Page 62 of The Uprising
She longed to flee, but first she must take a photo of the paper. Even now, it seemed far-fetched. She snapped a photo with her phone and shoved the paper back into one of the binders.
Cara picked up her bag, and as she turned she saw the man still watching her every move, making no attempt to hide his surveillance. His blue eyes bore into her soul with a sardonic expression, and she shuddered as an icy chill rippled down her spine. She tried to say something but couldn’t form the words.
A woman entered the room, breaking the hypnotic spell as she hovered near the entrance, temporarily obscuring Cara’s view of the man. When the woman moved, he was no longer in the room. Cara ran to open the door, poked her head out and looked down the corridor, but there was no sign of him. It was as if he had vanished, and she’d imagined the whole thing.
But there had been something familiar about his eyes. The thoughts flew around her head in a chaotic mess.
Why was the blue-eyed man watching her?
She fled outside the building and then forced herself to calm down and walk slowly, looking around, half-expecting the man to jump out at her. She stopped and fumbled in her handbag to extract her phone and clicked to open the photo library. She gaped at the screen. There was no record of any photo taken that day, no matter how much she scrolled. Cara moved in a daze and slumped on a low wall near the river, waiting for her racing heartbeat to slow as she tried to make sense of what had happened. Her pointy shoes pinched her toes, but she didn’t notice.
Outskirts of York, 1536 - Tudorville
Cara arrived at Madame Alicia’s establishment, exhausted after two days of gruelling travel. She had left the black palfrey at the first posting house on the long route. It was impossible to cover two hundred miles with only one horse, so she’d made several stops, but only for short breaks before continuing on with her next steed.
‘You must be worn out,’ whispered Madame Alicia, not wanting to give Cara’s disguise away, when she saw her mud-stained breeches and cloak. ‘My goodness, have you come all the way from London alone?’
Cara nodded. ‘I am on an urgent mission and could only rest a short while.’
The madam ushered Cara inside, helped her find a spot next to the roaring fire, and promptly brought her some hot stew, bread, and wine.
‘Here you are. You look in dire need of warming up through to your bones, so pray eat this while I organise your room for you, my lady.’
Cara was too tired to speak as she slumped into the chair, warmed her freezing hands next to the fire, and then fell ravenously upon the meal. She had depended on receiving just such a warm welcome from Madame Alicia, who had become a good friend to her and George when they escaped from Newgate Prison after being accused of treason and were on the run with a price on their heads and the king’s soldiers on their tail. The brothel-tavern was the perfect place to keep a low profile. She would be grateful for a comfortable bed for the night and a chance to rest and think through her options.
Cara finished the simple, wholesome meal and sipped at the wine as she enjoyed a few peaceful moments.
Five centuries into the future, she knew she was in Richmond. Cara saw herself, as if watching a movie, at The National Archives, holding the record which confirmed George’s death.
1 5 3 7
That meant her worst fears had been realised and they would kill him along with the rebels during the mass executions.
How could she tell sixteenth-century George they were time travellers and had been soul mates for hundreds of years, in multiple lives? No, there wasn’t time to explain. She would have to get through to him without revealing their centuries-old secret. The truth would only confuse and further complicate the situation.
George told her he couldn’t bring himself to tell Victoriana Cara about their other lives, and now she empathised all the more. They were back in the catch twenty-two they’d originally found themselves in.
The ability, or the curse of time travel, as Cara sometimes viewed it, had been unlocked on that first fateful meeting in their present-day lives. Those early days had been a magical, yet heart wrenching period. They’d fallen for each other the second they met and then spent months driving each other crazy as they attempted to untangle their complex lives.
‘My lady, how was your meal? The colour is restored to your cheeks. You looked deathly pale when you arrived,’ said Madame Alicia.
Cara jumped. She’d been miles away. ‘Madame Alicia, thank you for your wonderful hospitality. I feel much better, thank you. I was so relieved to find you here as I’d hoped.’
The glamorous madam pulled a chair nearer to Cara and sat down. ‘Pray tell me—why the man’s costume? What is this urgent mission, you spoke of?’
Cara moved closer and dropped her voice a notch.
‘Last time I heard from Lord Cavendish, he was trying to negotiate an agreement with the rebels on behalf of the king. He was with his friend, Robert Aske, the Pilgrimage of Grace leader, and they were at Pontefract Castle. I think my husband is in danger and I’m on my way to find him.’
‘The rebels are strong in number, my lady. I have heard they are ready to march on London and not considering the king’s offer.’
Madame Alicia was well-connected to the northern lords, many of whom had been loyal to the House of York, and opposed King Henry VIII’s father, Henry Tudor, when he had claimed the throne. The unrest had continued even after the houses had united upon Henry Tudor’s marriage to Elizabeth of York.
‘I see. That confirms my suspicions,’ said Cara.
‘May I assist you?’
‘I hate to impose on you, but I wonder if I might borrow a horse to take me to Willow Manor? I’ll have one of the stable boys return it to you.’
