Honor in the Dust (42 page)

As Jacob Fowler stood before the tiered row of judges with His Royal Majesty King Henry sitting on a throne to one side and his chief investigator beside him, he felt helpless. His legs were shaking so badly that he could hardly stand. He had just given his testimony, his voice had trembled, and now he stood enduring the heavy silence as the small eyes of the king seemed to bore deep into his very breast.

“And so you planted the evidence in the home of Sir Edmund Winslow and his brother. Why, you'll be hanged for that, you scurvy dog!”

“Oh, please, Your Majesty, it wasn't me that thought of it. Mr. Hardcastle, he told me that Sir Edmund was guilty and his brother too. That it was for you, Your Majesty. That's what he told me.”

Henry glanced at Stuart and said, “Are you speaking for this man, Mr. Winslow?”

“The man has been dishonest, Your Majesty, but I feel he has learned his lesson. I pray you be merciful to him.”

Henry glared ferociously at Fowler and then slowly nodded. “Very well, he shall have his back scratched and spend a few weeks in a cell.”

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty!” Fowler gasped in relief. He was seized and hurried out of the room by two guards.

Henry looked at the judges. “I see no profit in prolonging
this matter. It's plain to me that Sir Edmund and his brother have been falsely accused. Does anyone see the matter differently?” Henry did not even bother to look surprised when the judges all nodded.

Henry said, “Mr. Winslow, the court will give you the papers that will set your family free. I will have officers accompany you with authority for the arrest of Ives Hardcastle.” Henry rose and faced Stuart. “I've two fine new birds that I'm anxious to try.” The king of England winked at Stuart and left the room singing one of his own songs.

The darkness had become so familiar to Edmund and Claiborn that they paid no heed to it. They lay alone on their hard bunks. Claiborn thought of his early days when he was first married to Grace, of the birth of Stuart, then later, the birth of Quentin. And his heart was at peace, although he knew the shadow of the headsman was over him. Edmund was breathing heavily in a troubled sleep.

Suddenly the bar of the cell door screeched and the door swung open. The lamplight in the corridor was brilliant in comparison to their gloomy cell, and it hurt Claiborn's eyes.

“Is that you, Jennings?”

“Aye. It's me, sir.”

“Time for a little exercise?”

“Not this time, sir. Get yourself cleaned up. You and Sir Edmund. Bring all your things with you.”

Claiborn did as he was told, wondering about the strange instructions.

Edmund awakened. “What is it?” he mumbled. “Is this the end, Jennings? Have they dispensed with a trial?”

“The end? No, sir, indeed not. Come along. You don't have much time.”

The guard led them outside and down a corridor, and
when they were put in a small cell with a window, Claiborn looked out to the courtyard. It was a beautiful day, but he could see no crowd collected for an execution as he might have expected.

His son walked into the room. “Stuart! Oh, Stuart, have they taken you too?”

“No. You're free, Father,” Stuart said huskily. “You're going home, you and Uncle Edmund, to Stoneybrook.”

Edmund rose to his feet. “How—how can that be? Tell us what happened!”

The two men, shaking, sat down, and Stuart went through the whole story, including the trial. He ended by saying, “Of course, when the king said he thought you were innocent, that ended it. No judges were going to go against him any more than they'd think about flying to the moon.”

“And the verdict?”

“The verdict, Uncle Edmund, is that you are innocent of all charges, and Stoneybrook is restored to your hands.”

“God has done this,” Edmund said. “I didn't believe it could happen, but God himself has done it.”

“You're right about that, Brother,” Claiborn said.

“Yes, it's like coming out of hell itself.”

The two men stumbled out, Sir Edmund being half carried by his brother and his nephew. There was a light on his face, and he said, “I can almost believe in God who has done this great miracle.”

“I hope you do, Brother,” Claiborn said heartily. “Now we'll get you home.”

Edith Hardcastle paused in front of the small mirror that adorned the east wall of the dining room. She admired the diamond brooch on her bosom as it glittered like a star. She had taken possession of all the personal things that had belonged
to Edmund. Now she turned and said, “I think we must go to London this week, Ives. You've been away too long.”

“You've bought enough clothes to last you a lifetime, Mother.”

“Ah, my dear, there aren't enough clothes to last me a lifetime.”

“Well, we're not made of money, you know,” Ives said. He took another pull at his wine and shook his head. “The way you spend money, you'd think the Winslow money is endless.”

Edith laughed. “I'll get a few trifling things, and you can buy that horse you wanted so much.”

“Ah, yes, Lord Scourage's mare. Yes, I do—” He broke off, for the butler had burst into the room with a rather wild look on his thin face. “What is it, James?”

“Sir, you have—visitors.”

“Visitors?” Ives's eyes met his mother's. “Did you invite someone?”

“No, not for this evening, Ives.”

“Who is it?”

“Sir, you'd best come to see—” But James never finished his sentence. The large double doors swung open. Ives and Edith came to their feet.

“Well, Ives,” Lord Edmund said, “I trust we don't come at an inconvenient moment.” His face was thin and pale, but there was a bright glint in his eyes. Stuart stood to the right of Edmund, and his father was beside him.

Ives gasped, “What are you doing out of the Tower?”

“Oh, I've been released. A special trial, hadn't you heard? Would you believe it, Jacob Fowler is responsible for my release.”

Ives saw the implication of that, but he did not speak, for another man had entered the room and stood waiting. Aaron Snyder, chief investigator. Snyder smiled wolfishly at him.
“There is an empty cell in the Tower, Mr. Hardcastle, which you will soon occupy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You are under arrest for treason,” Snyder said. His yellow teeth gleamed as he grinned. He said, “Come in, fellows.”

Two men bearing chains came in, and Ives cried out as they began to put them on him. “You can't do this!”

“The king has signed a warrant for your arrest. Take him to the Tower.”

“To—the Tower?” Ives gasped. He looked at his mother and cried out, “Mother—”

Edith was fully expecting to be next. “It was Ives who did all this,” she said to Edmund.

Ives stared at her, his chains rattled, and he screamed, “It was her! She put me up to it!”

“Take him away,” Lord Edmund said, then turned to his wife. “You're not welcome to stay here, Edith. I will provide for you, but I want you out of my sight and out of my life. And leave those jewels that you're wearing.”

The three men watched as Edith slowly took off the jewels and said, “I will get a few things.”

“I will have a servant go with you to be sure you don't steal anything else.”

Stuart felt a sudden pang of sorrow for the woman, as awful as she had always been to his family. “I'll take her and find her a place to stay, Uncle Edmund.”

“Good. Don't tell me where it is. Just get her out of here.”

As she left, Edmund faced his brother and memories came back to him, and he said in a broken voice, “I—know I've treated you badly, Claiborn.”

“That's all in the past.”

“No, it's here, and I want you to know that you will be my heir and this will be your property when I'm gone.”

Claiborn said, “These things come and they go, but God is
eternal. Come. You need to rest.” Edmund gave one glance at the door through which his wife and her son had vanished. “She never loved me, did she?”

“I don't think so, Edmund, but your Savior loves you. The Good Lord loves you. That should be enough for any one of us. Come, now. Let's put you to bed.”

Stuart arrived in Brussels early in October 1536. He made his way to Vilvoorde, where Tyndale was awaiting execution. Much to his surprise he was taken at once to Tyndale's gloomy cell. A thin ray of light slanted down through the single window and lighted the face of the prisoner. Tyndale's face showed no sadness, although it was the day set for his execution. He had been sentenced to be burned. But as Stuart studied the lean face of the prisoner, he saw no sadness, only joy.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I am sorry it has come to this, Mr. Tyndale.”

“Don't be sorry, my boy.” Tyndale leaned forward and smiled slightly. “My work is done. It is time for me to go and be with him whom I love better than anyone in this world.”

Mostly Tyndale spoke of the years that he had spent with Stuart getting the Word of God to England. It was three years since Edmund and Claiborn Winslow had been released, and William Tyndale had kept up with the family. He well knew that Edmund had died a year and a half after his release, that the heir of Stoneybrook was Claiborn Winslow, and that this, his son, would one day be lord of Stoneybrook.

“Your uncle went out to meet God in good fashion?”

“Yes, he did, sir. My father and he became very close. My
father led him to saving faith in Jesus. He was actually happy when he died. Ready to go.”

“Well, things have changed since that time.”

“Yes, sir, they have.”

Indeed, Anne Boleyn had been executed on May 19 of that very year. Stuart had been there. He had liked her despite her many enemies and their comments about her.

Henry had married Jane Seymour in less than a week. Jane had borne a child, a boy, born in October, and the infant had been christened Edward.

“Well, Henry got his son and heir at last.”

Stuart had little to say. He loved this man and honored him as he did no other. When Tyndale fell silent, he said, “Well, sir, the first time I saw you, you said you wanted to see every plowboy in England able to read the Word of God in his own language, and now many already are doing so. It's only a matter of time until all men will be able to do so. That's quite a legacy, sir.”

“Well, we give God the glory, my son. He has opened up the doors.”

There was the sound of voices.

“That is my call, I think.” He embraced Stuart, saying, “Good-bye, my son—for now. But we shall meet again in a better world.”

The guards came and took Tyndale. It was October. The air was crisp. The sun had barely risen above the horizon, and when he arrived at an open space, the crowd was jostling for a good view. A circle of stakes enclosed the place of execution and in the center was a large pillar of wood in the form of a cross. A strong chain hung from the top, and a noose of hemp was threaded through a hole in the upright. The prisoner was brought in. A final appeal was made, asking him to recant. Would he renounce the words that he had declared over the years?