Francis burst into the room, his face pale. “Mother, Father!” he shouted.

Every head turned toward him.

“Torches, up on the ridge!” He pointed towards the path that led away from the house. His eyes darted from person to person, looking if he should panic.

The bench flew back as grandfather, John, and Edmund leapt to their feet. They rushed outside, followed by Marjorie and Mary.

Like fireflies disturbed by a sudden breeze, flickering dots of orange light were lurching side to side against the twilight over the ridge.

Grandfather turned, his voice tight. “I’ll fetch the wagon! Marjorie. Gather our belongings. Smartly now! Don’t forget the strong box!”

He snatched the lantern and dashed towards the barn.

Grandmother’s face drained of color.

Francis pressed to his mother, peeking out from around her skirts at the glittering serpent of torches writhing down the ridge.

The memory of James, his hands clenching stones, filled his mind. He trembled, the house closing in around him.

Mary and Marjorie bumped Francis several times as they grabbed and carried out small things.

Sensing his angst, Mary crouched in front of him, her hands on his shoulders. “Be brave. Help your grandmother take things into the wagon.”

Her voice wavered, but Francis gave her a stiff nod.

Mary spun and ran to the cottage where they lived.

“Francis!” grandfather called. “Francis! Hold her reins!”

Francis looked at the yard. Grandfather hitched one of the farm’s horses to the mid-sided wagon and brought up to the longhouse. An axe was tucked into his belt.

He thrust the reins into Francis’s hands and ran back into the barn for the second horse.

The beast, sensing trouble, neighed and stomped the ground, trying to back away. Francis petted her snout.

“It will be all right.” The lie tasted bitter in his mouth.

Against his will, he stole another glance at the road. The torchlights descended off the ridge, and he made out the shadowy shapes of men, their shouts growing louder. Each lurch in the darkness, each shout swept away more of his hope of things returning to the way they were just that morning.

The knot in his stomach tightened.

John appeared with a bundle of things rolled into a blanket. It clinked when he tossed it into the wagon before running inside to help Marjorie.

“Francis! Get in the wagon!” shouted Mary, snapping him away from his thoughts.

He ran to the back and jumped inside, hiding behind her.

Inside the wagon was a disorderly mess—blankets, clothes, wooden dishes and spoons, pots, small furniture—whatever was underhand.

Grandfather, seated on the bench, held the reins of both horses.

“Marjorie!”

Edmund climbed up beside him on the bench of the wagon.

Grandmother appeared in the door frame. Her hand lingered on the doorframe, and she cast a look back. For a moment, Francis thought she wouldn’t step away at all.

“Mother, we can’t tarry!” John pulled her arm.

She pressed a small purse of coins into John’s hands before climbing into the wagon as she wiped her eyes with her hand.

John jammed the purse into the sack slung over his shoulder and mounted his horse in one move. He spurred it to a gallop, away from the approaching lights.

Grandfather took one last look around and snapped the reins, following him.

“I forgot the Bible!” shouted Edmund, jumping off the wagon to run back to their cottage.

Grandfather yelled after him, stopping the wagon.

As Edmund raced back to retrieve the Bible, Francis remembered the carved model of the Great Harry that his father gave him as a gift. Few belongings in the world were his alone, and this one he prized above all.

“My ship!”

Francis jumped off the wagon and ran after his father.

“Francis, no! We don’t have time!” shouted Mary, but he did not hear her.

He did not get far.

Mid-step, Edmund scooped him up with one arm while clutching the Bible with the other.

Francis struggled, his cries dissolving into sobs.

Edmund placed Francis inside the wagon, grabbed Grandfather’s outstretched hand, and bounded up onto the bench.

The wagon jolted forward again, its large wheels creaking across the terrain.

When they got some distance out, Grandfather pulled on the reins, stopping the wagon. A gasp from the adults forced Francis to look back, almost against his will.

Flames devoured the thatched roofs, lighting up the yard between the cottages.

Blinking rapidly, Francis turned to look at his mother, then his father. The fire illuminated their quietly weeping faces. Mary pressed a hand to her lips.

He looked at Grandfather, who never hesitated or feared a thing. He rushed in to rescue the animals when the barn caught fire last spring and did not cry when his hand got crushed at the mill. He never faltered.

Harsh, orange firelight illuminated the silent tears running down Grandfather’s face as he watched the neighbors whom they lived alongside with for decades lead away their animals. His lips were trembling ever so slightly.

Francis buried his head in Mary’s lap, as if he could vanish.

He understood. There was no longer a home to return to, no friends to play with. Whatever happened this morning couldn’t be undone.

Mary stroked his head with one hand, wiping away the tears with another.

After a few minutes, Grandfather drew his sleeve across his face and clenched his jaw before cracking the reins and urging the horse forward into the night.

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “First Impressions of Plymouth”

Did you miss the start? Read the opening scene, Going on Delivery or the overview of the sample chapter.

Read my comments about who is real in Sic Parvis Magna.