Armada. John Stack
hearing anew the sincerity with which she spoke and seeing the utter rapture on her face as she gazed upon the crucifix.
As he turned to the window he saw the stained glass image clearer in his mind’s eye than ever before. Where there was faith, there was hope, and in this room, this tiny chapel, the faith of Catherine Varian was all encompassing.
Thomas Seeley stopped for a moment at the wooden gate. His hand played over the weather worn timber as he looked up the gentle slope of the path to the two storey house. Its walls were covered in verdant ivy and the stillness of the scene was one of the visions he had treasured in his memory during the months he had been away. He pushed open the gate, the hinges protesting with a loud creak that drowned out the drone of insects, and he walked up the path, stopping once more before reaching the door.
Seeley looked over his shoulder and took in the familiar view. As so many times before, his eye was drawn to the western edge of the horizon and the large manor house some four miles distant. It was the home of his mother’s cousin, the Marquess of Wenborough. Palatial in size, it was a home befitting the title and wealth of the family and Seeley’s eyes narrowed, his deep seated animosity rising unbidden at the view he had beheld his entire life. The house behind him, his own family home, was an estate cottage, a one-time hunting lodge that his mother’s cousin had granted the Seeley family when their title had been returned by Queen Elizabeth.
That act of charity was an open wound in Seeley’s honour that would not heal. Its pain was sharpened by the knowledge that the Wenborough family had survived the reign of Mary Tudor unscathed by adhering to the changing religion of the monarchy. Their faith swung with the prevailing wind and, under Elizabeth, they were now staunchly Protestant.
But Seeley’s own paternal grandparents had been burned at the stake for their faith ten years before he was born. As a child he had read, with terrified fascination, John Foxe’s Book of Martyrs, poring over it secretly in his bed at night. The woodcut prints depicting the executions ordered by Bloody Mary were forever burned into his memory. Even now, in his maturity, they haunted his nightmares, reducing him to effeminate tears of terror each time.
Seeley turned his back on the distant horizon and walked the remaining steps to the front door of his home. It was open and as he stepped inside he met Barker, the senior servant of three, rounding a corner. The older man was momentarily surprised before an unaffected smile transformed his face.
‘Master Thomas. You’re home.’
Seeley smiled. ‘I am, Barker, and it is good to see you well.’
The older man’s smile deepened. He liked the youngest son of the family and was glad to see him safe.
‘Are my parents home?’
‘Your mother is in the garden,’ Barker replied, spinning on his heel to lead Seeley through the house. ‘Your father is in London and is due back in a fortnight.’
Seeley nodded, disappointed that his father was not home, although he had been prepared for such news.
Despite his title his father was obliged to work as a merchant in order to support the family. It was contrary to his birthright but if the family’s fortune was to be rebuilt the offence would have to be borne. Seeley’s two older brothers had taken up the mantle of responsibility on reaching maturity. They, like Seeley, were rarely at home. As Seeley walked through the hallway, he found himself glancing in every direction, taking in the familiar, gathering strength from it.
Seeley’s mother was sitting under the shade of a sprawling oak tree in the back garden and her son was almost upon her before she looked up. She rushed to her youngest son, embracing him fiercely.
‘I prayed for you,’ she whispered through tears.
‘I’m home.’ He held her embrace for a long time before leading her back into the shade.
‘Your father is away,’ she said.
‘Barker said. And my sisters?’
‘They are out walking, but will be returning soon. Oh, it is good to see you, Thomas.’
He reached out and placed a hand on her forearm, reassuring her once more, and they began to talk of inconsequential things with Seeley asking after each member of his family in turn. His mother responded to each question gaily but Seeley sensed her happiness was only a brittle façade and she soon lapsed into silence.
‘I feared for you,’ she said, holding his gaze steadily.
‘I was in God’s care.’
‘We are all in God’s hand,’ she quoted and Seeley nodded solemnly.
‘Was the enterprise successful?’
‘More than we could have hoped,’ Seeley replied proudly. ‘My share of the purse should be significant, enough perhaps for us to increase our holdings. The heretic Spanish have been badly bloodied. Drake is confident that their Armada will not sail this season.’
‘And in your steadfast love you will cut off my enemies, and you will destroy all the adversaries of my soul, for I am your servant,’ his mother recited.
‘Amen,’ Seeley replied but noticed that his mother was crying again.
‘I’m sorry. I should not ask about such things, but …’
She covered her face with her hands and sobbed, her shoulders shuddering with each breath she tried to draw. ‘They took everything. That antichrist Philip, and Mary, I pray her soul burns forever in hellfire. They left your father with nothing … and now we … we live …’ Tears overwhelmed her.
Seeley tightened his grip on her forearm, trying to reach her through her grief. He knew he could not. It was a scene he had witnessed too many times, from his youngest days, and the dormant anger within him reared its head once more.
He had never known the life his mother remembered, the life she had enjoyed in her youth and for the brief years after she married Seeley’s father. That social status and wealth had been seared from their grasp by the flames of execution. They had emerged from hiding with the death of Mary Tudor and the ascension of Elizabeth but the lives they had known before were lost forever. Privilege had become strife and over the years their pride was slowly consumed by supplication and labour.
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