‘I expected you quite some time ago,’ Clarsdale said.
‘It is becoming more and more difficult for me to travel,’ the priest explained.
Clarsdale murmured a reply and the room became silent once more.
‘It is becoming more difficult for us all,’ he said after a pause.
‘It is through our hardships that we are redeemed,’ Father Blackthorne replied, stepping closer to the duke.
Clarsdale did not reply immediately.
‘I was thinking of the men who were martyred last September,’ he said to the fire, a hard edge to his voice.
‘They are already with God,’ Father Blackthorne said reassuringly, although he shuddered involuntarily as he thought of their fate.
The Babington plot, so named after the most prominent of the conspirators, had been exposed six months before. Father Blackthorne had only heard rumours of it before its discovery, but he had long suspected that the Duke of Clarsdale had possessed some greater knowledge, even if he had not been directly involved. The conspirators had been sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered and such was the brutality and suffering of those first executed, the Queen herself had blanched and ordered the others to be hanged until dead before they were disembowelled.
‘They may be with God, Father, for their sacrifice,’ Clarsdale cursed, ‘but they should be suffering hellfire for their stupidity.’
Father Blackthorne recoiled with shock at the vehemence of the duke’s words and crossed himself.
‘I have learned that Walsingham knew of their plot months before and was playing them like fools in order to expose Mary Stuart,’ Clarsdale continued, turning to the priest for the first time, his face a mask of belligerence. ‘So now we have lost our last hope of placing a legitimate Catholic monarch on the throne of England.’
Father Blackthorne nodded. ‘Her death is a tragedy,’ he said in lament, ‘may her soul rest in God’s peace. Many of my flock have already lost hope and have cast their mortal souls aside by turning their backs on the true faith.’
‘Your flock,’ Clarsdale scoffed as he moved to sit down and the wolfhounds became alert once more as their master swept by. ‘They are sheep indeed, Father, mere peasants who will follow whoever holds power over the realm.’
‘But we need those people,’ Father Blackthorne argued. ‘We must maintain a wellspring of faith.’
Clarsdale made to retort but he relented, conscious that despite his outward offhand treatment of the priest and his flock, he needed both if he was to retain any chance of fulfilling his solemn vocation of placing a Catholic monarch on the throne. The priest had spoken of his flock as a wellspring of faith, but Clarsdale saw them as a potential wellspring of power, albeit one that was dwindling fast.
Elizabeth’s popularity and the constant threats against her person, supported by foreign powers, were combining to create a kind of nationalism that Clarsdale had never witnessed before. She was weaving a spell over the populace, creating a solidarity and support for her reign that would defeat his cause before it could ever come close to fruition. With Mary Stuart dead, the only alternative was to place a foreign monarch on the throne. It was a sacrifice that Clarsdale was willing to take for his faith, but he was no longer confident the majority would support such a ruler after Elizabeth. Time was of the essence. He indicated for the priest to sit opposite him.
‘It is common knowledge that the Spanish plan to invade,’ the duke began, lowering his voice instinctively although he was confident of the loyalty of every person within his household. ‘When they land they must be met by those who support their cause.’
The priest nodded, his lips mouthing a silent prayer for the coming of that day.
‘These men must be trained soldiers, armed men of substance and valour, not peasants bearing scythes and forks.’
Again the priest nodded. ‘I know of many amongst those who attend my ceremonies,’ he said.
‘Good,’ the duke replied. ‘You must speak to them, ensure they are prepared.’
The duke leaned back in his chair and reached out with his hand to rub the head of one of his dogs, the wolfhound responding with a contented growl.
‘There is one other thing, Father,’ Clarsdale said. ‘The Spanish are assembling a fleet, an Armada, to sail to England, but they desperately lack intelligence on the strength, disposition and readiness of the English royal fleet.’
Father Blackthorne’s eyes narrowed. If Clarsdale could command direct access to the Spanish then the duke was considerably closer to the centre of Catholic resistance in England than he had realized.
‘The ships that were assembled at Plymouth have already sailed, but I have heard only rumours as to their destination,’ the duke continued. ‘I need a sailor of rank to keep me informed, in advance, of the fleet’s plans.’
Father Blackthorne looked into the middle distance as he called to mind those men he knew at Plymouth. One sprang to mind but he dismissed him straight away, knowing he was merely the captain of a merchantman.
‘I will find you such a man,’ he said to the duke, unsure of who that man would be, but unwilling to disappoint his patron.
Clarsdale nodded and rose once more. The smoke that had diffused in the air swirled around him as he made his way to the fire. Father Blackthorne looked about the room, noticing for the first time that the invasive cold he had felt over the previous weeks was gone, banished by good food and the luxurious surroundings. It was a far cry from the hovels he would soon find himself in.
‘I will say mass at dawn,’ he said, rising to stand beside the duke. ‘Is her grace, your wife, in residence?’
The mention of his wife brought an immediate slur to Clarsdale’s lips but he held his tongue, not wanting to reveal the intimacies of his marriage to the priest.
‘She is in London with her family,’ he said tersely and looked once more into the fire, ending the conversation. Thoughts of her reminded Clarsdale of how much he had sacrificed for the Catholic cause. However, he was compelled to do no less, for such a sacrifice was in his blood. His family title, the Dukedom, was first granted to an ancestor who had fought in the Crusades. That man had answered the call of his pope and his king and had fought gallantly for the Catholic faith. It was an act that successive generations had revered and now that the mantle had passed to him Clarsdale was honour bound to fight for his religion.
Father Blackthorne stared at the duke for a moment longer. Men like Clarsdale represented the last bastion of hope for the true faith in England. His lips were verbalizing some indecipherable thought and his face twisted slightly as if grappling with some unspoken demon. For an instant Father Blackthorne was tempted to intervene, wanting to ease whatever pain the duke might be feeling, but he hesitated, intimidated by Clarsdale’s demeanour. He left the room without another word.
In darkness the priest walked unerringly to the entrance of his sanctuary on the top floor, a secret panel that led under the eaves of the house where a chapel had been constructed for the duke and his household. In that tiny space he lit a single candle and knelt before it. He prayed, and searched for hope in the entreaties he had spoken since youth, asking God for guidance in the way that many of his flock asked him, conscious all the while that his words were spoken in one of the last remaining footholds of the true faith in a realm that was rapidly embracing a path to perdition.
Robert crashed through the door of his tiny cabin and collapsed on the narrow cot, oblivious to the cockroaches that scurried away from his unexpected presence. He was exhausted and his every muscle cried out for the weightlessness of sleep. The storm had finally abated after five relentless days, and the fleet had rendezvoused