He looked to the estate house again. Clarsdale was cleverer than he had believed, and far more connected than he had ever suspected. That the duke was secretly a Roman Catholic had been known for some time and when Nichols had quietly made it known to the local Protestant dean that he was willing to spy on Clarsdale, Cross had received the news with only minor interest. He had set up the initial meetings, wary at first of the butler because his information was unsolicited. He had searched for signs of subterfuge at each meeting. He had found none however, and confident of his judgement and experience, he had come to trust the butler, although his information to date had only confirmed what Cross had long held: that the duke was merely a sympathizer and not an active conspirator.

Now all was changed. Walsingham would need to be informed immediately. Cross walked quickly to his horse and mounted her in one fluid sweep, walking her through to the other side of the copse before spurring her to a full gallop out into the open field beyond.

Father Blackthorne stretched out his arms and gazed up at the east facing window. His voice rose above the murmur of his congregation and his words soon dominated the tiny enclosed room. He narrowed his eyes against the white glare of the morning sun streaming through the plain opaque glass. In his imagination, he pictured a beautiful stained glass image depicting the crucifixion of Christ. It was the window in Saint Anne’s, the little church where he had celebrated his first mass as an ordained priest some thirty-five years before. The image was forever close to his heart, a reminder of the times when he had been able to observe his faith in public.

‘Ite missa est,’ he intoned, ending the mass. As the congregation responded, he led them in the last Gospel, striving as always to draw strength from the verses of Saint John, seeking the courage and hope to go on.

Why? To what end? He immediately tried to suppress the thought, angry at himself for questioning his lot. Father Blackthorne was shamed by the unexpected lapse in devotion, the moment of weakness, and yet the voice refused to quieten. For the true faith. But the answer could no longer stifle the gnawing protests from his body and mind at the hardships he was forced to endure; the hunger and deprivation, the constant fear of capture that whittled away his nerve.

Again he tried to recapture the ardour and confidence he had felt in the first years after Elizabeth’s coronation, when he secretly returned to England to fight the reformation of the church. However that was almost three decades ago. He was a young man then, but that strength was gone forever. Now only hope remained. He pushed his doubts to the recesses of his mind as the final words of the service were spoken.