The words struck the cottage like a clap of thunder.

"Open in the King's name."

John Hargreaves stood motionless, his hand resting upon the latch.

Behind him, Margaret's face drained of colour. Her hand instinctively found the small wooden cross hidden beneath her dress. Above them, Agnes stood frozen on the stairs.

The knock came again.

Harder.

More impatient.

"Open up!"

John swallowed.

He knew too well what men like these could do.

Years earlier, when he still lived near Keighley, a neighbour had been accused of harbouring a priest. At first, nobody believed it. Then came the search. Men carrying lanterns and warrants entered his cottage and turned the place upside down. Chests were broken open. Floorboards lifted. Bedding slashed. They found little, but it scarcely mattered.

The fines followed.

Then the seizure of goods.

The man's cow was taken first. Then his land.

Before long he was carried away to York Gaol in chains.

Nobody in the district ever saw him again.

Some said he died there.

Others whispered he had been questioned until his body gave out.

Whether any of it was true scarcely mattered.

The lesson travelled quickly through the villages.

Keep your faith.

Keep your silence.

Trust no one.

John lifted the latch.

The door swung open.

Two constables entered carrying lanterns, their cloaks wet with mist. Behind them stood a parish official John recognised from Haworth.

The man looked around the cottage slowly.

"John Hargreaves?"

"Aye."

"We have business here."

John forced himself to meet the man's gaze.

"What sort of business?"

"The King's business."

The official stepped forward without invitation.

"Search the house."

The words struck Margaret harder than any blow.

One constable immediately began opening chests and cupboards. The other moved towards the stairs.

Agnes.

John felt his stomach tighten.

The constable climbed slowly, lantern raised before him.

Each footstep echoed through the cottage.

Margaret lowered her eyes and silently moved her lips in prayer.

John wished she wouldn't.

Prayers had a habit of becoming evidence.

The constable disappeared from sight.

The family listened.

A floorboard creaked.

A chest lid opened.

Something scraped across timber.

Then silence.

Too much silence.

John's palms were slick with sweat.

He remembered another story whispered years before in the King's Arms. A recusant family near Skipton had hidden a prayer book beneath loose floorboards. They thought themselves safe.

They were wrong.

The searchers found it.

By winter they had lost their livestock.

By spring they had lost their home.

The official wandered slowly around the room, studying every corner.

The crucifix above the hearth had long since been removed.

The rosary beads hidden.

The prayer books buried.

Yet John still felt exposed.

As though every secret the family had ever carried had somehow been written upon the walls.

A heavy footstep sounded overhead.

Then another.

The constable appeared at the top of the stairs.

He looked directly at the official.

The family held its breath.

"I've found something."

Margaret gasped.

John felt the blood drain from his face.

Slowly, the constable began descending the stairs.

In his hand he carried a small object wrapped in cloth.

John stared at it.

He did not know what the constable had found.

But judging by the look on the man's face, it was enough.

And for the first time in many years, John Hargreaves feared that before the sun set, everything his family had fought to protect might be lost.