walking away from the possibility of giving her mental peace was a sin that would haunt him for the rest of his life—and drop the hellish side of St. Peter's scales down with a thunk.
Clickety-clack . . .
Clickety-clack . . .
The train pulled into the station.
How could a historian not love York? Halfway up the British Isles between London and Edinburgh, this city was founded in 71 A.D. as Eboracum—"place of yew trees"—during the conquest of the north by Rome's Ninth Legion. Beside York Minster, where his troops proclaimed him emperor, stands a huge statue of Constantine the Great, Rome's first Christian leader. Then came the Vikings, in 866, and almost a century of the Kingdom of Jorvik. And no sooner had Eric Bloodaxe been expelled than the Norman Conquest came charging up. The Middle Ages brought reconstruction of York's walls, including Micklegate Bar, beside the train station. Traditionally, monarchs entered the city by way of that towering gate, and since 1389, they had touched the state sword on coming in. High up on its outer wall were hooks where the heads of traitors were left to rot.
Traitors like Henry "Hotspur" Percy, in 1403, and the Earl of Northumberland, in 1572. This was the home of Guy Fawkes, the Roman Catholic who tried to blow up Parliament with the Gunpowder Plot. And York was where the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin had danced on the end of a rope.
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why Gunpowder
Treason Should ever be forgot.
A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Bum him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Ah yes, York.
Had Wyatt had time for a walk, he'd have crossed the River Ouse to amble through the Shambles. That street was like a time machine back to the Elizabethan era. The buildings leaned over the cobblestones until their roofs almost touched in the middle, and in places you could stretch your hands and brush the houses on both sides. The name came from Fleshammels— a Saxon word meaning "flesh shelves"—because butchers displayed meat for sale on the wide windowsills. Since livestock was slaughtered outside on the street, the pavement sloped to a channel where blood, guts, and offal were flushed away. The pandemonium and mess coined another term: a shambles.
In 1571, Margaret Clitherow married a butcher with a shop in the Shambles. She permitted her house to be used for Mass by Catholic priests, a capital crime in Elizabethan times, and so was executed at the tollbooth on the Ouse Bridge. Made to lie on her back with a sharp stone under her spine, she was stretched out in the form of a cross with her hands tied to posts.
Then a door was placed on her and weighted down until she was crushed to death. In 1970, Pope Paul VI made her a saint, and her home in the Shambles is now a shrine.
But enough of blood and carnage; Wyatt was here to work.
So the American rented a car and drove out of York, forsaking the wicked ways of the city for the countryside.
Out here, between the brooding moors to the northeast and the Pennine Hills to the west, lay the neglected airfields of Bomber Command. Today, most were little more than crumbling runways with rusty hangars that had long since lost the battle to weeds and grass. But in his imagination, Wyatt saw a time when the rumbling sky beckoned the warriors of the night, and the surrounding villages—a pub or two, an old Anglican church, and a hotel that served meals for the restricted price of five shillings—bustled with men who would never have meshed but for the anvil of war. The tough and the brainy, the pious and the heathen were all forged into seven-man groups that fought their lonely way across the dark landscape of Hitler's Reich and—hopefully—back home.
Wyatt wondered why Balsdon, who
Clickety-clack . . .
Clickety-clack . . .
The train pulled into the station.
How could a historian not love York? Halfway up the British Isles between London and Edinburgh, this city was founded in 71 A.D. as Eboracum—"place of yew trees"—during the conquest of the north by Rome's Ninth Legion. Beside York Minster, where his troops proclaimed him emperor, stands a huge statue of Constantine the Great, Rome's first Christian leader. Then came the Vikings, in 866, and almost a century of the Kingdom of Jorvik. And no sooner had Eric Bloodaxe been expelled than the Norman Conquest came charging up. The Middle Ages brought reconstruction of York's walls, including Micklegate Bar, beside the train station. Traditionally, monarchs entered the city by way of that towering gate, and since 1389, they had touched the state sword on coming in. High up on its outer wall were hooks where the heads of traitors were left to rot.
Traitors like Henry "Hotspur" Percy, in 1403, and the Earl of Northumberland, in 1572. This was the home of Guy Fawkes, the Roman Catholic who tried to blow up Parliament with the Gunpowder Plot. And York was where the notorious highwayman Dick Turpin had danced on the end of a rope.
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why Gunpowder
Treason Should ever be forgot.
A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o' cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Bum him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we'll say ol' Pope is dead.
Ah yes, York.
Had Wyatt had time for a walk, he'd have crossed the River Ouse to amble through the Shambles. That street was like a time machine back to the Elizabethan era. The buildings leaned over the cobblestones until their roofs almost touched in the middle, and in places you could stretch your hands and brush the houses on both sides. The name came from Fleshammels— a Saxon word meaning "flesh shelves"—because butchers displayed meat for sale on the wide windowsills. Since livestock was slaughtered outside on the street, the pavement sloped to a channel where blood, guts, and offal were flushed away. The pandemonium and mess coined another term: a shambles.
In 1571, Margaret Clitherow married a butcher with a shop in the Shambles. She permitted her house to be used for Mass by Catholic priests, a capital crime in Elizabethan times, and so was executed at the tollbooth on the Ouse Bridge. Made to lie on her back with a sharp stone under her spine, she was stretched out in the form of a cross with her hands tied to posts.
Then a door was placed on her and weighted down until she was crushed to death. In 1970, Pope Paul VI made her a saint, and her home in the Shambles is now a shrine.
But enough of blood and carnage; Wyatt was here to work.
So the American rented a car and drove out of York, forsaking the wicked ways of the city for the countryside.
Out here, between the brooding moors to the northeast and the Pennine Hills to the west, lay the neglected airfields of Bomber Command. Today, most were little more than crumbling runways with rusty hangars that had long since lost the battle to weeds and grass. But in his imagination, Wyatt saw a time when the rumbling sky beckoned the warriors of the night, and the surrounding villages—a pub or two, an old Anglican church, and a hotel that served meals for the restricted price of five shillings—bustled with men who would never have meshed but for the anvil of war. The tough and the brainy, the pious and the heathen were all forged into seven-man groups that fought their lonely way across the dark landscape of Hitler's Reich and—hopefully—back home.
Wyatt wondered why Balsdon, who
Similar Books
