Armada

‘Drake ordered an attack on a town named Sagres,’ Robert began. He told Father Blackthorne of the desecration of the church and murder of the Spanish priest, sparing no detail in an effort to expunge the guilt from his soul.

Father Blackthorne was deeply shocked and he came off his knees to sit down once more.

‘These are terrible deeds,’ he said, almost to himself, his fingers kneading the cross around his neck. ‘Truly God has turned his back on this country if it has spawned such men. And you, Robert,’ he said, his eyes flashing with anger and shame, ‘what have you become?’

‘I tried to stop them, Father,’ Robert protested. ‘But I could not, not without giving myself away and forfeiting my own life.’

‘Jesus Christ laid down his life for us,’ Father Blackthorne said piously. ‘And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.’

‘Forgive me, Father,’ Robert said, bowing his head low before his confessor.

Father Blackthorne looked down on Robert, his mind in turmoil. Robert’s remorse was clearly evident but Father Blackthorne could not see beyond his own anger. How could Robert have stood by while a minister of God was murdered, while His house was defiled by heretics? Suddenly Father Blackthorne thought of the daily life he led himself, of his clandestine existence and his constant fear of discovery. He remembered the story in Saint John’s gospel, when the Pharisees brought an adulterous woman before Jesus. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ said the Lord. Was he not guilty of the same sin as Robert? The sanctity of the nearby town church was corrupted daily by the services of a heretical congregation and he never once thought to confront them and openly condemn their faith. He was too fearful of the consequences.

He reached out his hand to place it on Robert’s head, ready to absolve him, when another thought stuck him, an undertaking he had made many weeks before. He hesitated, his hand poised in mid-air, his mind racing. William Varian had mentioned that Robert had sailed as a master on one of the galleons, a senior position, one that was surely privy to a great deal of information. Would Robert be willing to share that information? Would he betray the loyalty Father Blackthorne knew William Varian had instilled in him? Robert was clearly anguished by the actions of his compatriots in Sagres. Perhaps now he could be persuaded to fully commit to the cause of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne, if for no other reason than to atone for his lack of action before. The obvious depth of his guilt certainly made him more susceptible to the idea. A sliver of guilt crept into Father Blackthorne’s own mind at the thought of manipulating Robert, but he ignored it, knowing the greater cause needed to be served.

‘I cannot give you absolution,’ he said.

Robert looked up in shock.

‘Not until you have atoned for your sin,’ Father Blackthorne continued. ‘You must make penance before the Lord.’

‘What must I do?’

‘I cannot decide now,’ Father Blackthorne replied, ‘I must pray for an answer. Until then you should return to Plymouth. Look for me in two weeks at the motte beside Saint Michael’s. Are you to stay with this new ship as its master?’

‘I’m Captain now,’ Robert explained, ‘although John Hawkins has yet to confirm that command.’

Father Blackthorne’s pulse quickened. He had not expected this good fortune. A captain of the fleet; the Duke of Clarsdale would be impressed. The panel door behind them clicked open as a servant entered.

‘Master Robert,’ he said, ‘dinner is served. Father, if it pleases you, I shall bring your meal directly to your room.’

They rose and walked towards the door. Father Blackthorne caught a glance at Robert’s pained expression and felt a pang of guilt once more.

‘Do not worry, Robert,’ he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘The Lord will show us a way.’

Robert nodded but took little solace from his confessor’s words. He remained haunted by his sin and his conscience refused to relent. He would return to Plymouth as Father Blackthorne suggested. There he would command the very crewmen and colleagues who had perpetrated the heinous crime that had destroyed his peace. It was an odious task but one which his duty demanded of him. With a heavy heart he left the chapel, his guilt greater than ever.

CHAPTER 6

14th July 1587. El Escorial, Spain.

Nathaniel Young mopped his brow with his handkerchief. The heat in the expansive Patio de los Reyes was oppressive and despite the elevated site of the Escorial Palace no breeze could penetrate beyond the solid wall of five storey buildings that marked the boundaries of the courtyard. He waited in a shaded corner and paced a wide circle, glancing at the edifice of the basilica which was adorned with statues of the kings from whence the courtyard drew its name.