Armada

The Spanish Armada had to be defeated at sea. It was England’s only chance. Robert had come to realize that fact, as had many of the commanders in the fleet. He had seen the local militia, the husbandmen and traders who had been conscripted to oppose any landing in Devon. Many of them were armed only with bows and their ranks were continually being depleted as men deserted to tend to their fields. It was a situation that doubtless was repeated along the entire length of the south coast. Robert dreaded to think how these men would fare against trained soldiers. Some six thousand soldiers, around half of England’s professional army, were in the Spanish Netherlands fighting the cause of the rebels. Six thousand more had been sent to secure England’s border with Scotland to guard against an attack that might be triggered by the Spanish invasion. If the Spanish landed all would be lost. Parma’s Army of Flanders could march an incredible ten miles a day and like wildfire on dry scrub they would sweep aside any local militia bands and descend upon London.

‘Captain.’ Seeley strode up to Robert. ‘Shaw has just returned from shore with good news. A Roman Catholic spy has been uncovered in the office of the Clerk of Ships.’

Robert’s lips tightened into a thin line. The crew of the Retribution were facing innumerable challenges and yet Seeley was still focused on the threat of Catholic spies. He had even widened his coterie of investigators on board to include the boatswain’s mate and the surgeon.

‘He might have some information as to the true identity of Young,’ Seeley continued. ‘Permission to go ashore to attend his interrogation.’

Robert tried to think of some reason to refuse Seeley permission but he could not. He nodded curtly and Seeley called for the coxswain to man the longboat.

‘Thomas, wait,’ Robert called. ‘I will accompany you.’

They descended into the longboat and shoved off. Robert sat alone in the bow. His decision to accompany Seeley had been made on impulse. He could think of no reason why someone in the office of the Clerk of Ships would know his secret but he reasoned it was better that he should witness anything that might be said. In any case he would have a better chance, however minute, of escaping on land.

The threat of invasion had whipped the population into a frenzy of anti-Catholicism. Fearing any uprising of English Catholics the Privy Council had already ordered the internment of known leading Catholics in Wisbech Castle in Cambridgeshire, and the populace, in terror of the Spanish Inquisition, were openly calling for their execution. The older people still remembered Bloody Mary. The Catholics had shown little mercy for Protestants when they were in power. Now that the tables were reversed the Catholics could expect little mercy.

The longboat reached the docks and Seeley led the way to the garrison. A guard directed them to the prison block. They crossed the inner courtyard to an iron-studded wooden door. It led into a guard room where two men were seated at a table.

‘I am Master Seeley and this is Captain Varian of the Retribution. You have a Roman Catholic prisoner here. We need to see him.’

One of the guards stood up slowly. He looked them up and down and then walked over to the inner door. Taking a ring of keys from his belt he unlocked it and motioned them through.

The corridor beyond was windowless and was lit by torches. A series of doors ran along one side. Only the furthest one was open and Robert followed Seeley towards it as the door to the guard room was locked behind them. A terrible scream pierced the still air, turning the blood in Robert’s veins to ice. They entered the room. It was a small airless space and was dominated by a single object in the middle of the room.

Three men stood around it, but Robert barely saw them. His eyes were fixed on the man stretched out on the rack. His ankles and wrists were bloodied and torn by the bonds that held him fast to the rollers at both ends. His limbs were grotesquely extended and his skin had been badly burned in numerous places. He had blacked out from the pain. The smell of faeces and sweat and seared flesh was overpowering. Robert looked at the sweat stained face of the prisoner and his stomach lurched. He knew him. He was one of the locals who had attended mass on the motte beside Saint Michael’s when Robert had first met Father Blackthorne there, the man who had come with his wife and young daughter. Robert backed away towards the door.

‘Who are you?’ one of the men spat.

Seeley told him.

‘I’m Browne, Sergeant at arms. If you’ve come for the interrogation you’re too late. The local agent, Tanner, and his men have already come and gone.’

‘Who is he?’ Seeley asked, unable to look away from the rack. He had only ever seen pictures of the device in Foxe’s Book of Martyrs.

‘His name’s Bailey. He’s a scribe in the Clerk’s office.’

‘What has he told you?’ Robert asked.