Armada. John Stack

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      Father Blackthorne moved slowly towards the halo of soft light surrounding the single candle framed in the window. He paused, wary as always of a trap, his caution almost second nature after years in hiding. The night was quiet save for the sounds of nature; the scurry of a small animal in the undergrowth, the screech of an owl, but still the priest hesitated, his breathing shallow as he strained for the sounds of some larger predator. His hand slipped inside his cassock and enfolded the crucifix hanging there. He silently mouthed a Latin prayer before stepping forward once more.

      He crossed the courtyard and stopped at the door to the kitchen, knocking lightly as he glanced over his shoulder, conscious that he was now standing in the pool of light from the candle-lit window. The door opened a fraction and a man’s face appeared, furtive eyes betraying a moment of apprehension before he recognized the priest, smiling as he opened the door wider to allow him to enter. The priest ducked in and the door was closed and locked, the mechanism of the bolt unnaturally loud in the confines of the room.

      The draught from the closing door had set the flame of the candle dancing and the kitchen came alive with moving shadows before the light settled once more, its soft glow allowing Father Blackthorne to feel more at ease. He turned to the man beside him and placed his hand on the servant’s expectantly bowed head.

      ‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ he intoned.

      ‘Amen,’ the man replied. He looked up. ‘You must be hungry, Father,’ he said, ushering the priest to the table in the middle of the room.

      Father Blackthorne sat down, his eyes poring ravenously over the table before him. The servant brought the lighted candle from the window sill to the table and the priest moaned involuntarily as he saw the feast in detail. He had not seen food like it in weeks and he reached out to pull the leg off a cold capon as the servant poured him a goblet of wine. He ate quickly, conscious that time was short, ignoring the servant who sat silently across from him.

      ‘I beg your forgiveness, Father,’ the servant said tentatively after five minutes, ‘but the Duke will be waiting.’

      Father Blackthorne made to dismiss the reminder but held his tongue, knowing it would serve no purpose and that the duke’s good favour was all important. He stood up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, belching softly with regret as he looked over the table of food once more. Its abundance was in stark contrast to the meagre offerings the poorer Catholics would give him in the weeks between now and his next visit to the duke’s residence.

      The servant picked up the candle and led the priest from the kitchen, taking him along one of the servants’ passageways that emerged into the entrance hall of the estate house. All was in darkness. The two men crossed the flagstone floor in an orb of light and the feeble glow from the candle seemed to augment the vastness of the vaulted ceiling above them. Their footfalls echoed in the silence. They came to a door and the servant knocked. His hand was already on the handle as the command to enter was given.

      Father Blackthorne entered alone. He felt anxious, as was often the case in the presence of his patron. The room was a small study, its walls lined with shelves holding innumerable books and the priest looked at them admiringly, conscious of their value. The Duke of Clarsdale was standing in front of the remains of a small fire in the hearth. He was surrounded in a thin haze of smoke from the downdraught in the chimney and his back was arched slightly as he outstretched his hands towards the heat. He was a tall man, broad across the shoulders and his iron grey hair gave twenty years to his middle age. He did not move as the priest crossed the room towards him, and Father Blackthorne’s eyes were drawn to the two Irish wolfhounds curled up at the edge of the hearth. Their heads turned to track the priest across the room before falling once more onto their extended legs.

      ‘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.’

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