The Bleeding Land by Giles Kristian

accusations in public?’ he asked Tom. ‘Well?’
    Tom glanced at their mother, then shrugged. ‘I have heard him say that he believes men should be free to worship God as they choose, so long as they obey their king and do no harm by it.’
    Sir Francis slumped back into his chair, shaking his head. ‘Then he is as good as finished,’ he sighed. The fire’s ill-tempered crack and spit filled the room. The yellow light it gave off seemed brighter and more zealous now, as though it fought the encroaching darkness of the West Lancashire dusk seeping through Shear House. ‘You will break it off with the girl,’ Sir Francis said in an even, measured voice. ‘And we shall keep our heads above this rising water.’
    Bess saw Tom’s teeth clench, a rampart against the words that threatened to break through. Then he turned and left the room, and Bess, rather than look at her parents, watched the flames grow fiercer.
    As he emerged from sleep’s fog, Mun was suddenly aware that Crab had been barking for what seemed a long while. The coals were grey, only their hearts yet glowing with life and heat. Three of the clock? Four? He swung his legs out from the linens and sat on the edge of the bed, gathering his wits and letting his ears sift through the muted sounds coming from downstairs. Thumping at the front door. A woman’s voice? Or a young boy’s perhaps. Isaac growling at Crab to hush, the Irish wolfhound taking no heed, its deep chest issuing rolling snarls between each salvo of barks. Mun stood and took his breeches from the chair beside his bed, pulling them on just as the bedroom door creaked open and his sister’s head appeared round its edge.
    ‘Somebody is here,’ Bess hissed, her golden hair burnished by the dying fire’s glow. ‘Isaac is fetching Father.’
    He shrugged his nightshirt back down so that it reached almost to his knees, and grabbed his sword belt, the blade snug in its scabbard.
    ‘Well, let us go and see who is calling on us in the middle of the night,’ he said, striding barefoot through the dark.
    Bess followed him along the oak-panelled corridor past portraits of long-dead relations, the floorboards squeaking and moaning, then down the stairs. The entrance hallway was a sea of pitch black enveloping a halo of light in which stood Tom, the candle lamp in his hand flickering weakly in a draught, barely holding the darkness at bay. Crab sat obediently at his heel, grey fur ruffling in the breeze.
    ‘What’s going on?’ Mun asked, coming to stand beside his brother and seeing another face in the shadows.
    Tom held up his candle to illuminate a young boy’s tear-streaked face. ‘This is Jacob Green, Martha’s brother,’ he said.
    Air from the bitter night still swirled through the hallway like an unwelcome guest, causing Mun to shudder.
    ‘You are trembling, you poor boy,’ Bess said, ‘you must be freezing to death. Did you walk all the way here?’
    Jacob shook his head, from which tufts of copper-coloured hair, the same shade as his countless freckles, stuck up messily. ‘My horse is tethered, Miss Rivers,’ he said, gesturing beyond Shear House’s iron-bound double doors. His breathing was still ragged from hard riding. And crying, Mun thought.
    ‘What has happened, lad?’ Mun turned to see his father halfway down the stairs, fingers wrapped round a brass chamber stick whose candle guttered as he came, his other hand rubbing tired eyes. His mother followed, one hand sweeping down the polished banister, red hair spilled across her shoulders.
    ‘Tell them what you just told me, Jacob,’ Tom said, handing the candle lamp to Mun and striding off.
    ‘Where are you going?’ Mun asked.
    ‘To get dressed,’ Tom called, bounding up the stairs past their parents.
    ‘Well, young Jacob?’ Sir Francis said. ‘What in the Devil’s name has happened that you would hammer on my door at this hour?’ Isaac shuffled around the hallway lighting candles, so that by their blooming