Chapter 1: Molly O'Shea

“Hearken! Hearken! The Elders of the Shire and our Good Sheriff Franklin Hereward make it thusly known that to preserve the True Faith in the Bristol Shire, and to fight the heretic customs of pagans and of the Popish churches, from this day into eternity, no man, woman, child or indentured servant may partake in the ungodly and sinful rites of All Hallows Eve. Those found partaking in the mummery and other pagan rites will be caned most vigorously, branded as heretics and sinners, and their possessions shall be forfeit to the Shire. Given on the Third of October, in the Year of Our Lord 1688.”

Jonathan Hereward felt very important reading out this new law all over the Shire. He was twenty-five years old and the Sheriff of the Bristol Shire was his uncle. Jonathan had arrived in the Plymouth Colony eight years before, after his father’s untimely death. Now he served as his uncle’s deputy for most of the business outside Taunton, the Shire town.

He looked around at the faces of the people of Cork, the small village downriver from Taunton. Cork was different from most of the Shire in that its people hailed mostly from the Popish parts of King Charles II realm, such as Ireland or Scotland. Most had been indentured servants, but they had earned their freedom in years of toil for their masters before they settled in their own little village named after their port of departure. Here, Popish beliefs were still rampant, but also pagan rites such as the Samhain or Hallowe’en. Consequently, his announcement was met with stony silence and not a few angry stares.

Whilst looking around, Jonathan regarded a young lass who gave him a look of open disdain, even hatred. She was wearing a simple dress of homespun cloth with an apron tied around her slender waist. She was wearing her reddish hair braided and uncovered, eschewing the hood the women of Taunton wore as a rule. The neckline of her dress was low and hinted at the swell of her breasts.

Jonathan gave the girl a mock salute, knowing it would irk her, and he was right. When he jumped off the wagon whence he had announced the new law, she confronted him with her hands on her hips.

“What’s the meaning of that salute, Englishman?” she queried belligerently.

“Why, fair maid, I was only replying to your friendly smile,” Jonathan grinned at her.

She just snorted and turned to walk away. Jonathan quickly followed her.

“Fair maid, forgive my taunting. It was meant only as a ruse to see you from up close. I am not used to having dealings with pretty maidens, and I spoke without thinking. Please, forgive me?”

He gave her his best puppy look, and he saw a brief smile on her lips.

“Your silver tongue will avail you naught, Englishman. I have heard all the lies from your ilk.”

“Nay, not lies, just ruses to get to know you, fair maid. What be your name, pray tell?”

“I’m Molly O’Shea, and me mum’s Bridget O’Shea, of Derry.”

“I greet you, Molly O’Shea. I am Jonathan Hereward, the Sheriff’s nephew.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know your name. You shouted it all over Cork.”

Jonathan had to laugh. The lass was not of the docile sort.

“Aye, that I did. Forgive my jack-ass ways. It must be your beauty that leaves me witless. Pray, fair Molly, who be your father?”

The slight smile on her lips froze and her blue eyes turned stone-cold. “Whoever held me mum down and had his way with her!”

Jonathan cringed for a heartbeat and he felt regret. Molly O’Shea was a bastard girl, and he should not be seen with her. A pity that! She must have guessed his thoughts.

“Well, Jonathan Hereward, here is where our ways part. I was born out of wedlock, and you’re the Sheriff’s nephew.”

There was bitterness in her voice and Jonathan felt shame.

“Yes, you are right. My uncle would not like it were I to woo you, for he is a stern man and of pure beliefs. Fare thee well then, Molly O’Shea!”

She nodded grimly and watched him as he left to find his horse. He felt her eyes as he mounted the spindly legged creature that his uncle had given him for his traveling. He had to wrap himself tightly into his woollen cloak, for the air was cold this late in the autumn and winter was getting close. At least, the body heat of the mare warmed him from below as he rode along the narrow path, back to Taunton.

Taunton was a prospering town. The soils around it were still producing bountiful harvest, and new farm land would be cleared during the winter, producing wood both for building and for heating. New settlers were coming into the colony with every ship that landed in Plymouth, New Bedford, and Providence. Taunton, lying halfway between Plymouth and Providence, also prospered from the trade between those harbours. The settlement of Cork contributed to that trade, because its fishermen brought their catch upstream to Taunton for sale. Thus, there were close to 400 souls living within the town limits.

Franklin Hereward owned one of the largest houses in the centre of Taunton. Most of his wealth came from the sawmill that provided the boards and beams needed for building houses and barns. He also owned a share of the Taunton Iron Works, the biggest such enterprise in the New England Dominion. Of course, the office of sheriff also offered opportunities to earn a dollar or two. Returning a run indentured servant to his master required the latter to pay a finder’s fee, which then of course would be added to the sum owed by the servant. Traveling traders also had to pay the sheriff to open their stands in Taunton. A few more of such tariffs filled Hereward’s pockets nicely, but his nephew did not partake of those monies. Jonathan had room and board, and a sovereign every week. He also had a small allowance for when he had to visit the more remote places in the Shire. Yet, with the sheriff being a confirmed bachelor of fifty-and-seven years, Jonathan would one day inherit the sawmill if not the Sheriff’s office, plus what riches his uncle would amass until then.

For these reasons, Jonathan was solicitous to his uncle and strove to conduct himself in a manner that would not raise the older man’s ire. One of the indentured boys came running from the back of the house when Jonathan rode up to his uncle’s house. He slid down from the mare’s back and handed the reins to the stable boy, Jamie Dougal by name.

“Give the old girl a ladle of oats. She’s getting skinnier each day,” he told the youngster who nodded silently and led the old mare towards the stable.

Jonathan stomped his feet to get rid of the dirt that stuck to the soles before he entered through the wide door.

“That you, Jonathan?” came his uncle’s voice from the living room.

“Yes, Uncle!” Jonathan hailed back.

“Come in, then!”

Jonathan quickly changed from his boots into soft shoes traded from the neighbouring Indians and entered the room. A lusty fire was blazing in the fireplace, and his uncle was already sitting at table, with rich food spread out before him. Suddenly, Jonathan noticed how hungry he was.

“Sit, my lad, and have supper with me!” Franklin boomed. He rapped the table with his knife hilt. “Holla, wench! Set the table for my nephew!”

The house servant, an orphan named Nelly, already came running with a tin plate, a knife, and a tin beaker which she set on the table opposite the sheriff.

“Good girl,” the older man said gruffly. “Thin ale for my nephew!”

The girl quickly scurried away. Jonathan realised that his uncle was still in the genial mood of early, mild drunkenness. That would change later in the evening, as he well knew, but by then he hoped to be in bed. The servants would not all be that lucky. One or two of them would be beaten for one reason or another, more likely one of the boys than a girl, for his uncle much preferred to tan a boy’s bare backside. That was why the sheriff had no children, Jonathan thought with an inward grin.

“So, nephew, how did things go?”

“I finished the round, Uncle. My last stop was Cork. I cannot say that they showed much joy,” Jonathan smirked.

“Popish churls and accursed witches, the lot of them!” Franklin Hereward proclaimed, emptying his stein of stout ale for emphasis. “Did they give you lip, Nephew?”

“Nay, Uncle, that they did not dare,” Jonathan answered quickly. He thought of Molly O’Shea and her defiance. No, he would not name her. Somehow, he had liked her, mouthy as she was.

“They had better not,” Franklin said darkly. “We shall catch those devil worshippers in good time. If not this year, then next year. It’s a week hence to All Hallows Eve, and we shall hold ourselves ready. You will make a sortie that night to Cork and put an end to any and all unholy doings. I shall look after things here in Taunton.”

Jonathan nodded to this. Of course his uncle would not want to be out on a night like that so far away from his warm house. There was more however.

“I spoke to the elders about this, Jonathan. Your service for my office has been well recognised, and with me advancing in years and not able to ride out and look after things anymore, they have agreed to give you an appointment as the Shire Constable.” He gave his nephew a measured nod. “This will set you up nicely as my successor, too. You will draw a pay from the Shire, 3 Spanish dollars every month, and have your own lodgings over the armoury. You’ll also be my lieutenant in the militia, and for that you’ll draw an extra dollar.”

Jonathan made big eyes at this news. Four Spanish dollars, or pieces of eight, was equal to £4 Sterling, but nary a man in the colony used the rare English coins. All trade was done in the ubiquitous Spanish dollars.

The rooms over the armoury were sturdily built, and he’d have a good living there, and earning over 40 dollars in a year, he’d be eligible for a favourable marriage. Even more important, being appointed as the Lieutenant of the Militia, he would be rated as a gentleman, Mister Jonathan Hereward.

“I thank you, Uncle, for all that you have done for me,” he said in response. “I shall do my duty cheerfully and loyally.”

“I know you will, Nephew. You have a good head on your shoulders and a sober conduct. Just make sure that you do not offend the Elders, for without them you cannot dwell in this colony.”

“I shall tread lightly around them, Uncle. They’re pious men and not apt to cause me troubles.”

“There you have it, Nephew! A good head, as I said. Now, without giving in to sinful overindulgence, we shall nonetheless have a drink of stout ale to celebrate your appointment. Nell! A stein of stout ale for each of us!”

The last words were shouted towards the kitchen, and shortly after, the skinny figure of Nelly appeared carrying two earthen mugs filled to the brim. Uncle and nephew toasted each other. For once, young Jonathan was happy with his lot in life.

The night was infernally cold, so cold that Jonathan could hear the chattering of teeth from the men accompanying him. They were seven – Jonathan as the newly minted constable, his uncle’s young scribe, and five “stout, God-fearing men”, each on a horse and holding a burning torch. They were searching the narrow paths through the woods around Cork, and along the river for “unholy” activities. It was All Hallows Eve, the night of the witches and warlocks, and Jonathan had been sent from Taunton to catch any devil worshippers they could find. So far, they had come up empty handed, and quite frankly, Jonathan did not expect anybody being out in such a cold and drizzly night.

There were no stars visible by which to gauge the time, but Jonathan was quite certain that it had to be past midnight. Anyway, they were running out of usable torches. They were to the south of Cork now, and to return to Taunton, they could either circle the village through the woods or ride straight through it. Not having discovered any ungodly activities and returning empty-handed, Jonathan was leery of riding through Cork, knowing full well that their failure would be noted with glee by those insolent popish folks. He therefore gave orders to his posse to make their way through the woods, and his men were of the same mind.

But for the horse under him, he would be freezing, Jonathan was certain. He could hear that his men were not better off, and they had two hours yet until they would be back in Taunton. Jonathan gave orders to conserve their remaining torches, with only the lead rider carrying a lit one. They made slower progress this way, yet to find the rest of the way in utter darkness was an even worse proposition.

They had to be west of Cork village when suddenly a number of beastly figures sprang from the bushes on either side of the path, yelling and banging on pots and kettles. The scared horses shied, and the riders had a hard time staying in their saddles. Jonathan was closing the column, and his old mare reared in panic when the racket began. He was almost thrown but held on to the pommel and was regaining control when the panicked animal stepped into a foxhole. The sickening crack of the breaking leg was clearly heard over the din, and the screaming horse fell back and to the side, trapping its rider.

The fall was hard and knocked the air from Jonathan’s lungs, and a piercing pain from his leg lanced through him. Then he lay helplessly on his back, his right leg caught under the thrashing horse, further maiming his injured leg. Jonathan knew in an instant that he had but one chance. He pulled his trusted dragoon pistol and, cocking it, he aimed at the head of his mount. The priming charge puffed and the shot sounded through the night. His aim had been true, and the thrashing of the poor mare stopped, but even with his ringing ears he heard that the “stout, God-fearing men” of his posse spurred their horses to make their get-away.

“Stay, you cowards! Help me!” he shouted after them, but to no avail.

Meanwhile, the dark figures who had caused the panic were running in the direction of Cork, laughing among themselves and no doubt celebrating his downfall.

For the next minutes, Jonathan worked feverishly to free his damaged leg from under the dead horse, but the pain almost made him pass out and he had to stop. He lay on the cold ground and realisation seeped in – he would freeze to death. He had been cold before, but now he had sweated both from the pain and from the exertion, and he felt the cold gripping his body. There was one slim hope – he had to alert somebody. If somebody was in the vicinity after midnight.

His had his powder horn and his bag of balls. Working feverishly in the dark he managed to reload his pistol, shielding it against the drizzle with his cloak as best he could. Once he managed that, he fired it into the air. Having nothing to lose, he repeated the process. There! A voice was sounding through the night.

“Ho! Who fires?”

“Here! Here! Help!” Jonathan yelled into the darkness. He was getting good at loading the pistol in the dark and he fired into the air again.

“Stop shooting, we’re close,” the voice sounded.

A few minutes later, three lit torches came close and Jonathan saw three bearded men look down at him.

“It’s the Sheriff’s nephew!” one exclaimed.

“Aye. Shall we leave him?”

“Derek Douglas, this is no joke! We’re Christian men. Leaving a wounded man to freeze is but foul murder. Let’s move that horse!”

The men had pikes and staffs with them and with those, they levered the dead horse off Jonathan’s leg. He fought to keep from screaming, but his contorted face gave him away.

“Broken leg, eh? Come, mates! Let’s get him to Bridget’s hut. She’ll know what to do,” the older man ordered.

The young fellow, Derek Douglas, laughed. “Aye! She’ll poison him. Bridget’s got no love for the English, and I shan’t blame her.”

“Nay, never did man nor woman ask for her help and was turned down,” the third man contradicted. “Bridget’s a good witch, and so’s Molly.”

“Shut your stupid mouth, Dugan! They’re no witches.” The older man looked down at Jonathan. “They really aren’t, Constable. Folks say stupid things.”

Jonathan held up his hand. “I’ve spoken to Molly O’Shea. She’s a shrew but no witch.”

“Hear ye, men! The constable knows womenfolk,” the older man chuckled. “Say, Constable, will you mind us coming back later to save the carcass? Yon horse will feed many a mouth for a week and more.”

“Help yourself to it. The old girl will avail me naught as bait for wolves.”

“Let’s bring the man in. Derek, you run ahead. Wake and warn Bridget, then get enough men to bring in the meat.”

Using two sturdy pikes and the horse’s tack, the men fashioned a gurney onto which they lifted Jonathan, covering him with his cloak and the saddle blanket. Then they set out at a steady pace. The jolts when the men stumbled hurt Jonathan badly, but he managed to suppress the screams that wanted out. Finally they stopped, and Jonathan saw the shape of a hut loom in front of them. One of the men knocked, and a moment later, a woman wearing a cloak over her shirt showed in the door frame holding a lit tallow light.

“Is that him?”

“Aye, Bridget. He’s the constable. His horse shied. They both broke their legs, but he’s still alive. He’s close to freezing and so are we.”

“Bring him in and put him down in front of the fire. Broken leg, huh? I’ll need your help to set it.”

“Aww, Bridie, do we have to?” the younger man complained.

“You nitwit! How do you reckon I can set his leg all by meself?”

They set down the makeshift stretcher in front of the fire, and the woman bent over him.

“You’re Jonathan Hereward, the Sheriff’s nephew.”

Jonathan could only nod.

“Out to catch innocent folks?”

Jonathan had no fight left in him and he nodded. “The elders want it stopped,” he said with chattering teeth.

“Elders! Hah! More like your uncle’s friends. Why can’t they leave us in peace? We gave them our best years as indentured servants and they took even more. Why can’t they let go now?”

“They say all that mummery is against God’s word.”

The woman snorted. “Aye, but having their way with helpless servant girls is following His will.”

“No, that is a deadly sin!” Jonathan protested. “The elders would never allow it.”

“Unless their sons are the sinners. Enough of that. Let me look at that leg of yours. Molly! Get water boiling and soak the birch bark!”

From the back of the hut the red haired Molly O’Shea came forward and she looked down at Jonathan.

“Not so cocky anymore, huh?” she asked mockingly.

“Molly O’Shea! I’ll not have you making fun of an injured man or woman! Do what I told you!”

“I’m sorry, Mum. I’ll see to it right now,” came the contrite answer.

Bridget O’Shea then began to examine the right foot and leg. Each touch made Jonathan wince with pain. She hustled to the hearth and produced a cup with a strange potion.

“It’s broken for sure, but no bone’s sticking out and the break is likely only in one place. I have to set that leg, Jonathan Hereward. It’ll hurt you greatly, but I’ll give you something that will make you sleep.”

“Witchcraft?” Jonathan asked fearfully and Bridget snorted.

“You and your narrow mind! It’s just herbs, willow bark and some mushrooms, steeped in hot apple cider. Here! Drink up, young Hereward, so I may set your leg whilst you sleep.”

Jonathan was dubious, but he quaffed the potion offered to him. It took a short while, but then he felt strange. It was as if he was leaving his body, and for a moment he was certain that this was his soul vacating his mortal body. Then the dreams came. They were strange, and nothing like the dreams he normally had. Yet, he felt strangely calm and relaxed, in spite of his hurting leg. He could still feel the pain, but somehow he did not care.

The strange dreams continued endlessly it seemed. Everything was steeped in brilliant colours such as he had never seen in his life. Strange sounds were in his ears too, music, but unlike any music he knew. It was with a degree of reluctance that he finally let go of the images and sounds, but a voice began to dominate his hearing, a demanding voice.

“Wake, Englishman! Wake, I say!”

Slowly and painfully, Jonathan Hereward regained his consciousness. His head hurt some, and there was a painful throbbing in his leg. He could not move that leg.

“Wake up!”

It was the stinging slap accompanying the last command that finally tore Jonathan from the dreamland. He opened his eyes, and bent over him stood Molly O’Shea. In spite of the harsh words and the slap, Jonathan saw a deep concern in her eyes.

“Finally!” she exclaimed. “You were far gone, Jonathan Hereward.”

“Wattsappend?” he slurred.

“Me Mum set your leg proper-like. It’s wrapped in birch bark now and must stay such for a moon.”

“Wherammy?”

“In our cabin. Somebody went to Taunton this morn to tell the Sheriff about your broken leg.”

“Whaddayissit?”

“Still All Saints Day. It’s just after noon. You slept for a long time, but mayhap that’s a good thing.”

“Dthe poshion?”

“Yes. Your leg is broken. Me mum could not set it with you fighting her.”

“Tell’er dthanks,” he mumbled. His tongue felt swollen.

“Aye. Now, are you hungry?”

He shook his head. His belly felt queasy.

“Thirsty?”

Here, he nodded eagerly. In short time, he was offered a wooden mug filled with a steaming liquid. The smell told Jonathan that it was a rose hips tisane. He drank eagerly. It was even sweetened with honey he thought. He was offered a second mug which he also drank to the last drop.

He watched Molly O’Shea as she stood bent over the fireplace. Not for the first time he cursed her pedigree. He knew that his uncle would never allow him to court the girl. The bastard child of an Irish wench was not acceptable to the old man. Yet he looked at her with longing.

She noticed his look when she turned around with another cup of steaming liquid and he could see that she blushed.

“I ... I made a tea from willow bark to lessen your pains,” she offered.

“Thank you, Molly O’Shea. Are you also versed in the healing?”

She nodded curtly. “I’m learning from me mum. It’s not always easy. Many of the plants she learned to use don’t grow here, but willows grow everywhere. Drink it down now, and I’ll have another mug of rose hips tea to wash away the taste.”

Obediently, Jonathan drank the pain-relieving willow bark tea, followed by the sweetened rose hips tea. Suddenly he remembered his horse and tack.

“Did anybody bring in my saddle and other tack?”

Molly pointed to a corner. “Yes, this morning. We are all very sorry about your horse. It was meant as a prank, not more. Nobody aimed to hurt you.” She seemed to realise what she had said. “I mean, that’s what I hear from people. We don’t know who ... Some of the lads are full of nonsense. I wouldn’t really know, seeing that I was in me bed here when we heard your shots.”