Honor in the Dust (39 page)

“I know. But in order to fight an enemy, you must know who he is. An old soldier once told me that.”

Claiborn embraced him. “I'm glad to see you, Son, but it's terrible, you being here.”

“I had to come.” Stuart put his hand on his uncle's shoulder. He saw the man looked bad and that he was ill, so he said, “We'll see you back to health, Uncle Edmund, once you're free from here.”

Edmund stared at him. “You can't free us.”

“God can.”

Claiborn suddenly laughed softly. “Yes, he can, and he'll have to.”

“I don't have much time. Tell me everything that happened. How did the Bibles get into your house? I know you were careful to keep them out in the barn.”

For the next fifteen minutes Claiborn outlined the history. When he finished, Stuart said, “It has to be Ives. Edith found out about the Bibles—perhaps through a servant?—told Ives, and Ives told Wolsey.”

“Yes, and that servant probably helped plant those Bibles in our houses. It wouldn't have been easy with us always about.”

“They betrayed me,” Edmund said dully.

Stuart exchanged glances with his father, and Stuart said quickly, “I'm going to go now, but don't give up. I'll find a way out of this.”

“Be careful.”

“Where's Mother?”

“They didn't arrest her. I don't know why. I imagine she's staying with the Murphys.”

“I'll go and see her.”

“Be careful, Son. The king has eyes everywhere.”

“I will, Father.”

Stuart banged on the door, and the guard let him out.

When he came out into the bright sunlight, he knew he could not wait. He had to do something. His father had told him that Orrick had been released, that he had gone to work for a family to the north of London. He had the family's name. When he got there, still disguised as a monk, he saw Orrick out exercising one of the horses. He went closer and said huskily, “Your name Orrick?”

“Yes, it is. What do you want with me?”

Stuart came closer. “It's me, Orrick—Stuart Winslow.”

Orrick's eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. “Master Winslow, sir! What are you doing here? Don't you know what's happened?”

“I know all about it. I've been to see Father and Sir Edmund. I'm going to get them out of that place, Orrick.”

“That would be a wonderful thing—but how?”

“Somebody betrayed them.”

“It was that Ives, it was, and his mother too, I think. I looked a bit crossways in their direction, and suddenly I was out on my arse. Gave my life to Stoneybrook, and they sent me on my way! How do you like that?”

“Help me, Orrick, and I'll see you get your job back. They didn't act alone. Who do you think helped them?”

“Well, for my part, I think it was Jacob Fowler.”

“Who's he?”

“He's new. Ives hired him some time ago. I never liked him, but he had the run of both houses. It would have been no trouble for him to plant them Bibles.”

“Do you think he did it?”

“I can't prove it. Just a feeling I have. As soon as your father and your uncle were arrested, he quit his position. Suddenly had a thick purse. Bought a fine horse. Fine clothes. Went after lots of fancy women, he did.”

“So you think he was paid to betray my people?”

“That's what I think, but he won't ever own up to it.”

“He may. Where do I find him?”

“Why, he's staying at the Blue Parrot, last I heard.”

“Not a very fancy place.”

“No, he spent all his money. Lost it gambling.”

“Then he may be ready to listen.”

“You really think you can get your father and your uncle out of the Tower?”

“God can.”

Orrick laughed. “You sound like your father! Well, God bless
you, sir. I'll be looking for you, coming to offer me my old position back.”

“I shall, Orrick. And I won't be dressed as a monk when I return.”

The darkness was falling fast now, and Stuart had not found Jacob Fowler. Carrying a sword beneath a robe was awkward, but he had to have a weapon. He was on his way across London Bridge to see if he could locate him in an inn that he had heard the man frequented. It began raining in huge drops that splattered loudly on the road. He pulled his cowl over his head. The rain became visible sheets that swept across the road in front of him.

There was something frightening about the streets to Stuart. He was totally conscious of what would happen if he were caught, but he hoped that his disguise would keep him safe.

He was halfway across the bridge when he heard the clatter of hooves behind him.

He had always been fascinated by London Bridge, but now all he wanted was to pass over it. He glanced at the houses that were built on both sides of the roadway. Most of the houses joined those beside it, but narrow alleys gave access to the lip of the bridge, mostly for the purpose of allowing garbage to be tossed into the Thames. If they had not been there, the bridge would have been wide and easily passed. But the houses were jumbled together in no order whatsoever and rambled along the length of the bridge, some of them two and three stories high.

He glanced up and saw the heads of the traitors stuck on poles, but it was too dark to identify any of them. The rain beat on his face, so he pulled the cowl closer over his head and forged his way through the rain.

The horses were nearing him. He paused when a man called out, “You, there! Stop!”

There was no choice, so Stuart turned and waited.

Soldiers. Stuart muttered a quick prayer.

A sergeant approached. Rain had soaked him through, and he was in a bad humor. “What's your name?”

“Father Francis.”

“Where are you going, out in this foul night?”

“One of our flock is sick. I'm going to visit him.”

“What's his name?”

“That isn't a monk.” One of the soldiers had come forward and was staring at Stuart.

“How do you know that, Simpkins?”

“He's too big and well fed. Look at him. Them monks are all scrawny.”

“Let's see your face.”

The sergeant jerked the hood from Stuart's head. “You don't look like a monk to me.”

Stuart said, “Yes, I am a monk. All you have to do is ask at the monastery.”

“Who's in charge of that monastery? What's his name?”

Stuart knew that he was trapped. Any monk would know the name of the head of the monastery. He had to improvise. “His name is Father Jerome.”

“That's a lie, Sergeant! I know that bunch. Used to live over there. The head of it is a monk named Father Xavier.”

“So why are you dressed like a monk if you are not truly a man of the cloth?”

Stuart whirled and ran down the street. He heard the sergeant yelling, “Catch him! Go get him!” Footsteps pounded behind him. He knew that he would have to outrun his pursuers, but one of the men was even more fleet than himself. He felt a hand grab him and jerk him backward. He fell to the ground. The soldier had drawn his sword. Stuart had no choice. He rolled, regained his feet, and pulled the sword from beneath his robe. He threw himself to the right, but his opponent was
ahead of him. He was an expert swordsman. The blades clashed. Stuart knew he had no time, for the rest were nearly upon them. He dropped the tip of his sword, pretending to retreat, and just as the man lunged at him, uttering a wild cry, he lifted the sword, and the man ran into the blade. Awareness leaped into his eyes, and his mouth opened. He tried to speak, but only blood leaked from his lips as he fell down.

There was no time to hesitate. Stuart's father had told him that, over and over, when they sparred.
If one enemy has been slain, always assume another is behind him. Your life depends on you continuing to move.

The other soldiers were upon him. There was one in front eager to fight. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he yelled, “I've got you now!”

There was only one door open, and Stuart took it. He knew that behind him there was only blackness. He could hear the rushing of the river, and he knew it was flood tide. The water of the Thames rushed between the arches of London Bridge at a frightening speed. Anyone caught in the turbulence of the river would in all probability be battered to death against the sides of the massive arches. But he ran to the down-river side of the bridge.

In the darkness and rain, Stuart had no idea exactly where on the bridge he was. He might be on one of the sections, built of rock and rubble, from which the arches stood. Even if he took his chance and jumped, he might land on one of those and break every bone in his body.

“Come along, man. You're caught!” The sergeant had arrived, his weapon drawn, and his men fanned out, making a semicircle. “Put down your sword.”

It was hopeless. As they edged in, Stuart knew he had only one choice. Without a word, he launched himself out into the darkness.

As he turned in the air, he heard the cries of the men above.

“Now he's done it! Get to the bank!”

He heard the whistling of the wind, and spread his arms and half-bent his knees. Down he plunged through the darkness. His mind raced.
If I die, my father and my uncle will die. God, keep me alive so that I can help them!

He had time only for those few words, and then the darkness and the water swallowed him.

The dark water made a rushing sound, but it was silenced as Stuart struck the surface and was sucked under. He landed on his back, and the blow made him expel his breath, so that when he went under he nearly suffocated. The water seized him. He expected at any moment to be bashed against the pillars that held up the bridge.

Fighting his way to the surface, he gasped at the air and thrashed in the water, which rushed madly along. He was a good swimmer. When he got his breath back, he began pulling straight for the shore. The force of the water lessened, and he reached the rocks without any problem. He climbed out through the mud, the stench of the raw sewage that made up a great deal of the Thames making him gag. Now the monk's robe that he wore did nothing to keep the cold air from him. He had lost his sword.

He made a quick prayer of thanks. “Thank you, Lord, for not letting me die in that river. Now guide my steps.” He huddled beneath some bushes, seeking to avoid some of the rain that pelted him and stay out of sight in case the guards chose to search for him. Apparently they considered him dead and gone, however, for the river remained silent. He shivered uncontrollably but persuaded himself to wait until most of London had
gone to bed before he made his way to his lodging. A soaked monk roaming the streets of London at midnight might draw unwanted attention.

Hours later he reached the inn, crept inside, and climbed the stairs. When he got inside his room, he threw off the wet, heavy robe with a sigh of relief and toweled himself down with an extra blanket. He lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over him, his mind working rapidly.
I must find Jacob Fowler!
he thought.
Right after I meet my contact and hand off the Bibles.

He drifted off then into an unsettled sleep in which he dreamed of fast, dark rivers and men with swords.