Armada

‘Which one of you pox-ridden buggers is Morales?’

Evardo rose slowly, using the cold stone wall behind him for support. He took a half step forward and stopped, looking down at his tattered clothes. His face hardened in disgust. The filthy straw that covered the floor of the prison had clung to him and he brushed it away. He pulled on the cuffs of his doublet and straightened his jerkin. The effort had little effect, but he straightened up and walked purposefully towards the door of the cell.

His fellow Spanish captives, nearly twenty of them in all, were lying listlessly against every wall. Some looked up at him with unseeing eyes as he passed. Nobody gestured nor spoke. They were all dishonoured men and none had sought friendship during the long weeks of captivity. He reached the stout wooden door where at head height a small opening framed the face of a bearded Englishman. He stared at Evardo with open hostility.

‘You Morales?’ he spat.

‘I am Comandante Evardo Alvarez Morales.’

‘Comandante,’ the gaoler laughed. ‘Of what, Spaniard? This here prison?’

With limited English Evardo did not fully understand the taunt, but he recognized the tone. He refused to be baited, lifting his chin slightly to show his disdain. The Englishman growled menacingly and wrenched back the locking bolt.

‘Out,’ he barked, pulling open the door.

Evardo ducked his head through the doorway. The gaoler slammed the door shut and relocked it, then hawked and spat at Evardo’s feet.

‘Follow me, Comandante,’ he sneered, leading him along a dimly lit corridor to a flight of winding steps. They ascended and came out into a high-ceilinged chamber, where an official was sitting behind a wooden table flanked by two guards. The gaoler indicated for Evardo to step forward. The official looked up.

‘State your full name, rank and last command.’

Evardo spoke with as much arrogance as he could muster. He felt nothing but contempt for these verminous commoners and detested being in their power. The official nodded as he tallied the answer spoken by Evardo with the notes he had in front of him.

‘You’re free to go.’

At first Evardo did not understand. He stared at the Englishman, who noticed his perplexed expression.

‘The ransom for your release arrived this morning,’ he explained irritably.

‘How?’ Evardo asked haltingly.

‘The man who brought the money is outside,’ the official said, indicating a door behind him. ‘Now begone with you, before we decide it’s safer to burn all you God-cursed papists.’

Evardo stepped back from the table. Alternating waves of anger and disbelief washed through him and he trembled with the effort of maintaining his self-control. A little over two months had passed since his capture and during that time revenge and hatred for the English had become an unquenchable fire within him. As he stood over this unwary, loathsome Englishman, Evardo was possessed by a powerful urge to throttle him to death. He balled his hands into fists and took a half step forward before reason stopped him. He was free. The plans he had dreamt about over the previous two months and the path he had vowed to take rushed to the front of his mind.

He stepped around the official and in a half-trance walked to the door. The official’s final words echoed in his mind and Evardo wondered who it was that brought the money from Spain. Suddenly he knew who it was. It could only be one man. Evardo’s heart raced with anticipation and joy.

‘Abrahan,’ he whispered as he pushed open the door, eager to see his friend and mentor.

The glare of the sun struck him like an open handed cuff and he brought his arm up to shield his eyes. Four pike-men stood on guard immediately outside the door. One turned around to glance indifferently at Evardo, then turned away again. Evardo saw the guards’ attention was on a group of women standing nearby. Some were crying and wailing and as Evardo watched, one of them staggered forward to plead with the guards.

Evardo looked beyond the group to the wider courtyard. It was an expansive area bounded by grey walls and beyond he could see the rooftops of the surrounding city of London. There were people milling in every direction across the open space but one solitary man caught his attention. He was standing still, directly ahead of him. Evardo squinted against the sunlight, his spirits lifting as he recognized the clothing of a Spaniard. The man stepped forward and Evardo started walking quickly forward to meet him.

Suddenly he stopped, his heart plummeting. It was not Abrahan, it was a Pedro Moreno, a senior servant from his family’s house in Madrid. Moreno was smiling as he ran the last few steps to stand before Evardo.

‘It is good to see you, señor. Truly, I thank the Madonna that you are safe.’

‘It is good to see you too, Pedro,’ Evardo replied reluctantly, before chastising himself for his lack of good grace. He reached out and clasped the servant’s shoulder, smiling gratefully. ‘Yes. I am glad to see you.’