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

Every head turned toward him.

“Torches, up on the ridge!” He pointed toward 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 lurched 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 toward the barn.

Grandmother’s face drained of color.

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

The memory of James, his hands clenching stones, filled his mind. The house felt to close in around him.

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

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

Francis gave her a stiff nod.

Mary ran to the cottage where they lived.

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

Francis looked out into the yard. Grandfather hitched one of the farm’s horses to the mid-sided wagon and brought it 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.

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 up in a blanket. It clinked when he tossed it into the wagon before running inside to help Marjorie.

“Francis!” Mary’s shout snapped him away from his thoughts. “Get in the wagon!”

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 doorway. Her hand lingered on the door frame, 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 wiped her eyes with her sleeve before pressing a small purse of coins into John’s hands.

John shoved the purse into the sack slung over his shoulder and led her to the wagon. After helping her get in, he ran to his horse and vaulted into the saddle. He spurred the beast hard and galloped 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 and racing back to their cottage.

Grandfather yelled after him, hauling the wagon to a stop.

Francis remembered the carved model of the Great Harry that his father gave him. 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 haven’t 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.

After placing Francis inside the wagon, Edmund 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 hard, 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 feared anything. 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. His lips trembled as he watched the neighbors they had lived alongside for decades leading away their animals.

Francis buried his head in Mary’s lap.

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

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

After a few minutes, Grandfather drew his sleeve across his face. Clenching his jaw, he cracked the reins and urged 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.