Armada

Pedro thanked him but then his expression grew serious. ‘Come, señor,’ he said, looking over Evardo’s shoulder to the guards. ‘We should leave this place.’

Evardo nodded and followed Pedro across the courtyard toward an arched exit in the outer wall.

‘Tell me, Pedro. How did you get here so quickly?’

‘It was señor Miguel,’ Pedro replied with pride. Evardo’s eldest brother, the patriarch of the family. ‘From the moment he heard of your capture he began making arrangements for your release. Within a month he had secured passage for me on the fastest ship from La Coruña, along with diplomatic passes and the full ransom in gold.’

Pedro then began to tell the story of his journey in detail, from Madrid to La Coruña and onward to Dover and London where he was granted an audience with the Spanish ambassador, all on the strength of a letter he carried from Miguel. Evardo listened in silence while inside he burned with shame. Over the previous months he had yearned to be free but now he was faced with the cost of that freedom. How could he face his eldest brother and his family? How could he repay the influence and money spent securing his release?

The answer was immutable. He must secure the command of a galleon. It was the only way he could regain his honour. He would have to ask Miguel to canvass on his behalf. That his release from prison had been arranged so quickly was testament to the wealth and power of the family, but what Evardo was asking would require an altogether more denigrating approach. A new patron would be difficult to secure and Miguel would have to pay a heavy coin for someone to overlook Evardo’s defeat.

Miguel would help him, of that Evardo was sure. He was an honourable man and fiercely protective of the entire family. Therein lay the root of a further humiliation for Evardo. He was wholly willing to descend to the very depths of humility to achieve his goal. It was the price he knew he had to pay if he was to wreak his revenge on the English. But now Miguel too would have to debase himself if Evardo was to succeed. It was a bitter realization. As he followed Pedro out of the prison, Evardo found it impossible to raise his head.

Robert looked out from the porch of the small chapel into the darkness and driving rain. Although he was soaked through the night was warm. He stilled his breathing as he tried to listen for sounds of approach. Father Blackthorne had been gone for nearly ten minutes and Robert was beginning to wonder if he was having difficulty persuading the duke to come out on such a night. He stuck his head out and glanced at the estate house only two hundred yards away. It was in darkness.

The three day journey from Plymouth had been arduous and nerve wracking. It had afforded Robert a glimpse of the life Father Blackthorne was forced to live. They had travelled only at night and Robert had marvelled at the older man’s fortitude and guile. The priest had an established network of Catholic families that would give them shelter but from the outset Robert had insisted that there was to be no contact with anyone until they reached Clarsdale’s estate. Father Blackthorne had baulked at the idea of hiding and sleeping in hedgerows when more comfortable accommodation was available, arguing that Robert had frequently met other Catholics when he attended mass on the motte, but Robert had been adamant and Father Blackthorne had relented.

Robert’s only goal was to make contact with his father. Everything else was a façade for Father Blackthorne’s benefit. While he remained loyal to Elizabeth in his heart, his actions had slipped into the realm of sedition. As a practising Catholic, his faith branded him a traitor, but Robert had always reasoned that to congregate with other Catholics for mass was an act of faith alone, a benign rebellion against the established religion and law of the Crown.

Now however he possessed knowledge of a high ranking traitor. As a loyal Englishman his duty was clear. He should expose Clarsdale for who he was. But to do so was to risk losing perhaps the only chance he had of contacting his father. He could not do it, not yet. For the first time in his life Robert realized his personal aspirations could not be reconciled with his loyalty to Elizabeth. He was walking a traitor’s path.

He had already decided that after contact was made with his father, he would find some way to distance himself from Clarsdale and Father Blackthorne. To do so it was vital that he limit his exposure to the web of sedition that surely surrounded the duke. Robert had insisted that his journey to the estate should remain as secret as possible. He had also told Father Blackthorne that he only wanted to see Clarsdale when they reached his estate, no other person, neither servant nor confederate, and that he was to be addressed as Robert Young at all times. The duke was not to be told his adopted name. It was a thin veil of concealment but one Robert was determined to maintain.