Armada. John Stack

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