Honor in the Dust

A WINSLOW BREED NOVEL

GILBERT MORRIS

Our purpose at Howard Books is to:

•
Increase faith
in the hearts of growing Christians

•
Inspire holiness
in the lives of believers

•
Instill hope
in the hearts of struggling people everywhere

Because He's coming again!

Published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
www.howardpublishing.com

Honor in the Dust
© 2009 by Gilbert Morris

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in
any form whatsoever. For information, address Howard Subsidiary Rights
Department, Simon & Schuster, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

Wordserve Literary Group

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert.
Honor in the dust: a Winslow Breed novel / Gilbert Morris.

p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3563.O8742H658 2009
813'.54—dc22                             2009016663

ISBN 978-1-4165-8746-0 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4391-6837-0 (ebook)

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

HOWARD and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Manufactured in the United States of America

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases,
please contact: Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949
or [email protected]

The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For
more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau
at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at
www.simonspeakers.com

Edited by David Lambert
Cover design by The Design Works Group
Interior design by Jaime Putorti

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and
beyond the intent of either the author or publisher.

To Johnnie—
Thanks for sixty wonderful years!
You have been the joy of my life
and the best wife on the planet
(or anywhere else, for that matter!).

May 1497
Sussex, England

Claiborn Winslow leaned forward and patted his horse's sweaty neck. “Well done, Ned.” He had pushed the stallion harder than he liked, but after so many months away he was hungry for home. He straightened in the saddle and gazed with pleasure at Stoneybrook, the Winslows' ancestral castle. It had withstood siege and battle, and it bore all the marks that time makes upon structures as well as upon men. There was nothing particularly beautiful about Stoneybrook. There were many castles in England that had more pleasing aspects. But Claiborn loved it more than any other.

The spring had brought a rich emerald-green growth to all the countryside, and verdant fields nuzzled against the very walls of Stoneybrook. If they were any indication, the summer's harvest would be good, indeed. The castle itself crowned a hill and was dominated by a formidable wall, outside of which a small village thrived. Even now, late in the day, people and carts and horses moved in and out of the central gate, and on the battlements Claiborn saw the banner of Winslow fluttering in the late-afternoon breeze, as if beckoning to him.

“My heaven, it's good to be home!”

He laughed at himself, adding, “I'm talking to myself. I must be worse off than I thought.” His mind cascaded back to the battles he had seen, rare but fierce, and the men he had encountered. Some dreaded battle, feared it and could not force themselves forward. Others found joy in the clash of weapons and the shouts of victory when the battle was over. Claiborn was one of these, finding a natural rhythm to battle, a path from start to finish that seemed to be preordained for him. When the trumpets sounded and the drums rolled, his heart burned with excitement. God help him, he loved it. Loved being a soldier. But this, returning to Stoneybrook, had its own charm.

“Come on, Ned.” Kicking his horse's sides Claiborn guided the animal to the village gate, and as he passed through, he ran across an old acquaintance, Ryland Tolliver, one of the blacksmiths who served Lord Edmund Winslow and the others of the family as well.

“Well, bless my soul!” Ryland boomed. “If it's not the soldier home from the wars!” He was a bulky man, his shoulders broad, his hands like steel hooks from his years at the forge. He laughed as Claiborn dismounted. “Good to see you, man. You're just getting home. All in one piece, I see.”

“All in one piece.” The two men shook hands, and Claiborn had to squeeze hard to keep his hand from being crushed by the burly blacksmith. “How are things here? My mother and my brother?”

“The same as they were when you left. What did you expect? We'd fall to pieces without you to keep us straight?”

“No, I'm not as vain as that. I'm sure the world would jog on pretty well without me.”

“Tell me about the wars, man.”

“Not now. I need to go see my family. But I'll come back later. We'll have enough ale to float a ship. I'll tell you lies about how I won the battles. You can tell lies about how you've won over the virtue of poor Sally McFarland.”

“Sally McFarland? Why, she left here half a year ago.”

“I thought you were going to marry that girl.”

“She had other ideas. A blacksmith wasn't good enough for her.” He looked at Ned and said, “Not much of a horse.”

“He's a stayer. That's what I like. He needs shoeing, though. I'll leave him with you. Feed him something good. He's had a hard journey.”

“That I'll do.” He took the reins from Claiborn. “What about you, master? What brings you home at long last?”

Claiborn glanced back at him, and a smile touched his broad lips. “Well, I'm thinking about taking a wife.”

“A wife? You? Why, you were made to be a bachelor man! Half the women in this village stare at you when you walk down the street.”

“You boast on my behalf, but even if it was God's own truth, I'd not have just any woman.”

“Ah, I see. So have you got one picked out?”

“Of course! Grace Barclay had my heart when we courted and she has never let it go.”

“Oh, yes, Grace Barclay.” There was a slight hesitation in the blacksmith's speech. He opened his lips again to speak, but then something came over him, and he clamped them together for a moment.

“Ryland, what is it? Grace is well?” Claiborn said, his heart seizing at the look on the blacksmith's face.

“She is well. Still pretty as ever.” Ryland had ceased smiling, and he lifted the reins in his hand. “I best go and take care of the horse. He must have a thirst.”

“As do I. I'll return on the morrow. Give him a good feed too. He's earned it.”

The servants were busy putting the evening meal together, and as he passed into the great hall, Claiborn spoke to many of
them. He was smiling and remembering their names, and they responded to him well. He had always been a favorite with the servants, far more than his brother Edmund, the master of Stoneybrook, and enjoyed his special status. He paused beside one large woman who was pushing out of her clothing and said, “Martha, your shape is more … womanly than when I departed.”

The cook giggled and said, “Away with you now, sir. None of your soldier's ways around here.”

He grinned. “You are expecting a little one. It is nothing shameful, I assume.”

“Shush! Mind that we're in public, sir. Such conversation is unseemly!” Her face softened and she leaned closer. “I married George, you know. A summer past.”

“Well, good for George. With a good woman and a babe on the way, he must be content, indeed. What's for supper?”