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By morning, the smell of pottage filled the cottage as the first weak sunlight crept through the cracks in the walls. The stranger finally opened his eyes, wincing in pain as he touched the dried blood behind his head.

“Where am I?” he whispered.

“Hall Green,” Thomas replied. “Near Haworth.”

The man sat slowly upright, gripping the bowl Margery handed him with shaking hands.

“My name is John Hargreaves,” he said weakly. “I owe ya my life.”

He remembered waiting for Agnes near the manor and hearing the noise coming from the village square. It had been a cold evening and he thought he might climb the hill for an ale while waiting for her to finish her duties.

One ale had become two.

Then two strangers convinced him to go down into the cellar to watch the rat baiting.

He remembered the rotten wooden stairs leading down into the smoke-filled room. The smell of stale ale, dead rats and dog piss hit him before he reached the bottom. Men crowded around the pit shouting wagers at one another while the dogs barked and strained against their ropes.

One dog in particular had caught everybody's attention.

Billy.

The little terrier had torn through the rats like nothing John had ever seen before. The crowd cheered each kill as the marshal counted them out.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Then twenty.

John smiled despite the pounding in his head.

Twenty rats.

He had wagered on twenty.

The steward's men had looked none too pleased when they handed over the winnings.

After that, things became less clear.

He remembered buying rounds of ale.

He remembered laughter.

He remembered his purse hanging heavy from his belt.

Then the memories faded.

The walk home.

Darkness.

A blow to the head.

And nothing more.

Thomas listened carefully.

“You should report it to the steward,” William suggested.

John gave a bitter laugh.

“The steward would sooner fine me fer drunkenness than help me recover me purse.”

Despite his pain, John studied the family gathered around the hearth. Poor folk. Hard-working folk. Yet they had shown him more kindness in one night than many others had shown in years.

By the time the sun rose above the moors, he prepared to leave.

Thomas opened the cattle door and cold morning air drifted into the cottage.

“Safe journey, Mr Hargreaves.”

John paused before stepping outside.

“If ever ya need help, my home lies toward Oxenhope. I’ll not forget this kindness.”

Thomas nodded and watched him disappear slowly across the muddy lane.

But John Hargreaves carried a secret the Rushworth family did not yet know.

A secret dangerous enough to destroy them all.

He was Catholic*.

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                                                            -VII-

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*Historical Note:

A recusant was someone who refused to attend services of the Church of England after the English Reformation. In seventeenth-century Yorkshire, many Catholic families continued practising their faith in secret despite harsh laws designed to suppress Catholicism.

Harbouring, protecting, or assisting a known Catholic recusant could place an entire household under suspicion. Families accused of aiding recusants faced heavy fines, imprisonment, confiscation of property, public humiliation, and in some cases accusations of treason against the Crown.

For ordinary Yorkshire families already struggling to survive, even a single act of kindness could become dangerously political.