The Bleeding Land by Giles Kristian Page A

light nightshirts, tousled hair and untidy beards were revealed. So too were the fresh tears welling in the boy’s eyes.
    ‘Men broke into our house,’ Jacob said. ‘They attacked Father. They said he is a secret Catholic. That he must answer for his crime.’
    ‘Crime?’ Bess said, shooting Mun a worried look.
    ‘All priests who have disobeyed the royal proclamation to leave the country are to be arrested,’ Sir Francis said, frowning. ‘The King is trying to appease the mob.’
    ‘But Father is not a priest,’ Jacob protested, bursting into tears. ‘He’s not!’
    ‘All will be well, Jacob,’ Bess said, stepping forward and hugging the boy to her bosom. But a moment later the lad pulled away, his anguish finding an edge. ‘My father is a Protestant, Sir Francis!’ he announced fiercely, young eyes raking the folk around him, daring them to suggest otherwise.
    ‘Who are these men? Who has your father?’ Sir Francis asked.
    ‘I only knew one of them,’ Jacob replied, ‘Lord Denton’s son Henry. Last year he rode across my father’s field in the hunt. My sister says he is a devil.’
    Mun shared a knowing look with Bess, neither surprised at Henry Denton’s involvement.
    ‘Master Henry struck my father when he refused to go with them,’ Jacob said.
    ‘Was your sister there? Martha?’ Lady Mary asked, glancing at Sir Francis, who looked back towards the stairs up which Tom had vanished. The boy nodded.
    ‘Have they hurt her?’ Mun asked.
    Jacob shook his head. ‘But she might hurt them,’ he said with a brave smile.
    ‘They have the decency not to involve Minister Green’s family at least. That is something, I suppose,’ Lady Mary said. There was a knock at the door.
    ‘Who is it now?’ Sir Francis said exasperatedly, nodding at Isaac to open the door, which the servant did, allowing a blast of frigid air to fill the hall. The candles guttered and the ladies pulled their nightgowns tightly around themselves as a young stablehand named Vincent stepped inside, doffing his hat to all.
    ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said to Sir Francis, ‘but Master Tom asked me to tell him when Achilles was saddled and ready.’
    ‘And why would Tom want Achilles saddled?’ Sir Francis asked.
    ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ Vincent replied, hands grasping each other, eyes averted from the women.
    But Mun knew why.
    ‘Because I’m riding to the village, Father,’ Tom said, striding downstairs. He had dressed in breeches, tall boots, shirt, waistcoat, doublet and thick black cloak. He also wore a sword scabbarded and fixed to a baldrick strapped over his right shoulder.
    ‘You are not!’ Sir Francis barked.
    ‘I will not be stopped, Father,’ Tom said without breaking stride. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked Mun.
    Mun glanced at Sir Francis, who shook his head, eyes as cold as the air swirling through Shear House.
    ‘Vincent, saddle Hector and bring him up,’ Mun said, the words out before he’d had time to think it through.
    ‘Hector is ready and champing at his bit, brother,’ Tom said before Vincent could answer. ‘I took the liberty of having him saddled.’ He shrugged at the question in Mun’s eyes.
    Mun saw anger in their father fighting to slip its bridle. In his own stomach he felt the butterfly wings of excitement begin to flicker.
    ‘Wait for me,’ he said to Tom, walking off to get dressed. ‘Do not dare leave without me.’
    ‘We will save your father from these ruffians, do not worry, Jacob,’ he heard Tom say as he took the stairs three at a time.
    He dressed hurriedly and, taking up his own sword, slipped the baldrick over his head and shoulder as he came back down the stairs. Into the maelstrom of words.
    ‘You will not leave this house, Thomas. And neither will your brother,’ their father said, pointing a threatening finger.
    ‘But what about the boy’s poor father?’ Bess said. ‘We cannot leave him to be beaten. Or worse. How could we live with