Francis leapt back, wide-eyed.

James Roberts emerged from behind a hawthorn bush, his face red and twisted with anger. He clenched another rock in his fist.

“James, it is I!” shouted Francis.

“You stay away from me, Francis Drake!”

He hurled the rock at Francis.

Francis dodged, almost losing his balance as his foot slipped in the mud.

“Stay far away from me, devil’s spawn! I want nothing more to do with you!”

Francis stared at his friend, his mouth open. The anger on James’s face sent a chill up his spine—this was no jest.

Hurt and confusion welled up inside him.

“James… why are y—”

“Go away and die, Francis!” James picked up another rock. His nostrils flared, underscoring the threat. “I want nothing to do with heretics!”

Holding out his hands, Francis backed away.

James followed Francis with his eyes. He held his glare a moment longer, then turned and ran back to the farmhouse.

Francis turned for home in a daze. At first, every rustle of leaves caused him to turn, half-expecting another rock to come hurtling his way.

After a quarter mile of anxious vigilance, his thoughts consumed all his attention.

James couldn’t have been jesting… could he?

He turned to look behind him, hoping his friend would be following and laughing at him.

But no, James was not there.

The words from the marketplace returned to swirl around, mixing with questions in his mind, each thought interrupting another.

This morning’s world of leaf flotillas suddenly seemed far scarier.

He did not notice that he had arrived at a point where the Tavy ran shallow. A hard lump formed in his throat as he glanced at the fort he and James had started to build.

He grabbed a stick and, with a sharp motion, slashed through a copse of riverside rushes.

As the severed stalks fell, he stood still, staring at the fort. As his breath slowed, his shoulders sagged, and the stick slipped from his hand.

He exhaled, as if trying to let something go, pulled off his boots and rolled up his slops to ford the river. The water was still cold.

On the other bank, he wiped his feet dry with his sleeve, fixed his clothes, and started his walk back to the farm.

It was dusk when he returned to Crowndale.

Everything had changed so quickly. Francis yearned for this strange day to end, for a hearty meal, and for the sweetbread that Grandma had promised. At first, the words of the adults’ conversation seemed distant, muffled by the memory of James’s anger.

He glanced around the room.

A savory aroma of the beef stew wafted from the table, just as it always had, and he watched steam curl up from the fresh loaf of bread, which he liked to sop up the broth with.

The first of the April strawberries lay in the basket for dessert, another of his favorites.

Francis breathed a sigh of relief.

Supper will be grand.

A small smile appeared on his lips.

Grandmother ladled the stew into earthenware bowls, handing them to Francis’s mother, Mary, to set on the table. He handed his grandmother the coins he had received for the eggs and cheese.

“Hello, Mother! Stew smells great, Grandmother!” He went to the basin in the corner to wash up, just like he always did.

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “Family Dinner”

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.

About The Illustration

The engraving of the rural English farm scene of a young Francis Drake and a friend accusing him of being a heretec was created by AI.