Armada

John Cross raised his head and gazed at the lancet window. The air was still inside the tiny Clarsdale family chapel and Cross allowed the solitude and peace to quieten his mind. He walked slowly to the altar and traced his hand along the smooth polished oak, whispering a prayer of thanks to God. Henceforth the chapel would only bear witness to those who were pure of soul. He gazed around one last time and then walked outside, closing the solid door behind him.

The ground was covered in a thick layer of hoar frost and Cross turned his face from the biting wind, walking towards the estate house. He looked across the valley to the hill opposite and the copse that straddled the crest. It looked cold and forbidding and Cross recalled the many days he had spent hiding there. Resentfully, he looked away.

The brittle grass crunched under his feet as he made his way around to the front door of the house. All was quiet and Cross paused for a moment at the entrance. The door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and stepped inside. The hallway floor was covered in debris and animal droppings and Cross slowly gazed around the large interior space. Everything of value was gone.

All that Clarsdale had owned, his lands and possessions, had been forfeited to the Crown. His title had been revoked and his extended family had all been taken in for extensive questioning, an interrogation that had already caused the death of two of the older family members. The Crown forces had taken the pick of Clarsdale’s possessions but Cross could see numerous signs of vandalism where the local population had come to steal anything that they could. In many places the elaborate wood panelling had been ripped from the wall, no doubt to be used as firewood during the long winter. In such an isolated place there was no chance to defend the house against such marauding. It would only be safe when new owners acquired it from the Crown.

Cross shuffled through the debris and walked into the room that was once Clarsdale’s study. The door was gone, as were some of the window panes and the chill wind made the flotsam of paper that was strewn on the floor rustle and dance with every gust. Cross picked up the torn cover of a book; Christian Thoughts, Volume II. A sardonic smile lingered on his face for a moment before his mouth twisted in anger. He flung the cover into the lifeless hearth and stormed from the room.

He strode around the expanse of the house, his footfalls echoing off the bare walls and hollow rooms. He had come so close, he thought furiously, and the failure of his ambush burned in the pit of his stomach. Walsingham had been beyond rage when he had heard that Nathaniel Young had escaped his grasp. He had been on the brink of dismissing Cross from his post but Cross had convinced his superior that he still had a chance to capture his son Robert Young. Walsingham had eventually agreed but Cross was left in no doubt that his reputation and position had been damaged beyond repair.

He made his way back to the front door and paused on the threshold to glance once more at the gaping doorway of the study. He cursed. The Duke of Clarsdale would have been an invaluable captive, as would the heretic priest, but death had robbed Cross of even those prizes. He had ordered the two corpses to be buried in an unmarked grave in unconsecrated ground on the summit of the motte. It was the only measure of revenge he could take and it had brought him little comfort.

Cross left the house and made his way towards his horse. Over the previous months he had scoured the ports of the south coast of England and put all the agents stationed there on the alert for Nathaniel Young, less he try to hire or stow away on a ship departing to the continent. The search had been fruitless and Cross had conceded that the Duke of Greyfarne had either gone into hiding in England, in which case he might never be found, or he had by now found some way off the island of England. Cross’s only remaining lead was the search for Robert Young.

But what was the God-cursed traitor’s real name? And where was he now? If he had gone into hiding with his father then he too might never be found. It was a frustrating thought but at least, Cross accepted, the danger of him acting as an informer would be neutralized. Perhaps he was braver than that, or a fanatic as many of these religious zealots were. He might have returned to Plymouth and taken up his post to continue his mission. Perhaps he had other contacts besides Clarsdale and the priest and was, at this moment, passing messages to his traitorous father in Spain.