Honor in the Dust (40 page)

Jacob Fowler opened his eyes painfully as a ray of bright sunshine struck him in the face. It was almost like a red-hot iron passing from temple to temple. He moaned softly, held his head, and thought of the previous night—or tried to think. All he could remember was that he had been enormously drunk and a harlot had appeared from nowhere. Not an unusual sort of evening.

Rolling out of his bed, he went across the room to where he kept his scanty store of cash behind a loose board in the wall. Moving the board, he found the small leather sack there and breathed a sigh of relief. He emptied the sack, fingered the coins for a moment, and then whispered, “I must do something soon.” He'd be out of money within days.

He dressed quickly, trying to ignore his headache, then sneaked out the back way so that the innkeeper wouldn't see him. He was hungry, but he had no money to spare for food.

All morning he waited outside the office of the chancellor. At length he saw Ives Hardcastle come out. Ives was wearing a rich robe, and there was a satisfied look of prosperity about him.

Fowler went up to him quickly and said, “Mr. Hardcastle—”

“What do you want, Fowler?”

The brevity of the reply told Fowler much of Hardcastle's feelings. The man never had a kind word for anyone. But Fowler forced himself to be pleasant. “I tell you, sir, I'm in need of employment.” He winked and went on, “Sure there must be something useful you can find for me to do.”

Hardcastle stared at the man in disdain. “There's nothing now, Fowler. I'll send for you should I need you.”

The words were like a dash of cold water, and anger welled up in Fowler. He wanted to shout,
You weren't so cold when you needed me!
But he knew it was useless. So he left the court and returned to his lodging.

He spent the day trying to borrow money, with no success. The money that he had received from Hardcastle on the last job had vanished; how it had all drained away quite mystified him. Late that afternoon he went into an inn and began to drink. When darkness fell he left with a bottle. He had only two coins left in his purse and had not eaten a bite. To make things worse, when he got back to his inn, he was apprehended by the innkeeper, a man half a head taller than himself, who said gruffly, “It's your last night here. I'll be putting you out come morning if I don't get paid.”

Fowler wanted to smash the man's face, but the innkeeper was too burly for that. He ducked his head, mumbled in agreement, and stumbled to his room. For a long time he sat in the single chair trying desperately to think what to do. His only choice was to return to Bristol, where his brother had a small ironworks. He hated his brother, and the feeling was returned with interest, but he knew his brother would take him in for the simple pleasure of tormenting him. Undoubtedly he'd put him to the dirtiest work possible and force him to live in squalor.

He picked up the clay bottle and tilted it, but it was long
empty. He threw it across the room in a fit of anger and it smashed on the wall.
What else can I do? I'll starve if I stay in this cursed England.

A knock sounded, and he looked up, startled and wary. He picked up a knife from the table and pulled it from the sheath. Opening the door, he peered out to see a well-dressed man standing in the dim hallway. “What is it? What do you want?”

“A matter of business,” the man answered quietly. Fowler saw that his visitor was in his late twenties and had a pair of steady blue eyes. A thought crossed Fowler's mind.
Ives Hard-castle sent him. He's had a change of mind.
The finery the man wore signaled that he was someone high in the social realm. Fowler pulled the door back. “Come in,” he said, and stepped back.

The tall man entered and waited as Fowler shut the door and walked over to the small table to set down the knife.

“What can I do for you?”

“It's a business matter.”

“Business? Did Hardcastle send you?”

A smile touched the man's lips, and his eyes grew watchful. “You might say that,” he said. There was something in the man's manner that baffled Fowler. He could not place him. Had never seen him as far as he knew.

“Well, what do you want? Is there a job in it?”

“You didn't do too well on your last venture with Ives Hardcastle, did you now, Jacob?”

Instantly Fowler grew wary. What's that to you?” he demanded.

“How much did he pay you for planting the evidence and testifying against Sir Edmund and his brother?”

Fowler's hand darted to the dagger. He had known when he had put the Bibles in the house and castle and then lied to the chief investigator that he was taking a chance, but Ives Hardcastle had assured him that there would be no defenders.
“Get out of here,” he said hoarsely. “I did my duty and that was all.”

Jacob's visitor ignored the dagger in his hand. “Couldn't have been more than forty or fifty crowns for a job like that. Am I right, Jacob? And that's all been spent, hasn't it?”

“I don't know what you're going on about, man. Leave me,” Fowler growled. He made his living by doing the bidding of those above him, usually doing the dirty jobs they didn't care to touch with their dainty white hands. Since he saw the man before him making no threat, Fowler began to wonder if there might be something in it. He demanded, “What do you want?”

“My name is Winslow.”

He's come to kill me for lying about his father and uncle and putting them in the Tower!

Fowler slashed out with the knife, intending to land it against Winslow's throat. Two things happened. Fowler never actually saw either of them; he just saw the result. The man was holding a long, thin dagger in front of his face. Fowler had not even seen him move. Next he felt a powerful, sharp blow on his arm. His fingers went numb. His own knife fell to the floor. Then the cold steel of the man's blade was against his throat.

“Don't—kill me,” he begged. “Please don't kill me.”

“It would be easy enough to do, and to be honest, it was in my mind when I came here.” But then the dagger disappeared. “It wouldn't profit me to see you dead, Jacob,” Winslow said in a conversational tone. “So how would you like to make two hundred golden crowns?”

Jacob Fowler stopped breathing for a moment. Greed replaced his fear. “Two hundred golden crowns? For doing what?”

“Why, for helping me get my father and my uncle out of the Tower and back in their rightful places.”

“I can't help you with that,” Fowler whispered uncertainly.

“As a matter of fact, you are the only one who can. It was
your testimony that put them there along with your evidence. You did plant the evidence, didn't you, Jacob?”

“Never! It's a lie!”

“Oh, come now, Jacob. It's just the two of us here. No matter what you say, you can't be charged.” Winslow leaned forward a little, and Jacob noted that his eyes were gleaming. “I could kill you. That's what many sons would do to a man who has done what you've done to my father. But I'd rather consider another route. Hardcastle didn't treat you too well, did he? Didn't pay you very much. Now it's all gone. There he is, the new master of one of the finest estates in the country, wearing gold rings, eating the best food, sleeping in a fine, soft bed. And you received a few measly coins while he gets all of that. There's no justice in it, is there, Jacob?”

Fowler was almost mesmerized by Winslow's reasoning and by the image of two hundred golden crowns. He looked around the room and then said, “All right. I'll say this here but nowhere else. Hardcastle hired me to do the job, but he told me that it wasn't all a lie. He said that the Winslows have some connection with William Tyndale, so I just fancied up the story a bit for the chief investigator.”

“If my uncle and father should be released from prison and their property is returned to them, they could do a great deal for you.”

“Yes, they could have me hanged!”

“But suppose I explain to them that it was due to Jacob Fowler that they had been released from the Tower and had regained their rightful places. That it all had been a terrible and honest mistake. My uncle might go even better than two hundred gold crowns—perhaps three or even four. And you're not getting any younger, Jacob. You're in need of a profession.”

“What kind of a profession?” Jacob demanded.

“Oh, I would think perhaps marrying a wealthy widow might
be along your line. You're not a bad-looking fellow, but there's no courting a wealthy woman wearing those clothes and with your hair like that. A man must have an appearance to make an impression. I might even wager that you most likely know such a woman—do you now?”

As a matter of fact, Fowler did know such a woman. She'd had three husbands and was plain almost to the point of ugliness, but she had money, lots of it. Furthermore, she seemed to be open to a bit of romancing. Why, with a fine suit of clothes, maybe riding up on a fine horse, a little sweet talking—Widow Hoskins could be his! And after he married, there would be ready money for girls and drink, and the woman would just have to keep her mouth shut. That's how it was with wives. He had thought of Widow Hoskins more than once, but there seemed little chance of winning her, not when other suitors had so much more with which to tempt her.

Now he said craftily, “I might be knowing a woman such as that, but a lot of good it'll do me if I'm hanged for lying to the king's man.”

Winslow smiled reassuringly and said, “Do as I say, Jacob. You'll be all right. You shall have your widow. I shall have my father and my uncle out, and we'll have Stoneybrook.” Stuart paused, and Fowler watched the blue eyes narrow and turn ice-cold. “The only one who will lose will be Ives Hard-castle.”

“I wouldn't mind that,” Fowler said wolfishly. “Not a bit of it! Now, Master Winslow, you tell me all about this plan of yours.”

The wind was shifting in the court of Henry VIII. Anne Boleyn had given birth to a daughter, whom she named Elizabeth, instead of the son Henry so ardently desired. “The king is no longer satisfied with Anne,” many were saying. This would have been a dangerous thing to say during her pregnancy. Henry had
had laws passed that penalized anyone who spoke against the queen. But now he obviously had other interests. Henry had cast his eyes on a lady named Jane Seymour. Those who understood Henry the best whispered, “He'll be marrying her soon.” When asked about Anne, “It's only a matter of time. The king will get himself out of that one.”

Stuart listened to this talk as he moved around London, seeking a way to present the new evidence. He had Jacob Fowler primed, though he had paid him only a small portion of what he had promised. Fowler had been suspicious at first, but gradually had been won over as Stuart convinced him that the entire fee would be paid upon completion of the task. “But how will you keep me clear of it?” he kept asking. “How can we get them out unless I change my story? And if I should do that, they'd ask me why for certain.”

Stuart was asking himself the same questions. He was struggling with the problem when a knock came at his door. He opened it, holding the hilt of his sword. “Orrick, what brings you here today?” He had informed Orrick of his whereabouts, and a couple of times Orrick had come to visit.

“I've come for you, sir. I ran into someone from Stoneybrook. Your mother, she's not doing well.”

“She's ill?” Stuart demanded.

“Yes, sir, she's taken a bad turn, with the cold weather. I brought you a good horse, but we need to make haste.”

At once Stuart pulled a cloak around his shoulders, and the two went out to the horses. Soon they arrived at the Murphy house, where his mother was staying.

The lady of the house met Stuart and led him to a room upstairs. Grace was propped up by pillows, and the covers were pulled high. A Bible in English was on her knees.

“Stuart!” she cried, her voice faint but her eyes alert. “You must be away from here. If you're found—”

“Shh, shh,” he said. He sat down on the bed and kissed her
gently. “Never mind your fears for me. What's this I hear about you?”

“Oh, they say I'm ill, but it's nothing really. What are you doing in England? I've only gained a measure of peace through knowing you and Heather were safely away.”

Stuart hesitated but then told her the whole story. When he got to Jacob Fowler, he said, “The man is ready to change his testimony, but only if he can escape the hangman, which is what I haven't figured out. He won't die for the money I promised him.”

“Well, we shall pray about it and see what more has to be done. We need God's wisdom, of course.”

Stuart gave Grace another kiss on the cheek and said, “I'll stay until you're better. Where is Quentin?”

“Away at Oxford. The Murphys saw him safely lodged there. He writes every day, pining for Stoneybrook. But I'm determined that he should see to his studies, even in the midst of such concern over … Your father would want him to carry on.”