Armada

‘A week after the new moon, perhaps ten days from now.’

Cross nodded. There was a little time.

‘Listen,’ he said, leaning in closer to Nichols. ‘The last of the fleet arrived back in Plymouth three days ago. It is possible the priest will be able to secure his man before he meets with the duke. He will have other news, numbers, maybe even names of the men he has acquired as soldiers. Ignore this information. Concentrate only on finding out the name of the informer.’

Nichols nodded.

‘Now go. I will be here every day at noon for one hour on the week after the priest is due.’

The butler moved away through the undergrowth. Within a minute Cross was left with only the sounds of nature. He looked to the estate house again. Clarsdale was cleverer than he had believed, and far more connected than he had ever suspected. That the duke was secretly a Roman Catholic had been known for some time and when Nichols had quietly made it known to the local Protestant dean that he was willing to spy on Clarsdale, Cross had received the news with only minor interest. He had set up the initial meetings, wary at first of the butler because his information was unsolicited. He had searched for signs of subterfuge at each meeting. He had found none however, and confident of his judgement and experience, he had come to trust the butler, although his information to date had only confirmed what Cross had long held: that the duke was merely a sympathizer and not an active conspirator.

Now all was changed. Walsingham would need to be informed immediately. Cross walked quickly to his horse and mounted her in one fluid sweep, walking her through to the other side of the copse before spurring her to a full gallop out into the open field beyond.

Father Blackthorne stretched out his arms and gazed up at the east facing window. His voice rose above the murmur of his congregation and his words soon dominated the tiny enclosed room. He narrowed his eyes against the white glare of the morning sun streaming through the plain opaque glass. In his imagination, he pictured a beautiful stained glass image depicting the crucifixion of Christ. It was the window in Saint Anne’s, the little church where he had celebrated his first mass as an ordained priest some thirty-five years before. The image was forever close to his heart, a reminder of the times when he had been able to observe his faith in public.

‘Ite missa est,’ he intoned, ending the mass. As the congregation responded, he led them in the last Gospel, striving as always to draw strength from the verses of Saint John, seeking the courage and hope to go on.

Why? To what end? He immediately tried to suppress the thought, angry at himself for questioning his lot. Father Blackthorne was shamed by the unexpected lapse in devotion, the moment of weakness, and yet the voice refused to quieten. For the true faith. But the answer could no longer stifle the gnawing protests from his body and mind at the hardships he was forced to endure; the hunger and deprivation, the constant fear of capture that whittled away his nerve.

Again he tried to recapture the ardour and confidence he had felt in the first years after Elizabeth’s coronation, when he secretly returned to England to fight the reformation of the church. However that was almost three decades ago. He was a young man then, but that strength was gone forever. Now only hope remained. He pushed his doubts to the recesses of his mind as the final words of the service were spoken.

Father Blackthorne blessed himself and, rising slowly, turned to the four people knelt behind him. He nodded to them with a smile and they rose up, coming to him in turn for an individual blessing – Catherine and William Varian first, then their two servants.

The servants immediately took their leave and Father Blackthorne invited the couple to sit once more.

‘That was a beautiful service,’ Catherine said. The tone of her words suggested to Father Blackthorne that she somehow understood, and perhaps shared, his inner fears. He took comfort from the belief.

‘Thank you, Catherine,’ he replied, taking her hand in his, feeling less alone. He saw William glance towards the door. He was a tall man with a full beard and balding pate. When he looked back to the priest, and noticed that his glance had been observed, he coloured slightly. Father Blackthorne smiled.

‘There’s still time, William,’ he said kindly.

‘Forgive me, Father, my mind should not wander to such things in this place.’

‘It’s all right. You must protect your family.’

William nodded and Father Blackthorne reached out with his other hand, placing it on William’s forearm.

The daily Protestant service would begin at 7 a.m. in Brixham town church and William would be expected to attend, as were all the prominent men of the town. It was a duality that Father Blackthorne knew he should condemn but in his heart he could not. William Varian was entirely faithful to the Catholic creed and Father Blackthorne understood that his survival, and the welfare of his family, depended on his outwardly cherishing the Protestant faith.

Catherine was the guardian of his spiritual integrity, maintaining a vigil in the tiny room the family used as a secret chapel while her husband attended Protestant services. There she offered prayers for his soul, begging forgiveness and understanding from God for the weakness of wishing to survive.

As William rose to leave the room, Father Blackthorne stood with him.

‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he whispered over William’s bowed head.

‘Thank you, Father,’ William said, straightening up his shoulders.

‘Go with God, my son. I will be here when you return to hear your confession.’

William left and Father Blackthorne knelt with Catherine before the table that served as an altar. When in Brixham, he would always pray with her while William risked his soul in the Protestant church, comforting her when tears of guilt overwhelmed her, reminding her that God forgave the penitent. Upon the table stood a crucifix and a simple cup that the family used as a chalice. They were flanked by two candles. Father Blackthorne bowed his head and began to recite the joyful mysteries of the Rosary.

He thought of how each time he returned to a town or village, he found that his flock had diminished further. Not a half-mile away, a congregation was being led by the local vicar with readings from the Common Book of Prayer, and soon their voices would be raised in song, in a church that was once Catholic. Many of the congregation had never known a time when Elizabeth was not on the throne, and for them Protestantism was the natural faith of the realm. The conversion of the older people encompassed myriad reasons – many were unable to withstand the pressure to conform, while others believed they had found a more faithful path to God.

For Father Blackthorne the threat of discovery grew with each willing or unwilling victim of the heresy. He could only hope that none had yet spoken out because of some sense of previously held loyalty. But more and more often, call signs went unanswered and doors that had once been open to him were now firmly shut. Some of the occupants pleaded with him to leave as they feared exposure, while others damned him with the righteous zeal of neophytes. He knew his precarious freedom could not last and he shuddered slightly when he thought of the fate that awaited him should he fall into the hands of the Protestant authorities.

He looked sideways at Catherine. She was the fountainhead of faith for her family, her courage and conviction matched only by that of her husband and children.

He found the courage to go on – ‘For them,’ he said silently, answering his previous question with the certainty of realization. He listened intently to Catherine’s responses to his prayers, hearing anew the sincerity with which she spoke and seeing the utter rapture on her face as she gazed upon the crucifix.

As he turned to the window he saw the stained glass image clearer in his mind’s eye than ever before. Where there was faith, there was hope, and in this room, this tiny chapel, the faith of Catherine Varian was all encompassing.

Thomas Seeley stopped for a moment at the wooden gate. His hand played over the weather worn timber as he looked up the gentle slope of the path to the two storey house. Its walls were covered in verdant ivy and the stillness of the scene was one of the visions he had treasured in his memory during the months he had been away. He pushed open the gate, the hinges protesting with a loud creak that drowned out the drone of insects, and he walked up the path, stopping once more before reaching the door.

Seeley looked over his shoulder and took in the familiar view. As so many times before, his eye was drawn to the western edge of the horizon and the large manor house some four miles distant. It was the home of his mother’s cousin, the Marquess of Wenborough. Palatial in size, it was a home befitting the title and wealth of the family and Seeley’s eyes narrowed, his deep seated animosity rising unbidden at the view he had beheld his entire life. The house behind him, his own family home, was an estate cottage, a one-time hunting lodge that his mother’s cousin had granted the Seeley family when their title had been returned by Queen Elizabeth.

That act of charity was an open wound in Seeley’s honour that would not heal. Its pain was sharpened by the knowledge that the Wenborough family had survived the reign of Mary Tudor unscathed by adhering to the changing religion of the monarchy. Their faith swung with the prevailing wind and, under Elizabeth, they were now staunchly Protestant.

But Seeley’s own paternal grandparents had been burned at the stake for their faith ten years before he was born. As a child he had read, with terrified fascination, John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, poring over it secretly in his bed at night. The woodcut prints depicting the executions ordered by Bloody Mary were forever burned into his memory. Even now, in his maturity, they haunted his nightmares, reducing him to effeminate tears of terror each time.

Seeley turned his back on the distant horizon and walked the remaining steps to the front door of his home. It was open and as he stepped inside he met Barker, the senior servant of three, rounding a corner. The older man was momentarily surprised before an unaffected smile transformed his face.

‘Master Thomas. You’re home.’

Seeley smiled. ‘I am, Barker, and it is good to see you well.’

The older man’s smile deepened. He liked the youngest son of the family and was glad to see him safe.

‘Are my parents home?’

‘Your mother is in the garden,’ Barker replied, spinning on his heel to lead Seeley through the house. ‘Your father is in London and is due back in a fortnight.’

Seeley nodded, disappointed that his father was not home, although he had been prepared for such news.

Despite his title his father was obliged to work as a merchant in order to support the family. It was contrary to his birthright but if the family’s fortune was to be rebuilt the offence would have to be borne. Seeley’s two older brothers had taken up the mantle of responsibility on reaching maturity. They, like Seeley, were rarely at home. As Seeley walked through the hallway, he found himself glancing in every direction, taking in the familiar, gathering strength from it.

Seeley’s mother was sitting under the shade of a sprawling oak tree in the back garden and her son was almost upon her before she looked up. She rushed to her youngest son, embracing him fiercely.

‘I prayed for you,’ she whispered through tears.

‘I’m home.’ He held her embrace for a long time before leading her back into the shade.

‘Your father is away,’ she said.

‘Barker said. And my sisters?’

‘They are out walking, but will be returning soon. Oh, it is good to see you, Thomas.’

He reached out and placed a hand on her forearm, reassuring her once more, and they began to talk of inconsequential things with Seeley asking after each member of his family in turn. His mother responded to each question gaily but Seeley sensed her happiness was only a brittle façade and she soon lapsed into silence.