Honor in the Dust (15 page)

“Never, nor has anyone else. Not with a yew bow.” He looked at the bow as if there was some magic in it. He ran his hands over the smooth curve of it and studied it in wonder.

“Well done, Son! Well done. The king would be interested in a bow like this.”

Stuart's eyes lit up. “Do you really think so?”

“I certainly do.”

“I'm going to make an even better one, now that I've become accustomed to gluing, and then perhaps one day we can show it to the king.”

Claiborn smiled. “Come on. Let's go and see if this arrow does as well shooting hares as it does on distance.”

“You there, boy. I want you to go pick up a load of hay from Sir John Walsh. You know where he lives?” Edmund frowned.

“No, sir.”

“You don't know Old Sodbury manor?”

“I know where that is,” Claiborn said.

“Well, I don't want you to go. Tell him how to get there.
Stuart, pick up the hay and tell him I'll send the money over tomorrow.”

“I'll be glad to go for it, Edmund,” Claiborn said.

“I wouldn't trust you. You'd drink it all up.”

“I'll go get the hay and bring it back,” Stuart said, swallowing the words he wished to say. It was no use arguing with Uncle Edmund. Best to do what was necessary and be done with him as soon as possible.

“And be sure you don't stop at a tavern on the way and chase after some wench!”

Stuart ignored him and went to hitch up the wagon.

Edmund told Claiborn, “You're wasting your time teaching that boy to read Latin. He'll never be anything but a hostler or something like that.”

“Perhaps something more than that, Brother. And he'll be able to read our Bible. That's worth something to even a hostler.”

“You,” Edmund sneered. “You call yourself a Christian.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You know what you did to me. You ruined my life.”

“I've apologized over and over, Edmund. You know I've always regretted bringing pain to you.”

“You don't truly regret it.” Edmund cursed and shook his head.

Claiborn said, “It's true. I don't regret marrying for love. But I will tell you again, Brother, that I'm very sorry for hurting you. And I'm grateful for your permission to stay at Stoneybrook. It's your kindness that gives my family a home and a place to work.”

Edmund stared at Claiborn for a long moment. “Get to work,” he grunted, then turned around and walked away.

Stuart got lost on the way to Old Sodbury manor, but after asking three different people for directions, finally found the proper road.

Seeing nobody in the yard, he walked up to the door and knocked sharply.

A young girl stood there. She had the lightest hair he had ever seen, yellow as gold, and a pair of eyes almost as blue as his own.

“I-I've come to pick up a load of hay,” he stammered, “for Lord Edmund Winslow.”

“Oh, begging your pardon, but my uncle isn't here. He'll be back shortly, I'm sure.”

“I'll wait out here, then.”

“You've driven all the way from Stoneybrook?”

“Yes, miss, I have.”

“Well, you must be hot and hungry. Come in. I've been baking today. How would some fresh bread and a bit of mutton sound to you?”

Stuart smiled suddenly. “That sounds like a bit of heaven.”

“Well, then, come in. What's your name?”

“Stuart Winslow.”

“I'm Heather Evans. Come along.”

Stuart smiled when they entered the kitchen. “That smells better than anything I can think of. Fresh-baked bread!”

“Sit down there, and I'll cut you some of this mutton.” She sliced him a healthy portion and then took a loaf from a cooling pan and sliced off the end of it. “Here's some fresh butter, if you'd like it.”

“Who wouldn't like fresh butter on fresh bread? Aren't you going to eat, Miss Evans?”

“No, I've already eaten. I'll just have something to drink here while you eat. Can you drink cider?”

“I don't know. I've never had any.”

She stared at him. “You've never had cider?”

“No, miss. What is it?”

“It's made from apples.”

“I love apples.”

“Well, you'll like cider then. I'll have to go down to the cellar to get it. It stays cool down there. You go ahead and eat.”

As she left, he noticed her trim figure and wondered how old she was. Not as old as himself.

Probably about twelve, I guess. Going to be pretty when she grows up.
He took his knife, sliced off bites of the mutton, and spread butter on the fresh bread.

Heather came back with a pitcher, poured him a mugful, and said, “Try your first taste of cider.”

Stuart tasted it, and his eyes opened wide. “That's the best thing I ever had to drink in my life!”

Heather laughed. “I'm glad you think so. I helped make it.”

“You're the young lady of the house?”

“Not really. I'm the niece of Sir John. I live here with him and his family.”

Stuart held back from asking about her own family, but she supplied the information anyway. “My mother died some time ago, and my father travels. He's Sir John's brother. So he leaves me here, and Mr. Tyndale educates me along with my uncle's two sons.”

Stuart finished the mutton and would have eaten more, which she offered, but he thought it might be greedy. “I will take some more of that cider, miss. It sure is good.”

Heather poured the cider, and then began to draw from him some of his own story.

Heather had heard of the Winslow family, of course. She had seen Lord Winslow, and she had heard tales of a younger brother who had gone bad. And this was his son.
He is so handsome and doesn't even seem to know it,
Heather thought. She soon found out that his father, once a soldier, had been injured and that his mother's name was Grace.

And then she remembered the old story about how Lord Edmund had been engaged to Grace but the younger brother and the woman had fallen in love and they had fled the country.

She was ready to hear more about it, at first hand—from their son!—when Mr. Tyndale came through the garden gate.

A tall man entered the kitchen, and Heather said, “Mr. Tyndale, this is Stuart Winslow. Stuart, this is Mr. William Tyndale. He's the scholar who teaches the children of the house.”

Stuart stood up at once.

“I'm happy to know you, Master Winslow.”

“And I you, sir.”

“You live close?”

“At Stoneybrook. Lord Edmund Winslow is my uncle.”

“Oh, yes, I believe I've met him.”

“Won't you sit down and have something to eat?” Heather asked. “We have fresh mutton and fresh bread. Stuart can tell you whether it's good or not.”

“Oh, sir, it's very good, and I've never had any cider before. I wonder if they drink cider in heaven.”

“I'm not sure about that. In any case, I will have something to eat. I'm rather hungry.”

“Sit down, sir. I'll fix you a plate.”

The tall man sat down, and he began to question Stuart in almost the same manner as Heather had. But the subject matter was different.

“Are you a follower of Jesus, Master Winslow?”

“Yes, sir, I think I am.”

Tyndale smiled. “Well, surely you know what you think about Jesus Christ.”

“My father is a Christian and my mother and my grandmother.”

“Well, that's good. I'm happy to hear it. But what about you?”

“I try to be a good man.”

“We all try that, I suppose.”

Stuart was trying desperately to think of something that he could offer the man, and then an inspiration came. “I can read
the Latin Bible.” He saw this caught Tyndale's attention. His eyes suddenly brightened and he said, “I read it every night.”

“How did you learn to read Latin?”

“My father taught me. I'm not very good at it, but I'm learning.”

“What do you read, Stuart?”

“Oh, just the Bible. That's the only book we have.”

“Well, that's a good book.”

“Mr. Tyndale knows all about the Bible. He knows more than the priests!” Heather exclaimed.

“You mustn't say that, child. That would offend the priests greatly. What part of the Bible do you favor most, Stuart?”

“I like the stories in the Old Testament about King David and Samson and the old warriors of God.”

“Yes, a young man would be drawn to that. Are you interested in fencing and that sort of thing?”

“Oh, yes! My father's teaching me.”

“So he's teaching you to read the Bible and to handle a sword. That is most intriguing.”

Heather had brought the food, and for a while William Tyndale ate in silence. Finally he asked, “Do you know the most shameful thing about the Bible?”

“Shameful? I didn't think anything was shameful about the Bible.”

“Well, it's not about the Bible. More about its current form.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Tyndale?”

“I mean it's in Latin. How many Englishmen do you know who can read Latin? How many Frenchmen, for that matter, or Germans? The only people able to read Latin are the priests, and the pope has said that they are the only ones who are capable of understanding it—which I think is wrong.”

“I think so too,” Stuart said eagerly. “Why, I understand a lot of it.”

“Do you? Tell me something you undertsand.”

“Well, the Bible says that God made everything. That's the first verse, and I believe that.”

“Good for you, young Winslow! You're on your way.”

Tyndale finished the last of his meal and sat there talking until Heather's two cousins came in. They were reluctant scholars. Tyndale laughed. “Come on. I must pound something into your wooden little heads.” He put his hand out. “I'll be expecting to hear more from you about this Bible you read. You know, some day the Bible will be in English, and every farmer will be able to read it for himself. Come back again, and we'll talk. And I'd like to meet your parents.”

“Would you come and visit us, sir?”

“I will do that as soon as I can. You may expect me.” He herded the boys into the next room for their lessons.

As soon as he was gone, Stuart said, “I've never met such an engaging and knowledgeable fellow. You're lucky, having him as a tutor.”

“Indeed. The priests don't like him, though.”

“I can see why. He's trespassing on their ground.”

She stared at him. “What does that mean?”

“I don't know. It's just a thing people say.”

Twenty minutes later Sir John came in, and as soon as Heather had explained the presence of the young man, Walsh said, “Oh, yes. Come along. I'll show you where the hay is. I'll have my man help you load it.”

“Sir Edmund said he'd send the money over tomorrow.”

“That will be fine.”

Stuart loaded the hay, and it did not take long with the help that he received. He went back then to thank Heather. “It was as good a meal as I've ever had.”

She smiled at him, and he said suddenly, “You're going to have lots of suitors, Miss Evans. Some day they'll be lined up just to touch your hand.”

“Where did you learn such fine sayings? You sound as though you've been at court.”

“Oh, no! I've never have been at court. My grandmother tells me they say things like that. In any case, thanks for the cider and for the mutton.”

“Come back and see us. Mr. Tyndale will be looking for you.”

“It's hard for me to get away, but I'll do the best I can. Goodbye, miss.”

“Please call me Heather.”

“Good-bye, then, Heather.” He smiled, hesitated, and then she put out her hand. He took it and felt its warmth.

“Come back and visit,” she repeated softly.

“I'll do that.”

All the way home he thought about two things—William Tyndale and Heather Evans—in very different lights. She was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long time, and when she got to womanhood she would be a dream. And William Tyndale was a man of the mind such as he had never met.