Page 56 of The Uprising
‘Tell it to the judge,’ snapped the policeman as he bent down to relieve Swifty of his prey. ‘You’re a hero, my boy. You’ve saved the queen from this villain and his explosives.’
Swifty unfolded his wiry limbs and stood up.
‘Where is Lord Cavendish?’ said Cara, her words barely audible. There’d been no sign of George since the sound of the gunshot.
Before Swifty could answer, another one of the policemen called to him and said, ‘Be a good lad and let the others downstairs know the queen is safe. They can come up now and secure the area and we need to get his lordship to hospital quickly; he’s in a bad way.’
‘Where is he?’ shouted Cara, feeling as if she was drowning.
‘Come with me, my lady.’ Swifty showed her into a room further down the hallway.
George lay there unmoving; his eyes closed, and the pale carpet soaked by a pool of his blood.
‘Oh my God, is he dying?’ To her own ears, her words sounded as if they were coming from underwater. She was woozy with exhaustion from the events of the night, but there was no time for weakness. Cara bent down and touched George’s wrist, checking for signs of life. She caught a faint pulse, and then he shifted slightly and turned his head, muttering and delirious.
‘George, my love, can you hear me? Please say something.’
His eyes flickered open for a second and then rolled back in his head and he slumped into silence before blacking out with the pain.
Swifty ran into the room and knelt down beside them. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s been shot and lost a lot of blood. There’s no time to get him to a hospital. Please run downstairs again and ask for the palace doctor. Bid him come immediately before it’s too late. And ask the servants to bring up some clean bandages so we can stem the flow of bleeding.’
Cara sat next to George, holding his clammy hand, and feeling helpless. Tears filled her eyes, and she tried to calm herself. They still had so much to do together.
Let him live, let him live...
The mantra ran through her mind like a relentless ticker tape. A few minutes later, she heard a movement on the landing and thought the doctor must have arrived, but to her disappointment it was the policeman again.
‘Was that a bomb that went off, earlier?’ she asked.
‘Yes, my lady. It exploded in the queen’s apartments. Thank God she and Prince Albert are safely at Windsor Castle and these rogues didn’t get wind of their whereabouts or they might have saved their attack for another day. Her Majesty stayed at Windsor yesterday instead of coming back as originally planned.’
‘And the children? Are they all right?’
‘Yes, ma’am. They are at Windsor with their governess.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. The whole royal line might have been wiped out if these rogues had their way.’
‘Yes, and if it weren’t for your husband and the lad’s heroic actions, the palace; the symbol of the heart of the monarchy would now be burning to the ground.’
A few minutes later, she was relieved to see the familiar face of the palace doctor and he knelt down to examine George.
‘He’s lucky to be alive,’ he said, his expression grave as he peered at Cara through his spectacles. ‘The gunshot narrowly missed his heart.’
The Great North Road, 1536 - Tudorville
Cara spurred the black palfrey on as if she were riding to the ends of the world. Rain hammered down on her head and she was grateful for George’s heavy cloak and the pageboy cap, or she would already be soaked. The horse, one of Windsor’s finest, was saddled and hurriedly readied for her by a stable boy who had developed a crush on her during her recent days when she had been riding with Queen Jane. She told him she had the queen’s blessing to take the horse, and he was happy to assist. Cara considered asking the boy to accompany her, but she decided it would be better to press on quietly alone in her disguise as a young page. She didn’t want to attract attention.
As she rode, she used the hours to think things through and try to make sense of events, so she could plan how to handle the situation with George and the Pilgrimage of Grace. She hadn’t dared mention her concerns to the queen or Cromwell, but she secretly worried that George may have been swayed to the side of the rebels—there were a great many northern leaders involved, of which he was one. He shared a deep lifelong bond with them and naturally had empathy for their grievances; despite his close alliance with the king. Black thoughts ricocheted around her mind, gripping her as she pushed on through the freezing rain.
What if they had somehow forced him to take the Pilgrim’s Oath, or even worse, if he had taken it of his own free will?
She shuddered at the memory of George shrouded in the hangman’s hood on the brink of execution earlier that year.
She shook her head in an attempt to shake free of the calamitous web of thoughts and to bring herself back to reality.
No: he wouldn’t have taken the oath.
