Page 45 of The Uprising
‘But what about the king’s offer? Are you to insult him and risk all-out war in the name of the pope?’ George directed his considerable persuasive powers at his old friend. He’d failed to influence Lord Darcy, but there was still a chance to change Robert’s mind.
‘We are not fighting for the pope, George. We’re fighting to regain the beating heart of our country. We wish to worship with the time-honoured customs of old. What’s happening to the monasteries is an absolute disgrace and the people won’t stand for it,’ said Robert, equally impassioned.
‘But the king has pledged to meet your demands. Will you not urge the men to give his offer a chance in the name of peace?’
Robert sighed. ‘I do not know that I have the power to urge them to back down at this point. Resentment has been bubbling for so long, the lid is about to blow, and the men demand action.’
‘Robert, I know you are a man of peace; a barrister, not a warmonger. May I at least have your word that you will endeavour to dissuade them from marching immediately against the king? I strongly advise against moving forward in haste. You have large numbers but when you reach London, you will be up against the full might of the king’s men.’
Robert pushed his hand through his messy hair, and his one eye assessed George.
‘Right, you are, my lord. You do not desist easily; I’ll give you that. I will call a meeting and talk to the other leaders once more, to see whether they will reconsider. I don’t disagree with your assessment of the situation. It may very well end in a bloodbath.’
George raised his head, looked upwards towards the sombre grey sky, and inhaled the fresh Yorkshire air. Such was his angst he had forgotten to breathe. Relief flooded through him. ‘Thank you. The Duke of Norfolk awaits your official response to the king’s offer, so I will advise him of your position. If you do not accept, I know not what his next move will be. I am not privy to the plans in the event of what they will interpret as a declaration of war.’
‘As you wish, my lord. You have my word I will do all I can.’ Robert thanked George and turned to leave.
‘The hour grows late. How long will you need?’ asked George, catching him before he moved away.
‘I don’t know. I’ll come and find you when we’re agreed whether to accept the offer.’
‘The duke will demand a deadline; let’s say I’ll come and find you at dusk when the first candles are lit, if I haven’t received word from you before then.’
Robert nodded and hurried off, and George stared at his back until he lost sight of him. He prayed Robert would push them to accept the king’s offer, or all hell would break loose. The duke wasn’t a man who took failure with grace. He was set on restoring the high favour he’d enjoyed with the king before his niece, Anne Boleyn, fell from power. He had sat on the council that had sealed her sorry fate, but still his fortunes had declined by association. He would not accept defeat without a fight.
George walked into the castle through one of the back entrances after taking a walk to try and clear his head. He would go to his room and have a quick nap. Whatever the outcome with the rebels, he would need all of his wits about him.
He sank down on to his mattress, exhausted, and soon drifted off, and dreamed of a ragtag army clutching the Five Wounds of Christ banner as they marched on London waving pitchforks and searching for Cromwell, the heretic. They were determined to have their way, or they demanded Cromwell’s blood. George tossed and turned, and next he saw Darcy, his head shrouded in a black hood which could mean only one thing.
He shuddered in his sleep and then opened his eyes. His damp shirt clung to his body, even though the room was winter-cold.
He wished Cara were beside him, so he could protect her. The thought of her stuck in London with the queen filled him with dread. He rose and looked out of the window; a feeling of doom gripped him. The castle was eerily quiet—the courtyard was empty apart from a few guards, and the hordes of rebels were nowhere to be seen.
Were they preparing to disarm and accept the king’s offer, or were they readying for war? Was it a good sign, or was it the calm before the battle?
Grosvenor Square, London, 1848 - Victoriana
George held Cara as she wept. Teardrops rolled down her cheeks and splashed on to his shirt. He had returned from Chelsea feeling upbeat. He had checked in with the police and they assured him they had located Swifty and there was a plan to rescue him later that day. He had two stunning Turner works of art in his possession, and he was excited to show them to Cara. He yearned to see her smile like she used to, and he tried to distract her from her melancholic mood at every opportunity. But when he dashed in the door, calling her name, he found her standing by the window in the parlour, her chest heaving and silent tears trickling from her eyes.
‘Hush, my love. Let it all out. It’ll be all right. These things happen.’ He didn’t need to ask what was wrong.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed. ‘You’ve got so much on your mind, what with the missing boy, and the threat to the queen. I thought I was getting over it but worrying about the kidnappers must have brought it all up again.’
He cradled her in his arms and soothed her like a distraught child.
‘Shh, my darling...I’m fine as long as you’re fine. Everything else is in hand. Don’t worry about these other matters.’
George led Cara towards the sofa and they sat down. Her head nestled on his shoulder as his hand continued to pat her hair.
George rang the bell, and when Rose, the maid, entered, he asked for tea.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she said, bobbing a quick curtsy before rushing back to the kitchen.’
They ran a small, happy household, just him and Cara and a couple of members of staff to serve them and keep the elegant townhouse in order. The house’s proximity to Buckingham Palace allowed them to slip back and forth to the palace, without being away from home for days at a time. Cara would resume her duties as lady-in-waiting once she was up to it.
She had been so distraught about her miscarriage that the doctor had given her a draught to calm her, and she’d not been her usual bubbly self for months. George worried and was at a loss for what more to do to restore her spirits.
There was a tap at the door and the maid entered, clutching a tray stacked with a teapot, cups, and an impressive cake.
