Honor in the Dust (27 page)

“There's a poor young girl who's being persecuted by a villain. He's threatened to harm her if she doesn't give in to him. We're going to give him a little lesson in chivalry.” He smiled and said, “Not going to stab him through the heart. Just, you might call it, an encouragement to leave the poor young woman alone.”

“Sounds like it might be interesting, Peter.”

“It's like something Arthur's knights would do.”

Stuart hesitated. He wanted to join them, but something told him not to. “Unfortunately, I have other plans this eve.”

“Oh, well. If you change your mind, let us know.”

“I shall.” Later, when he saw Charles, he told him of the offer.

“Better stay away from fellows like that. They're going to get into trouble and bad trouble at that.”

“I didn't plan to go.”

“Best thing all around.”

Stuart never did understand at what point he changed his mind. Perhaps because he was half-drunk, or perhaps he was angry with the king and wanted some action. Perhaps he wanted to belong to this group of young men, who seemed to have such a fine time. He had a horse, weapons. They were friendly fellows.
For whatever reason, he found Morton in the great hall and said, “Peter, I've changed my mind. I'll go with you tonight.”

Morton's face lit up. “Good! Be ready at about dusk. We'll all meet by the eastern gate.”

“I'll be there.”

“Remember. Bring a fast horse and come armed. The fellow isn't likely to cause any trouble, but you never can tell. There are lots of brigands roaming these hills at night.”

“I'll bring my sword.”

Excitement grew within him, and by the time dusk came and he had drawn his horse, he was ready for an adventure. He rode to the eastern gate, where he found Morton and four other young men. They all greeted him by name, for everyone knew the king's bird master. They were all in their early twenties and all well dressed.

“Have you brought a mask?” Morton said.

“No, I haven't.”

“Well, we'll find one for you.”

“Why do we have to wear masks? Let the villain see who we are!”

“You never know what you might run into,” said Clive Beason, a muscular young man with a broad grin. “We're going to have a good time tonight. Just like the knights of old.”

Morton rode out, and the rest followed him. They went to an inn outside London. “What are we stopping here for, Peter?”

“Well, this is thirsty work. We're going to have a bit to drink, and we'll see what action we can get here.”

The action that they got there proved to be getting half-drunk and some dalliance with the local harlot. This went on until rather late, and finally Stuart said, “Peter, I didn't come out here to get drunk and to chase around after harlots.”

“You're right. Let's go, men.” He got up, swaying a bit. All of them were drunk except for Stuart.

They mounted up and rode for half an hour, but only managed
to get themselves lost. The moon shed its silver beams on the landscape and as they found the road again one of the men said, “Look, here comes a courier.”

“That's Samuel Marshall. He comes along this road every night about this time, and he always has money.”

“He isn't alone this time.”

“Let's take them. We'll see what Marshall's got in his pouch. Maybe some juicy love letters from the king himself.”

Stuart was alarmed. “We don't need to be doing that. Let's get about our business.”

“Right after we stop these fellows and shake them down,” Morton said. “Come on, men.”

The four rode forward. Stuart followed reluctantly. He watched as they stopped the two riders and then was alarmed when he saw a brawl break out. Morton drew his sword and pierced the courier. The other man immediately turned and fled.

Hurrying forward, Stuart bent over the wounded man and said, “This fellow is dying.”

“We have to get out of here,” Peter said. “Come on.”

“You can't just leave him here.”

Even as he spoke, they heard horses coming. “It's the night guard,” Morton shouted. “Come on! Get away!”

They all fled except Stuart. He remained, trying to staunch the blood that poured from the man's chest.

“Whoa! What are you doing here?” boomed a large man. “What's wrong with that man?”

“He's been hurt. We must get him to a doctor.”

The leader came forward and said, “That's Marshall. He's carrying the gold for the king's purpose.”

“Well, it's gone now,” another said in disgust. “This fellow's dying.”

Stuart rose, shaking. “He's dead already.”

The leader said sternly, “You are under arrest for robbery and murder of the king's man. That makes it treason.”

His words seemed to ring in Stuart's ear like a funeral dirge. He tried to explain. “But I wasn't even part—”

“You'll have your day in court, but I'll tell you one thing,” the leader said harshly. “You've killed a popular man here and robbed the king's treasury. You're apt to be hanged, drawn, and quartered! Tie him up and put him on his horse.”

A numbness came over Stuart Winslow. He thought,
What a blasted fool I've been! I should have had better sense. But surely it will come out all right
.

He would explain how it all happened. Instantly he recognized that none of Peter Morton's men were likely to stand by him. They would not want to bear the punishment of this terrible crime. He alone would bear it.

Stuart was dreaming of emerald-green fields and flowers the color of Heather's eyes. He was lying in a field, and overhead he saw a beautiful sky across which fleecy clean clouds moved with infinite grace … but something brushed against his face. It disturbed the beauty of the dream, and he reached up with one hand to brush it away.

Something clamped down on his hand. He uttered a shrill cry, opened his eyes, and there by the feeble light of the single candle was a huge rat! Stuart's entire body froze. The rat looked up at him and bared yellow teeth and twitched a scaly tail.

Stuart yelled and knocked the ugly creature away, but the rats had learned boldness in the prison. It came charging back at him. Stuart kicked at it, missed, and the rat bit into his ankle.

Stuart picked up a bucket, the only thing he had for a weapon. It was full of waste. He brought it down on the rat. The bucket hit it on the neck, and it squealed but continued its attack. Again and again Stuart raised the bucket, using the edge of it as a weapon. The waste matter sloshed all over him, but he struck the rat until the filthy creature was dead.

With a shudder of revulsion, Stuart picked up the rat by the scaly tail and dropped it into the bucket. He put it as far away as
he could from the sleeping mat, which was not far from him in the eight-foot cell.

The stench was overwhelming.

For two weeks Stuart had been in the cell, and he still was not used to the horrible odors of confinement. And now his own waste covered his hair and clothes. He dropped his head into trembling hands.

“Oh, God,” he cried out, “why am I in this awful place? Have you forgotten me, God?”

This was typical of Stuart's prayers during his incarceration. He called out to God, sometimes bitter, other times pleading for help, but the result was the same. None of the prayers, no matter what their tone, were at all effective.

He rose and paced the floor, a a short distance in the narrow cell.
Back and forth, take three steps, the last shorter than the others, turn, and repeat until you reach the other wall.
It made no difference whether he had his eyes open or shut, so well did he know this cell.

He had been in prison now for only two weeks, but it seemed like a millennium to him. The stone blocks that made up the cell were damp, and it seemed to Stuart that into their porous fiber had soaked the misery of the poor wretches who had been confined within their stony walls. The stones were clammy and the floors were damp, and he had not been warm in the two weeks he had been there. He had one thin blanket, which he wore constantly draped around his neck, but it did little to cut the awful chill that seemed to emanate from the stones and seep all the way down into his bones.

As he walked back and forth, it occurred to Stuart that worse than the terrible odors, worse even than the rats or the fleas, was the boredom of the cell, from which there was absolutely no break. No books, no paper, no ink to write with, nothing to see. There were no windows in the cell. He thought at times that he would lose his mind just sitting
there hour after hour after hour with no one to talk to, no one to listen to him.

The guards came twice a day and brought his food, such as it was. Most of them were hardened to the plight of the prisoners. There was one, however, Alfred Jennings, who had been, for some reason, kind to him. When Stuart had mentioned how awful it was to sit there in the dark, Jennings had said nothing, but the next time he came he brought a small sack. “I thought you might like these, Winslow.”

“What is it, Master Jennings?”

“It's the stubs of candles. When they burn pretty low, we replace them. Might be a little bit of cheer for you.”

Stuart's throat had grown thick at the unexpected kindness. “Thank you, Master Jennings. It will make a difference.”

Indeed, the small candles, most of them less than an inch long, were a godsend. Stuart lit a dying light with another stub. They cast a feeble yellow glow over the cell, and even though there was nothing to read except the scratched dates and names of prisoners, at least it wasn't total darkness. He wondered how many prisoners had sat in this cell, how many had gone into eternity swinging from a noose or kneeling to place their head on the block for the headsman to finish the job.

Such thoughts were not unusual for him, and finally he walked until he was tired. He sat down on what was really nothing but a length of sackcloth sewn up on one side and stuffed with straw years before. Every time Stuart sat on it, tiny fragments would rise like dust, getting into his eyes and nose.

For a long time he sat there, counting the stones of his prison. There was no plan, no regular size for the stones. He knew well that there were a hundred and twelve stones in the inner wall, a hundred and twenty-three in the outer wall, and one of the short walls had one hundred and four and the other ninety-five.

There was little sound, for the stone soaked up anything that
came from the outside. Stuart would have given anything to have heard the song of a bird or the barking of an excited dog, but nothing like that seemed likely to happen in here. Finally he leaned his head back against the wall and engaged himself in his favorite game. He went over his life as far back in his memory as he could reach. He had done this before and had thought over every moment of his past—or so he thought—but he had been shocked by how much had come out of some deep place in his soul where memories lingered as guests of his spirit.

Some of the memories were good, some were bad—and some were shameful. He thought of people he hadn't seen for years, and suddenly he thought of an incident that had taken place when he had been no more than eleven or twelve years old, just emerging from childhood. There had been a girl named Cassie. He couldn't remember her last name, but he could conjure up her face. She had red hair and green eyes with small flecks in them. They had been friends, for her family had lived nearby. He remembered that they had taken a shortcut through the woods beside Stoneybrook and finally come upon a stream that curved into a pool, where you could see the silver flashes of minnows as they scooted along the sandy bottom.

Cassie had said, “Let's go swimming.”

“Are you daft, girl? It's getting onto autumn now.”

“Don't be such a baby.” She had started taking off her dress, and he remembered staring at her in consternation.

“What are you doing?”

“Going swimming. Get your clothes off, boy.”