Page 24 of Twin Flames
Swifty produced ale and a couple of hunks of dry bread from his pockets, which he passed to George and Cara.
‘Thank you,’ they echoed in unison.
They tore into the bread and downed the ale. ‘I don’t remember ever being so thirsty,’ said Cara, wiping her mouth. The colour has returned to your cheeks, George. Thank goodness. I was worried for your life there for a while.’
George mounted the jet-black horse and Cara jumped up behind him with Swifty’s assistance. Swifty rode the chestnut, and they set off at a fast trot down the track.
They would be in with a chance of making it to York if no one from the inn spotted them after they realised the horses had been stolen.
‘Stop, thief!’ A loud voice shouted.
George dug his legs into the mare’s sides.
‘Hold on tight,’ he said.
The horse lurched forward. Cara inched closer and moulded her body to George’s back. Her long hair flew behind her inthe strong winds like a waving flag. Her heartbeat pummelled against her chest.
Please, God, don’t let them catch us.
‘Come on, Swifty,’ she shouted. ‘Let’s go. If they catch us now, we are all dead.’
CHAPTER 7
The Great North Road, 1536
Cara, George and Swifty had been on horseback for hours, riding hard and fast through the clammy heat of the afternoon. Cara’s body ached, and she longed to stop, but the fear of capture was greater than the ache of her tired muscles.
She had swapped places with Swifty when it became evident he was liable to fall off and break his neck.
‘My brother loves horses, but I’ve never ridden one,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be easier.’
Cara handled the beautiful chestnut with quiet confidence, surprised that she was so comfortable on a horse. She had no memory of riding, apart from a few obligatory lessons as a child. She was thrilled to find herself quite the seasoned horse rider.
Cara decided she would visit Sylvia, the psychic, again, as soon as she was back in the present. She wanted to find out more about how time travel worked, and Sylvia was the only person who might be able to help.
How do I get home?
She felt a pang of terror at the thought of being stranded indefinitely in 1536. She was accused of treason and witchcraft, under threat of execution by order of King Henry VIII. Was the real purpose of her arrival here, to save George? Or had she fallen prey to an accident in the grand scheme of time, and shouldn’t be here at all?
She looked over at George. Either way, she was thankful to be near him, but their lives were at stake. Questions darted about her mind. She didn’t know much, but she did know for certain that it was 1536. Queen Anne’s death proved it. A chill ran down her spine as she remembered the queen’s execution; it was a vivid picture of the dreadful event. She wondered whether she’d ever remember more of her Tudor life. Her memory was so unreliable. It was frustrating.
Cara had prayed with fervour for the king to pardon Anne, right up to the second before the queen’s head was severed from her pale neck. Cara and George had wanted to believe that their king would be merciful. At one time, he had desired Anne so deeply he had defied the Pope, to establish a new church in England so they could marry. Alas, it had all been for nothing.
Cara witnessed the sword slice through the air as it moved to enact its bloody deed. She could still see the queen’s black eyes. They were shining pools of desperation as she beseeched the king and made her final statement. She was courageous to the end. The only blessing was that dear Anne hadn’t suffered the indignity of a brutal axe beheading. King Henry must have pitied her sufficiently to arrange the special execution. She was thankful that her queen had died instantly, not at the hands of a fumbling axe wielder.
By some unorthodox twist of time, Cara now found herself living in an era which was her foremost area of expertise.
Was this her ultimate destiny?
‘Look,’ said George, startling her. ‘There are wanted posters nailed to the trees.’ He rode closer and pulled on the reins of the jet-black steed so he could read the headline. Poor Swifty almost slid off the horse.
WANTED! EARL AND COUNTESS CAVENDISH. Accused of Treason and Witchcraft. £1000 Reward (Preferred Alive.)
‘Oh my Lord,’ said Cara. There were crude sketches of their faces on the dusty posters which bore a mild resemblance to them. ‘At least they don’t know you’re with us, Swifty. They’re not after you, so that’s something to be grateful for.’ Cara reached over and ruffled his hair. She couldn’t imagine what hardships he had endured on the streets of London.
‘I’m just another boy with no name in Newgate,’ Swifty said, displaying remarkable maturity for his years. There was no self-pity in his voice; just clarity about his place in the natural order of things. ‘They won’t notice I’m gone.’
‘When we’re through this nightmare, they’ll be a place for you at Willow Manor with your brother,’ said Cara.
