Honor in the Dust

by Gilbert, Morris

  His son walked into the room. “Stuart! Oh, Stuart, have they taken you too?”

  “No. You’re free, Father,” Stuart said huskily. “You’re going home, you and Uncle Edmund, to Stoneybrook.”

  Edmund rose to his feet. “How—how can that be? Tell us what happened!”

  The two men, shaking, sat down, and Stuart went through the whole story, including the trial. He ended by saying, “Of course, when the king said he thought you were innocent, that ended it. No judges were going to go against him any more than they’d think about flying to the moon.”

  “And the verdict?”

  “The verdict, Uncle Edmund, is that you are innocent of all charges, and Stoneybrook is restored to your hands.”

  “God has done this,” Edmund said. “I didn’t believe it could happen, but God himself has done it.”

  “You’re right about that, Brother,” Claiborn said.

  “Yes, it’s like coming out of hell itself.”

  The two men stumbled out, Sir Edmund being half carried by his brother and his nephew. There was a light on his face, and he said, “I can almost believe in God who has done this great miracle.”

  “I hope you do, Brother,” Claiborn said heartily. “Now we’ll get you home.”

  Edith Hardcastle paused in front of the small mirror that adorned the east wall of the dining room. She admired the diamond brooch on her bosom as it glittered like a star. She had taken possession of all the personal things that had belonged to Edmund. Now she turned and said, “I think we must go to London this week, Ives. You’ve been away too long.”

  “You’ve bought enough clothes to last you a lifetime, Mother.”

  “Ah, my dear, there aren’t enough clothes to last me a lifetime.”

  “Well, we’re not made of money, you know,” Ives said. He took another pull at his wine and shook his head. “The way you spend money, you’d think the Winslow money is endless.”

  Edith laughed. “I’ll get a few trifling things, and you can buy that horse you wanted so much.”

  “Ah, yes, Lord Scourage’s mare. Yes, I do—” He broke off, for the butler had burst into the room with a rather wild look on his thin face. “What is it, James?”

  “Sir, you have—visitors.”

  “Visitors?” Ives’s eyes met his mother’s. “Did you invite someone?”

  “No, not for this evening, Ives.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Sir, you’d best come to see—” But James never finished his sentence. The large double doors swung open. Ives and Edith came to their feet.

  “Well, Ives,” Lord Edmund said, “I trust we don’t come at an inconvenient moment.” His face was thin and pale, but there was a bright glint in his eyes. Stuart stood to the right of Edmund, and his father was beside him.

  Ives gasped, “What are you doing out of the Tower?”

  “Oh, I’ve been released. A special trial, hadn’t you heard? Would you believe it, Jacob Fowler is responsible for my release.”

  Ives saw the implication of that, but he did not speak, for another man had entered the room and stood waiting. Aaron Snyder, chief investigator. Snyder smiled wolfishly at him. “There is an empty cell in the Tower, Mr. Hardcastle, which you will soon occupy.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You are under arrest for treason,” Snyder said. His yellow teeth gleamed as he grinned. He said, “Come in, fellows.”

  Two men bearing chains came in, and Ives cried out as they began to put them on him. “You can’t do this!”

  “The king has signed a warrant for your arrest. Take him to the Tower.”

  “To—the Tower?” Ives gasped. He looked at his mother and cried out, “Mother—”

  Edith was fully expecting to be next. “It was Ives who did all this,” she said to Edmund.

  Ives stared at her, his chains rattled, and he screamed, “It was her! She put me up to it!”

  “Take him away,” Lord Edmund said, then turned to his wife. “You’re not welcome to stay here, Edith. I will provide for you, but I want you out of my sight and out of my life. And leave those jewels that you’re wearing.”

  The three men watched as Edith slowly took off the jewels and said, “I will get a few things.”

  “I will have a servant go with you to be sure you don’t steal anything else.”

  Stuart felt a sudden pang of sorrow for the woman, as awful as she had always been to his family. “I’ll take her and find her a place to stay, Uncle Edmund.”

  “Good. Don’t tell me where it is. Just get her out of here.”

  As she left, Edmund faced his brother and memories came back to him, and he said in a broken voice, “I—know I’ve treated you badly, Claiborn.”

  “That’s all in the past.”

  “No, it’s here, and I want you to know that you will be my heir and this will be your property when I’m gone.”

  Claiborn said, “These things come and they go, but God is eternal. Come. You need to rest.” Edmund gave one glance at the door through which his wife and her son had vanished. “She never loved me, did she?”

  “I don’t think so, Edmund, but your Savior loves you. The Good Lord loves you. That should be enough for any one of us. Come, now. Let’s put you to bed.”

  25

  Stuart arrived in Brussels early in October 1536. He made his way to Vilvoorde, where Tyndale was awaiting execution. Much to his surprise he was taken at once to Tyndale’s gloomy cell. A thin ray of light slanted down through the single window and lighted the face of the prisoner. Tyndale’s face showed no sadness, although it was the day set for his execution. He had been sentenced to be burned. But as Stuart studied the lean face of the prisoner, he saw no sadness, only joy.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “I am sorry it has come to this, Mr. Tyndale.”

  “Don’t be sorry, my boy.” Tyndale leaned forward and smiled slightly. “My work is done. It is time for me to go and be with him whom I love better than anyone in this world.”

  Mostly Tyndale spoke of the years that he had spent with Stuart getting the Word of God to England. It was three years since Edmund and Claiborn Winslow had been released, and William Tyndale had kept up with the family. He well knew that Edmund had died a year and a half after his release, that the heir of Stoneybrook was Claiborn Winslow, and that this, his son, would one day be lord of Stoneybrook.

  “Your uncle went out to meet God in good fashion?”

  “Yes, he did, sir. My father and he became very close. My father led him to saving faith in Jesus. He was actually happy when he died. Ready to go.”

  “Well, things have changed since that time.”

  “Yes, sir, they have.”

  Indeed, Anne Boleyn had been executed on May 19 of that very year. Stuart had been there. He had liked her despite her many enemies and their comments about her.

  Henry had married Jane Seymour in less than a week. Jane had borne a child, a boy, born in October, and the infant had been christened Edward.

  “Well, Henry got his son and heir at last.”

  Stuart had little to say. He loved this man and honored him as he did no other. When Tyndale fell silent, he said, “Well, sir, the first time I saw you, you said you wanted to see every plowboy in England able to read the Word of God in his own language, and now many already are doing so. It’s only a matter of time until all men will be able to do so. That’s quite a legacy, sir.”

  “Well, we give God the glory, my son. He has opened up the doors.”

  There was the sound of voices.

  “That is my call, I think.” He embraced Stuart, saying, “Good-bye, my son—for now. But we shall meet again in a better world.”

  The guards came and took Tyndale. It was October. The air was crisp. The sun had barely risen above the horizon, and when he arrived at an open space, the crowd was jostling for a good view. A circle of stakes enclosed the place of execution and in the center was a large pillar of wood in the form of a cro
ss. A strong chain hung from the top, and a noose of hemp was threaded through a hole in the upright. The prisoner was brought in. A final appeal was made, asking him to recant. Would he renounce the words that he had declared over the years?

  Tyndale stood immovable, his keen eyes gazing at the common people. He met the cruel and merciless stare of his judges and doubtless pitied them. A silence fell over the crowd as they watched the lean form and thin, tired face of the prisoner.

  Stuart was at the outer edge of the crowd, but he was tall enough to see clearly over the heads of the others. He saw the lips of his friend move in a final impassioned prayer. Then Tyndale cried out, “Lord, open the king of England’s eyes.”

  Tyndale moved to the cross. His feet were bound to the stake, the iron chain was fastened around his neck, and the hemp noose was placed at his throat. Stuart was glad he would be hanged first and spared the ordeal of being burned alive. Piles of brushwood were heaped around him. The executioner came up behind the stake, and with all his force snapped down the noose. Within seconds Tyndale was dead. The wood was set afire. Stuart could not bear to stay. As he moved away, he thought of a different fire, the flames that Tyndale had set among the people, a burning to know more of their God, and his Word.

  Christmas had come. The skies of December had dumped blank carpets of snow. Stuart was sitting on the floor in front of the fire playing with his son, Brandon. He looked up at Heather, who was watching them with a smile on her lips. “Have you ever thought about how fortunate you are?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “To have such a handsome husband. Look. He’s given you such a handsome son.”

  “I hope he’s not as vain as his father!”

  Since Stuart had come back from the execution of William Tyndale, he had been silent, but now his face was alight with joy. “Between Christmas and my beautiful wife and a fine son, I cannot wallow in sorrow.”

  “William would not have wanted us to be sad. He would want us to celebrate, be glad for him that he’s free.”

  Stuart held Brandon high, and the child laughed and kicked his legs and waved his hands. “Full of life, aren’t you?” When he put the boy down, Heather came to him, and he took her in his arms. “Well, another year is upon us. What will it be like? There’s still trouble with the king.”

  “There will always be trouble with kings, but God is the King of Kings. Your father is hale and healthy, but one day you’ll be Lord Stuart Winslow, master of Stoneybrook.”

  “No one but God knows our future. It’s not something I crave. What I crave is for this house of Stuart Winslow, humble as it may be, to grow. For our love to grow.”

  “Oh, that it will, husband,” she said, with a smile, “That it will.”

  Coming from Howard Books in May 2010,

  the next installment in the Winslow Breed Series

  When the Heavens Fall

  BY GILBERT MORRIS

  PART ONE: The Bad Seed

  1

  “Now, you just behave yourself, Master Brandon Winslow, and keep your bloomin’ ’ands where they belong!”

  “Why, Becky, they belong right here.”

  Becky Elwald slapped the hand that had been touching her, and tried unsuccessfully to frown. “You’re a saucy one, you are! Tryin’ to destroy a young woman’s virtue, that’s wot!”

  At the age of sixteen Becky already had drawn many a young man’s eye. She would be fat one day, no doubt, but at this stage in her life she had a figure that would have tempted a saint. She reluctantly accepted his kisses, and he whispered, “You’re a lovely girl, Becky. And you’re the one who agreed to meet me at such a late hour. Surely you knew what to expect.” Perhaps she needed a few more minutes of sweet talk, and then he’d win her heart as well as her willing kisses—

  Becky abruptly shoved Brandon back, and shook her head. “You said you’d read me poetry. I thought you had love, not lovin’, on your mind. Get out of this barn! If my pa catches you, he’ll skin you alive.”

  “He couldn’t catch me if he tried. Come on, sweetheart, and give us another kiss.” He caught her wrist and pulled it up to his lips.

  She stilled. She was giving in. He could feel it. “You ain’t but fourteen,” she whispered, “too young for this sort of thing.”

  “I’m old enough. And you are too delectable to ignore.”

  Becky’s lips parted as he leaned down, and he knew he had won. She wasn’t the first girl who had caught his eye, and as the future Lord Brandon Winslow, Master of Stoneybrook, he certainly had his pick among the shire. But her hesitation had piqued his interest. That and the challenge of avoiding her antagonistic father—it was rather like plucking a ripe pear from the tree of a curmudeonly orchard owner. It had become a delightful game, finding a way to meet her alone, away from her father’s squinted gaze.

  Brandon ignored Becky’s increasingly feeble protests. He had given little thought to girls until this year, giving all his time to hunting, learning how to be a knight, and mastering the weapons that his father provided for him. But now he wanted to know what the mystery was all about.

  He lowered her to the straw and smiled as he felt her surrender beneath him. He ran his hand—

  “What be you a’doin’, girl? And you, boy, you got no right to be here!” Becky’s father shouted. James Elwald had a staff in his hand, and his eyes were blazing.

  “Brandon just came to—to visit, Pa!”

  “You think I’m blind? Get you in the house while I deal with this rascal!”

  Brandon rose and moved swiftly toward the barn door, but Elwald raised his staff and brought it down, striking Brandon hard on the shoulder. He raised it again, rage in his eyes, but Brandon was quick and strong for his age. He caught the staff as it came down and yanked it from Elwald’s hand. Without a second’s hesitation he swung the staff, and the blow struck the older man in the head.

  Elwald crumpled to the ground, and Becky—who hadn’t made it out the door—let out a scream. “You killed ‘im, Brandon!”

  Brandon’s heart skipped a beat. He well knew what would happen to him if Elwald were dead; all his father’s influence could not help him if he’d killed a man. He leaned over and put his hand on Elwald’s chest.

  He looked up at Becky with a reckless grin. “Why, he’s all right, Becky. He’ll have a headache, but he’s too mean to die.”

  Becky was trembling, and her eyes were enormous. “’E’s a vengeful man, Brandon. You’d better get out of’ere!”

  Brandon laughed and took her in his arms and kissed her. “I’ll be back. We’ll have to finish what we started.”

  But there was real fear in her eyes as she pushed him away again. “Stay away from ’ere if you know what’s good for you! You don’t know my pa.”

  Brandon laughed. Outside the barn door, a huge dog rose to greet him, and Brandon put a hand on his head. “Well, how about that, Eric?” he said lowly. “If the old man hadn’t come in, I would have had Becky. What do you think of that?”

  Eric barked and ran alongside Brandon. He was a large yellow dog, covered with scars from fights with other dogs, and even a few with wild pigs and their saber-like tusks.

  “Ah well, there will come a day! Let’s get back before Father finds out I’m missing.”

  Brandon broke into a loping run, and the dog came after him at a gallop. He wasn’t even breathing hard when the shadow of Stoneybrook Castle rose before him twenty minutes later. A huge silver moon threw argent beams on the frozen earth, and a ghostly owl sailed overhead, hunting, as Brandon and his dog passed through the gate. There was no one stirring at this time of night, and Brandon loved the silence that held the castle as if in a spell. He’d taken more than one thrashing from his father for sneaking out on midnight forays, but he knew he would do it again. It was not that he did not love his father, but there was a wild longing that took him at times, driving him to find an adventure to break the monotony of daily life. He could bear a beating, but not boredom.

 
He whispered, “Come on, Eric. Let’s go to bed.”

  Brandon moved across the stone floor toward a winding stair, making no more noise than one of the tiny mice that shared the castle with the Winslows. Stoneybrook was an ancient castle, but the walls were almost as strong now in 1546 as the year it took form. It was not as large as many others built during earlier days, but it was home to the Winslows, and something to be proud of.

  Moving quietly, he made his way up the stairs and entered the room on the third floor that had been his place for as long as he could remember. Without bothering to undress, he threw himself on the bed, and the big dog whined and plopped down beside him. Brandon hugged Eric for warmth but was too excited for sleep. He relived the sweet kisses he’d stolen from Becky, and already was purposing in his mind how he would find her alone again—somewhere they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  “Get out of that bed!” Stuart Winslow grabbed his son’s hair and pulled him up and out of his slumber.

  Instinctively, Brandon launched a blow, and his fist hit Stuart in the chest.

  “Why, you dare to strike your own father, do you?” Stuart shook him, realizing the boy was only half-awake.

  Brandon looked up at him, his hair askew from deep dreams. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to hit you. You scared me.”

  “You were never scared of anything in your life, Brandon! I wish to heaven you were!” Stuart Winslow studied his son, thirty-four years younger. Would the boy ever grow up? Did he really want him to? “Get dressed!” he commanded.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’re probably going to jail,” Stuart said grimly, pacing. He stared at his son a long moment, then said angrily, “What kind of blood has come down to you, Brandon? Some bloody Viking raider, if not worse.” He watched, irritated it was taking the boy so long to dress. “Come. Quickly.”