Armada

If it held, the wind would carry them all the way home to Plymouth, but in remaining true it would also swiftly bear the Spanish Armada from port and send them hard on their heels. The plan to fight the Spanish in their home waters was no more. The enemy now held the advantage and the battle to come would be fought in the English Channel, with the men of Elizabeth’s navy standing with their backs to the very coastline they were sworn to defend.

CHAPTER 12

30th July 1588. Plymouth, England.

John Cross paused at the door of the tavern and looked up at the sign swinging lazily with the onshore breeze. The paint on the side facing the sea had long since faded but on the reverse Cross could just make out the name, The Bosun. It was all but redundant; the tavern was no different from the dozen or so others on the narrow street and Cross wondered for a moment what had happened to the families who had once occupied these tiny hovels in the oldest part of Plymouth.

It was late afternoon, but the tavern was quiet and Cross glanced through the small smoke stained window to the side of the door. This would be his last stop for the day and he consciously shrugged off the weariness of his search. He had tried every conventional ploy in his hunt for Robert Young, but as he did not know his assumed name he had constantly been frustrated. He could not go back to Walsingham empty handed. He had to go on, and with all other options exhausted he had been reduced to trawling the back streets of Plymouth in a vain search for good fortune.

The gallop of horses at the harbour end of the street caused him to turn and he moved back from the door to gain a better view, carefully stepping over the rivulet of sewage that tricked along a channel in the cobblestones. What he could see of Plymouth harbour was filled with the ships of the English fleet and while the presence of so many vessels would normally herald a busy time for the taverns, the crews had all been denied shore leave. The Armada was coming. No one knew when, but they were at sea with a fair wind and it was only a matter of time before they reached the mouth of the English Channel.

That dread warning had arrived with the English fleet’s return over a week before, along with a call from Howard to the town and surrounding countryside for fresh supplies for the fleet. Cross was convinced it was a forlorn hope. The marketplaces had already been stripped bare of their goods and there was little chance the sparse population of the surrounding countryside could provide any more for such a confluence of men. In any case, war was coming to the shores of England and Cross suspected that many people had already taken to hoarding their food.

He went back to the door of the tavern and pushed it open. It closed behind him and he stood for a moment in the gloom. The place smelled of stale beer and vomit while the air drifting in through an open door to the rear carried the faint stench of urine from the latrine outside. A barman stood behind a rough hewn counter of planks supported by upended casks. He was an older man, broad across the chest, and his frame still carried a residue of the strength he had in his youth. He looked Cross up and down.

‘There’s no one here, constable,’ he sneered, and indicated an old man slumped over an empty tankard in the far corner. ‘Just me and Black Ned.’

Cross approached the counter. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

‘And I told you there’s no one here,’ the barman replied menacingly. ‘Have a look out back in the pisser if you want. You bastards have had ’em all for that fleet.’

‘A man by the name of Young,’ Cross continued evenly, ignoring the barman’s aggressive stare, searching his face for any sign of recognition. He saw one and felt his pulse quicken.

‘I don’t think you heard me,’ the barman said. His hand slipped below the counter and he brought up a cudgel. He placed it on the counter with a heavy thud.

‘I’m not a constable,’ Cross said, never taking his eyes off the barman’s face. ‘I’m an agent of the Queen. If you know any man of that name I warn you, you would be best served to tell me.’

‘The Queen don’t drink here,’ the barman said belligerently, although out of the corner of his eye Cross saw the barman’s hand move away from the cudgel. To threaten a constable was one thing, but he would be a fool to strike an agent. ‘Now why don’t you just bugger off?’

Cross remained silent for a moment. The barman had heard the name before, he was sure of it. He had to get him to reveal what he knew.