Authors: John Stack
Robert outlined the events of the previous ten weeks, drawing William’s concern for his injury when he spoke of Cadiz, and his admiration at Robert’s elevation to the rank of Captain. Robert spoke only briefly on the sack of Sagres, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation that would reignite his guilt. The weeks of skirmishing off Cape Saint Vincent prompted many questions from William and Robert smiled as he savoured the answers.
‘Then it is believed that Spain is thwarted?’ William asked as Robert concluded.
‘At least for this season, maybe even the next. The supplies we captured or destroyed will not easily be replaced.’
‘Where is Drake now?’
‘I believe he travelled to London. The Sao Phelipe was an enormous prize and I warrant Drake wants to present the Queen’s share to her in person.’
William nodded and for a moment was silent.
‘God protect Drake,’ he said solemnly. ‘Despite the error of his beliefs he is one of our greatest hopes of keeping the Spanish horde at bay.’
Robert murmured an agreement. He was glad the Spanish had been defeated, yet for a brief moment, when his father had spoken of Drake’s misguided beliefs, Robert had pictured the crucifix on the chest of the Spanish commander of the
Halcón
.
‘They share our faith,’ he said simply, looking to his father, hoping for guidance.
‘They do, Robert,’ William replied, ‘but the return of England to the true faith will not be accomplished through Spanish ambition. I trust you know that.’
Robert nodded imperceptibly.
‘Philip may trumpet the Catholic cause but I suspect his pride commands an equal share of his motives,’ William continued. ‘He will not invade England to place a Catholic monarch on the throne and then simply withdraw his army.’
‘But with the death of Mary Stuart surely all hope is gone that an English Catholic monarch will succeed to the throne and we will witness a day when we are free to practise our faith, when I can reclaim …’
Robert stopped short, suddenly realizing that he had unconsciously linked a successful Spanish invasion with the return of his title and family honour.
William sat forward, an angry rebuke rushing to his lips, but he held his tongue. From experience he knew that the balance of loyalties between faith, crown and country was difficult to maintain, particularly at time of national crisis. William had known two such occasions when adherence to one or more tenets of his beliefs had threatened another, almost pushing the balance to the tipping point of collapse.
When the Catholic Mary Tudor had been on the throne she had married Philip of Spain. Her decision had threatened to rob England of its independence by making it part of the Hapsburg Empire, pitting William’s loyalty to faith and crown against his country. Similarly the excommunication of Elizabeth by Pope Pius V had set his faith in opposition to his loyalty to his monarch. On each occasion however William had stuck doggedly to his principles, allowing him to forge a resolution that satisfied both his conscience and his honour.
Now his adopted son was facing a similar challenge in the guise of Spain’s threat to invade. The loyalties that William had taught him were being set in opposition. However, William considered steadfast adherence to one’s beliefs as a mark of courage and fortitude, and he was confident that Robert would eventually find his own resolution.
‘God will bring England back into the Catholic fold in His own good time,’ William said tolerantly. ‘Believe in that, Robert, and until that day give Elizabeth every ounce of your loyalty.’
‘I will,’ Robert replied, troubled by the fact that for a moment he had seen no other way for his family name to be restored than with a successful Spanish conquest.
Without his name he would always be another man’s son. While William Varian had cared for him like one of his own, Robert could still remember the shame he had felt when William had let it be known to the townsfolk of Brixham that Robert’s father had died of the plague. William had refused to reveal Robert’s title and lineage, and at twelve years old Robert had believed this secrecy was motivated by jealousy of his brother-in-law’s superior ancestry. He had hated him for it. Only as he grew older did he understand that the subterfuge was for his own safety, learning by degrees of his father’s part in the Northern Rebellion and his subsequent self-exile into obscurity and death.
It was a past that Robert had always struggled to accept and he desperately regretted the fact that he had never been given an opportunity to confront his father. Robert knew much about the Northern Rebellion and how the nobles had planned to depose Elizabeth in favour of Mary Stuart, but he had always wanted to know why his father had personally taken part, why he had risked everything, his name, his title and the birthright of his only son on a venture that was, at its heart, an act of treason.
‘There is much weighing on your mind,’ William said, reading Robert’s expression. ‘You should speak with Father Blackthorne.’
‘He is here?’
‘Yes,’ William said with a smile. ‘In the chapel. Go and see him before we eat.’
Robert rose and left the room. As he climbed the stairs his pace quickened at the prospect of seeing his old friend. He reached the landing and walked down the corridor leading to the back of the house. To his right were two widely spaced doors and Robert paused between them. The entrance to the chapel was invisible in the wood panelling that ran the length of the wall and Robert took a moment to trace his hand over the joints, searching for the small but distinctive knot that marked the hidden doorway. He found it, but did not enter immediately, suddenly remembering why he had been anxious all these weeks to see the priest. The full measure of his guilt swiftly returned to him. He took a deep breath and pushed firmly on the knot. The lock released with an audible click and the panel hinged inwards. Robert ducked his head to enter.
The chapel had been constructed between two existing rooms, using floor space from both. It was cramped, barely eight feet by ten. Father Blackthorne was kneeling before the altar and he spun around at the sound of the door. He smiled at the sight of Robert and rose to greet him.
‘It is good to see you safely returned from Spain.’
‘My parents told you,’ Robert surmised and Father Blackthorne nodded.
‘Why did you not tell me yourself when we last met at the motte beside Saint Michael’s?’
‘I feared it would anger you,’ Robert replied. ‘I know how you feel about Drake and his kind, and this attack was planned to strike at the heart of Spain.’
‘Your father believes an invasion by Spain will destroy England. But I tell you, Robert, this is God’s plan. Spain may be our worldly enemy but they are our spiritual ally and Philip has the power to restore England to the true faith.’
Robert nodded conciliatorily, not wishing to be drawn into an argument. Father Blackthorne had expressed his beliefs many times before and Robert knew they were unshakable.
‘I am glad to find you here, Father, for I had planned to seek you out. I need absolution.’
‘I understand, Robert. Your participation in the attack on Spain is deeply troubling to me,’ Father Blackthorne replied, misconstruing Robert’s remorse. He indicated for them both to kneel.
‘Drake ordered an attack on a town named Sagres,’ Robert began. He told Father Blackthorne of the desecration of the church and murder of the Spanish priest, sparing no detail in an effort to expunge the guilt from his soul.
Father Blackthorne was deeply shocked and he came off his knees to sit down once more.
‘These are terrible deeds,’ he said, almost to himself, his fingers kneading the cross around his neck. ‘Truly God has turned his back on this country if it has spawned such men. And you, Robert,’ he said, his eyes flashing with anger and shame, ‘what have you become?’
‘I tried to stop them, Father,’ Robert protested. ‘But I could not, not without giving myself away and forfeiting my own life.’
‘Jesus Christ laid down his life for us,’ Father Blackthorne said piously. ‘And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers.’
‘Forgive me, Father,’ Robert said, bowing his head low before his confessor.
Father Blackthorne looked down on Robert, his mind in turmoil. Robert’s remorse was clearly evident but Father Blackthorne could not see beyond his own anger. How could Robert have stood by while a minister of God was murdered, while His house was defiled by heretics? Suddenly Father Blackthorne thought of the daily life he led himself, of his clandestine existence and his constant fear of discovery. He remembered the story in Saint John’s gospel, when the Pharisees brought an adulterous woman before Jesus. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ said the Lord. Was he not guilty of the same sin as Robert? The sanctity of the nearby town church was corrupted daily by the services of a heretical congregation and he never once thought to confront them and openly condemn their faith. He was too fearful of the consequences.
He reached out his hand to place it on Robert’s head, ready to absolve him, when another thought stuck him, an undertaking he had made many weeks before. He hesitated, his hand poised in mid-air, his mind racing. William Varian had mentioned that Robert had sailed as a master on one of the galleons, a senior position, one that was surely privy to a great deal of information. Would Robert be willing to share that information? Would he betray the loyalty Father Blackthorne knew William Varian had instilled in him? Robert was clearly anguished by the actions of his compatriots in Sagres. Perhaps now he could be persuaded to fully commit to the cause of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne, if for no other reason than to atone for his lack of action before. The obvious depth of his guilt certainly made him more susceptible to the idea. A sliver of guilt crept into Father Blackthorne’s own mind at the thought of manipulating Robert, but he ignored it, knowing the greater cause needed to be served.
‘I cannot give you absolution,’ he said.
Robert looked up in shock.
‘Not until you have atoned for your sin,’ Father Blackthorne continued. ‘You must make penance before the Lord.’
‘What must I do?’
‘I cannot decide now,’ Father Blackthorne replied, ‘I must pray for an answer. Until then you should return to Plymouth. Look for me in two weeks at the motte beside Saint Michael’s. Are you to stay with this new ship as its master?’
‘I’m Captain now,’ Robert explained, ‘although John Hawkins has yet to confirm that command.’
Father Blackthorne’s pulse quickened. He had not expected this good fortune. A captain of the fleet; the Duke of Clarsdale would be impressed. The panel door behind them clicked open as a servant entered.
‘Master Robert,’ he said, ‘dinner is served. Father, if it pleases you, I shall bring your meal directly to your room.’
They rose and walked towards the door. Father Blackthorne caught a glance at Robert’s pained expression and felt a pang of guilt once more.
‘Do not worry, Robert,’ he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘The Lord will show us a way.’
Robert nodded but took little solace from his confessor’s words. He remained haunted by his sin and his conscience refused to relent. He would return to Plymouth as Father Blackthorne suggested. There he would command the very crewmen and colleagues who had perpetrated the heinous crime that had destroyed his peace. It was an odious task but one which his duty demanded of him. With a heavy heart he left the chapel, his guilt greater than ever.
14th July 1587. El Escorial, Spain.
N
athaniel Young mopped his brow with his handkerchief. The heat in the expansive Patio de los Reyes was oppressive and despite the elevated site of the Escorial Palace no breeze could penetrate beyond the solid wall of five storey buildings that marked the boundaries of the courtyard. He waited in a shaded corner and paced a wide circle, glancing at the edifice of the basilica which was adorned with statues of the kings from whence the courtyard drew its name.
The summons had come unexpectedly and Young cursed his unpreparedness. Upon arriving in Madrid, he had been told to continue on the additional twenty-eight miles to the magnificent palace where Philip now spent most of his time and from where he ruled the vastness of his empire. That the King had requested a personal audience was auspicious. Young had never met Philip, despite the longevity of his exile in Spain and his almost constant contact with one or other of the King’s personal advisors.
The sudden change made Young nervous, not least because he was about to meet one of the most powerful men in the world. He was also being presented with an incredible opportunity to advance. Drake’s attack on Cadiz and his piracy off the coast of Portugal had raised the tempo of the conflict. Why else therefore would Philip have summoned him here, if not to consult with him directly and garner his advice on Drake and other matters of national interest relating to England? For the first time Young was about to penetrate the possessive circle of advisors and speak directly to the monarch and as he paced the courtyard he steeled his determination to make a good first impression.
Movement caught his eye and he saw Don Rodrigo de Torres beckon to him from the entrance of the basilica. He hurried across the courtyard, closing his eyes slightly against the glare of sunlight that reflected off every surface.
‘We must hurry, your grace,’ de Torres said as he led Young inside.
The narthex of the basilica was cool and dark, but beyond the interior opened out into a huge space dominated by a dome above the crossing. Light poured in through the windows of the cupola, illuminating the magnificent frescoes and intricate reredos and emphasizing the incredible height of the building. Mass had just ended and Young could see Philip standing at the top of the church speaking with a priest.
In the moment he had taken to look about the interior in awe de Torres had walked on ahead and Young was forced to quicken his step to catch him. They came to a stop some ten yards short of the King and waited. Young took the chance to study the man who reigned over one of the largest empires in the world. Although his physique was slight, he was a handsome man. Young started involuntarily as Philip glanced at him over his shoulder, his gaze penetrating. The King nodded at de Torres and the two men stepped forward, bowing courteously.