The Second Chronical-Skulduggery
Winter still gripped the Yorkshire moors.
In villages scattered across the Pennines, rumours moved quickly between alehouses, parish roads, and market lanes. Hunger, hardship, and suspicion were part of everyday life, and few trusted what was said behind closed doors.
Men spoke carefully. Women listened closely. And strangers were rarely welcomed without question.
Especially after dark.
MISSING SPARKS
Yorkshire — 1603
Two hundred miles away on the moors of Yorkshire, a family’s lives would be forever changed by these events.
Rex wagged his tail excitedly while Bo stood over the bloodied rat, watching for signs of life.
A sudden twitch sent the terrier into another frenzy.
He seized the rat by the neck and thrashed it violently from side to side before hurling the carcass against the cottage wall. The mastiff barked in approval while straw scattered across the earthen floor.
Thomas grabbed the rat by its tail and flung it out into the darkness for the village dogs to finish.
The cottage settled once more.
Only the fire crackled.
Only the wind pressed against the shutters.
Then Rex lifted his head.
Footsteps.
The latch lifted.
Dropped.
Lifted again.
The cottage door burst open, sending smoke curling wildly toward the rafters as cold Yorkshire air swept through the room.
“PUT THE WOOD IN THE HOLE, LAD!” Thomas barked.
Wee Tom stumbled inside laughing, followed closely by his sister Margaret, who hurried to shut the door before her father’s temper worsened.
“Where have ya’ been?”
“Running on the green.”
Young Tom immediately ran toward the mastiff and climbed onto the dog’s broad back, pulling at his ears while Rex grumbled patiently beneath him.
“Leave the poor beast alone!” Thomas shouted.
Margaret pulled the child away, balancing him on her hip.
“Come on, brother. It’s almost suppertime.”
Agnes ladled thick pottage into wooden bowls while smoke from the fire mixed with the smell of pipe tobacco, damp straw, and wet wool.
“Ta wife,” Thomas grinned, “I could eat the lord’s horse all ta meself.”
“Husband,” Agnes replied dryly, “I don’t think Lord Birkhead would appreciate his missing horse.”
The family laughed.
All except Grandma Margery.
The old woman leaned forward sharply from her place near the wall.
“Lord o’ the manor?” she snapped. “That bastard worked thy father to the grave!”
The room fell quieter.
“He knew the sickness was killing him and still worked him from dawn till dusk.”
Her breathing became rough with anger.
“No respect. No mercy. No royal touch for poor men.”
Thomas stared silently into the fire.
Outside, the wind moved across the moors.
Inside, old resentments still burned hotter than the hearth itself.