It was 1536, King Henry VIII reigned over England, Lady Jane Seymour bearing his only heir to the throne. In the North tens upon thousands of rebels were joined together in harmony against the new reforms that England had been placed under.
Robert Aske led the rebellion, wanting to end the destruction of Monastaries and return the country to Catholicism.
William stood with thousands of others; they called themselves 'Pilgrims of Grace', King Henry called them traitors.
Every soul in the North stood before the Kings men; the royal flags of ruby, sapphire and gold drenched in the blood of thousands of innocents flowed spotless with the wind. The men bound in steel armour descended from their horses into the mud that replaced once rich farmland.
A young girl stood with her mother, eyes glazed with fear. Her tear stained face mimicked that of every woman and child behind the wall of weakly armed men. They stood in complete silence, the only sound was that of the flag flapping helplessly in the howling winds.
Lizzie looked up into the heavens bruised with thick dark clouds. A droplet of rain landed on her cheek, she held out her hands catching the water in her outstretched palms. Closing them she dropped her head to the ground.
Today, I think I die.