Francis leapt back, wide-eyed.

James Roberts emerged from behind a Hawthorne bush, his face red and twisted from anger. His hand clenched another rock.

“James, it is me!” 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 anymore!”

Francis stared at his friend, his mouth open. The anger on James’s face sent a chill up his spine—this was not a joke. Hurt and confusion welled up inside him.

“James… why are you throwing rocks at me?”

“Go away and die, Francis! I want nothing to do with heretics!”

James picked up another rock, his flared nostrils underscoring the threat.

Holding out his hands, Francis backed away.

James followed Francis with his eyes. He held his glare a bit 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 around, 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 joking… could he?

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

But no. The anger had been real.

The words from the marketplace returned to swirl in his mind, chaotically mixing with questions. The world suddenly seemed a lot scarier than in the morning.

He did not notice that he arrived at a point where the Tavy became shallow. He glanced up to see the fort that he and James built there, a hard lump forming in his throat.

He picked up a stick and, with a sharp motion, sliced 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. Sadness overwhelmed his anger.

A gentle breeze carried the scent of damp earth, and the distant hoot of an owl pulled him back to the present. He exhaled, as if trying to let something go.

As the shadows lengthened, he pulled off his boots and stockings and rolled up his slops to ford the still-cold water.

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

Everything had changed so quickly that, though his mind churned with questions, he didn’t know which to ask his father first to make sense of it all.

It was dusk when he returned to Crowndale.

Francis yearned for this strange day to end, for a hearty meal, and for the sweetbread that Grandma promised. At first, the words of the adult’s 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 has, and he saw a swirl of steam float up from the fresh loaf of bread that he liked to sop up the liquid with.

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

The incident with James seemed to be over, at least for now.

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 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 had.

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.