Page 13 of The Uprising
After all, she reasoned; he wasn’t to blame for what he had done five hundred years ago.
Was he?
George tapped buttons and switched channels until he found something that caught his eye. It was a holiday programme about Spain. ‘Look darling, it’s Seville, isn’t it stunning? Oh, I do miss it. Don’t you?’
‘It is stunning, but I don’t remember much of our time there beyond our first night together. And I don’t remember Victoriana at all.’
‘I have wonderful memories of Seville,’ George continued, swept away by his thoughts, not listening to her.
Cara stiffened. All of her insecurities about his former life raced to the surface.
‘Well, at least you remember it,’ she said. ‘All kinds of trouble’s brewing in 1536, and I'm powerless to stop you dashing off to confront the rebels, and you have no understanding of the real dangers. I wish you’d remember what you’re doing in Tudorville, instead of reminiscing about your old life in Seville.’
‘That’s unfair,’ he said, his voice dangerously tight and controlled.
‘Why? You seemed really rather proud of yourself the other day when I told you about your mistress, as if it’s some kind of joke. Is that fair?’
‘I’m not at all proud of myself. I curse the damn day I met the woman, whoever she is, and if you’re kicking Tudorville George’s head in like this, I’m certain he does too. He told you many times you’re the only woman he’s ever loved. What more do you want? As for me, I don’t remember her. Can’t you just accept it was a mistake—that is, if it’s even true? People make mistakes, you know. We’re not all saints like you.’
‘I never claimed to be a saint but at least I’m faithful to you. Just because you don’t remember, doesn’t give you a get out of jail free card to do anything you fancy. Shall I take a lover and we’ll see how you like it?’
George’s complexion turned ashen. ‘Really? You would punish me for a past I don’t recollect?’
‘No, not now, not here,’ Cara instantly regretted her bitter words when she saw the pain etched on his face, but she was on a roll and feeling insecure. ‘I mean, I will take a lover in the past. Just like you did. And you...I mean he, didn’t tell me anything at all. He didn’t tell me I’m the only woman he’s ever loved; at least not since I found out about this mistress business. He refuses to talk about it and is always away with the king. Even five hundred years apart, you’re remarkably alike.’
George turned the television off and stood up, smoothing imaginary fluff from his black trousers.
‘You’re being totally unreasonable. I had a life with you in Seville, too, you know. Am I also forbidden to talk about that because you don’t remember it?’
She stared at him. His words stung.
‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this—I'm going for a walk. We both need to cool down,’ he said.
‘Good idea,’ she said, and then burst into tears when she heard the front door close with a snap. Now she had ruined their lovely evening.
It was unfair to take Tudorville George’s actions out on him, but she hadn’t been able to talk it through with her sixteenth-century husband. She was like a stick of dynamite about to blow. Her discovery had reignited the agonising emotions she had suppressed following the months of trauma before George’s former present-day life had disappeared with the timeline reset. Hearing him mourn for that lost life, so closely on the heels of the Marianne revelation, had pushed her over the edge and she was spinning.
The Great North Road, York, 1536 - Tudorville
George and Swifty arrived at the outskirts of York after a long, wet, and tiring journey on horseback up the Great North Road.
George pulled the reins to slow down his horse and beckoned to Swifty to stop. ‘Let’s find lodgings rather than stay at Willow Manor. My parents will only worry. God willing, we’ll find them safe, and none the wiser when all this is over.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ said Swifty, who had become George’s indispensable right hand ever since he had helped Cara and George escape from Newgate Prison. Swifty was no longer a grubby street urchin, but a proud member of the Cavendish household, and true to Cara’s promise he had a home at Willow Manor with his brother, Bertie, a stable boy. George had taken him along to court, and Swifty lived up to his name; both in speed and wily wits.
‘Where do you plan to meet with Master Aske, my lord?’
‘The king thought it would be better to retain an element of surprise, but I sent word to him, so we may meet ahead of the formal negotiations.’
Swifty nodded and rode next to George on horseback as they wound along the muddy track on their way into York. George wasn't one for pomp and ceremony and preferred Swifty to ride at his side rather than bring up the rear in deference to his station.
Later that day, George met unofficially with his old friend, Robert Aske, and they settled down at a quiet corner table in a tavern on the outskirts of York. Some of Robert’s men waited nearby for orders.
‘George, we have thousand of pilgrims, and thousands more on the way, ready to fight for the cause,’ said Aske, one eye blazing, the other blind and vacant.
‘I see your passion, and truly, Robert, I sympathise, I do. But in turn, I beg you to consider the folly of leading these insurgents—I don’t wish to see you hang for it.’
‘Then what do you suggest? The king in his palace in London is far removed from the suffering the people endure in the north, as you well know. Not only are they taxed beyond reason; the holy relics they treasure are stolen every day. To see the monks and nuns ripped brutally from their homes, and the Church’s valuable possessions given to the Crown is to provoke a civil war. How the king imagines he will get away with the plundering and lack of respect of the old traditions and God’s servants, I fail to understand.’
