Armada

She moved to the low stool before the block, her eyes darting to the felling axe lying on the floor. Her expression never changed and she listened in silence as the commission for her execution was read aloud. A Protestant dean stepped forward to pray for her and for the first time the depths of her concealed emotions were revealed.

‘I am settled in the ancient Catholic religion,’ she said firmly, her tone resolute, ‘and mind to spend my blood in defence of it.’

The dean ignored her and fell to his knees to pray out loud for her soul. She turned away and began to pray in Latin, their words intertwining, each voice calling to the same God across a divide that had almost destroyed a realm.

In the silence that followed, the Queen sat on the low stool to disrobe. Her lady-in-waiting stepped forward. With trembling hands the servant removed the two rosaries bound around the Queen’s waist before drawing down her black dress. Underneath Mary Stuart wore a dark red bodice and crimson petticoat, the colour of blood. The lady stepped in close, her tear stained lips kissing a white cloth blindfold before tying it in place.

The Queen knelt down and reached out in blindness for the block, her hands tracing over its edges. She leaned forward, adjusting the position of her chin with the tips of her fingers. The executioner bent over and touched her hand, an unspoken sign to withdraw them, and she stretched out her arms, lowering her head to fully expose the back of her neck. The executioner stepped back, the weight of the felling axe light in his calloused hands. He drew up the stroke.

‘Into thine hands, O Lord, I commend my spirit,’ the Queen cried aloud, ‘Into thine hands, O Lord, I commend …’

The blade fell, striking her on the back of the head.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ she whispered and the executioner quickly swung again, this time his axe striking her cleanly on the back of the neck, ending her fate.

The executioner picked up the severed head and held it aloft, turning slowly before the crowd so all could see and bear witness, his loud voice booming across the great hall:

‘God save the Queen.’

CHAPTER 1

25th March 1587. Near Plymouth, England.

Robert Varian picked his way across the ancient graveyard, his hands outstretched in the darkness as he wove through the maze of granite and sandstone markers. The noise of the air rushing through the trees filled his ears, and not for the first time, he felt a hollow point of unease at the base of his back. The local yeomanry were sure to be patrolling for deserters and given the lateness of the hour his presence so far from port would be hard to explain.

He looked up at the dark outline of the church spire to his left, tracing its outline with his eyes until he reached its apex. Above it the clouds were racing across the sky, a ghostly white, diffusing the light of the waning moon. He searched for a gap along their line of advance and, seeing one approach, quickly dropped his gaze. An instant later the moon’s light shone through a breech, illuminating the ancient stones. He could see it, not ten feet ahead. He was plunged once more into darkness as he stumbled on.

His outstretched hand touched cold sculpted stone and he felt his way slowly up over the curve of an angel’s wing, his hand falling to the shoulder of the life-sized statue which was draped over a plinth in lamentation. He followed the arm and paused as his hand reached the angel’s. This was his third visit since the full moon, and each one before had brought disappointment. He stretched his fingertips around the angel’s hand and smiled in relief as he felt the object loosely clutched within. It was a small wooden crucifix, roughly hewn as if created in haste and Robert glanced over his shoulder instinctively. He could see or hear nothing in the wind-driven darkness and he quickly replaced the crucifix in the angel’s hand.

He moved towards the church, his hand outstretched again until he touched the north wall. He turned east and left the bounds of the churchyard to go into the field beyond. His eyes were drawn to a dark mass of high ground ahead, a looming hillock behind which the clouds fled and then reappeared. It was a motte, a man-made earthen mound, and upon it some long-forgotten people had built a rudimentary stone fort, now in ruins. He began to clamber up its slope and the wind clawed at his travelling cloak. He paused as he reached the top. A tumbled down wall was before him and he stepped into its lee. The noise of the wind in his ears abated.

‘Sumus omnes. We are all,’ he said in Latin to the darkness, a language he had been taught in his youth and one known by all educated men.

‘In manu Dei. In God’s hand,’ came a reply and Robert smiled, recognizing the deep baritone of the voice.

He stepped forward and was met by the dark outline of a short, stocky man.

‘Well met, Father,’ he said.

‘Robert, is that you?’ the priest replied.

‘Yes, Father,’ Robert said and he reached out and clasped the priest’s arm.

‘I did not expect …’

‘I have come from Plymouth,’ Robert explained, omitting why he was in that port, knowing the reason would anger the priest.

Robert had known Father Blackthorne for the better part of his thirty years, ever since he had come to live in Brixham when he was twelve years old. It had been a terrifying time for Robert, a new life far from his original home in Durham. From the outset, Father Blackthorne had been his friend, and the young boy had clung to the security of the priest’s constancy, using him, like the North Star, as a fixed point in his shattered world.

As Robert grew older the priest had become his confessor. It was a sacrament Robert rarely had the chance to celebrate as a sailor for he spent many months at a time at sea, but he had long ago memorized the sequence of secret meeting places, triggered by the rising of each new moon, and the secret call signs that the priest used. It was that knowledge that had led him to the weeping angel in the graveyard of the Church of Saint Michael, not two miles from Plymouth, and the motte beyond that had become a Mass rock for the Catholic faithful.

‘Will you hear my confession, Father?’ Robert asked, kneeling down.

The priest nodded and removed a Stole from his pocket, kissing the long narrow strip of cloth before placing it around his neck. He reached out to put his hand on the top of Robert’s head as he began the Latin incantation of the sacrament. Robert rose after a few minutes, his conscience calmed.

‘Have you seen my parents?’ he asked.

‘I have,’ the priest replied, wondering if the young man really did consider the Varians to be his parents. ‘Not two months ago. They are well.’

Robert nodded, glad to hear some news. Brixham was only twenty miles from Plymouth but Robert had not been home for over a year, his own career and now a summons from his patron keeping him away. His adoptive father, his uncle, William Varian, was a local gentleman merchant. A successful man, he kept his business profitable by hiding his Catholic faith and openly conforming to the Protestant religion of the majority. It was a secret fraught with danger for Catholics were associated with so many plots to overthrow the Protestant Queen Elizabeth, their faith was synonymous with treachery and foreign influence.

William Varian remained a loyal recusant, a Catholic who nevertheless firmly supported the Queen. It was a belief he had instilled in Robert ever since he took the young boy into his home. Queen Elizabeth was not of their faith, but she was English, and a staunch defender of England’s independence from the foreign powers that lurked across the Channel. For that reason alone, William Varian had taught Robert to be forever loyal to her command.

‘It is near midnight,’ Father Blackthorne said, ‘I must prepare for mass.’

‘Will others come?’ Robert asked.

‘Not many I fear,’ the priest replied. ‘More and more are turning away from the true faith and following the path of the heretic Queen, may she suffer the hell-fires.’

An instinctive defence of Queen Elizabeth rose to Robert’s lips but he remained quiet. He knew that Father Blackthorne did not share his loyalty.

‘Tonight, I will pray for the soul of Queen Mary of the Scots,’ the priest said sadly.

Robert nodded, feeling the pain of her loss anew. Mary Stuart had been the next in line for the throne after Elizabeth and her coronation had had the potential to change everything in Robert’s life.

His decision to remain Catholic went deeper than faith. For Robert it was the only surviving link to his past, a past he could never relinquish, and one he was forced to hide. That concealment had cost him dearly, for without claim to his true birthright he had been forced to make his way in the world without favour or title.

The noise of approach caused Robert to spin around and his hand fell instantly to the hilt of his rapier.

‘Sumus omnes,’ he heard and he responded with the second half of the passphrase.

Three people emerged from behind the wall, a studious looking man with his wife and young daughter. They were followed minutes later by a second group, then another.

As midnight arrived the mass began. Father Blackthorne preached from behind a large flat-topped rock which served as an altar while his congregation knelt on the stone strewn ground. The wind whistled and gusted around them, whipping away the priest’s words but all knew the sermon intimately. As the clouds raced overhead the small group reiterated their faith, speaking outlawed words in the darkness.

The ship’s bell tolled six times and Henry Morgan looked east towards the coming dawn. It was minutes away and he used the half-light to survey the ships at anchor around the Retribution in Plymouth harbour. There were sixteen ships and seven pinnaces in total, an impressive fleet and Morgan felt his heart swell with pride at the sight, not least because his own command was one of the most powerful ships amongst them. The Retribution was a galleon of the new ‘race built’ class, with her fore and aft castles razed, giving her a sleek, spear-like profile. At 450 tons and with a crew of two hundred and twenty, she carried thirty-two guns, and was a fast and agile purpose built warship.

Morgan looked across at the flagship, the Elizabeth Bonaventure, anchored nearby. It was one of four galleons contributed to the enterprise by the Queen, and the commander, Francis Drake, had taken it as his own. Morgan searched for Drake on the decks, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He embodied everything that Morgan believed in, his staunch Protestantism and his unswerving loyalty to Queen and country. But the ship was alive with men, both on deck and in the shrouds, and it was impossible to single out one man.

He looked beyond the flagship to the rest of the fleet. All rode easy at their anchors, the gentle pull of the outgoing tide keeping the ships in parallel. Morgan watched as local fishermen sailed their craft between the towering warships, the crews exchanging easy salutes as men near the end of their watch called out to fishermen beginning their day. He felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to find Thomas Seeley, the master’s mate, standing beside him.

‘Has the Master returned yet?’ Morgan asked.

‘No, Captain, not yet,’ Seeley replied.

Morgan nodded, keeping his irritation hidden behind a neutral expression. The fore-noon watch would begin within the hour and Varian was officer of the watch.

He had known Varian only by reputation until four days before when the royal flotilla arrived in Plymouth from Dover. Varian was one of John Hawkins’s men, a recently promoted captain of a merchantman. The son of a minor gentleman he had worked his way up through the ranks on the most arduous of trade routes, the trans-Atlantic triangular; textiles from Europe to Africa, slaves from Africa to America and sugar, tobacco and cotton from America to Europe, and was well known for his sailing skills.