Sic Parvis Magna—Going on Delivery (Chapter 1)

“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, filled with oats and food scraps, stood forgotten near the sty.

Instead, he busied himself 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 sweet bread is wonderful with melted butter! 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 a 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 bake you something special.”

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

It was a pleasant 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 hawthorns’ leaves rustled in the gentle breeze.

The urgent cacophony of the church bells caught his attention as he got to the edge of the farm. He stopped.

The last time Francis had heard such wild pealing of the bells was when he snuck into Saint Eustachius Church’s belfry a year earlier following a boring service. Tripping over a bell rope almost 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 them sonorous and graceful. We use them to call people to service, and I am glad you learned this today.”

The priest dug into a small purse hanging from his belt and handed 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, but nothing bad happened to Francis.

For a moment, the memory brought a faint smile to Francis’s lips. But the din of the bells continued as he walked on. He pressed his hand to his stomach.

When Francis reached the market square, he froze, startled by the number of people he saw. At first, he thought the rising voices were the familiar haggling over produce, but something felt off—like a storm gathering just beyond the horizon. Conversations around him were tense, full of confusing words like “the King’s law.” Some man nearby mentioned Helston.

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

The man, arguing with another man about some “body,” waved Francis off as if he were a nuisance.

Having learned nothing more here, Francis pushed forward through the crowd to the center of the square.

He emerged at the front. Opposite him, on the execution platform where Francis had seen thieves hanged, a wrought-iron cage hung from the gibbet pole, screeching and swaying as it turned in the light breeze.

It contained a man’s severed leg.

A priest stood beside the cage, gesticulating as he argued with the crowd.

This was the first time Francis had seen a gibbet. He wanted to look away, but found his eyes fixed upon the gruesome contraption.

Then the smell of rotting flesh reached him. It was worse than the time Grandfather found a dead horse in the barn. He pinched his nose with his free hand. The crowd swallowed him as he stepped back.

He hastened to Fitzford Manor to deliver the eggs and cheese.

At the postern door, Francis asked for the cook and a maid led him to the kitchen.

“Good day to you, Mistress Smith,” said Francis. He offered her the basket and hugged himself with his free arm, 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 took a half-step back. “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 eyes darted across the kitchen, as if fearing that someone would overhear.

“You don’t know, do you, lad?” she said, keeping her voice low. “They executed a Helston man—drawn and quartered. They sent parts of his body as a warning of what happened to traitors.”

“Why? What did he do?” asked Francis.

“He stood up for the Church, lad.” She glanced around the kitchen again. “But they called it treason.”

Francis’s eyes opened wide.

“Who called it treason?”

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

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

Francis thought for a moment.

“But why?”

Another servant entered the kitchen behind her and she froze, her eyes fixed on Francis.

Francis stiffened.

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

“Here. 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…” He scratched the back of his neck and turned to leave. “Good day, Mistress.”

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

At the threshold, Francis glanced back, suddenly aware of her stare. 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.

He kept thinking about the ghastly gibbet 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 memory of the cook’s haunting eyes faded. The reddish hues of the afternoon sun colored the horizon, and he decided to visit his friend James before heading home.

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

Thoughts of their half-built fort occupied his mind, and he did not notice 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) .