AN: Don't wonder about any seeming incoherencies with regard to dates in this chapter- it does take a few days for word from York to reach London. Warning: Very long chapter. Things got a bit out of hand, I guess… PS: Yay, 200 reviews! Gosh!
The Pilgrimage: Facing the Flames
"Why didn't you know?"
Outwardly, the King was doing his best to remain calm, but Cromwell knew that he was burning with madness on the inside.
"You are supposed to know everything that goes on here," Henry insisted. "You told me there was little opposition; on the contrary, you told me most people were glad to see such places dissolved. You were wrong."
Cromwell began to shiver. The King had not yet started yelling at him which was the worst of signs. It meant that he was storing up his anger inside until he reached his boiling point.
"You didn't know anything. Knave!" The King shouted and hit his Chancellor on the back of his head. "Sit down. Write this."
Cromwell was too afraid to understand the order for a second, but the King's body language made it perfectly clear that there would be no objections. Hastily Cromwell sat down and picked up a quill. The King positioned himself behind his servant and crossed his arms.
"We take it as a great unkindness that our common and inferior subjects should rise against us without any grounds. As for the taking of the goods of the parish church: it was never intended. Yet, even if it had been intended, true subjects would not have dealt with me, their prince, in such violence but would have petitioned me for their purpose." He paused for a moment. "Now, I command you rebels to go home and sin no more. And remember your allegiance: you are duty-bound to obey me, your king, both by God's commandments and by the law of nature."
The King grabbed Cromwell by the shoulders, but let go off him immediately and left the room. Cromwell didn't even dare to raise his head until he heard the door close. He put down the quill knowing that the words he had just written would not reach anyone's ears. They would fade away like the wishful thinking they were. The rebels would not disperse just because their king commanded them to. They were determined.
Cromwell knew very well who the King would blame if this went awry.
On the 16th of October, an astonishing mass of almost 20,000 people had flocked around the banner of the five wounds. Many of them were mounted and almost all of them were armed, even some clergymen who had decided to join the just cause. Aske couldn't believe his eyes when he looked into the thousands of determined faces. He remembered the words a commoner had told him not long ago:
We will fight and we will die.
It was simply incredible to witness it in the flesh. His skin began tingling as a result of his nervousness. This was it.
"All commons: Stick together!" Robert Constable shouted. "Now is the time to arise, or else: never. So forward, forward to York! Forward in pain of death! Forward in God's name! Forward!"
The crowd cheered in a noise that resembled the swarming of a beehive. Their support and decidedness flooded Aske and the other captains with an enormous wave of power and confidence. They would go south and take every obstacle in their way beginning with York. It would be the dawn of a new era.
Aske raised his banner in high spirits and the crowd followed him in rapture. They rolled down the hills towards the walls of York like a massive dark wave of the ocean. Their feet stamped down the grassland and resounded from the ground right up to the towers of the city. Aske could only imagine the fear that would now befall the poor city guards- they could literally see their doom coming.
Little did he know that William Harrington, the mayor of York, was standing on the walls himself facing the invasion of his town. He had received his orders from the Baron of Templehurst, Lord Darcy, days ago: Keep the city at all costs. Use force if necessary. Harrington watched as the pilgrim army drew closer and closer. Keep the city. If times had been brighter, he would have laughed at this ridiculous order. How was he to achieve this miracle? He was but one man. Yes, the guards would help him, but he knew for sure that no one else would. The citizens of York were most likely to band with the rebels. There was nothing he could do.
"Good people of York! We have come in peace and seek no harm to your beautiful city. We came not to pillage or burn and we ask not for your aliment. We are pilgrims," Aske shouted towards the closed city gates. The crowd behind him cheered. "We ask for a safe passage south and nothing more."
Harrington watched as his misgivings came true: he saw his guards desperately trying to push back the growing crowd of York townsfolk who rushed towards the gates. Twenty against two-hundred; it was an impossible battle. The people of York surged against the gate with enormous force and almost pushed it open by the sheer mass of people. An ear-deafening cheer ran through the townsfolk and pilgrims alike as the captains of the rebellion rode into the city.
Without a single raised sword or fired musket, York had been captured.
The pilgrims found their way into the city cheered by large numbers of citizens; men, women, children alike. It was nothing short of a triumphal procession. People were dancing in the streets as the rebels passed them by and many spontaneously decided to join the pilgrimage right then and there. Bakers rushed towards the street giving away free loafs of bread in the sense of Christian charity. Even for Mayor Harrington, the mere sight of it was a thing to behold.
Once their captains had reached the centre of York, they stopped their horses and waited for as many of their followers to gather as possible. A rather short but charismatic man in his thirties ventured to the middle and began to read out a proclamation. His name was Robert Aske and he spoke words that none of them should ever forget.
"We are in York, my friends, and have thus proven that it is God's will that we should be on our pilgrimage! And since we are pilgrims, I ask you now to act in the sense of peace and goodwill, not to harm any York man or woman, to pay for your food and clothes, and not to harry or loot the houses. For this pilgrimage that we have taken is for the preservation of the Church of Christ, of this realm of England, the King our sovereign Lord, the nobility, and commons of this land and aims to the extent to make petition to the King's Highness for the reformation of those things which are amiss within this his realm."
"I'm writing to the gentry of Yorkshire reminding them of their duty to suppress these traitors and of the penalties of not doing so," Cromwell explained to Richard Rich while restlessly driving his quill over the paper. He did not show it, but he was scared to his bones.
Rich cleared his throat. "Is there any case for… um… suspending the work of the church commissioners until the rebe…"
"No," Cromwell cut him short and looked up. His face was very stern. "The only way to beat the King's authority into the heads of the rude people of the North is to show them the King intends to continue with the reformation and the correction in religion whatever they say."
Rich flinched.
"And whatever they do," Cromwell added.
The door was opened allowing one of his servants to enter the room. The man took off his hat and waited to be greeted, but since his master seemed to ignore him, he audibly cleared his throat.
Galled as he was, Cromwell harshly asked: "Yes?"
"My Lord, the rebels have taken Lincoln," the servant reported. "Their rebel flags fly over the city gate. And more of them are now marching on York."
There was a moment of terrified silence before Sir Rich finally said: "May God help us!"
Now, Cromwell knew he was almost certainly doomed.
The atmosphere at Taunton was tense. Thomas Wyatt had reached the manor by nightfall and demanded to see the Princess most urgently. She had been playing cards with Liz Clansey, Ned Stanley and Wyatt's own wife Elizabeth when he had dashed into her parlour. After only a short moment of coming back to breath, Wyatt had told her everything that had happened at the Duke of Ormonde's estates.
There was a Catholic rebellion in Yorkshire and the Queen was going north. She asked for the Princess's help. All of their faces turned pale and puzzled. What were they to do now?
What would you do, mother? Mary asked in her mind. You probably would have done the same thing as Anne. You may not have liked her, but she is like you in so many ways. If I wish to be your daughter truly, how could I be any other way, then?
"Thank you, Sir Wyatt, for riding unremittingly to make these events known to me," Mary said calmly. "It is without doubt or hesitation that I will comply with the Queen's wishes and help her."
Elizabeth Wyatt smiled proudly. "I will bring you papers and ink immediately, Your Highness."
"Better make that a riding gown and victuals."
She got everyone's attention with those words. Neither the Wyatts nor Ned or Liz could pretend not to have heard them or not to understand their meaning. Still, Elizabeth found herself forced to ask: "What?"
"You heard me right, Dame Elizabeth. I am heading north to aid the Queen," Mary reiterated.
"But that is treason!" Liz objected. "To take up arms against the King is an abominable sin!"
Mary smiled. "Which is why I will not take up any arms at all. I will merely speak to the people. Have you forgotten that the King once asked me to be a champion of religious peace in his realm?" She asked calmly. "No, Liz, if I go north, I am acting out of utter loyalty to my father the King."
"Amazing," Wyatt whispered to himself. Then he looked at Mary and said: "I will be coming with you, Your Highness."
"What, no?" His wife shouted at him. "Thomas, this could be dangerous! What if those rebels capture and kill you?"
"They have no reason to attack the Princess Mary, my dear, for she is their natural leader. They will welcome her with open arms," Wyatt assured her.
"If ever she gets to York, that is," Stanley interjected. Everyone turned to him now. "It is a long ride from Taunton to Yorkshire. And I am not thinking of the casual robbers and highwaymen on the way, but what if she were to meet the royal army? Surely the King knows of the rebellion himself and is already dispatching troops to the North."
Mary sighed. That was indeed a backslash. Her father's troops would not be inclined to let her go no matter what she said.
"Yes, and the King will probably send his good friend Suffolk to lead that army," Liz agreed. "He's a very able swordsman and aside from that, he knows your face, Your Highness."
Thomas Wyatt nodded. "Yes, I am afraid we will not make it past the Duke's troops."
There was a moment of disappointed silence. Then, another voice soared above their helplessness.
"If only you knew someone with the marvellous ability to distract the Duke."
Everyone turned around to find Frances Grey and her husband standing in the door. She was smiling a very sinister smile.
"Frances!" Mary exclaimed. "You would do that?"
"Of course I would, silly. I'd do anything to help you in this cause."
Lord Stanley sighed. "No, Lady Grey, not you too!"
Frances smiled at him. "Do not be a wet blanket, Ned. Mary is destined for greatness and has a duty towards her people. She must go to the North and if I can arrange for her to get there, what kind of subject, what kind of friend would I be if I objected?"
"But how?" Liz asked frowning.
"Well, he's my father, isn't he? I'll go with the Princess and in case we should encounter the royal troops, we will part. I shall go and distract the Duke while Mary continues her ride to York with Master Wyatt as her guard."
They all exchanged questioning glances. Some of them were eager to support Mary while others feared the penalties of acting against the King, but all of them knew now that they could no longer stop their mistress. If they had learned one thing during their years with her, it was that the young Princess could be very stubborn about religious matters. Her smile left no doubt that she was fervently decided.
"Lady Wyatt, please arrange for all necessary items to be packed and ready by dawn. We leave with the earliest rays of sun. Frances, you and your husband must get packed also, and prepare yourself for the encounter with your father. Everything must go smoothly for we have only one chance," Mary commanded in an astonishingly firm and regal voice. "Liz, Lord Stanley, come here." She took her friend's hand. "Liz, I leave you in command of my household here at Taunton for you are, excepting Frances, my best friend in all this world. There is no one I could trust more," she said smiling. Then she took Stanley's hand and put it on top of Liz's. "I am leaving Lord Stanley with you to give you advice and good cheer. Now, I know you must report my absence during the King, but I ask you to delay it for as long as possible so that my venture stands a chance. Can I trust you in this?"
Ned Stanley's eyes sparkled as he nodded. "You can, Your Highness. I promise to support your cause and protect your home and Mistress Clansey… with my life, if necessary."
Mary noticed her friend Liz blushing and smiled. "Then it is all well done, Lord Stanley. Pray for the Queen and the good people of England so that we might all be reunited by Christmastide."
"We will. But please, Your Highness… Mary," Liz dared to address her boldly. "Please, I beg you, not as a subject but as a friend, take care."
A small tear built up in Mary's eye. She nodded. "I promise you this, Liz: I will come out of this and so will the Queen. All shall be well- all manner of things shall be well!"
Henry watched as the flames performed a thrilling dance in front of his eyes. He could have imagined them to be anything, yet he thought of them as the crying faces of burning rebels. There was little in this world that he hated more than rebels.
"When I was five, my mother and I were taken across London to the Tower," he told Brandon. "There was a rebellion against my father. The Cornish rebels were actually at the city walls and inside everything was panic and fear. We had no news of the royal army or my father."
He sighed as the memory of his mother sprung up in his mind. Elizabeth Tudor, the beautiful and angelic queen. She had been his pure idol of womanhood never to be achieved by any living person.
"My mother tried to remain calm… but she was terrified. So was I. I was sure we were both going to be killed," he remembered.
Charles Brandon made no sound. It was hard to imagine his best friend as a terrified boy, but then again, who wouldn't be terrified in such a situation? At least now he saw why Henry would react so harshly to the rebel army in the North.
"I want you to send someone to Hatfield to pick up my children. Get them here for their safety," Henry ordered. He put his hands on Brandon's shoulders. "And I am appointing you commander of the royal forces. You will ride north as soon as possible. You will find guns and ordinance at Hungerford, but don't tarry there."
"No, Your Majesty," Brandon agreed. "I will do all Your Majesty commands and more."
Henry nodded satisfied. "These rebels are traitors, Charles, full of wretched and devilish intents. They must be punished for their detestable and unnatural sin of rebellion against their sovereign… just as my father punished the Cornishmen."
Charles Brandon was determined not to let his friend down. He charged out of the room looking for Anthony Knivert whom he told – in as few words as possible – to ride to Hatfield immediately and collect the royal children. Then he ventured to his own rooms and instructed his servants that he would leave by nightfall and would have his armour ready until then. He intended not to waste any time on trifles, so he mounted his horse before sunset and rode off to Hungerford. But what he saw there did not please him. Not at all.
There were a few men standing around idly, but no weapons or any other items that might have been helpful for going to war.
"My Lord, I was promised artillery when I arrived here but I don't see any guns," he said angrily.
"Your Grace, we have guns but we have not been able to find any horses or drays to transport them," one man answered him.
Brandon frowned in disbelief. Had that imbecile really just said that he lacked horses to carry the weapons? What was he thinking, that Brandon needed them in year or so, or that he was just off for a friendly visit to the North?
"Perhaps you don't understand: I am about the King's most urgent business and if you cannot commandeer enough horses for His Majesty's use, then how can you call yourself a mayor?"
The old man smiled. "Your Grace, I did not want to produce panic by forcing people to part with their horses or drays."
"Idiot!" Brandon blurted out. "I charge you, personally, to find enough horses within two days and bring the guns on after our army or, God help me, I will hold you to account!" He smiled angrily. "With any luck, Mister Mayor, I will afterwards get the chance to see you disembowelled at Tyburn."
He looked to his followers and yelled: "Onward!"
They had no time to lose.
They were only thirty miles west of York and confident that they would reach the town without further delays. Despite the fact that the ride between George's estates and the city of York could be made in two or three days, they had been on their horses and feet for almost six days now. Sometimes, they had had to change directions in order to avoid suspiciously looking crowds of peasants or armed men. They knew not whether those were rebels or the King's men, but either of them could have their minds set on capturing the Queen and her companions.
The peasant John Palmer had exhibited some unexpected skills of leading people and handling a halberd, but most of all he was the only one with a decent knowledge of the Northern countryside. George Boleyn didn't like the fact that they were following a zealot Catholic commoner now. What if it was a trap that his sister wouldn't see because she was still mourning for her dead son? He was greatly worried for Anne's safety, fearing that even the five of his guards would not be able to protect her properly. He had ordered them to dress in peasant's clothing in order to pass through Yorkshire unoffended yet reminded them every day that they were his soldiers still. They had to die for the Queen if necessary.
By dusk, Palmer suddenly stopped their baggage. George pressed ahead on his horse.
"What is it, Master Palmer?"
"Don't you hear it? There is something," Palmer said sternly. "Someone is coming. I can hear the hooves of horses."
George was alarmed. "Where?" There was no answer. He hurried back to his sister's side and addressed his soldiers. "Men, ready your swords!"
Palmer's words soon came true when a troop of armed soldiers came riding down a nearby hill. Two of them were royal knights, they others normal soldiers, yet all of them wore the Tudor rose. They had obviously noted Anne's entourage and were dashing towards them now.
"Scouts," George hissed at his sister. "The King is already mustering an army then."
Under their waving banners a dozen of royal soldiers surrounded their group of peasants.
"Halt, in the name of King Henry!" One of the knights shouted. "On pain of death I order you to speak up now: Where is it you are going and what are your intents?"
George took a deep breath and looked at his companions. Only three of them were mounted- Anne, himself, and Mark Smeaton. They were dressed in a very restrained fashion, yet still obviously nobles. The rest of them looked like filthy peasants. What could he possibly say that the King's guards would believe?
"We are heading westwards to York," Anne suddenly said. "We intend to speak to the rebels that have gathered there."
In the dim light of the ending day, George could see the knight frowning.
"Sir, you had better tell your wife to hold her tongue in the presence of the King's knights!"
Angrily, John Palmer pushed his pitchfork in the direction of the man. "How dare you speak to the Queen like that?" He yelled.
The knight's horse withdrew nickering. The soldiers began whispering in bewilderment.
"What did you say, peasant scum?"
Now, even George was angry at the man's behaviour. He ventured to Palmer's side to show his face to the knight.
"You had better not insult the Queen's personal ranger since he did nothing but remind you of the proper way to address your betters," he said sternly.
"Your Grace…" The knight stuttered. "Your Majesty… I had no idea…"
Anne had taken her reins and pressured to the front, shortly after followed by Mark. The four of them were now facing a dozen of well-trained royal soldiers. Palmer was overwhelmed to feel the support of his queen and to be standing right next to her. He smiled like the happy fool he was.
"No, Sir, it's a deceit, can you not see the peasant's face? They've taken the Queen hostage!" One of the soldiers suddenly yelled.
Anne laughed. "Nonsense, I came on my…"
"Is it true?" The knight interrupted her harshly. A clamour began stirring up his men. He frowned. "I am afraid you will have to come with me, Your Majesty."
Palmer pushed himself in front of his beloved lady and pointed his pitchfork at the knight again. "You will not touch her! Over my dead body!"
"That will not be necessary. Whistletop," the knight yelled at one of his soldiers.
There was a strange, fizzling sound as they arrow screwed through the air and drilled deep into Palmers calf. The man dropped to his knees in agony. George looked at him shocked.
"Mark, take the Queen away," he ordered as quickly as possible. "I warn you, Sir, this will have bad consequences for you if you do not…"
"They're abducting the Queen again," the voice of another soldier interrupted him. The man was pointing at Mark Smeaton riding over to Anne who, in this dim lit, must have seemed like the peasant's leader to them. "Protect the Queen!"
"Get them!" The second knight yelled.
Then hell broke loose. George tried to yell at the knights to stop their folly, but they would not listen to him anymore. He realised that Palmer's peasants had all readied their weapons by now and were themselves storming towards the royal forces. A massive amount of pent-up anger on both sides was now going off in a deadly clash. George turned around trying to identify his soldiers in the middle of the brawl, but the poor light and their disguise made it almost impossible.
"Protect the Queen!" He yelled at the mess of fighting people.
There was shouting and screaming all around him, swords hit pitchforks and lances hit halberds. Very soon, the unholy smell of blood filled George's nostrils. His desperation grew as his eyes searched for his sister. Where was she? Where was Anne? He saw her horse, but the saddle was empty. Oh God, no!
"Nooooo!"
It was Anne's voice. Panic flooded each of George's veins. He grabbed his reins and dashed right through the fighting crowd towards the sound of her voice. When he finally found her, his face grew grey and his heart turned to ice. Anne was kneeling in the mud caressing Mark Smeaton in her arms. The musician was severely wounded in his stomach, his blood pouring from the waist like a waterfall. Before them stood a confused royal soldier who had probably thought to become a hero by killing the captain of the peasants and only now realised that he had made a mistake.
"No, Mark, no, say it is not so, Mark!" Anne cried desperately.
The soldier trembled. "M… Majesty, I am sorry, I did not…"
"Youuuu bastard!" George screamed. A beast inside him had just been freed that he didn't even know had existed. His sword brandished high he dashed towards the murdering soldier and cut through his neck with enough force to slice off three heads. A fountain of blood tainted his face. His sanity was replaced by sheer lust for revenge. "Murderers! Murderers!"
And on the cold floor, a Queen was weeping in despair for her dying friend. It was an ugly, heartbroken sound coming from her lips that was not regal at all. Anne didn't care. She didn't care for anything at the moment but Mark. The body of a peasant crashed to the ground right next to her, a lance looming from his chest. The brawl was drawing closer to her by the second.
Shock ran through every fibre of her body when a hand suddenly clutched to her arm. She turned around and found John Palmer's blood-stained face in the darkness.
"Majesty, come, come! We must flee," he urged her.
Anne looked at him in disbelief: His walk was oddly misshapen since there was an arrow in his left calf still, although he had managed to break most of the parts on the outside. Without allowing for any objections he pulled her to her feet.
"Please, Majesty, we must leave."
"But Mark…"
Palmer shook his head. "He is dead, Majesty, but you are still alive. We must hide in the woods! Come quickly!"
Your life is not over yet, Anne heard her mother say. Numb and stunned, she nodded and stumbled away from her dying friend, away from her fighting brother, away from the royal guards… into an uncertain fate.
Thomas Darcy remembered well the words in his last letter to the King.
"Your Majesty,
I write to you on a most urgent matter. We have had word that a pilgrim army is marching on Pontefract Castle which is under my command. I am compelled to tell you that I cannot defend this castle without more soldiers and arms.
As the warden of the East Marches and a loyal member of Your Majesty's council, I beg Your Majesty to consider negotiating with these pilgrims. I remain your humble and obedient servant,
Darcy."
There had been no more soldiers and no more arms. There had been no negotiations. Now, as he was standing atop of Pontefract Castle, Lord Darcy felt utterly abandoned. He and his unlucky few were facing thousands and thousands of determined pilgrims. The castle was the key to the North; the rebels could not neglect it. Hopeful thinking was pointless. They were running out of options by the minute.
"My God, Lord Darcy, what a sight is there," the Bishop of York remarked and crossed himself. "Arrant rebels against the King's Majesty brazenly bearing their badges of shame."
"Indeed so, Your Grace. I never thought in all my long days to see such a sight," Darcy said astonished.
"Well, what are you going to do? Fire on them?"
Darcy shook his head. "You know very well that I have almost no useful guns."
"Well, you could resist them all the same and close your gates," the priest insisted. "After all, those are the King's orders."
"As to that… I think it better to talk to them first as fellow Englishmen and fellow Christians," Darcy declared. He turned around to the stairs. "I will meet their leaders in the gatehouse outside the castle walls. Guards!"
His men followed him half-terrified. They were trying to make a show of force in the gatehouse, but even the small delegation entering the outer circle of Pontefract Castle outnumbered them vastly. If they decided to obey the King's orders, they would fight heroically and die in vain. The rebellion was unstoppable.
"My Lord Darcy, Your Grace," the charismatic leader of the rebellion addressed them, "we've come here in peace."
"Mister Aske, as the King's representative I have the means here to hinder you and to do some injury to your cause," Darcy threatened calmly.
"My Lord, we have embarked upon this Pilgrimage of Grace for the common good, for the love we bear to God's faith, our church, and the maintenance of it, for the preservation of our sovereign King, and the expulsion of villains' blood and evil councillors," Aske explained about as calmly. "We mean to petition the King's Highness to stop the woeful destruction of our monasteries and abbeys."
Darcy could almost feel the guards behind him secretly defecting to the rebels. Yet, this subtle intuition seemed not to be a talent of his comrade, the Bishop.
"Mister Aske, you claim to be loyal to the King but your very actions defy and deny the King's supremacy."
"My Lord Bishop, there is no man now alive in England more loyal to the King than I and I trust in time to prove it," Aske insisted. "Our quarrel lies not with him, but only with those close to him."
Now, Robert Constable's temper broke loose. He turned to the bishop. "It's very well for you to sound so high and mighty but it's you and your kind who are also to blame for not advising the King honestly about the spread of heresy and abuse throughout his kingdom! For what are Cromwell and Cranmer but heretics and manifest abusers of this commonwealth?"
Sighing inwardly, Aske ventured forward to save the peaceful spirit and turned to Darcy directly.
"Lord Darcy, as I told you we mean no displeasure to any person. We ask for shelter and free passage. All our pilgrims here have taken an oath not to slay or murder out of envy but to put away fear for the commonwealth and march with the cross of Christ and their heart's faith before them."
His words and his voice were so thrilling that Darcy no longer wondered how Aske could have gathered hundreds and thousands behind him. There was a fascinating spark about the man.
"But we will fight and die if you seek to stop us," Aske added.
Darcy looked around and took a deep breath knowing that his answer would decide upon hundreds of lives including his own.
"Mister Aske, I see now that I was mistaken and that your cause is by no means traitorous but just and peaceful. As long as you and your pilgrims promise to honour my hospitality, I welcome you to my castle."
"You cannot do that!" The Bishop objected in shock.
"I believe I can, Your Grace," he replied dryly before turning to Aske again. The other man's genuine happiness forced him to smile. He reached out his hand. "Gentlemen, me of York, friends: Welcome to Pontefract Castle!"
Despite the fact that they were having supper, King Henry found it hard to touch any of the food. It felt as if his stomach was filled by a heavy stone of anger. He looked over the table at his old friend Knivert who had just finished telling him of the safe transition of his children to London. Now, Henry wanted to give orders for his daughter Mary to be brought to court as well, but he just couldn't suppress the anger any longer.
"It is insufferable," he hissed.
"I beg your pardon, Majesty?"
"Anne," Henry spat it out. "Have you not heard? They tell me that she and her brother both joined a group of rampaging peasants to ally themselves with the Northerners. They've left the Duke's estate to become rebels, for God's sake!" He shook his head and buried his face behind his hands for a moment. "I tell you this, Anthony: I have always known that the woman was stubborn and daring, but not even in my darkest dreams would I have imagined to be betrayed by her so. What makes her believe she has the right to openly defy me, her sovereign lord and king?"
Knivert carefully cleared his throat before answering. "Is it not possible that she did not follow the rebels by her own account?"
"What do you mean? Explain yourself!"
"Well, Majesty, perhaps she was abducted?"
Henry laughed. "No. No. You see, Tony, I know my wife. This is just the sort of thing she would do to spite me!"
"But what reason could Her Majesty possibly have to want to spite you?"
The King bit his lip. He knew the answer to that question, of course he knew. Jane… His wife had seen them together, causing her to break down in a total frenzy. Perhaps she was even convinced that his infidelity justified her actions, but she was sorely mistaken! It was his right as a king to take mistresses whenever he pleased while rebelling against him was a manifest sin.
"I will have her head," he whispered, and then, growing louder, he said: "She will submit herself to me immediately or I will have her head! I will burn her by the stake!"
Knivert flinched. Rarely had he seen his King so mad and angry. Much to his relief, the door was opened, allowing him to abstain from answering.
"What is it?" The King yelled at Francis Bryan who had just entered.
"Majesty, I bring grave news from the North. A scout soldier has just returned to London claiming that he and his group accidentally met with a group of peasants who had taken the Queen and her brother hostage," Bryan reported. "They were engaged in a fight during which the ringleader was killed, but so too were all of your soldiers excepting this one man. He is severely wounded, though, and your doctors say they do not know whether he will make it through the night since riding here has probably consumed all his remaining life forces."
Silence. The long case clock struck seven. His fingers trembling Henry turned his face away.
"What of… my wife?"
"That I do not know, Your Majesty," Bryan admitted. "The man could not tell since he fled to inform Your Majesty of these tremendous events. Since none of his group has returned, we must assume that they are all dead. It is thus unclear whether Her Majesty remains in captivity or is dead herself."
Henry suppressed the cold shiver of fear running through his body. He looked at Bryan.
"You had better find out what happened there," he said calmly but very sternly. "Now!"
Bryan nodded and rushed out of the room while tears were beginning to fill up the King's eyes. Henry turned to Knivert in despair.
"My wife, Tony," he whispered. "They've got Anne."
Her fingers were wet with sweat and mud. Nothing of her regal beauty remained now that Anne had been running through the Yorkshire countryside for one night and one day. Her dress was filthy and tattered, her hair was unkempt, and her face was as empty as her heart. Mark was dead. He had lost his life protecting her, yet for what cause? It was but a stupid misunderstanding. No, it was Henry's fault. He had instructed his men to brutally act against the Northerners, of that she was sure. He had become a heartless tyrant and Mark was his first victim.
"Come, Majesty, we cannot rest now," Palmer pressured her.
She looked at her guide with a frown. They had barely rested all day and even if he was used to hard labour unlike her, he should be feeling weak and weary now as well. The blood on his calf had dried, but the arrow was still stuck inside. Anne was educated enough to know that the wound was likely to ulcerate soon or, even worse, get infected. Walking around was even worse for the leg. If he did not get medical help soon, he might lose the limp- or his life.
"But we must rest, Mister Palmer."
"No, we can't. They could be right behind us. You've seen how they are, they are madmen!" Palmer insisted. "We must find a safe place."
She was too weak to object once more, so she continued to stumble through the forest with him. The sun slowly set above them, turning the environment into a haunted wood that made her more frightened than she already was. In the light of the setting sun, Anne could see Palmer's strained sweaty face.
"You must rest, Mister Palmer, or else your leg will kill you."
Palmer shook his head. "I am fine."
"No, you're not; you're sweating. The wound might be infected."
He looked at her sternly and shook his head once more.
"But if you die I am alone in these woods!" Anne remarked helplessly.
"I will get you to safety, Your Majesty, no matter the costs," he insisted. "I promise you."
And so then stumbled onwards through the moonlit forest. Anne noticed that the man's health was deteriorating by the hour. It was admirable yet stupid. Her only hope was that he would soon be too weak to walk so that her reason could triumph over his stubbornness. By midnight, her hopes were rewarded when she saw lights in the distance.
"Look, Mister Palmer, a manor!" She exclaimed.
"Shsh," he told her and held her back. "We must not go there- those might be the King's men."
"It's a manor, Mister Palmer, not a prison. Some noble man must be living there and whoever he is, he would be willing to house his Queen without objection."
"We're going the other way," Palmer said firmly. Sweat was running down his forehead in waterfalls. "I cannot risk endangering you, my Queen, for else all would be lost."
Anne's glances wandered between him and the lights of the house. She knew that her choice was either that place or certain death. So she pulled herself together, stood upright and spoke in the most regal voice her weakness allowed:
"I am your queen, Mister Palmer, and I command you to escort me to that mansion."
He looked at her baffled, trying to find words to object, but his mouth simply opened and closed. He nodded resigned. Smiling triumphantly Anne dragged herself towards the manor. The closer she drew the more she realised it was more a small castle than just a manor. Its doors were all closed, but through the windows she could see light and hear muffled voices. Atop the castle gate, two halberds were reflecting the moonlight.
"He there," she yelled at the guards. "What is this place? I demand entrance and shelter."
"Halt!" Came the answer. "This is Snape Castle, home of Baron Latimer. Who are you to demand entrance so boldly?"
Anne, this dirty, hungry, tired mess accompanied by a wounded peasant, said some of the most unbelievable words in the world: "I am Anne Boleyn, your Queen!"
Jane Seymour was so sweet, pale and pure, yet Henry found it hard to concentrate on these qualities at the moment. His moods changed from fear for his wife to outrageous anger at the rebels who dared to abduct his wife. He would make them pay. All of them.
"Your Majesty seems to be slightly less happy today," Jane dared to remark.
"It has nothing to do with you," he assured her quickly.
Jane smiled. "But what else could possibly dare to take your mind away from the beautiful time we are having?"
He looked at his beloved lady and sighed. Yes, he had promised her a beautiful time, only it seemed that God had other plans.
"It is the spark of rebellion in the North that vexes me," he explained to her.
Jane nodded and put away her cup. "Your Majesty, if I may?" She waited for his approval before leaving her chair and unexpectedly dropping to her knees. "Your Majesty, I beg you, in your kindness, to restore the monasteries to the people. Is it not a sign from God the Almighty that he is displeased with this development and angered by their destruction? Has not he sent these rebels as punishment?"
The King's eyelid twitched. Had she just said that? He must have misheard her. Anne and even Catherine would have been bold enough to defy him, but not even they would have dared to suggest that a rebellion was a just punishment for him. No, surely Jane had been mistaken in some way. His pure, wonderful, perfect Jane would not imply such things. She was mistaken.
"Rise, Madam," he said as calmly as possible. "I ask you not to speak about this matter again now or ever. Remember the fate of those who dared to meddle in my affairs."
Jane swallowed the fear that was building up inside of her as she sat down again. The King smiled at her, but she could feel that it was a dishonest smile. Behind her, Edward Seymour was troubled as well. He was clever enough to understand how bad a move this had been on Jane's side. She was allowing her sentimental values to precede over her family's fortune. Stupid girl.
"So, sweet Jane, what do you say we go out riding this afternoon?"
Jane smiled as if nothing had happened. "A most wonderful idea, Your Majesty."
Like any other courtier, Francis Bryan was pacing up and down in his chambers fretting over the latest events in the North. He had sent men to the place of the incident with Queen Anne, but despite the fact that they had ridden night and day, they had returned with nothing. They had found the site of a battle: Blood, broken armour, and some hastily dug graves, but no bodies. The rains of October had destroyed ever hope of finding footprints or trails. Whoever survived this brawl had simply vanished.
Bryan bit his lip. It meant that he still could not tell the King of the whereabouts of his wife. It was unlikely that any of the fighters had harmed her, yet one never knew just how much could go wrong in the turmoil of a fight. It frightened him to even consider the possibility that Queen Anne was dead. Not only would the political effects be tremendous, but she was also his cousin. He liked her. He wanted to know that she was alive and well.
"I am sending you north, Tony. There is no other way," he finally said.
The young knight raised an eyebrow. "My Lord, what do you mean?"
"You must head north immediately, Sir Cornish, to find out about the Queen's fate."
"And how do you suppose I am to achieve that? The rebels would kill me on sight if I rode straight up to them."
"Well then do not ride straight up to them," Bryan replied indignantly. "I once took you into my employ because I thought you a cunning fellow with the guts to do what is necessary. Tell me, Master Cornish, was I mistaken?"
Tony smiled. "No, you were not, my Lord. I shall disguise myself as a peasant and seek to be taken into their ranks as a pilgrim. You will have word of the Queen's whereabouts before the end of the month," he assured the man. "Having been born a commoner myself, I should not find it hard to make friends with them and gain their trust."
"That is all I wanted to hear, boy," Bryan said nodding. "Now go and do not tell anyone of your business, not even Cromwell or anyone else. We do not know if someone at court might send information to the rebels."
"Yes, my Lord," Tony bowed.
"And no violence," Bryan suddenly added. He could see that his man was bewildered by it, yet still the spy nodded. Little did he know how much this matter was tearing Bryan apart from the inside: He was more inclined to Catholicism and completely understood the Yorkshire people, yet as a good servant to the King he had to fight them. He could not follow both his convictions and his honour and very soon, he would be forced to choose between the two.
Which path would he take?
"The wound has begun to fester but shows no signs of infection," the young lady informed her Queen. "We have managed to extract the arrow yet we cannot know for sure whether some splinters may still remain within the wound. If he shows signs of recovery by the morrow, it is very likely that this is not the case."
Anne nodded. "Thank you, Lady Latimer," she said quietly. "You are very adept nurse, it seems."
"Your Majesty is very kind to say so," the lady responded. "I do happen to possess some knowledge and am honoured to be able to use it in your services."
Anne tried to bring herself to smile, but the last two days pressed heavily on her mood. One of her best friends was dead. She did not know whether her brother had survived. She did not know where she was. Her only guide barely clung to life. She sighed. Her desire to prove useful and find herself a mission had produced a very bad outcome. Her urge to do good deeds had not gone unpunished. What was God trying to tell her?
"You can go and rest now, Lady Latimer, you must be tired," she said gently. "I apologise for the inconvenience my late night visit must have caused you."
"You do not need to, Majesty, for my husband and I are deeply honoured to house you here at Snape Castle. I have ordered a room to be prepared for you, Your Majesty, and it shall forever be known as the Queen's Bedroom."
The kindness of the landlady finally allowed Anne to smile genuinely. Curiosity forced her to eyeball the lady: she was tall and rather pretty, had shining blonde hair and was perhaps in the middle of her twenties. Far too young to be the wife of the old man who had greeted Anne and her companion as they had entered.
"Thank you very much for your kindness and hospitality, Lady Latimer."
The lady curtseyed before her and turned to go, but that very moment the door was pushed open by landlord's sixteen-year-old son. He seemed alarmed. Anne wondered what had called him from his bed in the early hours of the morning.
"Mother, quick, hide!" The boy said. Then, realising that they had received guests he did not know about, he bowed to Anne. "You too, my Lady. Hide in the cellar."
"John, what is this? What's happening?" Lady Latimer demanded to know.
How odd it is that he calls her mother when she is barely eight years his major, Anne wondered. She did not realize the imminent danger of the situation; she was simply tired.
"They've come here, mother, the rebels! Please, for the love of God, hide!"
Now they could hear muttered voices and screams. Anne rose from her chair and rushed towards a window followed by the lady and her stepson. It took them but a second to figure out that they were completely surrounded. Tens and hundreds of angry looking peasants had encircled the manor. They were armed with pitchforks, flails, and even swords and were carrying torches. It looked like a giant dragon had spit out a ring of fire around them.
Anne felt a lump in her throat. She knew of the age-old prophecy saying that one day, a queen of England would burn. For years she had been plagued by nightmares of flames and death. Now, at last, they all seemed to come true.
"Where's your father?" Lady Latimer asked worried.
"At the gate speaking to them," the boy replied. "Please, mother, you must hide yourself now!"
"My place is by your father's side, John," the Lady insisted.
Anne took her hand. "Then I shall accompany you. Perhaps my word will be strong enough to disperse them."
Despite the firm protest of Lord Latimer's son the two women made their way through the castle towards the main gate.
"Why would the rebels attack your husband?" Anne asked curiously.
"They wouldn't; I rather think they are seeking his support. My husband is an adherent to the old ways and besides, Snape Castle is an important joint."
When they had reached the parapet walk, Anne's body began to shiver. She was facing a hundred armed men or more; it was a sea of burning torches. Subconsciously she grabbed Lady Latimer's hand and clutched to it.
"We will burn down your bloody house if you don't come out, my Lord," a man from the crowd shouted.
"Aye, you will take the pilgrim's oath and come with us to York," another added.
Lord Latimer, a man in his late forties, desperately looked around for help. Upon seeing Anne he sighed very deeply.
"You should not have come here, Your Majesty. Neither of us can expect to escape this situation now," he said gravely.
Below them, the rebels had begun preparing a large trunk as a battering ram. Anne knew instantly that the castle would not hold. They were too many, far too many. They would drag Lord Latimer with them, ransack his house and maltreat his wife and children. She had to do something.
"As the Queen of England I demand this outrage to be stopped!" She yelled, but her words ebbed away.
"Don't do that, Your Majesty," Lord Latimer urged her.
Yet Anne was decided. "Yorkshire people, I am Anne your Queen, and I demand that you stop now!"
But they did not stop. They did not even listen to her. The ram had touched the gate. Soon, everything would go down in flames.
AN: In case you are wondering; yes, the helpful lady in the last scene is no other but Cate Parr. The attack on Snape Castle is an actual event which is also briefly mentioned in Season Four. I have included it mainly to show that the rebels, too, were no saints. The show depicted them as good, peaceful people and fools at the worst, when in fact they used no less violence than the royal forces. I see why modern audiences would root for the poor underdog commoners, but in my story, there will be no black/white distinctions. Both the pilgrims and the King want something and both are determined to do all that is necessary to achieve that. Well, apart from Aske, perhaps, he was probably clever enough not to use violence, but even the best intentions cannot hold back thousands of angry peasants…
Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the second instalment of my take at the Pilgrimage of Grace and stick around for the next chapter called Falling from Grace. Please review and tell me what you think of this story arc!