Sic Parvis Magna Sample Chapter—Going On Delivery

“Francis!” called Marjorie.

The eight-year-old, ruddy-faced Francis Drake looked up from the grassy meadow.

He should have been feeding the pigs, but the heavy wooden buckets of oats and other scraps lay forgotten near the sty.

Instead, he made himself busy launching his flotilla on the farm pond. Each ship—a leaf—was captained by a bug. A thick, pungent odor of wet manure hung in the air.

Perhaps grandmother has some sweets for me. Her sweetbread is so wonderful with melting butter on it! And some milk.

The pigs could wait.

He licked his lips and ran toward the house.

Marjorie, his grandmother, stood by the door with a basket covered with checkered cloth.

“Francis, take these eggs and cheese to the Fitzford house before supper. Take them straight to the cook.”

Francis crossed his arms and pursed his lips.

“And I might have a chance to bake you something special.”

This seemed better than farm chores, so Francis took the basket and set out.

It was a pleasant spring morning, and the Fitzford house wasn’t too far away. The sun shone brightly, warming him. Not a cloud appeared across the azure sky as far as the eye could see. The Hawthorne trees budded tiny leaves.

As he reached the edge of the farm, the urgent cacophony of the church bells caught his attention. He stopped, turning his head to listen.

The last time Francis heard wild pealing of the bells was when he snuck into the St. Eustachius church belfry a year ago following a boring service. Tripping on a bell rope earned him his father’s wrath, but Father Lawnder had smiled and knelt to meet Francis’s gaze.

“We ring the bells in a special order, making it sonorous and graceful. We use it to call people to service, and I am glad you learned this today.”

The priest dug in a small purse hanging from his belt, offering Francis a bent penny. “Use this for a small pilgrimage. Offer it to whichever icon calls to you, light a candle, and pray for patience and obedience.”

Edmund, his father, seemed tense at the instruction, but nothing bad happened to Francis.

The memory brought a faint smile to Francis’s lips as he walked on. But the din of the wildly pealing bells continued, and he stopped to listen again. He pressed his hand to his stomach, as if to still the unease there.

When Francis reached the market square, he froze, startled by the number of people he saw. At first, he thought the rising voices to be the familiar haggling over produce, but something in the air felt off—like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon.

“What are the bells ringing for?” asked Francis, pulling on the sleeve of a man standing next to him.

He waved Francis off, as if he were a nuisance.

Francis pushed forward to the center of the market square, navigating around angry people. Conversations carried tense words he didn’t understand—like “reform” and “rebellion”—prickling his skin.

He emerged at the front of the crowd. Opposite him, on the execution platform where Francis saw thieves hanged, a wrought iron cage hung from the gibbet pole. In it was a man’s severed leg. The cage screeched as it turned, swaying in the light April breeze.

A priest stood beside the cage, shouting and gesticulating, arguing with the crowd.

Though Francis saw hanged thieves before, this is the first time he has seen a gibbet. He wanted to look away, but found his eyes fixed upon the gruesome spectacle.

And then Francis’s nostrils caught the whiff… a noxious mix of rotting fish and manure. His nose wrinkled as he lurched backward in disgust.

He pinched his nose with his free hand, and having learned nothing more, turned around. The crowd swallowed him as he stepped back.

He hastened along to the Fitzford manor to deliver the eggs and cheese.

Francis knocked at the postern door and asked for the cook. A maid led him to the kitchen.

“Good day to you, mistress Smith,” said Francis. He offered the basket to her. His other arm hugged his body, as if to chase away a shiver.

“Ah! Francis! Good afternoon to you too,” said the cook. She took the basket and lifted it to her eyes, squinting as she examined the eggs for breakage.

Noticing his shiver, she cast a suspicious look at him. “Are you feeling ill, lad?”

He shook his head. “I saw a person’s leg hanging in the market square. Why was it there?”

The cook’s forehead wrinkled. Her eyes darted across the kitchen, as if fearing that someone would overhear.

“You don’t know, do you, lad?” She answered in a low voice. “They executed a Launceston man—drawn and quartered as a traitor. They sent parts of his body as a warning of what happens to traitors.”

“Why? What did he do?” asked Francis.

“He stood up for what he believed was right, lad.” She glanced around the kitchen again. “But they called it treason.”

Francis’s eyes opened wide.

“Who called it treason? What did he do?”

The cook sniffed as she continued her examination of the eggs.

“He killed a man who was ordered to desecrate God’s house… taking chalices, holy icons… defiling all that was holy—all on King’s orders.” She crossed herself.

Francis thought for a minute.

“But why?”

The cook’s hands froze. Her narrowed eyes focused back on Francis with such intensity as if she realized she had said something she shouldn’t have.

Francis fidgeted under her stare, wanting to shrink away.

“Well, I haven’t the time to explain this to you, boy.” She sat the basket down and, after wiping her hands on her apron, pulled out a coin purse. She counted out the coins, examining each one.

“Here is the money for the eggs and the cheese. Pass my compliments to your grandmother, won’t you? Be sure to tell her to take care! You hear me, lad?”

“Yes, mistress. Thank you, I shall…” Francis’s voice wavered. He scratched the back of his neck and turned to leave. “Good day, mistress.”

“Run, Francis,” she muttered, staring after him as if he headed for the gibbet.

At the threshold, Francis glanced back, suddenly aware of the chill creeping over him. He pulled the door shut behind him.

He kicked a pebble out of his way as he walked, trying to recall all the golden chalices and plates in the church.

On the way, he kept thinking about the ghastly gibbet still swaying, creaking, and turning.

He remembered when his father told him about Judas and how Jesus died because Judas betrayed him.

Did the King die?

After a while, the haunting eyes of the cook faded, and his breath slowed. The reddish hues of the afternoon sun colored the horizon, and he decided to visit his friend James before heading back home.

He smiled, thinking of the war games they play on the river.

Thoughts of their half-built fort occupied his mind, and he had not noticed that he had arrived at his friend’s farm until a rock whizzed by his head and plopped into a mud puddle.

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “The Heretic”

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

About The Illustration

The portrait of a young Francis Drake was created by AI, which was prompted with the oil-on-panel engraving of Sir Francis Drake attributed to Jodocus Hondius (circa 1583).