Three Sisters, Three Queens

CARTINGTON CASTLE, ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 1515

It is hours before we arrive at another poor fort, perched on a hill overlooking a burn with a jumble of rough shacks against the walls and a stone-walled keep inside. They carry my bed into the great hall and set it down there. The men are exhausted and cannot face heaving the bed up the narrow stairs, while I can’t bear to go further.

Here we rest for five days. I am in a daze of pain; every time I shift in the bed I can feel my bones grinding and I scream with the agony. When they lift me for the pot they have to give me a gulp of spirits before I can bear to be moved. I eat lying down and they spoon broth into my mouth.

On the morning of the fifth day I know that we have to go on.

“Not far,” Lord Dacre says comfortably.

“How long?” I ask. I wish that I did not sound fearful, but I know that I do.

“About three hours,” he says. “And they’ll carry you better now that they have learned to match their pace.”

I grit my teeth so as not to complain but I know that they will jolt me every step of the five miles. We leave the castle without regret, but they stumble a little on the potholes and slip in the ruts of the road and I cannot muffle my cry.

“Not far,” Thomas Dacre says staunchly.