Honor in the Dust

by Gilbert, Morris

  Claiborn stared at her. “I’ve had a few shocks in my life. Do you think this one is going to be good or bad?”

  “I’ll let you decide.”

  “All right. Let’s have it then, Wife.”

  She took her hand from his and reached up to cup his cheek. “You’re a wonderful father. I’ve never seen a better. You’re making a fine young man out of our son.”

  “Well, he makes easy work of it.”

  “Yes, he does, but you have something to do with how he’s turned out.”

  “And?”

  “You’re going to need all that practice.”

  Claiborn stared at her, puzzled. There was something like a smile playing around her lips, and finally she said, “You’re not very quick today, Claiborn.”

  “Truly, I never am. What’s the secret?”

  “You’re going to be a father again.”

  For a moment Claiborn could not understand her. Then he did. He blinked with surprise, swallowed hard, and grabbed her hand. “Is it possible?”

  “Oh, you’ve made it very possible. I thought I was past the age of childbearing, but apparently the good Lord doesn’t think so.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Not too long.”

  “Maybe it will be a girl this time, just like you. Wouldn’t I love that!”

  “I’d like that too, but it’s as the Lord wills.”

  “Have you told anybody else?”

  “Of course not. Who would I tell before I told my husband?” She laughed and said, “You’re not thinking very clearly.”

  “Well, you’ve given me much joy. Truly.” He drew her to him and kissed her. “An old man like me.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Beaten, battered, weary. How am I going to handle a baby again?”

  “The same way you handled Stuart. You’re the same man.”

  When Stuart came in and saw them sitting close together, holding each other, he was surprised. They were smiling. He said, “What has happened?”

  “We have a surprise for you,” Claiborn said.

  “Is it a good one?”

  “It is a fine surprise. You tell him, Wife.”

  Grace smiled a beautiful smile and said, “You’re going to have a baby brother or a baby sister, Stuart.”

  For a moment Stuart could not fully comprehend what she was saying. He thought idiotically, Maybe they’ve found a baby. “Good. I hope it’s a boy or a girl,” he said, with a smile. A baby!

  “A boy or a girl? Why, it’d have to be, wouldn’t it?” Claiborn laughed.

  11

  Well, we’re in for it now.”

  Stuart looked up at his father in surprise. “What do you mean, Father?”

  “I’ve heard that the king’s progress is about to descend upon us.”

  “What is a progress?”

  “The king’s court becomes a sort of traveling banquet. He has the idea that people want to see him, so he chooses this way to show himself to his people—along with half his court. They visit the estates of wealthy lords and stay there until the poor fellow is eaten out of house and home. Then they move on to the next victim.”

  “And they’re coming here, to Stoneybrook.”

  “Here,” Claiborn said, with one eyebrow cocked.

  Stuart smiled. “Uncle Edmund must be so pleased.”

  “And unhappy. It’ll cost him a thousand pounds a day. He’ll be forced to take a loan simply to feed them. I hear tell Sir Edwin Backon purchased sixty sheep and nearly thirty pigs, as well as calves, oxen, and birds!”

  “Could he refuse to house the progress?”

  Claiborn cast him a rueful grin. “There is no choice in the matter. Even the neighboring villages will be forced to gather gravel and strew it across the road, simply so that the king will not be stuck in any mud en route to Stoneybrook.”

  Stuart rubbed his hands together. “It will be grand. Fireworks?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Orators? Actors?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “Musicians? Dancers?”

  “I do so hope. I’d like to twirl your mother across the dance square, given half a chance.”

  Stuart grinned at his father. “Uncle Edmund’s pain is our gain, as I see it. This is fortunate, indeed.”

  “Now, Stuart …”

  The king’s progress reached Stoneybrook at midsummer. Every servant was on needles and pins, and Edmund and Edith had been preparing nervously for weeks.

  Finally the servant who had been sent out to reconnoiter came galloping up, his eyes wide. “They’re coming! The king is coming!” He slid off his horse and gasped, “Lord Winslow, it looks like there are hundreds of them!”

  “Lord help us,” Edmund moaned. “This is worse than an invasion by the French!”

  When the king arrived at the head of his entourage, however, the lord, his lady, and Ives were there bowing and scraping, and when the king dismounted he cried out, “No ceremony! No ceremony, Lord Winslow!”

  “We are glad to welcome you to our house, Your Majesty.”

  The king was arrayed gorgeously. He had traveled under a heavily embroidered canopy of gold cloth. He wore hose and a striped doublet in tones of scarlet and crimson, and around his shoulders he wore a purple velvet mantle. This was tied on with a thick rope of gold and ended in a train four yards long. He carried a dagger with an enormous gem in the hilt and wore a gold collar bearing a round-cut diamond the size of a large walnut.

  Henry clapped his hand on Edmund’s shoulder as if they were equals. “We’re imposing on you, Lord Winslow,” he boomed. “I trust we’ll be no trouble.”

  Edmund managed a smile and said with all the sincerity that he could muster, “It’s an honor, Your Majesty, and my family is delighted that you have chosen to grace us with your presence.” He hoped his face did not betray him; within, he thought the king and his company had descended upon poor Stoneybrook like the voracious swarm of locusts that descended upon Egypt.

  The king’s visit began that night with a royal banquet. Stuart was pressed into service to carry food into the great hall from the kitchen, and what a feast it was! He shouldered what seemed like mountains of food upon heavy trenchers and platters. The air was full of sounds: people talking and laughing, loud music from dozens of instruments, and singers lifting their voices. The great hall also hosted many dogs, so the room was filled with the sounds of barking and snarling when they fought over the bones that were thrown to them.

  Each course consisted of at least a dozen dishes, and as best as Stuart and his father could count, entire carcasses had been consumed of cattle, sheep, hogs, and hundreds of chickens, to say nothing of the swans, geese, ducks, and conger eels. Piles of pears and apples went to flavor the meat and the fowl, and bread-making never stopped.

  Finally Stuart stopped for breath and simply watched the nobility of England with King Henry VIII in all his glory. Between the courses came pageantry in foods: confections sculpted in sugar and wax in the shape of figures. Some of them were biblical, such as an angel announcing Jesus’ birth to three shepherds riding in from the East. Wine, of course, came in an endless stream, washing down every dish.

  Finally the banquet ceased, and the king was shown to the chamber of Lord and Lady Winslow, who had vacated it. Every room was filled with the nobility of England.

  Stuart moved over to where Edmund was standing, his face pale. “Rather expensive entertainment, Uncle, isn’t it?”

  “He’ll bankrupt me!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “As sure as the world, he’ll bankrupt me! Why does he have to do this?”

  “Hopefully he won’t stay too long.”

  “I wish he’d go bless somebody else with his presence,” Edmund muttered, misery in his eyes. He looked over the remnants of the food and shook his head. “They ate more food than we could eat in six months. Oh, that he would leave and all the rest of them too!”

  When the king was looking at the mews
the next day, Edmund was pleased when he said, “Why, these are as fine birds as I have seen! I wouldn’t mind having some of them in my own mews.”

  “Well, take your pick, Your Majesty.”

  “Oh, no. I can’t take on any more birds right now. I had a good fellow, an old man, who took care of them. But he’s stiffened up and died on me.”

  Sir Ralph Parrish was standing close by. He was Edmund’s closest friend. He said at once, “Well, that’s a shame, Your Majesty. These are the finest birds in the county.”

  “Who keeps them for you, Lord Winslow?”

  Edmund said, “Oh, I do a great deal of it myself. But my brother does some of it.”

  “Where is he? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Claiborn was fetched, and the king carefully looked him over. “I’ll be needing a man to help me with my birds. I’d like it to be you. You’ve done a fine job here.”

  “Your Majesty, that is such an honor, but as you see, I’m crippled. I was wounded in one of the Irish wars. I’ve never been able to get my strength back.”

  “Well, Your Majesty,” Sir Ralph piped up, “his son is his equal.”

  Quickly Claiborn said, “He would be too young for the post. He’s but seventeen, Your Majesty.”

  “Bah, old enough to take on a man’s work, I say.”

  When Claiborn did not acquiesce, the king called for a contest at the butts—shooting the longbow.

  All of the visitors came to watch, as did all the servants—in fact, Lord Winslow’s whole household. Targets were set up, and soon bows were twanging and arrows were whizzing through the air and striking targets with loud thumps.

  The king said, “Well, Kyd, you’ll have to show these fellows how it’s done.”

  Bartrum Kyd was the king’s champion with the longbow. He was a boastful fellow, a large man with muscular arms and deepset gray eyes.

  “I’d like to win a prize for Your Majesty if we could have a contest, but I think this day I could beat any man in England.”

  “I believe you have the truth of it, Kyd.”

  Parrish had listened to Kyd boasting and could stand it no longer. “Why, there is a lad here not come to full growth I’d put against you, Mr. Kyd.”

  “Bring him forth.” Kyd smiled benevolently. “I’ll bet you a hundred pounds that I can beat any man that you can put up.”

  “Yes, let’s have it,” the king said. “Who is this young fellow?”

  “He’s the son of the man you met, Claiborn Winslow, the keeper of the hawks.”

  “Hmm. Doubly intriguing, then. Send for the boy.”

  It did not take long before Stuart was brought before the king, his ironwood laminated longbow in hand.

  Stuart was nervous, but the king eyed him favorably. “Fine-looking son you have here, Winslow. That’s your bow?”

  “Yes, sire, it is.”

  “All right. Let’s see what you can hit.”

  The targets were set up, and men began to shoot. Obviously Kyd was an expert. He hit the center every time. Man after man did his best but was vanquished.

  Finally the king said, “Well, young Winslow, you’ve stayed up with my master bowman.”

  “Sire, if you’d move the targets back another hundred yards, we could make it interesting.” Stuart was in such awe of the king that he could hardly speak without stuttering.

  The king looked surprised but then laughed. “Well, you’re either a boaster or a better shot. We’ll soon discover which. Move those targets back a hundred yards,” he called.

  At this distance it was all Kyd could do to get the arrow into the target, and several fell short.

  “All right, young Winslow,” King Henry said, “let’s see you shoot.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Stuart notched an arrow, pulled it back, and it flew through the air and hit dead center. A cry went up.

  “A hit!” the king cried. “I do declare a center hit!”

  That was the beginning. Kyd hit the target at times, sometimes missed, but it seemed that day that Stuart Winslow could not miss.

  The king said, “You draw a mighty bow, young fellow.”

  “I made it myself, Your Majesty. It’s a new way of making bows.”

  “A new way?” The king was instantly fascinated. He obviously loved weapons, and he stood there while Stuart showed him how the woods had been glued together.

  “It makes the bow very strong but flexible.”

  The king studied the young man and said, “You’re coming to court with me, young fellow. You’re clearly not still wet behind the ears, as your father fears. You are a man on the verge of greatness. You can help with my birds, and you can teach my armorer how to make these bows.”

  Stuart stared at him in surprise, then bowed low. “Your Majesty, nothing would please me better.”

  “You will leave with us when we resume our progress.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I’ll be ready!”

  “A young fellow moving into the life at court needs a few things.” Henry dug into the purse he kept at his side and produced several coins. “Get yourself some proper clothes.”

  Stuart stared at the three gold sovereigns that the king placed in his hand and gasped. “Thank you, sire!”

  Henry laughed and winked at a handsome man standing close by. He was not tall and was somewhat overweight, but he had a pleasing expression. “Take this young man under your wing, Clayton. See to it that he doesn’t go wrong.”

  “I will guard him from all temptations, my lord.” The man came to stand beside Stuart, saying, “Well, it seems I’m the keeper of your morals, Winslow. My name is Simon Clayton. Come along, and we’ll begin your education. Let’s fill our bellies, and then I’ll introduce you to your new companions.”

  Stuart was too stunned by the attention of the king to say much, and in truth there was little need for him to speak. Simon took him to the tables where food was laid out, and as they ate, he got Stuart’s family history. He was a charming fellow.

  After they had eaten, he said, “Come on, Stuart. My purse is getting somewhat flat. I must fatten it a little.” He rose and as they left the great hall, asked, “Do you like gaming?”

  “Gaming? You mean playing games?”

  Simon grinned at this. “I don’t mean children’s games. Do you like to make wagers?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never gambled—for money, at least.”

  “Well, lucky for you, you have a great teacher.” Simon clapped Stuart on the shoulder; his smile was broad. “Now, those three sovereigns the king gave you. How would you like to turn them into six sovereigns?”

  “Why, that would be magic!”

  “Come along, and I’ll show you that I am a magician!” Simon laughed at the stunned expression on Stuart’s face. “Keep your eye on me, Stuart. We’ll get into a game, and when you see me squeeze my right earlobe, bet those three coins.”

  “But I might lose them.”

  “No, for I’m a magician! Trust me, and you’ll see my magic.”

  They made their way to a room from which came the sound of loud laughter. Simon pulled Stuart in and cried out, “Now, I’ve come to win all your money!”

  The room was packed with men, most of them young, and a chorus of hoots followed Simon’s challenge. A tall, lean man with a hawklike visage dominated the group. He had a pair of gimlet eyes, a trim brown breard, and glittering rings on eight of his fingers. “More ale!” he cried, fixing his eyes on Simon Clayton. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Stuart, this is Sir Leon Case, who loses money to me regularly. Gentlemen, this is Master Stuart Winslow, a new favorite of the Crown. The king has put me in charge of keeping him pure.”

  Case laughed with the others. “I doubt you’ll be able to manage that. But come, now, I need your money, Simon.” He picked up a pair of dice from the table and grinned wolfishly. “Put your money down, Clayton. I’ve got my eye on Ives’s fine mare, and when I take your cash and buy her, I’ll let you watch as I ride her.”<
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  Stuart’s gaze moved to Edith’s son, who glared at him from across the table. The man didn’t want him here, didn’t want him anywhere near the court. It must infuriate him, this newfound favor. Stuart could not help the grin that edged his lips. When Ives found out that he was to leave with the king …

  The game began. Stuart did not say a word. He had played a few games of dice with young friends, but never for money. As the game progessed, he studied the players and kept careful watch on Simon Clayton. Money changed hands rapidly, and Clayton was obviously the best player. Many of the players dropped out, and finally only Simon Clayton and Leon Case were locked in a fierce battle. The cash seemed to be evenly divided between them. Then Clayton rattled the dice in his left hand. “I feel lucky, Sir Leon.” He shoved all his money to the center of the table, saying, “I would advise you not to bet.”

  Case stared at the money, then lifted his eyes to meet Clayton’s gaze. “Your luck has just run out, Simon.” He counted out enough to meet the bet, then looked around the room with a thin smile. “You’d better get your money down. Clayton’s going to lose!”

  “No, I’m going to win.” He reached up and squeezed his right earlobe.

  Stuart stared at Clayton but could not move. But Clayton gave him an urgent nod, and he reached into his purse and pulled out the three coins. He laid them down and heard Case say, “Better keep your money in your purse, youngster!”

  “No, no, let him wager his coins,” said Ives, setting three gold sovereigns next to Stuart’s on the table. His eyes glittered and he smiled, clearly thinking that he was about to take all Stuart had. Stuart’s heart pounded. “I’ll see his bet.”

  Clayton ignored him. “Here’s my little bit of magic!” He tossed the dice almost carelessly, it seemed, and when they came to rest, a silence fell over the group. Clayton laughed, “I warned you. Sorry to take your money, Sir Leon.” He scooped up the cash and fished out six sovereigns. “Here you are, young Winslow.”

  Stuart stared at the six coins. He could not speak. He stared at Simon Clayton’s face and when they had left the room, he whispered, “How did you do that?”