Renaissance historical fiction
England, 1587. Beth Dudley serves as a quiet maid in the grand halls of Bodsworth Manor, where loyalty to Queen Elizabeth is law—and hiding a Catholic priest is treason. But when Beth learns the truth about her employer's secret faith and uncovers a crucifix near a brothel, she is pulled into a deadly game of cat and mouse.
Reverend Holbrook and the brutal Sir Richard Bayne arrive to expose heretics and make examples of sympathizers. As Beth becomes entangled in a covert network protecting hunted priests, she must navigate dangerous secrets, shifting alliances, and unravel a past far more complicated than she ever imagined.
Beside her is Gareth Montgomery, a stable hand with a firebrand heart and dreams of freedom, and Nicholas Owen, a carpenter with a quiet mission—and everything to lose.
As persecution escalates and the noose tightens around the manor, Beth must risk everything to protect the innocent, outwit her enemies, and save the man she loves. But in a world ruled by fear, will faith and love be enough?
Of Heaven and Hellfire is a sweeping tale of courage, conscience, and the quiet heroes history almost forgot.
Read a Chapter
Bodsworth Chapel was sparse, with soaring, clear glass
windows, a few dozen pews, and a polished wood pulpit. Beth took account of the
household in attendance at Sunday service. It was strange to see the pew
reserved for Lord and Lady Sheffield empty. She peered behind her at the array
of manor servants and noticed Gareth’s absence as well.
Beth’s mind did not drift as usual during the long,
drawn-out sermon, for the prospect of seeing the village, despite Gareth’s
taking exception to her company, kept her alert and attentive. Grateful to
escape Kat’s watchful eyes, Beth slipped away as the congregants filed out the
door.
Free and unnoticed, Beth saw Gareth waiting by the stonewall
farthest away from the chapel and churchgoers. A massive horse, no less than
sixteen hands and black as a moonless night, stood beside him, a packsaddle
straddling his wide back. Warm air puffed from its nostrils as the animal shook
its silken mane and flicked its tail, keeping the biting flies at bay.
Beth approached, and Gareth greeted her with a cool nod.
Ignoring the slight, Beth set the woven basket down and
stroked the horse’s muscled neck.
“He’s beautiful,” she said as the gelding bobbed his head at
her touch.
“His name is Blackthorne. I’ve cared for him since he was a
foal.” Gareth gave the horse an affectionate pat and untied a water jug from
the packsaddle and handed it to her. “Here. Drink. I’ll get more along the
way.”
Beth took a large swallow and handed him back the jug.
The autumn sun spread across the surrounding hills in a
palette of golden fields and russet hills, warming the brisk, clean air which
filled Beth’s lungs as she inhaled deeply, grateful to be away from the smoke
of the kitchen fires. The silence was welcome, too. Idle conversation would
only foster a false camaraderie, meant only to fill the space between them.
Yet, the silence was short-lived.
“Have you family back at Abury?” Gareth asked, kicking a
stone as they walked.
“I’m an orphan.”
Gareth paused, then said, “No brothers? No sisters?”
“None.”
“Sorry for that.”
Beth shrugged. “Don’t be. It’s hard to miss something you’ve
never known.” The lie left her mouth with practiced ease, and she continued.
“My family worked at Abury as far back as my grandparents. That much I know.
They died of fever when I was quite young. I don’t remember them at all. Lady
Barrell and the undercook raised me with great care, and I am forever
grateful.”
Gareth let out a long whistle. “Ah, the fever. It nearly
took half the village a few years back.”
Quietness again settled between them, and Beth swallowed
hard as she stared down at the brownish grass growing between the carriage
ruts. Recounting her past always brought up a bygone of drifting specters, a
resurrection of shadows without form or feature.
Gareth’s tone brightened. “I’m the oldest of the
Montgomerys. I have a younger brother, Rafe. Someday I’ll leave Bodsworth and
strike out on my own. Become a tenant farmer. Maybe travel abroad and make my
fortune. I believe my destiny to be my own, you see.” His boot struck another
stone, sending it down the road farther than the first. “Once my brother is old
enough, he’ll take my place at the manor—if Father allows it . . .” His face
darkened as he looked away.
Beth had never considered venturing out alone. The thought
was peculiar. Could such freedom ever be possible? Gareth was secure within a
family, one that needed him, yet it did not satisfy him. Instead, it hemmed him
in like a funeral shroud. If he understood the pain of not having a family,
perhaps he would not be so quick to get away from his own.
As they made their way, Beth’s upturned face basked in the
sun’s warmth. The late autumn frost slipped off leaves and blades of grass like
a dressing gown. Winter’s blast was sure to follow and promised a treacherous
mix of ice, mud, and snow, making journeys to the village less frequent and
fraught with danger.
After a while, the gurgle of a quick-moving river overtook
the monotony of Blackthorne’s clopping hooves. Beth watched as Gareth assessed
the swift current. He pulled back on the harness, and Blackthorne’s gait slowed
to a halt.
“Good time to refill,” he said, untying the water jug and
nodding at the river. He led Blackthorne off the road to a patch of brown grass
where a few stubborn tender blades still poked through. “Stay here.” He thrust
the harness rope at Beth and trampled down the riverbank, thick with brush.
Blackthorne shifted beside her, tail swishing lazily. Hand
on her hip, Beth watched as Gareth scrambled along the whooshing gray water,
his skillful steps quick and light. Finally, he stooped and refilled the jug,
but instead of coming back, he set the clay pot between two stones and walked
farther down the river.
“Where are you going?” Beth called to him, irritated he had
ventured so far away, but she received no answer as he disappeared around the
bend.
Anger surged through her. It was unsafe to leave her alone
and unaccompanied on the open road. With the painful memory of Peter’s slap,
she pulled Blackthorne to a small tree and wrapped the rope around a low
branch. She may have been a lowly servant, but she wasn’t Gareth’s, and she
refused to be ordered about, especially if following those orders left her
vulnerable.
Mindful of the thorn bushes, Beth made her way down the
bank, following Gareth’s path. With determined steps, she strode past the water
jug and around the river’s bend. There she found Gareth, boots in the shallows,
with a wooden spool and a fishing line, casting into the dark, gray water.
Death was the punishment for poaching. All fish in the waterways belonged to
the manor house, and the punishment for thievery was as swift as it was
certain.
Beth watched as Gareth tugged the line and twirled the
spool, pulling a squirming trout from the water. He was reckless. Rude. Full of
himself. But as he gently removed the hook and placed the fish in his satchel,
his tenderness gave her pause. She watched as he cast the line again. Clearly,
the risky endeavor was not new to him. In no time, he had hauled up another fat
trout. It was clear now why Gareth was not keen on her company. A potential
witness to his crime only brought more danger.
Satisfied, he rolled up the line and turned to leave,
catching Beth’s angry stare. He sauntered over with a brazen grin. “Not to
worry. Lord Charles won’t miss two fish,” he said, giving the bag a gentle pat.
“His lordship will have you swinging from the highest limb
if I tell the warden,” she answered, just as boldly.
Gareth stood and brushed his hands on his breeches. “You
won’t tell,” he replied smoothly, scrambling back up to the road.
Beth grabbed the water jug and followed him. “Won’t I?”
Gareth turned and leveled his eyes at her. “You didn’t stop
me. You didn’t yell for help. You did nothing. I’ll say you were in on it. I’ve
given it plenty of thought.” Gareth took the jug from her and secured it to the
saddle.
“You’re a thief and a liar,” she snapped.
“Call me what you will,” Gareth said, untying Blackthorne
and leading him back to the road. “But we all do what we must.”
Beth’s temper eased to a simmer as they made their way in
silence, passing harvested orchards and duck-filled ponds, cows grazing in
meadows, and wheat fields cut to the quick; the wheat berries already hulled
and ground into coarse flour for the winter months ahead.
Soon, they came upon a small farmhouse with a thatched roof,
a cowshed, and several outbuildings. Neatly stacked stone walls lined the
surrounding fields, freshly harrowed. Without warning, Gareth stopped at the
cobbled path leading to the farmhouse door. He eyed the road up and back, then
let out a long whistle between his thumb and forefinger. A moment later, the
wooden door creaked open and a slight woman with graying hair appeared in the
doorway. Gareth was already hurrying down the path toward her.
Dressed in a simple frock and apron, she took Gareth’s
shoulders and assessed him up and down, then folded him in her arms in a tight
embrace. Beth watched the reunion with a pang of longing. A memory stirred of
warm bread and acceptance but was gone as quickly as it’d come.
They shared a few words before Gareth handed her a trout
from his bag, and with a quick peck on his cheek, the woman took the fish and
closed the door.
“Your mother?” Beth asked when he returned.
Gareth nodded and adjusted Blackthorne’s harness. “My family
struggles despite my position at the manor house. Times are hard. Winter will
only make it harder. I help when I can.”
Beth pondered his words and the sagging thatch on the
cowshed roof. “Why not give your mother both fish, then?”
Gareth’s jaw tightened as he led Blackthorne on without an
answer.
Eventually, the countryside boasted larger farms, outposts,
and tanneries, and before long, the winding cart road turned into a proper
street, swarming with people as they entered the village.
They walked amid the routine of peasant life, a swirl of
bustling commotion. Women hurried on their way with tasks and errands to
complete. Some bore baskets brimming with produce, while others maneuvered
carts laden with nuts and berries gathered from the forests. Horses dragged hay
wagons down mud-thick streets as children darted in and out of the chaos with
playful abandon. Conversations mingled together over the calls of vendors
hawking their wares.
“Edward Hasting’s wife birthed another babe last night. That
makes ten now, I think,” Beth heard a woman say.
“At this rate, who can keep count?” another woman said, and
they both exchanged rueful glances.
The stench of horses, mules, and sheep blended with the
aroma of baking bread. The pungent scent of wood smoke puffed from stone
chimneys. Along the way, they collected the items on the list, including
string, a marking gauge, an awl, yards of white cloth, and olive oil. As Beth
added the items to the hamper, she thought it strange that carpenters would
need cloth and oil to repair a library.
“What’s left?” Gareth asked as Beth slipped the list back
inside her apron.
“Nails,” she said, “two buckets’ worth. We’ll need to find a
blacksmith.”
Gareth stiffened. “I know where to find nails,” he snapped,
his face set in a rigid scowl.
Beth flinched at the edge in his voice, unsure what had
triggered the gruff response.
A few blocks down, they came upon a blacksmith shop. Outside
was a worn sign with a crude carving of a horseshoe and mallet. A few horses
tethered to the hitching post near the entrance whinnied and snorted for
attention. The double doors to the shed were open, and Gareth and Beth stepped
inside.
“Good morning, Father,” Gareth called out over the clanging
of metal.
Beth’s eyes widened.
George Montgomery stood at the enormous bellows. Both hands
gripped the long wooden handle as he pumped the air in and out like a
tremendous lung. The coals glowed dull black to fiery red as the air breathed
new life into the hard lumps.
Gareth’s father was a broad, formidable man. His muscular
arms pulled the handle with ease. He wore a sleeveless shirt, long breeches,
and a heavy leather apron. A thick cap protected his head from wayward sparks.
“Good morning,” Gareth shouted again at his father to no
avail.
In the corner sat a young boy, no older than ten years,
sorting a crate of finished hand tools. “Gareth!” he yelled cheerfully.
“My brother, Rafe,” he told Beth as the boy left his post
and ran to them, his face glowing with delight.
Beth smiled, a wistful ache blooming inside her as the boy
bounded toward his brother.
Gareth playfully tousled the lad’s sand-colored locks.
“Father, has you working harder than a pack mule, I see.”
“I don’t mind,” Rafe answered, eyeing Beth with interest.
“It beats mucking the cowshed for Mother.”
The whooshing bellows stopped as Gareth’s father approached.
“This is Beth, her ladyship’s maidservant,” Gareth told his
father before he could ask. “We’ve been sent for supplies.”
“We need nails, sir, if you please,” Beth stammered
awkwardly.
George grunted, then turned his gaze to Gareth. “Master
Telford stopped in yesterday for new horse bits. Mentioned you’ve been much
preoccupied with things other than your stable duties.” Soot darkened his
cheeks, and his penetrating eyes expressed much disapproval. “He speaks of a
girl who visits the stables frequently.” His dark eyes flicked back to Beth.
“It is the maidservant, Kat, from the kitchen, Father, and I
don’t encourage her.”
Beth stiffened. Perhaps Kat’s designs on Gareth were more
advanced than she’d thought.
George grunted again. “Yet she still comes,” he growled.
“She is an unwelcome distraction. Make yourself indispensable. It is the only
way to rise in the ranks.”
Gareth pulled back his shoulders. “I don’t intend to rise in
the ranks, Father,” he answered, a sharp edge in his voice. “I wish to make my
way in this world. I’ve told you that many times!”
Beth swallowed hard as the two men locked eyes, both
stubborn and unyielding. Gareth’s carefree spirit and sense of adventure
clashed with his father’s grounded, practical nature. Between them stood a
gulf.
A hollowness settled over Beth. She had no memory of such
arguments. No father’s voice rising in anger. No guiding hand to offer
advice—nothing at all.
The opening door and the arrival of two men interrupted the
battle of wills. Beth’s blood ran cold. The cleric and the lord who’d struck
Peter stood before her. Their eyes surveyed the humble shop as if it were an
insult.
“No one has shod them!” the lord shouted at George,
motioning to the horses outside.
“There is work ahead of you, sir,” George said, his tone
switching from that of an angry father to a diplomatic tradesman. He gestured
to the pitchfork in the forge.
The old cleric stepped forward. “My name is Reverend William
Holbrook and this,” he nodded at the scowl-faced man, “is Sir Richard Bayne.
Her Majesty commissions us to enforce the penal rule of Protestants.” He peered
at young Rafe, who half hid behind his brother. “The boy did not mention the
urgency of the matter when the squire delivered our horses?”
“The boy did not,” George answered, his face flushing.
The scowling man, Richard Bayne, suddenly lunged at Rafe,
brandishing the boy by the neck scruff. Rafe let out a yelp as Bayne flung him
to the dirt floor. He raised a gloved hand to punish Rafe further, but Gareth
grabbed Bayne from behind and threw him onto the trestle table. Nails and
farming tools scattered across the ground.
Bayne sprang from the floor; his eyes crazed with shock and
rage. He unsheathed his sword and pointed it at Gareth. “Boy thinks he’s a
hero!”
Beth wanted to scream for the fighting to stop, but as with
when the man had slapped Peter, she found herself rooted in place, her
battering heart the only part of her that moved.
George grabbed the firepit poker and took two daunting steps
toward Bayne.
“Cease at once!” the cleric shouted. Everyone halted as if
the very words held the queen’s power. “Have our horses ready by day’s end,” he
told George, then turned to Sir Bayne. “Come. We’ve no time for folly when
graver sins await judgment.” His tone was that of a master bringing a dog to
heel. “We must hurry to the priest discovered at the Hastings house. Have the
men bring fresh horses.”
They turned to leave, but the reverend suddenly stopped. His
cold, granite eyes settled on Beth. Her heart raced as he gave her a long,
curious look. “You are the girl from the road. The one with the careless
driver.”
Beth nodded, her words lost to her once again.
“Did you find your way to . . .” he paused, “Bodsworth Hall,
was it?” His voice was calm, disarmingly so, as if the current situation was
beneath him.
“Yes, my lord,” she answered softly.
He turned to Bayne with a humorless smile. “Come,” he said,
and the two men departed.
George wasted no time in assessing Rafe. “Are you hurt,
son?” He held the boy by the shoulders and studied his face.
“No, Father.”
Satisfied, George’s voice took on a more admonishing tenor.
“Why did you not tell me about the horses?”
Gareth stepped forward and wrapped a protective arm around
his brother. “He made a mistake, Father. That is all. I am sure he’s sorry. Am
I right, Rafe?”
Rafe rubbed his tear-stained face as his head bobbed up and
down, his eyes bright with fresh tears. “I am very sorry, Father.”
George’s chest swelled like a bellow, and he sighed, patting Rafe’s tiny head. His eyes narrowed at Gareth and Beth. “If I am to get those horses shod today, I’ll need help.”
*
As Beth lugged water from a nearby stream, she was doubly
glad to have chosen her work shoes that morning for the walk and not her Sunday
latchet slippers. Gareth and George worked at a punishing rhythm, hammering out
the horseshoes, while Rafe fetched a meal from his mother, happy to be free of
work for a while.
“I feel for Edward Hastings,” Beth heard George tell Gareth
as she emptied the bucket into the water barrel. “The priest’s fate is sealed.
He’ll go to the tower and die horribly. Edward will most likely pay a heavy
fine, maybe worse, and with all those children and a new babe, I don’t know how
they’ll manage.”
Gareth turned to Beth. “The cleric said he remembered you
from the road.”
She set the empty bucket down and sat on a stool to rest.
“Yes. They stopped me and my driver, Peter, on the road to Bodsworth.”
“They stop everyone,” George added sourly. “No one is
without suspicion.”
Beth was about to speak of the violence Peter had endured,
but little Rafe burst through the door, breathless. A woven basket hung from
one arm, and a loaf of bread was tucked under the other. His face was pale, and
his eyes were round with fright.
“Rafe? What is it, son?” George said.
“They’ve brought Master Hastings to the scaffold! They mean
to flog him! The old man with the pointed hat demands everyone in the village
bear witness!”
George paused for a moment and then slipped off his gloves.
“Damn them! May God give Edward the strength to bear it.” He shook his head.
“We cannot ignore the cleric’s ruling.”
Beth looked pleadingly at Gareth. Witnessing such inhumanity
was more than she could bear.
“All must attend. It is demanded,” Gareth said to her before
she could say the words. “The queen’s men will take account of those who don’t
obey.”
George closed and bolted the smithy doors, and they joined
the throng of villagers surging toward the crossroads, the heart of village
life. Gareth’s mother appeared, long-faced and tearful, and took her place
beside her husband.
“Father made me come!” Rafe wailed, burying his little face
in her apron.
She wrapped her arms around the boy and gave George a wary
look. “Can’t I take him away from here?”
George’s eyes swept the crowd, and he shook his head. “No,
Agnes, you know they’ll take notice of who’s missing.”
The crowd’s restlessness grew. Beth watched in terror as
soldiers dragged Edward Hastings from his hovel near the village center. She
glanced down the road at the pitiful structure—its roof gaping with a hole that
sufficed as a vent for the cooking smoke. The walls, crudely packed with mud
and stick, could have belonged to a livestock shed. She could scarcely imagine
how twelve souls dwelt in such misery.
Edward was a mere husk of a man—shoulders rounded, arms
scarcely thicker than tinder sticks. Blood dripped around his mouth from the
beating already delivered by the soldiers. His dazed wife stumbled behind him,
still in her stained birthing smock, with a trail of crying children behind
her. A tiny bundle wrapped in cloth wailed in the crook of her arm.
A man leaned closer to George. His sour breath stank of ale.
“They found the priest an hour ago giving the babe a
baptism,” he said in a low voice.
“Twas not a problem last week. Only saying the Mass was
forbidden,” George replied.
The man’s rumy eyes widened. “Everything Catholic is illegal
now, my friend. Her Majesty decreed it two days ago after the trouble with the
rebels up north.” He lowered his voice even further. “You’d think she would’ve
given more time for news to spread and the law to take hold before making it
treason.”
“Just as well,” Beth heard the woman next to them say, “the
queen’s right to punish the clergy who keep the Mass in Latin and not allow
decent folk to read the Bible in English. I heard the saintly relics taken from
the abbey were only pig bones and lamb’s blood! Flogging is too good for him.
That’s what I say!” She peered at George, Gareth, Beth, and little Thomas. “You
aren’t Catholic now, are ya?” Her eyes studied their faces closely.
“I am not,” George shot back, planting his hands on his
hips. “But what if I were? Is that what we do now? Turn on friends and
neighbors?”
Beth looked at Agnes. Her face went pale as her husband trod
on dangerous ground. Her eyes silently begged him to stop. Yet, he continued.
“I follow rules. Those who frequent my smithy know I’m a
fair man. I abide by the Church of England, and for a year now we have lived in
harmony, side by side, Catholics and Protestants alike. Her Majesty tallied
loyal subjects over religion.” His voice grew louder as the surrounding
onlookers listened in.
“I’d wager most of Surrey wakes on the morn and goes about
their business thinking only of the day’s work. They pay no mind to how their
neighbors worship or who they pray to when a child falls ill, a horse goes
lame, or the village well runs dry.”
“Aye, aye . . .” murmured a few voices nearby.
Despair and anger rose in George’s voice. “They care only
that their children are well, horses mend, and water is abundant, and whatever
God answers that plea is the one for them.”
“What about the abbey that paid the manor tax on the backs
of villagers and the travelers on pilgrimage fooled into buying useless
relics?” a voice from the crowd challenged.
Before George could answer, two men pulled a wagon bearing a
metal cage to the front of the crowd. Inside, an old priest with a puckered
face rocked back and forth on his knees, murmuring prayers for a deliverance
that never came. Soldiers dragged Edward up the scaffold stairs, tore off his
ragged shirt, and bound his wrists to the whipping post.
Beth’s legs wavered beneath her, and she clutched her
skirts, steadying herself.
Reverend Holbrook climbed to the top of the scaffold with
measured steps and strode forth to the center of the platform. His black,
ankle-length cassock brushed the rough planks as he clutched a leather-bound
Bible to his chest. His pinched face turned to speak as the bound, bare-backed
Edward whimpered behind him.
“Dutiful people of Surrey,” he began, his voice lilting and
bright, as if addressing a wedding feast. “I bring to you a wretched soul in
direct disobedience of Her Majesty’s penal decree of religious obedience.” He
turned his gaze to Edward. “This man was found harboring a papist priest—one
caught performing a secret baptism on this innocent babe.” His claw-like hand
rose, a knobby finger singling out Mistress Hastings and the trembling family
cowering before the crowd. “In times past, our most gracious queen showed mercy
toward such heresy and treachery—but no more. Since Pope Pius, in his
arrogance, has issued his Papal Bull of excommunication against our sovereign,
Her Majesty shall henceforth show no leniency. From this day forward, all who
refuse to acknowledge her as the Supreme Head of the Church of England, and
persist in the idolatry of Rome, shall be deemed traitors.”
Holbrook stepped aside as Bayne reached the top of the
platform, brandishing a whip made of long leather straps embellished with bits
of metal.
“God be with him,” Beth whispered, dread coiling in her
chest, as she swayed against Gareth. His hand slipped into hers, and she let it
rest there, grateful for the comfort.
With the slightest of nods from the reverend, Bayne raised
the weapon of torture high above his head and brought it down hard across
Hastings’s back.
George shielded Rafe’s peeking eyes as Edward’s scream
pierced the air like an arrow sprung from a crossbow. He twisted and bucked but
could not escape the whip. Blood sprayed across the straw.
The bitter taste of bile rose in Beth’s throat as Edward’s
skin flayed open before her with each brutal strike. Again and again, the whip
fell as Mistress Hastings wailed.
Finally, her husband’s screams grew silent as he went limp.
Yet, Bayne continued the punishment with crazed eyes and a sweaty brow until
the reverend lightly touched his shoulder to stop him, but not before he landed
one last strike.
In the deafening silence, the crowd dispersed as a few villagers cut poor Edward down and carried him off. Some good-hearted women tended to Mistress Hastings, leading her away along with her crying children. Soldiers pulled the wagon carrying the priest behind Reverend Holbrook and Bayne as they moved along with the rest of the queen’s retinue. The job was done. A harsh warning had been delivered. A message delivered in blood.
About the author
