Armada

‘I was so proud to find out that you were the agent,’ Nathaniel concluded, holding his hand out once more to his son.

Robert recoiled. His father was a traitor of the worst kind. He was not standing tall in the front line of battle, he was skulking in the undergrowth, engaging in espionage in a bid to bring down England from within.

‘You say you are proud?’ he asked coldly.

‘Yes, of course.’

‘To learn that I’m a traitor?’

‘A traitor? A traitor against what?’

‘Against the Crown,’ Robert spat. ‘Against Elizabeth. Against this country.’

‘A collaborator!’ Clarsdale leapt forward, drawing his sword.

Robert reacted instantly, drawing his own blade. He dropped into a defensive posture.

Clarsdale side stepped warily, swishing his sword through a shallow arc. His mind was racing. He felt panic swell up inside him. Robert Young had deceived them. Was he in league with others? Was he an agent of the Crown? Clarsdale’s eyes darted to each side, trying to see into the dark. He had always been so cautious, ensuring that no one outside his trusted staff knew of his religion and his cause. Now he was exposed. He forced himself to remain calm. Maybe Robert Young was alone. Maybe he was simply the loyal recusant the priest claimed he was. Clarsdale clung to that hope, using it to further quell his alarm and he moved slowly to gain a better attack position. Whatever Robert Young was, he had to die.

‘I … I don’t understand,’ Nathaniel stammered. ‘I thought you were Catholic. I thought …’

‘I am Catholic,’ Robert rejoined, his eyes on Clarsdale, ‘but I’m also loyal to my Queen.’

‘You can’t be both,’ Nathaniel retorted, regaining his wits. ‘You cannot be true to your faith and to the heretic Queen.’ He looked deeply into his son’s eyes, trying to see the boy that was once his. He saw only anger, and another emotion, one that affected him deeply – shame.

‘Who are you, Robert?’ he whispered. ‘What have you become?’

‘If you don’t know me it’s because you left when I was just a boy. I am an Englishman and Elizabeth is my Queen. Without your treacherous influence, I have grown up true to my faith, my country and my sovereign.’

‘My treacherous influence?’ Nathaniel uttered. He reached out to his son but Robert shrugged him off angrily. Clarsdale seized the opportunity and lunged forward.

Robert parried Clarsdale’s vicious strike, turning his blade through a column of sparks from the fire. He leapt back and prepared to attack. Father Blackthorne quickly stepped into the shadows but Nathaniel stood motionless as Robert and Clarsdale clashed once more, their blades striking each other in a fury of steel and anger.

Nathaniel gazed at Robert. The brief moment of curiosity and happiness that he had felt when he first saw him was gone. Now there was only turmoil, and worse, a growing anger at what his son had proclaimed. His son’s beliefs were an abomination before God. Elizabeth was the devil’s spawn. She was the standard bearer for the Protestant faith. She had to be overthrown.

Nathaniel’s anger deepened. When he had left Robert with his wife’s brother he had thought that William Varian would keep him true to Catholicism. But Varian had twisted his son’s faith into something despicable, destroying the foundations that Nathaniel had laid. His son was no longer Catholic, not in the true sense, not if he supported the jezebel who was the Queen of England.

The fight intensified and Robert neatly parried a killing strike to his groin before reversing the attack, leaping forward to come inside Clarsdale’s counter strike. The two men came chest to chest, their blades upturned between them. Nathaniel saw the killing urge that possessed them both and with certainty he realized that in the next moments either his ally or his son would die. His sword leapt from its scabbard.

John Cross stepped through the ditch bordering the graveyard. The chink and rattle of weaponry sounded unnaturally loud in his ears and he glanced over his shoulder at the shadowy outlines of the thirty soldiers who followed him, willing them to quieten their approach. Ahead of them was the looming shape of the motte. It was larger than he had imagined and he cursed the necessity of attacking such a dominating place in darkness.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Francis Tanner was directly behind him. He pointed ahead to the motte and Cross nodded irritably. He was furious with the agent from Plymouth, not because of his unnecessary directions, but because Tanner had told the squad of soldiers before they left Plymouth that their mission tonight was to capture a group of Roman Catholic spies. The news had been like a red rag to a bull. Although Cross had subsequently tried to quell their zeal for the hunt, explaining to them that he needed the traitors captured alive, he knew many of them were baying for blood and would likely ignore his entreaties.