Armada

Then Clarsdale had realized the incredible opportunity that Young’s arrival would grant him. That the Duke of Greyfarne had ended his eighteen-year self-imposed exile spoke of the value Spain placed on the information they sought. Clarsdale had to act, swiftly and decisively. Nathaniel Young was still unaware of his son’s involvement. Whether he used subtle blackmail or manipulation Clarsdale still needed Young to reveal the name of his handler in Spain. Then he would reunite father and son to ensure Robert Young’s commitment to the task.

With the Duke of Greyfarne in England and within his grasp there was no need for Clarsdale to coerce him into stepping aside. There was an easier way now, one that would ensure Clarsdale would become the all important lynchpin for the valuable intelligence. He would simply kill Nathaniel Young.

CHAPTER 8

10th August 1587. Dover, England.

Evardo spat over the aft as the ship pulled away from the quayside. He turned his back on England and looked to the clear horizon ahead, taking solace from the fact that they were finally away. The journey thus far had not been easy. After leaving the prison grounds in London Pedro had revealed that although he had paid the ransom demanded by the English, he had been forced to pay further bribes to the prison guards and administrator to ensure Evardo’s prompt release.

Pedro had been left virtually penniless and so Evardo had gone directly to the Spanish ambassador in London to seek aid. The ambassador had refused to see him. Evardo had pressed for an audience, demanding to know why he was being rebuffed, when he noticed the contemptuous looks of the ambassador’s staff. No other explanation was needed. He was disgraced, and no senior Spaniard, certainly not an ambassador, wanted to be associated with him.

Evardo had left London and proceeded to Dover, eager to leave England immediately. The journey had taken nearly a week. They had travelled incognito, knowing their nationality made them a target, and had avoided human contact wherever possible. They had hoarded what little money they had. It would be needed to secure passage on a ship. Evardo had little English but he could speak French, and when they needed to buy food they had passed themselves off as French refugees.

Upon reaching Dover they had found the first available French ship sailing for Calais. It was a stinking barque but the French captain had asked few questions of his Spanish passengers, never looking beyond the silver pieces-of-eight that Evardo had given him.

Evardo glanced at the English capital ships as the French barque passed between them. Their lower, sleeker hulls were so different to the towering castles of Spanish galleons. From a distance it was hard to tell what ordnance they carried but it was well known these new ships were heavily armed. Evardo sneered derisively. Such firepower would matter little when they were grappled and boarded. Therein lay their weakness. Evardo looked forward to the day when he would show the English the depth of their folly.

He turned to the horizon as the barque slipped past the outermost ships in Dover harbour. Once in Calais, Evardo planned to make his way to Antwerp, either by boat or overland. There he would find out where the Duke of Parma was encamped with his army and make contact with his brother, Allante, one of the duke’s aides-de-camp. Asking for help would be an ignominious task but it was the only way he could get himself, and Pedro, home to Spain.

Dressed as he was, in tattered rags, it would be humiliating to walk into the camp of the Army of Flanders. Tough, professional and experienced, they were the most feared army in the world. Allante, like his eldest brother Miguel, was sure to help him but as with Miguel, Evardo dreaded the encounter.

He glanced over his shoulder at the diminishing outlines of the English warships and beyond to the mammoth white cliffs that flanked the port of Dover. It was an impressive sight but Evardo drew no pleasure from it. He turned his back once more. England would wait, secure in her conceited confidence, until he returned.

Nathaniel Young stared out the window of the study, captivated by the view. His finger traced the outline of the distant horizon on the glass. The Duke of Clarsdale’s estate was so green. It was the English countryside he had pictured in his mind so many times over the previous two decades, the lush fertile land that was so different to the arid soil of his home in exile.

The door opened behind him and he turned to see Clarsdale and his butler enter. Nathaniel stared at the servant. The man held his gaze for a second before looking away. The butler, Nichols, unnerved him. Nathaniel needed to keep the number of people who knew he was back in England to a minimum.