Armada

Cross had encountered such hostility in each tavern. Every able seaman in Plymouth, out of loyalty to the Crown or eager for any plunder that might be had in the impending battle, had volunteered to make up the shortfalls amongst the crews of the Royal ships. The taverns were bereft of customers and the barkeepers had taken to acting out their anger at the loss on any official of the fleet. The vast majority of these volunteers were still at their posts but there had been scattered reports of desertions now that the fleet was once more in port. The constables were trawling the town and surrounding area for the fugitives. With his bearing and dress Cross had been taken for one at every turn.

‘Give me a drink,’ Cross said. ‘Whisky if you have it.’

The barman grunted and took a chipped wooden tankard from the shelf behind him. He poured in a measure and pushed it across the counter. Cross picked it up. The tankard was filthy and the whisky had the raw smell of sour alcohol. He put it to his lips and took a taste. It seared the back of his throat. He reached into his pocket and took out a crown. It was as much as the barkeeper could be expected to make in a day from a dozen thirsty customers and Cross turned the coin over tantalizingly with the tips of his fingers.

‘This man I seek, Young. He’s a traitor, a Roman Catholic.’

‘A papist?’ the barman spat. He glanced down at the coin in Cross’s hand and then to the old man passed out in the corner. Cross could see the barman’s mind at work in his expression. It would be bad for business if he became known as someone who spoke to the authorities, but they were all alone in the tavern. Cross could see that he was wavering.

‘There’d be a reward for any information that would lead to his capture,’ he said. The barman turned back to Cross and, glancing at the door, leaned across the counter.

‘I don’t know anyone of that name,’ he said. ‘But there was someone in here a few weeks ago looking for the same man. Said his name was Seeley.’

‘Seeley?’ Cross asked perplexed. ‘Where was he from?’

‘He didn’t say, but he was a sailor. He demanded I tell him if any of the men who drink here ever went by that name. He even threatened to draw his sword if I didn’t tell him.’

‘He didn’t say what ship he sailed on?’

‘No, but he was definitely an officer. A stuck-up little prick he was, full of piss and wind.’

Cross was shocked by the news that someone else was looking for Robert Young. Who in God’s name was Seeley? Perhaps Walsingham had lost trust in him completely and had assigned another agent to the hunt. He asked the barman to recall exactly when Seeley had been in. His reply ruled out that possibility. It was before the night on the motte, before Cross had been disgraced. It couldn’t be another agent. So who was he, and why was he after Young? Did he know Young was a Roman Catholic, or had he some other grievance to settle? That Seeley had threatened to draw his sword certainly spoke of his determination to find him. Perhaps he already had. Either way, Cross realized, after too many weeks, he was finally getting closer to his prey.

He tossed the coin to the barman and left the tavern, pausing in the middle of the street to look towards the harbour. On board one of those ships there was an officer named Seeley. Cross had to find him. He would find him. Seeley’s information, combined with his own, might provide him with the answer he so desperately needed.

The hunting ground had diminished to the roll call of a hundred ships. As Cross began to walk towards the harbour he became more and more convinced that Seeley was searching for someone amongst his own. Robert Young was a sailor in the fleet. More than likely he was an officer, for any credible spy would need to be in a position of authority to be privy to naval plans.

The thought made Cross quicken his pace. The Armada was poised to attack. The English fleet would soon be engaged, with a cancerous traitor deep within their ranks, one who was sure to betray them at a crucial time in battle. Cross had to get to him before it was too late.

Captain Fleming looked anxiously over his shoulder. The south-westerly wind blew directly into his face, causing his eyes to water. He rubbed them furiously as he tried to focus on the distant horizon. It was clear, but in his mind Fleming beheld the sight he had seen at dawn, the multitude he knew was just below the farthest reaches of his vision.

Fleming had never witnessed such a sight before. Few under God had. Although he was one of a squadron of captains sent by Howard to patrol the approaches to the Channel specifically to warn of the Armada’s arrival, he had been deeply shocked and awed by his first sighting. The Spanish fleet was enormous, with scores of ships over 500 tons, sailing under a forest of spars and rigging, their sails and banners emblazoned with the heraldic symbols of an entire empire.