In the next few months, Uncle John found work at a shipyard, and John and Marjorie used several acquaintances to start a modest dairy shop. Edmund, however, struggled, which gnawed at him.

“It is the responsibility of every good Christian to work hard,” he declared, his voice underscoring his urgency. His angst only grew in the coming weeks.

To find a job, Edmund decided to approach the relations of Mary’s family—the same Fitzfords to whose estate Francis delivered eggs and cheese. He and Mary moved to Gillingham, leaving Francis at the Hawkins house until they could send for him.

Other than with John, Francis seldom interacted with the other boys that shared the Hawkins household. His stomach troubles persisted. Wilkinson ensured that there was no shortage of tasks or scoldings and took every opportunity to remind Francis how grateful he must be for his situation.

Francis dreaded leaving the house, steeling himself to do any tasks he was assigned outside.

One morning, John and Wilkinson had business at the Plymouth harbor, overseeing the unloading of one of the Hawkins’s ships. Francis trudged behind them, carrying a small secretary box to the wharves.

The day was pleasant and sunny. A light summer breeze rippled the banners over Plymouth Castle’s four towers. The harbor stretched wide. A forest of masts and rigging arose from ships of every shape and size as they jostled for space along the quays. Shouts of dockworkers mixed with the raucous cries of seabirds overhead.

Dockside, Francis helped count the cases offloaded as Wilkinson recorded the numbers. John’s business aboard didn’t take long to finish, after which he and Francis returned to the Kinterbury house through the center of the city, while Wilkinson stayed behind to oversee the transport of the freight into the warehouse.

As they passed the square in front of St. Andrew’s church, a groaning creak caused Francis to look up. He froze mid-stride, wide-eyed as memories of Crowndale resurfaced.

“What?” asked John, stopping and turning back to look at Francis.

“That leg.” Francis pointed. “I saw one like that in Tavistock… before the mob burned our farm.”

John looked up. A black iron cage twisted and swayed on a gibbet, screeching with each turn. A grotesque human leg dangled inside.

“It is from of the same man.” John’s answer was nonchalant. “That man was executed here, then quartered. His parts were sent out like proclamations—warnings to those who might think to do the same.”

Francis’s curiosity got the better of him—this might be the only time to understand why they fled.

“How do you know that?”

“My father was the mayor of Plymouth. He still has friends in the city council. He mentioned that the council approved the courier fees to carry pieces to market towns like Tavistock.”

“But why?” pressed Francis.

“That man was one of the men involved in the killing of William Body, the Royal Commissioner. The Privy Council ordered the guilty to be executed as traitors.”

Francis scratched his head, trying to understand how a local murder was treason.

“I heard that Body was killed in Helston. Why was this man executed here, and why was killing Body treason?”

“The King ordered the church service items removed to wipe the old faith from the churches. Body was responsible for doing this in Helston. He wasn’t well-liked, and when the word spread, a crowd gathered outside the church.”

“Like the mob at our farm,” murmured Francis. He added, louder, “they trapped him inside?”

“They dragged him out of the church. Kylter, the priest at that church, stabbed him.”

“A priest?” mouthed Francis, recalling the fiery priest arguing with the crowd.

John nodded. “A large mob lingered for days. His majesty’s council decided to pardon most, condemning twenty-eight as examples.”

Francis looked up at the leg again. “So that’s why James called me a heretic,” he murmured.

“What? Who called you a heretic?”

Francis relayed the story of how his friendship with James ended.

John shrugged. “Think of it this way: James and those of the old faith are the heretics. The King has decreed the realm’s religion and how it is to be practiced. Anyone defying it will face punishment.”

He turned. “Let’s go, supper will be waiting.”

Francis cast one last glance at the cage. The wind caught the iron cage, sending another tortured screech through the marketplace and filled Francis’s mind with images once again—James’s angry face, the cook’s piercing gaze, Grandfather’s tears of pain. He shook out the memories and ran after John.

As the memories churned, he brooded all the way back to the Hawkins house.

“I have an idea, Francis,” John said as they came up to the house. “No ships are expected tomorrow. Would you like to learn to sail the Badger?”

Read the next scene, from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna, “Sailing in Plymouth Sound”

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.