Honor in the Dust (14 page)

“That hasn't happened yet, has it?” Claiborn said.

“No, but for now, you are servant and I, master. And you, Claiborn,” he sneered, “have crossed the line.”

“You crossed the line when you dared to strike my son. You will not do it again.”

His words plainly infuriated Ives, who went to draw his sword. At once Claiborn pulled a knife from his belt. He did not threaten Ives with it. He simply held it in his hands.

Ives stared at him; everyone at Stoneybrook knew Claiborn Winslow was an expert with every sort of blade. He swallowed hard, rammed the sword home, and glared at Claiborn.

“Second thoughts are usually best,” Claiborn said mildly.

Ives's eyes narrowed. “You'll hear from Lord Edmund about this!”

“I'm sure I will, but mark my words, if you ever touch my son again, know that it will be most unpleasant for you. Regardless of what Edmund thinks.”

Ives walked away, his back stiff.

The entire incident frightened Stuart. “What—what will happen when Uncle Edmund hears about it? Lady Edith?”

“I don't know, but it wasn't your fault, Son. I saw the whole thing. Pay it no mind.”

“I can get the horse now. She'll settle eventually if you don't chase after her.”

“Good idea.”

He watched as Stuart moved after the horse, quietly approaching her. When he was ten feet away, Stuart stood still, and after a moment the mare came over to sniff his hand. He took the reins, patted her on the cheekbone, and whispered to her.

Claiborn knew that Edmund's reaction would be severe. He was well aware that it was only his mother who stood between himself and his brother. If it were not for Lady Leah, he would not even be here. He would not have a home to offer Grace and Stuart. But would she be enough to keep Edmund at bay for long?

Edmund was not a fool. Claiborn was valuable to Stoneybrook, even though he was not the man he once was. He cost nothing, for Lady Leah paid all his expenses, and his expertise in falconry might one day bring Stoneybrook glory—and financial gain.

“The boy could be useful too,” Edmund muttered, staring at the empty doorway through which Ives had just passed. He knew the man tended to embellish things.

Rising, he left the castle and sought Orrick, who had seen the whole thing. Regardless of how it had unfolded, Claiborn had no right to threaten one of his men. He charged down to the mews, where he found his brother.

“You drew your knife on Ives! What were you thinking, sir?”

“I took it in my hand, yes. He was pulling his sword out, and I had to defend myself.”

Edmund glared at Claiborn and felt once again that which he had often felt, envy of his younger brother. Envy had always been there, for Claiborn had the romance, the daring, the ability that he himself lacked. He only had the fact that he was the elder brother. He made a lot of noisy threats, but when he turned away, he felt defeated.

Father Gibbons, the parish priest, came to visit Edmund, Edith, and Leah. A fat man, he never refused any of the food Stoney-brook's fine cooks set before him. He listened carefully as Edmund talked about his brother.

“He's not the man he used to be. He limps, and he hasn't gained his strength back, but I will say this for him—he knows hawks. My, how that man knows hawks! Mark my words, Father, one of these days we'll have birds that even the king himself will envy.”

“I remember your brother. He was very literate, if I remember.”

“Oh, yes, he can read Latin.”

This surprised Father Gibbons. “Read Latin? Who tutored him?”

“Oh, all the tutors we brought in schooled him in the subject. He proved more adept at it than I. Somewhere, amid his travels as a soldier, he even obtained a Bible. He reads out of it to his family.”

“That's unseemly!” Edith said. She, Ives, and Lady Leah were sitting across the table from the two men. “It should be stopped.”

Father Gibbons nodded his agreement. “I'll have a word with him.”

“Oh, that would be useless,” Ives grunted. “He's a violent man and a rebel. Would you believe he pulled his knife on me the other day?”

Lady Leah shifted in her seat. “I believe that's a gross exaggeration.”

But the priest leaned forward. “I am shocked. I'm sure he was properly chastised.”

“No, my husband doesn't believe in such things,” Edith said. “He let him off with just a warning. As if that will do any good!”

Sir Edmund said, “I told him that if he ever made a move like that again with a knife or anything else, he would wind up in the stocks!”

Father Gibbons did not comment again, but the next day he went to visit Claiborn and his family. Invited in for a glass of ale, he said almost in passing, “I understand you read Latin.”

“Yes, I do. It's a fascinating language, isn't it, Father?”

“How does it happen that you read it?”

“As a child, I had one tutor in particular who was a Latin scholar. I was interested in some of the Latin poets, so he taught me to read Latin.”

“I don't suppose you've read the Bible?”

“Oh, yes. I have a Latin Bible.”

“I trust that you don't use it for the wrong purpose.”

“I don't understand you, Father. What sort of wrong purpose?”

“Well, you are aware of the church's position, that the Holy Father believes that only a priest can understand the Bible.”

“I respectfully disagree. I believe I understand it.”

As soon as Gibbons left, Grace said, “What a pompous man! Probably ignorant himself of everything that's not spoonfed by the pope!”

“Be careful how you speak of the pope, Grace. People have been put in stocks for less than that.”

“I know, but I'm glad you're teaching Stuart Latin. Now he can read the Word of God for himself.”

“I wish every believer could read the scripture for himself, but that day will be long coming. I understand the king has changed his mind.”

“About what, Claiborn?”

“He was interested at one time in having the Bible translated into English, but the talk is now that he's decided that would be dangerous.” He laughed suddenly. “Think of it, Grace! The Bible, dangerous! What a foolish thing to believe. Everyone should have the right to read the Word of God!”

Claiborn ran the plane along the length of clear maple and watched as a tiny curl of the wood rose up and fell to the ground. “This is a fine tool. I think my grandfather must have made it. It's been in the family as long as I can remember.”

“Was he a carpenter too?” Stuart asked.

“A very accomplished craftsman. People came from miles around to persuade him to make things for them, but he only made new things that challenged him. He said he grew tired of making the same thing twice.”

The two were in the shed that Claiborn had converted into a shop. Along with Latin lessons and instruction on falconry and weaponry, he was teaching Stuart how to use tools.

Claiborn watched as Stuart took the plane and moved it carefully. He thought how quickly the two years had passed. Stuart was now eighteen, no longer the thin boy who had come to Stoneybrook. And he was only a shade shorter than Claiborn himself. The shoulders had broadened, the muscles in the arms had grown not bulky but sleek and sinewy, giving the boy speed and grace in his movement.

“I've got something I want to show you, Father.”

“You've been keeping secrets.”

Stuart grinned. His skin was tanned from the outdoor air,
and there was a healthy look to his face, a glow. His eyes were the same blue as Claiborn's, but there was something almost magical about Stuart's eyes. They sometimes seemed to sparkle when he was excited or angry.

“What is this thing you've got now?”

“I'll show you.”

The young man moved aside a piece of canvas and brought out a bow. “Here it is.”

Claiborn took the bow and examined it. It was as smooth as anything he had ever seen. “You put a fine finish on this.” He looked at it more closely. “What are these lines? I don't understand what you've done here.”

“Well, you know when you take a piece of yew and make a bow out of it, that's the best bow that any man could make, the best wood, wouldn't you say, Father?”

“Yes, I believe so. Well, this is yew, but these darker streaks, what's that?”

“Ironwood. You see what I've done? What I thought was this. Bows made out of yew are flexible, but they're not as strong as some other woods. But woods that are strong are so stiff that they would shatter when crafted into a bow.”

“So what did you do?”

“I sawed thin strips of different kinds of wood—mostly ironwood and yew but some maple too—and I glued them together.”

“How did you learn to do that?”

“I went down to the cabinetmaker. He does it all the time. There are tiny pins that go all the way through. You see this? That's an ironwood peg. I drilled the hole and I put the glue on it that the carpenter showed me how to make and I let it set.”

“Well, what's the advantage of it?”

Stuart grinned. “I'll show you. Here, string it up, Father.”

Taking the linen string that Stuart handed him, Claiborn looped it over the notch at one end of the bow, turned the bow
the other way, and put his foot beside it. He began to push the bow down. A look of amazement came over his face. “Why, this is impressively strong!”

“Very strong. It takes a good man just to string it.”

Claiborn pushed down the upper part of the bow and managed to slip the loop on the free end of the string into the upper notch. The bow was strung.

“Now let's go outside. Here's an arrow.”

Stuart said, “Shoot it as far as you can.”

“All right.” Claiborn tilted the bow at a forty-five-degree angle. When he pulled back he had to strain. He released the string and watched the arrow. It climbed and arced, and Claiborn was amazed to see how far it had gone.

“Have you ever shot an arrow that far, Father?”