The Fitzroys: Part One

Chapter One – Shadows of Norfolkshire

It was in the waning years of that restless century, when revolutions smouldered abroad yet the ancient privileges of rank held firm in England, that the Fitzroy estate stood in grim isolation amidst the flat expanses of Norfolkshire. A house of venerable stone, weather-beaten by many a winter gale, it looked out upon fields where peasants bent their backs in ceaseless labour, and over stables where fine horses were bred and broken for the family’s pleasure. To those who dwelt in neighbouring villages, the Fitzroys were a name uttered with mingled fear and envy, for though their lands were broad and their wealth undoubted, their hearts were whispered to be as cold as the North Sea winds that swept the marshes.

In that house were reared the twin sons of the line, Jeremy and Jasper Fitzroy, who, though but twelve years of age, had already won for themselves a reputation of singular cruelty. Born within the same hour, alike in countenance as in birth, they were oft mistaken the one for the other, yet in temperament they diverged in subtle fashion. Jeremy possessed a sharpness of eye, a quickness of thought, that lent to his mischief a calculating air; Jasper, on the contrary, was possessed of an ungovernable spirit, reckless, brutal, and prone to sudden rages. But in malice they were united, as if the very blood that flowed in their veins carried with it some taint of ancient wickedness.

Their days were spent not in the innocent diversions of youth, but in contriving torments for the servants, devising snares for beasts, and lording themselves over the village children, who trembled at the mere sound of their laughter. To see the twins together was to behold cruelty clothed in miniature finery: velvet coats of deepest blue, stockings of silk, hair powdered and tied with ribbon — yet in their pale faces lurked a hardness that belied such childish attire. The maids whispered, crossing themselves, that these were no ordinary children, but demons permitted to walk the earth in noble guise.

It must be confessed that the indulgence of their parents was the fountain from which much mischief flowed. Lord Fitzroy, being a man more occupied with gaming and the hunt than with the ordering of his household, scarce took notice of his sons save to boast of their wit before his peers; Lady Fitzroy, languid and self-absorbed, cared for them only as ornaments to be displayed at supper or in the drawing-room. Thus left to their own devices, the boys grew as wild saplings, twisted and unchecked, their natural cruelty encouraged by a want of correction.

Among the many objects of their disdain was Willie Sneddon, a boy somewhat older than themselves by a year, son to the stable-master. Though of humble birth, Willie possessed a sweetness of temper and a gentleness of manner that made him beloved alike by man and beast. He would spend hours in the stalls, whispering to the horses, rubbing down their flanks, and feeding them with careful hand. The animals, which oft turned vicious beneath the twins’ whips, responded to Willie as if he were kin to them. This, more than aught else, inflamed Jeremy and Jasper with envy and hatred, for cruelty ever despises the gentle as weakness.

One autumn afternoon, when the air hung damp with mist and the leaves fell in russet showers upon the lawns, the twins espied Willie leading a mare towards the paddock. They watched him from an upper window, their young faces pressed close together, eyes alight with a secret malice.

“See how the dumb beast fawns upon him,” Jasper muttered, striking the sill with his fist. “It suffers him to touch its muzzle, though it near kicked my head off when I sought the same.”

“It is not the beast,” Jeremy answered with a thin smile. “It is the boy. He hath some charm or trick by which he beguiles them. A trick, I warrant, that we might soon beat out of him.”

They laughed, their voices harsh for their tender age, and made between themselves a pact that Willie Sneddon should, ere long, taste their displeasure.

That very evening, at supper, they contrived to drop morsels of meat beneath the table, setting the hounds snarling and snapping until the servants scarce knew how to part them. Lord Fitzroy, rather than reprove, declared it a jest most diverting, while Lady Fitzroy raised a languid hand to still the noise, remarking only that the boys grew daily more spirited. Thus emboldened, Jeremy and Jasper felt themselves masters not only of servants and beasts, but of the very household itself.

It was upon the next morning that they began their sport with Willie. They called him from his duties under pretence that they desired to learn the art of grooming a stallion, and when he bent to show them the manner of brushing the coat, Jasper struck him smartly across the shoulders with the handle of the curry-comb. Willie bore it with silence, though his face reddened. Jeremy, seeing his forbearance, whispered in his brother’s ear, and together they devised fresh insults — scattering straw in his path, loosening the girths of a saddle he had just secured, and mocking him before the other stable-boys. Yet through all this Willie endured, for his father had taught him patience, and he knew well that the lie of a noble carried more weight than the truth of a peasant’s son.

But the twins’ malice was not to be satisfied with jests. Each day their cruelty sharpened, as if some dark hunger within urged them on towards acts yet more grievous. Jeremy began to speak, in low tones, of how Willie’s very existence was an affront — that a boy of such low station should dare command the love of horses and the respect of men, while they, heirs to Fitzroy, were hated in silence. Jasper, quick to wrath, seized upon this fancy with delight, and swore that Willie should pay dearly for his insolence.

Thus the scene was set for that crime which would stain their souls indelibly. The house itself seemed to brood in anticipation. Servants crossed themselves when they saw the boys whispering together, for there was a cast upon their faces, a cruel determination, that boded ill. The autumn winds howled across the marshes, rattling shutters and stirring dead leaves against the ancient oaks, as though nature herself foresaw the deed.

Jeremy and Jasper, arm in arm, strode through the halls like young princes of misrule, already intoxicated with the thought of what they might soon accomplish. No hand restrained them, no voice dared speak against them. In that silence, fostered by wealth and rank, evil was given leave to grow unchecked, and the shadows lengthened over Norfolkshire.

Chapter Two – Blood in the Woods

The morning broke beneath a lowering sky, the clouds stretched grey and heavy as though some vast pall had been drawn across the heavens. The air hung close, laden with the scent of damp earth, and a faint mist curled over the meadows, shrouding hedgerows in ghostly veil. It was upon such a day that Jeremy and Jasper resolved to put into practice the cruel design which had long ripened in their hearts.

They had whispered of it for many nights, lying in their shared chamber, the candle sputtering low while shadows played upon the ceiling. Jeremy, ever the contriver, had spoken of how simple it would be to lure Willie from the stables, for the boy was guileless and inclined to obey.

Jasper, impatient for blood, urged that words were wasted and that deeds must speak. Between them it was agreed: the deed should be done in the deep of the woods where none would see, beneath the ancient oak that had for generations stood sentinel on the Fitzroy lands.

That morn they found Willie at his customary labour, rubbing down a gelding whose coat gleamed in the dim light of the stable. The boy greeted them with his usual civility, lifting his cap in respect, though a shadow of unease passed across his face, for he had long suffered their torments and trusted them little.

“Willie,” Jeremy said, his tone all honey though his eyes glittered with cold amusement, “our father hath spoken of thy skill with the beasts, and we, being desirous of learning somewhat ourselves, would have thee accompany us to the woods. There lies a colt, half-wild and unbroken, which we would see tamed. Wilt thou come with us, and show us how it is done?”

The lad hesitated, glancing from one twin to the other. He saw their identical smiles, the curve of cruelty about their mouths, yet his duty forbade him open refusal. Moreover, in his innocent heart there lingered a hope that, perchance, kindness might be drawn from them if he but showed patience.

“Aye, young masters,” he said at last, “if it pleaseth you, I shall come.”

So it was that the three boys set forth across the sodden fields and into the shelter of the wood. The trees stood close and silent, their branches interlaced to form a canopy through which little light penetrated. Damp leaves clung to their shoes, and a raven croaked overhead as though it heralded doom. Willie walked a pace behind, carrying the halter Jeremy had thrust into his hand, while the twins exchanged glances, their hearts beating fast with the anticipation of wicked sport.

At length they came to the oak, vast of girth, its bark gnarled and fissured by the passing of centuries. Here Jeremy halted, and with a sly look bade Willie wait.

“Where is the colt?” the boy asked, peering about him, for no sound of horse was to be heard in that lonely glade.

“There is no colt,” Jasper cried suddenly, his voice harsh with triumph. “There is only thee, Sneddon — and thy time is come!”

Before the boy could stir, Jasper leapt upon him, striking him full upon the jaw so that he reeled. Jeremy, swift as his brother, seized Willie’s arms and pinned them fast, while Jasper, panting with eagerness, drew forth the knife he had secreted in his coat.

“Let me go!” Willie cried, his voice ringing with terror. “I have done you no wrong — I have ever borne your cruelties with patience. For God’s sake, masters, let me be!”

But his entreaties fell on hearts harder than stone. Jeremy hissed in his ear that peasants were born to suffer, that his very goodness was an offence to their noble blood. Jasper, his eyes alight with frenzy, pressed the blade against the boy’s breast.

The struggle was brief, desperate, and soon ended. With a savage thrust Jasper drove the knife home. Willie gasped once, a sound that seemed to echo through the stillness of the wood, and then his body went slack in their grasp. The halter fell from his hand, sinking into the wet leaves, and his lifeless eyes stared upward into the branches where the raven flapped its wings in noisy triumph.

For a moment even the twins stood silent, the enormity of their act pressing upon them. Jeremy’s breath came quick, his face pale; Jasper, though flushed with the heat of cruelty, trembled slightly as he withdrew the blade, now dark with blood. Yet the silence did not endure. A wild exhilaration seized them, and they began to laugh, softly at first, then louder, until their mirth rang hideous through the wood.

“None shall know,” Jeremy said at length, wiping the knife upon the dead boy’s jerkin. “The earth shall be his shroud, and we the only mourners.”

Together they dragged the body to the foot of the oak, where the roots broke the ground in twisted shapes. With their hands they scooped the damp soil, fouling their fine clothes yet caring little, so consumed were they by their grim labour. At last the shallow pit was formed, and they heaved the corpse within, covering it hastily with earth and leaves until naught remained but a dark patch upon the ground.

As they stood above their handiwork, panting and mud-stained, Jasper raised his hand and swore an oath.

“Let this be the first of many,” he cried. “We are Fitzroys, and none may gainsay us! If peasants cross our path, let them beware, for thus shall all end who oppose us.”

Jeremy, though less impetuous, nodded with a cold smile, yet in the secret places of his heart a strange unease had taken root. For as the last clod fell upon Willie Sneddon’s grave, a gust of wind swept through the trees, carrying with it a low moan that seemed not wholly of the air. The raven, startled, rose croaking into the murky sky, and the branches of the oak creaked as though some weight hung from them unseen.

That night, when the twins lay in their chamber, sleep came fitfully. Jasper, sunk in heavy slumber, dreamed only of triumph. But Jeremy, restless, tossed upon his bed. In the half-light of the candle, guttering low, he fancied he beheld a shape at the foot of his bed: a boy, pale and earth-stained, eyes fixed upon him with mournful reproach. He started, rubbed his eyes, and the shape was gone. Yet when he closed them once more, he heard faintly, as though borne upon a distant wind, the sound of Willie Sneddon’s voice whispering his name.

Chapter Three – The Hauntings

The days that followed the foul deed were outwardly much the same as those which had preceded it. The sun rose and set upon the Fitzroy estate, the servants went about their duties in fear and silence, and Lord and Lady Fitzroy remained as careless of their children’s doings as ever. Yet within the hearts of Jeremy and Jasper, a change had been wrought — subtle at first, but deepening with every hour that passed beneath the autumn skies.

Jasper, bold in wickedness, walked with head held high, his laughter loud and coarse, as though the taking of a life had added stature to his spirit. He bragged in whispers to Jeremy that they were now men, having done that which few dared even to contemplate. He spoke of Willie’s death as though it were some sporting triumph, a quarry taken in the field, and looked already towards new cruelties by which to amuse himself. Yet Jeremy, though he smiled when his brother’s eyes were upon him, felt a chill in the very marrow of his bones. For the vision of Willie, pale and earth-stained at the foot of his bed, clung to him with dreadful tenacity. When he closed his eyes, he saw again those unblinking orbs fixed upon him, not in rage but in mournful reproach, and the faint whisper of his name echoed through his mind like a tolling bell.

On the third night after the murder, Jeremy awoke in darkness, the candle guttered out, the room heavy with the scent of damp soil. He lay still, scarcely daring to breathe, for he felt a presence near. Slowly his gaze travelled to the far corner, where the shadows gathered thickest, and there he beheld a figure — indistinct at first, yet growing clearer as his eyes adjusted. It was Willie, his garments torn, his hair clotted with earth, standing silent with arms hanging limp at his sides. The boy’s lips moved, though no sound issued forth. Jeremy tried to cry out, but his voice caught in his throat; he shook Jasper violently, yet his brother only muttered and turned in slumber. When Jeremy looked again, the figure was gone, leaving naught but the rustle of the wind against the casement.

By day, Jeremy sought to master his fears, but they pursued him in every corner of the house. When he passed the great hall mirror, he thought he saw, not his own reflection alone, but another face at his shoulder, wan and sorrowful. When he bent over his plate at supper, a drop of red fell upon the meat, though no wound bled upon him. When he walked in the garden, the rustle of leaves seemed to form the sound of footsteps close behind, yet when he turned, none was there.

Jasper mocked him for his pale looks and restless air. “Thou art grown womanish, brother,” he sneered, cuffing Jeremy on the ear. “’Tis but a fancy of thine own. Willie Sneddon lies deep beneath the oak, and none shall trouble us more. If thou wilt tremble at shadows, best creep to mother’s skirts.”

Yet though Jasper scoffed, he too began to feel the weight of unseen eyes. One evening, as he tormented a kitchen boy by thrusting his hand into a bucket of scalding water, he heard behind him a low moan. He turned swiftly, knife in hand, but saw only the darkened passage, empty and still. The boy fled, shrieking, and Jasper cursed him for a coward, yet a faint unease stirred in his breast.

On the seventh night, the twins were woken by a noise unlike any they had heard before. It was the sound of scratching — slow, deliberate, as though nails raked upon wood. They sat up in their beds, listening with held breath, and the sound grew louder, nearer, until it seemed to come from beneath the very floorboards of their chamber. Jeremy, shuddering, whispered Willie’s name; Jasper leapt up, seized the poker, and struck the boards with fury. At once the sound ceased, but a moment later a voice, hollow and muffled as though rising from the grave, breathed their names: Jeremy… Jasper…

The brothers clung to one another in silence until dawn broke pale across the fields. Jasper, his pride stung by his own fear, swore an oath that it was but a trick of the wind, though the trembling of his hands belied his words. Jeremy said little, but his eyes were dark with dread.

Nor were their torments confined to the night. As they sat at lessons with the weary tutor who scarce dared reprove them, Jeremy’s attention wandered to the window. There, in the garden below, he beheld Willie, standing motionless amongst the withered rose-bushes, his head bent as though listening. The sight so shook him that he cried aloud, startling the tutor and earning a blow from Jasper for his folly. When they looked again, the garden lay empty, yet the roses trembled though no breeze stirred them.

Another time, Jasper entered the stables alone, intent upon mischief. The air was rank with the smell of horses, yet beneath it he caught a faint odour of mouldering earth. As he passed the stall of the grey mare, she reared suddenly, eyes rolling white, and in her terror broke the halter that bound her. Jasper fell back, barely escaping her hooves, and in that instant he swore he saw, between the flicker of shadows, a figure crouched in the corner, watching with hollow eyes. He struck out with his whip, but the lash met only empty air. He staggered back to the house, furious yet shaken, and swore never to speak of it to Jeremy.

Meanwhile the servants murmured of strange occurrences: candles guttering though no draft blew, doors creaking in the night, whispers in empty corridors. They crossed themselves when the twins passed, and one maid, young and foolish, whispered that the Fitzroy boys were haunted by the spirit of poor Willie Sneddon, who had vanished none knew whither. For such talk she received a harsh whipping and was sent away in disgrace, yet the rumour spread like fire through dry stubble, and all who served beneath the Fitzroy roof walked in dread.

So it was that the boys, once lords of misrule, began themselves to taste fear. Jasper fought it with bluster, seeking to harden his heart with new cruelties, while Jeremy grew more silent, haunted by visions none could see. At times he thought he heard Willie’s voice not in menace but in sorrow, entreating him to confess, to repent, to turn from wickedness ere it was too late. But each time he faltered, Jasper’s scorn drove him back into silence, and so the shadow of their crime lengthened ever further across the Fitzroy estate.

The nights grew colder, the winds harsher, and the leaves fell thick upon the ground. Each day brought with it new portents — a bird lying dead upon the nursery sill, a crucifix in the chapel discovered turned upside down, the family crest above the great fireplace found cracked through the centre though no hand had touched it. The household muttered of omens, but none dared speak them aloud to Lord or Lady Fitzroy, who remained blind to all save their own pleasures.

Yet Jeremy knew in his soul that Willie’s spirit had not been laid to rest, and that no amount of laughter, no veil of pride, could shield them from what was to come. For each night, as the candle burned low, he felt the weight of eyes upon him, and each morning he awoke with a cry upon his lips — the cry of a boy buried beneath an oak, whose grave gave no peace, and whose shade sought justice from beyond.

Chapter Four – A Horse’s Cry

The year was 1773, a restless time in the kingdom. In London, talk of unrest in the American colonies murmured through coffee-houses and taverns; the King’s ministers fretted over distant disobedience, while here in Norfolkshire life moved at its ancient pace, seemingly untouched by the tempests abroad. Yet even in so quiet a shire, shadows lengthened, and within the Fitzroy estate there stirred forces more dreadful than politics or war.

It was upon a chill morning in November that Jeremy and Jasper made their way to the stables. Frost lay thick upon the fields, turning each blade of grass into a needle of glass that crackled beneath their shoes. Their coats were buttoned to the chin, wigs powdered, and stockings neat, for though but boys, they were ever arrayed as little gentlemen, lords-in-waiting of the family name. Yet their hearts, blackened by guilt, beat faster with each step, for the stables had become to them a place of unease.

The great barn doors stood open, and within, the horses stamped and whickered, steam rising from their nostrils like smoke from a furnace. The stable-master, Master Sneddon, went about his work with a face more lined than ever, his eyes shadowed with sorrow. He spoke little now, for the disappearance of his only son weighed heavy upon him. The servants whispered that he searched the woods each night by lantern, though never did he speak of what he sought. To Jeremy and Jasper he gave scarce more than a bow, his mouth pressed thin with bitterness he dared not utter.

“Come, brother,” Jasper said, grasping Jeremy by the arm. “Let us show these dull beasts who are their masters. Why should peasants command their obedience, when Fitzroys are scorned?”

Yet as they drew near, the animals shifted restlessly, their ears pricked, their eyes rolling white. The bay mare, gentle with all others, laid back her ears and struck the ground with her hoof, sending up sparks from the cobbles. A gelding, tied fast, whinnied in alarm, pulling against the reins until the leather strained. Jeremy halted, his stomach twisting, for he remembered Willie’s tender voice murmuring to that very mare, the beast nuzzling his hand with trust.

“Dost thou see?” Jeremy whispered, his lips dry. “They will not have us near. ’Tis as though they know—”

“Silence!” Jasper snapped, though his own step faltered. “They are but brutes, ruled by whip and spur. I shall soon cure their skittishness.”

With that he strode to the mare’s stall and thrust forth his hand to seize the bridle. But before his fingers touched, the creature reared with sudden violence, her hooves flashing past his head so close he felt the rush of air. He sprang back, cursing, as the stable rang with cries. The other horses too grew wild, rearing, kicking, and neighing in terror, as though some unseen presence moved amongst them.

Master Sneddon rushed forward, flinging wide his arms. “Back, young masters!” he cried. “Will you have the beasts lame themselves in their frenzy? Stand aside, for God’s sake!”

The boys, white with shock, stumbled from the stalls, while the stable-master soothed the horses with words low and steady. To Jeremy’s ears, it was almost as though he spoke not to beasts but to some spirit hovering near, for at the sound of his voice the tumult slowly quieted. One by one, the animals stilled, though their eyes yet darted fearfully toward the corner where shadows gathered thick. Jeremy, following their gaze, thought he discerned the faintest outline of a boy’s form, pale and indistinct — but when he blinked, naught remained but darkness.

“Mark you how they quake at us?” Jeremy whispered when they were alone outside, their breath steaming in the frosty air. “It is as though Willie stands beside them still, guarding them, forbidding us near.”

“Superstition!” Jasper retorted, though unease tugged at his mouth. “Animals are but witless things, ruled by scent and noise. Think you the shade of a peasant boy commands their hearts? I’ll whip the next that dares defy me.”

Yet his words rang hollow, for even he could not banish from his mind the sight of the mare’s wild eyes, nor the sound of her scream, which had seemed less the cry of a beast than the lament of a soul who beheld some unseen terror.

That night the brothers dined with their parents in the great hall, where a fire roared high in the grate, tapestries of hunting scenes hung heavy on the walls, and silver candlesticks cast tall shadows across the long table. Lord Fitzroy, flushed with wine, spoke at length of wagers lost and won, of hounds gone lame and tenants behind in their rents. Lady Fitzroy, pale in her silks, reclined in listless grace, scarce touching her plate. Neither gave heed to the anxious looks of their sons, nor to the trembling of Jeremy’s hand as he raised his goblet. For in the play of shadow upon the wall, he thought he saw again Willie’s figure — a boy with earth in his hair, pointing one accusing finger straight at him.

Jeremy started so violently that he spilt wine upon the cloth. His father cuffed him roundly for clumsiness, while Jasper smirked to see him abashed. Yet in the silence that followed, Jeremy fancied he heard faintly — fainter than the crackle of fire, fainter than the sigh of wind at the casement — the distant sound of hooves upon stone, though no horse stirred without.

Later, when the house lay deep in slumber, Jasper roused at a noise from the stables. He stole to the window and peered out into the moonlit yard. The doors of the barn stood wide though no servant had opened them, and in the silver light he beheld a shape standing amidst the horses. At first he thought it but a shadow, yet then the truth struck him cold: it was Willie Sneddon, his hand resting upon the neck of the bay mare. The beast, which had near slain Jasper in her fright, stood calm as a lamb beneath the boy’s touch. Willie raised his head and looked straight to Jasper’s window. Though his lips did not move, Jasper heard within his mind a voice chill as winter:

“I see thee.”

With a cry he drew back from the glass, his heart pounding. When he dared look again, the yard was empty, the doors closed, the night still. But sleep came no more to him that night.

From that day forth the stables became a place of dread to both brothers. Jeremy dared not set foot within, lest the beasts betray their terror anew; Jasper went only in fury, lashing out with whip and curse, though the horses shied from him ever more, and one stallion near crushed his leg against the wall. The servants whispered that the animals had taken against the young masters, as beasts will do when they scent ill blood. Some muttered it was Willie’s ghost that calmed them in secret, though such words were swiftly silenced, for none dared risk the wrath of their lords.

Thus the twins, once tyrants over stable and field, found themselves shunned by the very creatures they sought to command. Their cruelty, unchecked by man, was checked by horse and hound, who, more perceptive than their betters, saw what human eyes could not. And always, in the stillness of night, came the faint sound of hooves in the courtyard, though no track was left by morning.

The year waned towards its close, frost hardening into ice, days shortened into gloom. And with each passing night, the presence of Willie Sneddon grew stronger, his shade stepping ever nearer from dream into waking, his voice more insistent, his gaze more accusing. Jeremy trembled, Jasper raged, but neither could escape the truth: the boy they had buried beneath the oak was not at rest, nor would he be, until justice was done.

Chapter Five – The Village Fair

The year drew on toward the Yuletide season, when frost clung white to hedgerow and field, and the good folk of Norfolkshire made merry at the annual fair. Tents and booths rose upon the village green, bright with ribbons despite the cold, and the air filled with the mingled scents of roasting chestnuts, mulled cider, and trampled earth. Jugglers cast knives glittering into the pale sun, fiddlers scraped lively reels, and children darted between stalls with shrill laughter.

For the peasantry, this was a day of respite from toil; for the Fitzroy twins, it was a day of sport of a darker sort. Jeremy and Jasper rode down from the estate in their father’s carriage, powdered wigs upon their heads and cloaks of velvet clasped at their throats, lording it over the villagers with the arrogance of their birth.

“Mark them, brother,” Jasper murmured as the carriage rattled to a halt. “Clodhoppers and dung-born, yet they prance as though their jests and fiddles made them kings. Shall we not show them their place?”

Jeremy, who had not slept well these many nights, shifted uneasily. The memory of the horses’ terror, of Willie’s pale visage by the barn, haunted his waking hours. “Must we ever find sport in torment?” he muttered. “I would sooner watch the dancing than be the cause of tears.”

“Coward’s talk,” Jasper sneered, leaping down to the green. “Would you rather sit amongst the drabs, clapping like some milk-sop at their fiddles? Nay — a Fitzroy commands, and they obey. Come, let us make merry in our own fashion.”

So Jeremy followed, though with a heaviness he scarce understood.

They moved amongst the stalls, their presence parting the crowd like a prow through water. Villagers dipped their heads in grudging respect, though none smiled, for the boys’ reputation had already cast long shadows across the parish. Jasper took delight in upturning a farmer’s basket of apples, laughing to see the man scurry to gather them from the mud. Jeremy bent to help, his hand reaching to steady the man’s trembling fingers — but Jasper caught his arm and dragged him away.

“Shall you play servant now, Jeremy?” he hissed. “Would you polish his boots also? Fie, I’ll not have my twin shamed by such meekness.”

Yet in Jeremy’s breast there stirred a pang he could not quell. For when he looked upon the farmer’s bent back, he thought of Master Sneddon, stooped beneath grief, and of Willie’s eyes, bright and trusting, now turned to accusation.

Later, they came upon a game of chance, where peasants cast rings upon pegs to win trifles. Jasper seized a villager’s turn, proclaiming himself the master-player, and when his ring fell wide he struck the stall-keeper with his cane, declaring the game dishonest. The crowd muttered, yet none dared intervene. Jeremy, standing by, felt shame burn his cheeks, yet still he did not speak aloud.

It was then that he glimpsed, amidst the throng, a face pale and thin, with dark earth tangled in the hair. Willie Sneddon stood but a few yards away, though none seemed to see him save Jeremy.

The boy’s eyes met his own, and there was in them no malice, only sorrow and reproach, as though asking: Why follow where cruelty leads?

Jeremy gasped and stumbled back, clutching at Jasper’s sleeve. “Didst thou see him?” he whispered hoarsely.

“See whom?” Jasper demanded, frowning.

“Willie!”

“Pshaw, thy brain is fevered. Speak not of the peasant brat again, lest thou disgrace us both. Come — I have a finer sport in mind.”

He led Jeremy to where a cage of hens had been set for raffle. The birds clucked nervously, their feathers ruffled. Jasper, with a wicked grin, seized a stick and thrust it between the bars, jabbing so the hens shrieked and fluttered. The villagers drew back in horror, yet none dared challenge him.

Jeremy caught his brother’s arm. “Enough, Jasper! They are but poor creatures, and no sport for gentlemen. Leave them be.”

Jasper turned upon him in fury. “What ails thee, brother? Where is the steel of the Fitzroys? Thou growest weak, craven — near to pitying the muck-born and the feathered. Shall I call thee a girl, Jeremy, with thy soft heart and trembling lip?”

For a moment they struggled, twin against twin, until the stick fell from Jasper’s grasp. A hush fell over those nearby, for never before had they seen Jeremy resist his brother’s will.

But ere Jasper could strike him, a sound arose — faint at first, then growing louder, until it seemed the very earth trembled. It was the pounding of hooves, though no horse was visible. The villagers crossed themselves, eyes darting in fear. Jasper paled, for the sound circled them, echoing across the green as though a spectral rider coursed unseen.

Jeremy knew at once the cause. Willie was there — not in form but in presence — warning, chastening, hemming them round with dread. And when Jasper raised his eyes, he saw what none else did: the shadow of a boy upon the ground where no figure cast it, the shadow pointing straight at him.

He gave a cry and shoved through the crowd, his face contorted with rage and terror. Jeremy lingered, his heart thundering, and whispered low, “Forgive me, Willie.” For in that moment he felt the first stirring of a resolve — that he would not always walk in Jasper’s shadow, nor drown in cruelty for the sake of blood and name.

The villagers, once cowed, now watched with wary eyes. Some muttered that the Fitzroy boys were cursed, that the Devil walked beside them. Others whispered that justice unseen would yet be done.

And so the fair ended in unease, with the laughter of children hushed, and the music of fiddles faltering. For where the Fitzroy twins went, fear followed — but in Jeremy’s soul, another presence grew, one of conscience and remorse, though frail as yet.

Thus did the bond between brothers, once iron-strong, begin to fray, and Willie Sneddon’s shade press ever closer, dividing them not by blows of whip or cane, but by the slow gnawing of guilt and the whisper of righteousness in a heart long silent.