Over the next few months, Uncle John found work at a shipyard while Grandfather used several acquaintances to start a modest dairy shop.

Edmund, however, struggled. “It is the responsibility of every good Christian to work hard,” he said. His unease only grew over the weeks.

To earn an income, Edmund decided to approach relations on Mary’s side—the same Fitzfords to whose estate Francis had delivered eggs and cheese. He and Mary moved to Gillingham, leaving Francis at the Hawkins house until they could send for him.

Apart from John, Francis had little to do with the other boys in the Hawkins household. His stomach troubles persisted. Wilkinson ensured that there was no shortage of tasks or scoldings, taking every opportunity to remind Francis how grateful he must be for his situation.

Francis dreaded leaving the house, steeling himself for whatever errands he was sent to do.

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

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 rose from ships of every shape and size as they jostled for space along the quays. Shouts from dockworkers mixed with the raucous cries of seabirds overhead.

Dockside, Francis helped count the cases unloaded as Wilkinson recorded the numbers. John’s business aboard did not take long, after which Wilkinson stayed behind to oversee the transport of the freight to the warehouse. John and Francis returned to the Kinterbury Street house through the center of the city.

As they passed the square in front of Saint Andrew’s Church, a screech caused Francis to look up. He froze mid-stride, wide-eyed as memories of the Tavistock marketplace 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 the same man.” John’s answer was nonchalant. “That man was executed here, then quartered. His limbs were sent out as warnings to those who might think to do the same.”

Francis went still.

If I don’t ask now, I’ll never know why we fled.

“How… do you know that?”

“My father was the mayor of Plymouth and has many friends in the council.”

“But why?”

“He 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,” said Francis under his breath.

“Aye…” John paused, seemingly surprised by Francis’s guess.

“Body wasn’t well-liked, and when people found out he was stripping the church, a crowd gathered.”

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

“No. He ran to the house next to it. The crowd dragged him out and Kyler, the priest of that church, stabbed him outside.”

“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 and condemn twenty-eight as examples.”

So that was it. Old faith meant traitor. And a traitor meant—

Francis looked up at the leg again. “That’s why James called me a heretic.” He flinched as if seeing another stone hurtling at him.

“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 gibbet cage. The wind caught it again, sending another tortured screech across the marketplace.

Images flew through his mind once again—the burning, his grandfather’s tears. His mouth tightened into a line. He said nothing 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 opening two chapters .

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