Page 83 of The Uprising
George opened his eyes after an unsatisfying and restless sleep. He knew something was happening and had caught smatterings of conversation from the garden below, as his rebel-guards discussed the possibility of their imminent march on London.
He didn’t know anything about his other lives but he did remember Cara’s stark warnings about 1537 and he had done his best to heed them while trying to protect his friends, Lord Darcy, and Robert Aske. He sensed his life was in danger. Again. He thought he had proved himself loyal to the Crown and had not taken any unnecessary risks; just as Cara had urged him. But the rebels were a different matter. There was the blue-eyed demon who had begun coming to his cell daily to quiz and taunt him.
He replayed their latest conversation in his mind to try and pass the time until daybreak, when he would enjoy the distraction of looking out the window, and he hoped the monk might bring his breakfast bowl.
‘Why do you side with the king when you are a northern lord by birth?’ the man asked.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was sent as an emissary on behalf of the king to broker a peace deal. That is all I have done, and I have done it in good faith. I wish for nothing more than a peaceful resolution and for the Pilgrimage not to end in bloodshed. Don’t you see that no matter how large your pilgrim army, the king’s men will outnumber you when you reach London? Marching on London will be a declaration of war and you’ll be writing the death warrant of all of your men.’ George’s voice cracked at the effort of talking so much with his dry, parched throat.
The blue-eyed man asked him more questions about his intentions and what he knew of the king’s plans, and then he said, ‘Where is your lady wife? Is she with the queen in London?’
George was stunned by the personal nature of the question and after a few seconds, rallied himself and said, ‘Why do you wish to know about my wife?’
‘Answer my questions, and I’ll see to it you get some ale and better food today.’
George had refused to give him any information about Cara, and the man had kicked him; hard, in the groin, causing George’s eyes to stream, before the man strode out, cussing.
Why was he asking about Cara?
George had drifted off into another restless doze and dreamed of Cara on horseback; searching for him, until he awoke so low and despondent that if he’d had the energy he would have cried out and begged for God’s mercy. He yearned to hold her again. He stared at the ceiling which was now coated in pale golden rays from the reflection of the breaking dawn, and George raised his aching muscles from the lumpy mattress.
He moved towards the window and looked out at the grounds surrounding the abbey. Nothing looked any different from the previous mornings he had surveyed his surroundings, but his heart beat like a metronome, and like a caged wild animal on high alert, he sensed something was about to occur.
Was Cara coming for him or was he deluded in his exhaustion?
Chapter 25
St. Mary’s Abbey, York, 1536 - Tudorville
Cara, Edward and Swifty approached the abbey; all kitted out like cat-burglars on horseback. Cara put her finger to her lips; the silence was so complete, she worried even a whisper would carry on the still morning air to alert the guards. One by one, they slipped down and tethered their horse to the giant oak trees, still quite some way from the abbey. Cara scooped out a handful of oats for each of the horses, from her satchel she’d hurriedly packed and thrown over her shoulder in preparation for the journey. After letting the horses graze from her palm, she passed around a flask of ale to her companions and they each took a few quick sips.
They knew what was required of them and sprung into motion. The abbey walls rose up like a mirage on the misty horizon, and memories of Cara’s school visit to the museum, the abbey gardens, and ruins, flashed through her mind. In just a few years, the monks would be pensioned off during Henry’s Dissolution of the Monasteries.
Edward was familiar with the lay-out of the abbey, and he’d drawn it out for them, so they knew what to expect. He’d also found an illustrated book about monasteries in the library at Willow Manor, which contained plans of the abbey. As they neared one of the gates to access the abbey grounds, they spotted a guard slumped on a chair, seemingly in a deep slumber. The uneventful monotonous night duty must have proved too much for his weary eyelids and he’d been transported far away on the wings of exhaustion.
The rescue team worked on the assumption that the abbey wasn’t likely to be heavily guarded or held by thousands of men like Pontefract Castle. They gambled that the rebels had whisked George away as a possible bargaining chip, in case the castle was stormed by Norfolk’s men.
Cara took a sharp intake of breath as the pale stone walls of the awe-inspiring abbey appeared immediately before her, bathed in the soft glow of first light. Once again, she was living an historian’s dream and wished she had the time to wander around and enjoy the miracle. St. Mary’s was one of the wealthiest and most famous Benedictine monasteries in England, positioned in the centre of York and mirroring the majestic York Minster Cathedral.
According to Sylvia’s vision, George was being held in a cell overlooking the wildflower garden, and their rough plan hinged on finding him in the right spot. Edward knew the wild garden’s location and he led the way, signalling to them as they entered cautiously through a gate on the other side of the grounds. They took tentative steps, careful not to crack any twigs or do anything that might alert the sleeping guard in the breaking dawn, with only the sounds of chirping birds on the dewy tree branches above his head, to mask any sound they made. Cara winced with every step she took, and at any second she feared she would hear the guard spring to life and alert the abbey to their presence and attempted break-in. They weren’t equipped either in strength or weaponry, to win a fight with armed guards, so they were counting on their stealth and wits to get them through.
Edward touched the handle of the large wooden side door of the abbey. They heard a click and it swung open revealing a dimly lit entrance. He took a few steps, checked no one was about and indicated for them to follow. The three of them moved silently through the gloomy entrance and followed the faint glow of the oil lamps, positioned sporadically along the thick stone walls.
The moment was finally here. If they didn’t reset the timeline, the odds were that George would die with the rebels in 1537. Cara didn’t know what that would mean for the future, but she wasn’t prepared to find out.
She prayed he was still being held in the abbey and hadn’t been moved to another location. Eerie echoes of melodic Gregorian chanting filled the large hall, and Cara shivered and pulled George’s cloak tightly around her to keep out the bone-cold chill of the damp abbey.
‘They’re in early morning mass just as we hoped,’ whispered Edward, turning to face Cara and Swifty as they followed closely behind. ‘This is our chance to get in and out without anyone intercepting us. According to the abbey plans, there are three rooms on the upper floor, which all overlook the wild garden.’
They were counting on George being in one of them, but they had no idea which. They climbed a steep and twisting staircase, Edward continued leading the way, with Cara in the middle, and Swifty bringing up the rear. There was a loud, thumping noise as Cara’s foot slipped off the edge of one of the steps. ‘Ouch,’ she said, cursing under her breath.
Swifty caught her foot and helped her steady herself to regain her footing.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Edward, looking over his shoulder.
She nodded, terrified they would miss their narrow window of opportunity to rescue George. They had no choice other than to succeed or she would lose him; possibly forever.
1537, 1537, 1537,the year of the mass rebel executions ticked through her mind as it had been doing ever since her visit to the archives, now tormenting her as she climbed the steps. She pushed on, treading gingerly as sharp pains shot through her foot, and Edward reached the top of the staircase. This was no time for indulging pain; she knew she would have to mind-over-matter-it and was prepared to pay the price later. She would pay any price to get George back to the safety of their family and estate at Willow Manor.
