Armada

Cross turned and walked a dozen paces towards his horse. The local sheriff was less than five miles away. He could have the militia here by dawn. Then he stopped in his tracks. Even if he was right, even if Robert or Nathaniel Young was in the house, if he swooped now to capture them the other would escape his grasp. Nathaniel Young was certainly the greater prize, but the son was becoming as dangerous as his father. He needed them both. His plan to catch them all at one time had to remain. He cursed loudly, hating the gamble he was being forced to play.

The sun had fallen below the horizon and the last of its light was poised to follow. Frustration consumed him. He was so close to destroying an entire network of Roman Catholic spies but a gaping chasm of uncertainty separated him from success. As he turned to leave, a movement caught his eye. A man was running away from the house towards the stone bridge that crossed the river. He seemed frantic, glancing repeatedly over his shoulder as he ran. When he reached the bottom of the slope leading to Cross, he vanished behind a fold in the ground, reappearing moments later. It was Nichols.

Robert gained the top of the motte and paused for a moment, listening in the darkness. There was no indication that Father Blackthorne was near at hand. He opened his mouth to utter the password, then hesitated. This was his last chance to pull himself back from the brink of treason. He simply had to walk away. The list of ships he had compiled was in the forefront of his mind, as was the simple message he had composed for his father. If only there was some way to deliver one without the other.

‘Sumus omnes,’ he said aloud.

The password was returned by a familiar voice and Robert stepped forward to greet Father Blackthorne, who led him to a shielded fire on the far side of the summit.

‘Would you like me to hear your confession, my son?’ Father Blackthorne asked.

‘No, Father,’ Robert replied sharply. ‘I would sooner tell you my report and be on my way.’

Father Blackthorne frowned at Robert’s abrupt answer.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ Robert said quickly, seeing the priest’s expression in the firelight. ‘It’s just that I need to be back at my ship before the start of the morning watch.’

Robert cursed his lapse. It was better for his confessor to believe that he was fully committed to his task.

‘Let us sit then, Robert. I trust you have much to tell me.’

‘I have, Father. The fleet at Plymouth …’

Suddenly Robert shot up.

‘What …?’ Father Blackthorne began but Robert quietened him with his hand.

‘Someone’s coming. Are you expecting anyone else?’

Father Blackthorne shook his head.

Robert drew his sword. He peered into the darkness and cocked his head slightly in the direction of the noise. He heard it again – the fall of loose stones. Someone was ascending the motte. He sensed Father Blackthorne rise behind but he did not look back, less the glow of the fire rob his night vision. The sky was cloudless but with a new moon the only light came from the blanket of stars that served to frame and highlight any shape that stood against the sky.

‘Sumus omnes.’

Robert did not reply.

‘In manu Dei,’ Father Blackthorne answered. Before Robert could curse him, the silhouettes of two men appeared.

‘Who are you?’ Robert demanded.

‘Put down your sword, boy.’ Robert recognized Clarsdale’s voice.

He sheathed his sword and they stepped into the firelight. Robert looked to the man with Clarsdale. For a moment they stared at each other’s faces.

‘Father?’ Robert whispered incredulously.

‘It is good to see you again, my son.’ Nathaniel extended his hand.

Robert glanced down and took it without thinking.

‘You’re here.’

Nathaniel nodded with a smile.

Robert let his father’s hand go. From behind him he heard Father Blackthorne gasp in amazement and the priest rushed forward to greet Nathaniel. Robert stood frozen, his eyes still locked on his father. He had changed so much. He was older, of course, but he was different somehow.

Over eighteen years, Robert had turned his father into the embodiment of all that he had lost – his title, his heritage, the honour of his real name. When Clarsdale had told him he was still alive Robert had grasped at the chance to contact him. In restoring the link between him and his father, he hoped to move closer to redeeming his past. But now he was unexpectedly filled with doubt. Maybe his father was not the key to his redemption. Maybe he was just a man, one whose past actions had already cost Robert his true fate and whose presence in England now threatened to take from him all that he had worked for.

‘I had to come to secure the naval agent we so desperately need,’ Nathaniel said, ‘but I only learned of your involvement after I landed in England.’

Robert barely heard the words his father spoke. Instead he studied him closely and realized suddenly that for too long he had shied away from the obvious truth of the man before him, of what he was, of what he had always been.