Page 55 of The Uprising
George kept her company on the phone until she arrived home and he came out to meet her in the rain. They hugged, and he kissed her freckled nose. ‘Don’t fret so, my darling. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. I promise you won’t get rid of me that easily.’
Windsor Castle, 1536 - Tudorville
Cara entered the queen’s bedchamber, and after several minutes of idle conversation, she said, ‘I am sorry to have to ask, Your Majesty, but I must seek your permission for a leave of absence from court.’
The queen looked startled; her breakfast cup froze mid-air before she recovered herself and moved the ale towards her red lips, took a sip and then said, ‘But where will you go? Why would you go now? War is likely to break out at any moment.’
‘I asked Master Secretary Cromwell, to bring me word as soon as they received news of George. The king has received a dispatch from the Duke of Norfolk in which he reports he hasn’t heard from George since their meeting with the Pilgrimage of Grace leaders. The duke’s men were refused entry to Pontefract Castle and he suspects the rebels are holding George prisoner.’
‘I am so sorry to hear this news.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’ Cara bowed her head and waited for the queen to speak again. A courtier wasn’t permitted to take leave of service without the monarch’s blessing. Cara was impatient to be on the road, but she knew she must play by court rules and wait for an audience with the queen, or risk paying a high price upon her return.
‘My dear, is it wise for you to leave now? While I understand your concern, I don’t see what you will do. Is it not better for you to stay here in the safety of the castle and wait for this madness to pass?’
Cara moved closer to the queen and whispered the highlights of her plan in her ear.
‘But it’s folly of the highest order! I can’t imagine even dreaming of doing such a thing. You’re either terribly brave or terribly foolhardy,’ she spluttered, her jewelled fingers clutching her cup.
‘I can’t just wait, Your Grace...sitting here at Windsor, in my fine clothes, while the rebels hold my husband. He may end up dead in a ditch somewhere if I don’t get him away from them. Besides, I would surely go out of my mind. I hope you understand.’
The queen nodded. ‘Very well. You have my blessing. I confess, I find your courage extraordinary, and I’m proud to count you as one of my ladies.’
Cara thanked the queen, assuring her she would return as soon as she could. ‘I’ve spoken with Lady Margaret who has agreed to take over my duties, so my absence will not unduly inconvenience you, Your Grace.’
‘I will pray for you to be reunited with Lord Cavendish and that all will be well. My knees are raw from kneeling on my prie dieu, there is so much to pray for in these dangerous days.’
The queen reached out to clasp Cara’s hands, and they stood in sisterly communion for a moment, enveloped in the warmth of their mutual affection and respect.
‘Take care, my dear Lady Cara. Know that you will be in my thoughts, and you will be missed by your queen. You have become quite indispensable. Please take anything you need to make your journey comfortable.’
Cara curtsied and edged out of the queen’s rooms backwards, before turning and fleeing out the door. She longed to be on her way before anything or anyone else could delay her from carrying out her bold plan.
Cara careered down the corridor, taking the bends in the most unladylike fashion, hoping no one would see her. Back in her rooms, heart beating fast, she rifled through some of George’s items, looking for a particular outfit she had brought with her. Even with the Tudor fashion of just-below-the-knee breeches, George’s would drape down to her ankles, and his silk shirt wouldn’t do; it would drown her slight frame and draw attention to her. But the spare outfit she had saved for Swifty might just meet her requirements.
She dressed in a hurry; the black breeches fitted well, but the ruffle-collared white shirt accentuated her bust and would make her conspicuous. She pulled the shirt off and wrapped a pale silk scarf around her chest to bind her inconvenient breasts, so they wouldn’t get in the way. The blue waistcoat fitted sufficiently, and she pinned her shiny chestnut locks up on to her head and then shoved the page’s jaunty cap on top.
Fortunately, she had brought her black leather boots from Willow Manor for riding in all weathers. She surveyed herself in the large mirror and concluded she looked the part of a royal page, but she would freeze to death without something warm around her when she was on the road.
Cara grabbed one of George’s thick fur-sleeved cloaks, threw it over her shoulders, and tied the silky ribbons neatly at her throat. It smelled of him and for a moment she closed her eyes, weak with longing; but she knew she must rally all of her resolve or she might lose him forever.
The smell of him would comfort her as she made the dangerous journey. Smelling like a man was perfect for her disguise. She grabbed a few items and stuffed them into her saddlebag, including the bread supply she had smuggled from the kitchens. Cara scanned the room one last time to check she had forgotten nothing, and then, heart pounding, she rushed into the hallway, closing the door softly behind her. She didn’t want to alert anyone to her sudden departure.
Chapter 17
Buckingham Palace, London, 1848 - Victoriana
Cara shivered as she sat waiting on the upholstered chair in the grand entrance to Buckingham Palace—she was petrified and chained to the spot. No one appeared on the wide sweeping staircase since the boom of the gunshot filled her head with terrifying, unwanted images. The policeman who told her to wait had disappeared up the stairs and the entrance was buzzing with palace staff anxiously awaiting news of the queen and the royal family.
There was a loud explosion and Cara screamed. She sprung up off the chair and raced upstairs in search of George—to hell with the consequences. She would rather die trying to save him than sit there being useless.
The upstairs landing was thick with dense black smoke, and she saw pieces of debris strewn across the plush carpets. Her heart pounded as she inched forward, holding her hand over her mouth to stop the foul-smelling, polluted air from rushing into her lungs. She couldn’t hear any sound and tentatively pushed open the first door she came upon, hoping she wouldn’t be walking right into the hands of the perpetrators. Cara looked around the large deserted sitting room; renaissance paintings by the grand masters jostled for space on the tightly-packed walls. Cara turned around to leave and as she approached the door, there was a crash and she heard loud voices.
‘There he is. Grab him. I’ve got the other one in here,’ a gruff voice shouted.
Cara poked her head around the door, and saw two policemen closing in on a small, shifty looking man in a grubby, once white shirt, being held down by Swifty, who was clearly much stronger than he appeared.
‘Please, please,’ the man cried out. ‘It’s not my fault. I had to do it, or they said they would kill me.’
