Clarsdale’s request also meant he was in more direct contact with the Spanish than Cross had believed. But through which route? There were a number of prominent English traitors working with the Spanish hierarchy in Spain. Any one of them could be Clarsdale’s handler.
‘The priest hasn’t returned since?’ he asked Nichols.
‘No.’
‘When is he due next?’
‘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