Armada

Reaching out with his hand he felt his way forward and began to increase his pace, but ran headlong into a solid wall. The blow stunned him and he tasted blood. He angrily felt along the line of the ruins, dragging Father Blackthorne behind. Suddenly he sensed the fall of the ground beneath his feet. They had reached the edge of the summit. A bullet whistled past, then another, but Robert was already descending. Father Blackthorne grunted behind him and fell forward, crashing into Robert. The two men tumbled down the hill of loose stone and gorse.

Robert swore as he regained his feet. He glanced up at the smoke strewn summit. It was impossible to tell what was happening. One voice was shouting above the others, the voice that had first challenged them. It was calling for an end to the fighting, for order, but chaos had been unleashed and would only end when the last man regained his wits. Robert looked for Father Blackthorne. He was slumped nearby and Robert grabbed him under the shoulder to haul him to his feet. The priest cried out in pain and Robert cursed his screams, fearing they might draw attention. He lost his grip and Father Blackthorne fell backwards onto the grass. Robert made to seize him again but stopped. His hand felt slick and wet. It was covered in blood.

Cross bellowed in rage as the shooting finally ceased. He stepped out from behind the shelter of a wall and called for torches to be lit. A flame appeared in the gun smoke, followed by a dozen more and he stalked over to the nearest one, grabbing it off a soldier before catching him by the collar of his doublet.

‘Find Francis Tanner,’ he snarled. ‘And spread the word. I want a full sweep of the summit. I want those men found.’

The soldier nodded fearfully and moved quickly away. Cross held the torch out and turned slowly. The body of a solider was nearby and he walked over to see he had been shot in the chest.

The skirmish had lasted for five minutes, five long minutes. Cross’s every order to cease fire had been ignored and he spat on the body at his feet, knowing that in the confusion the soldier had probably been killed in the crossfire by one of his own comrades.

The gun smoke was clearing slowly and Cross watched the men, silhouetted by torch light, move in every direction amidst the ruins. His ambush had been a disaster. He had thought that by surrounding and surprising the traitors they would submit quickly and quietly. But they had not. Instead they had turned the tables and Cross realized that whatever the outcome now, it would be worse than he had hoped.

‘Cross,’ he heard and Tanner approached with a group of soldiers.

‘Well?’ Cross asked.

‘The bastards shot dead two of our men and another was slain by a sword. Two more have bullet wounds.’

‘And the papists?’ Cross asked angrily, caring little for the soldiers. The fools had brought death upon themselves.

‘We got one,’ Tanner said, indicating over his shoulder.

‘Alive?’

Tanner smiled maliciously. ‘He’s dead.’

Cross brushed past him and walked quickly through the ruins. A group of soldiers was standing in a tight knot around a body.

One, Cross thought furiously. Out of four, and not even that one taken alive.

The soldiers separated as Cross approached, wary of his murderous expression in the torch light. He looked down on the body. The man was lying face down. He had been shot in the back. Cross turned him over with his foot, crouching down to look at the man’s face and unseeing eyes in the orange glow of the torch fires. It was the Duke of Clarsdale.

‘Sir,’ a soldier called and Cross looked up. A soldier staggered towards him, his blood soaked hand covering his nose.

‘Two of ’em got past me over there, sir,’ he burbled, pointing behind him.

Cross was immediately on his feet.

‘Follow me,’ he commanded the assembled soldiers and spun the injured man around, ordering him back to the exact spot. The soldier led them to where he was struck down. Cross shoved him aside and kept going to the edge of the summit. He drew his sword and began to descend, holding his torch out far to his side to scan the ground. The gorse was flattened in places, as if someone had tumbled down the slope. He quickened his descent.

Reaching the base he peered into the blackness beyond the light of his torch. He looked down and noticed a large dark patch in the grass at his feet. He played his torch over it and smiled. Blood. It was not over yet. He turned to the soldiers who had followed him down. There were more than a dozen of them.

‘Spread out along a line,’ he ordered, looking to each man in turn. ‘We can still catch them. But I warn you, I want these men taken alive. If any man fires without my command, I’ll see him whipped within an inch of his life.’

The soldiers nodded darkly and moved off, fanning out on either side of Cross. They advanced quickly, their torch lights sweeping the ground before them. Ahead of them the solid outline of the church of Saint Michael’s stood resolute in the darkness.