“You’ve come a long way, Your Grace.”
Wolsey appeared not to hear him. “Power. What is power? Well, in this country, power is Henry VIII, the sovereign of England. It’s in his thick hands; it’s in that mind of his that hides behind those small, guarded eyes. He’s not the absolute monarch that other kings of England were in the past. He can no longer say ‘Off with his head!’ Oh, no, he must go through forms and legal maneuvers when he wants a man to go to the block or the stake.”
“I understand that, sir.”
“Well, that’s what you and I, men like us, are for. You see, Hardcastle, when Henry wants something done, we see that it gets done. So the power lies in the king, that is true, but the king is surrounded by a pretty court of royal household officials, serving in all areas of life. And in some sense, the people who control the power—well, these men are the real power even though they do not wear the crown.”
“Why, that’s true enough, isn’t it, Your Grace? If a man controls the king, then he is the power.”
“Ah, yes, but what would happen if Henry discovered that someone else had the power?” Wolsey’s eyes burned into Ives. “You see, don’t you? He’s sent many to the headsman already for doing what he wanted done. Henry not only has to represent the power, he must think that it lies solely in his hands. That’s why a man such as I, with humble beginnings, has been able to rise. Because I’ve understood when to comply and when to push. When to step forward and when to retreat. That, my potential new assistant, will be vital for you to learn as well.”
The two men sat there talking, Ives covering his surprise at the casual way in which the cardinal spoke of the king—which he knew Wolsey would not dare to use if the king were present. He asked, “How much power do you wield over the king?”
The cardinal scoffed. “It depends upon the day. Our monarch currently strives for something that I can’t give him. If I fail, my remaining days will be few indeed. And those who are allied with me”—he paused to narrow his eyes at Ives—“might also find their neck in a noose.”
He smiled as Ives shifted in his seat. “So what say you, Hardcastle? Do you have the stomach for such political intrigue? There is potential for great gain here but great loss as well.”
Ives rose and bent his head in deference. “Your Grace, if you will teach me what you will, I will gladly serve you with my very life.”
“Hmph,” returned the cardinal. “Or you will serve me, anyway, while it suits you.” He pursed his lips and tapped them with his index finger. “Nevertheless, it suits me to have someone from outside the court to enter in now. Congratulations, Hardcastle. You have obtained what you seek. Welcome to Hampton.”
“I have to be at the coast by morning, Heather.”
Heather looked up at Stuart. He had come to say his farewells, and she felt sadness. She knew that she loved this man and that he did not love her. “When will you come back, Stuart?”
“I have no idea. I’m giving myself fully into Mr. Tyndale’s hands. Whatever he says, I’ll do. That was the promise I made to God when he saved me.”
“You could not find a better man from whom to learn the ways of God. Where will you be going?”
“I have no idea. I must find him first.”
Heather smiled at him. “You’re like Abraham, aren’t you?”
“Me? No. He was a man of great faith.”
“Well, the Bible says he went out after God spoke to him and he didn’t know where he was going. Isn’t that your situation? God will show you the way.”
“You always have a way of encouraging me.” He took her hands and held them. “We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?”
“Always, Stuart.”
“Don’t forget me.”
“Never. Will you write?”
“It will be dangerous, so what I write will be more or less in code. You’ll have to read between the lines. But I’ll be saying this—that I’m thinking of you and wishing the best for you.” He leaned forward and then slowly, reverently, kissed her on the cheek.
“Good-bye, Stuart. God go with you.”
21
Stuart sat down on a bench outside a cobbler’s shop and bowed his head. He stared at the pavement. He was aware of the guttural German voices that came to him from those who passed by on the street and once again was impressed by how ugly the language sounded. He thought French a rather attractive-sounding language and Italian also, but German seemed to be coarse, rough, and without the grace that even English had.
He had come to Europe to find William Tyndale but couldn’t find a sign of the man. In the last two years he had called in every favor, plied spies with money, begged for information, certain that God would soon open the very next door and Tyndale would be standing there with open arms, happy to see him. But instead, every door seemed solidly shut before him.
He looked up at the sky. “Did I misunderstand, Lord?” he muttered, angry. “Was this not what you wanted me to do? Why do you not come to my aid?”
“I’ll come to your aid,” said a woman who was standing in front of him. “You need to have some fun?” she whispered suggestively.
He shook his head and saw the hardness in her eyes grow more adamant. She spoke what he thought must be a curse, turned, and walked away down the street. He decided that there were as many harlots in Marburg as there were in London. He glanced down the other way and saw nothing to attract his attention. Marburg was not a beautiful city. He wondered if he had come to the right place after all. The only evidence that he had of Tyndale’s existence was a hurried whisper from a man in Antwerp, who had then faded into the darkness of the night. In desperation Stuart had come to Marburg, where Claiborn had said he’d heard Tyndale had gone, a hundred miles north of Frankfurt. He spoke only a little German, and noted that as soon as his English accent was heard, he was regarded with suspicion.
Wearily he got to his feet and made his way through the crowded street, stopping only once to buy a meat pie. He had not yet figured out how to use German money, and he was relatively sure that the peddler, a rotund fat man with a greasy apron and sly eyes, had cheated him. He walked on down the street and for the rest of the day moved from one point to another. Late in the afternoon, he stopped at a printer’s shop, one that he had missed. He had gone to all the larger printing shops, but this place was a bare eight feet wide with a small handmade sign, “Drucken” (“Printing”). Without a great deal of hope, he moved into the shop, which was long and narrow, dark, and cluttered with papers and all the various tools of the printing trade. He saw a small man with a pair of direct gray eyes and nodded. “Gutten Abendt,” he said. “Ich habe—” He could not think of the next word in German; to his relief the man smiled.
“You are English, I take it.”
“Yes. You speak English! Good. My German is terrible.”
“I spent ten years in Dover. What can I do for you, sir?”
Stuart studied the man carefully; there was an honest air about him. There’s no sense in trying to be clever, he thought. I’ll just have to come right out with it. Aloud he said, “I am looking for a man, sir.”
“A particular man or will any man do?”
Stuart had to smile. “No, not just any man. This is a good friend of mine, and I need desperately to find him.”
“And what is his name?”
“William Tyndale.” Instantly he saw something change in the eyes of the printer. His heart leaped, but he had discovered that finding someone who knew Tyndale was one thing, getting them to speak was something else. Quickly he said, “I know that he is a man wanted by the king of England, but I am not an agent of the Crown. I am his friend. If I could simply get word to him, I’m sure he would send for me.”
“I’ve heard of Mr. Tyndale. He is a scholar, I understand.”
“Yes, he is. Some of the work he is doing is not pleasing to the king, and he has to remain hidden from sight. But if you know anything of him, I would very much appreciate it if you would pass
my name along to him.”
“And what is your name, sir?”
“I am Stuart Winslow.”
“Stuart Winslow. It may be that I will find someone who has heard of your man. Are you staying long in town?”
“I’ll stay as long as I need to. I’ve about lost hope.”
“The good God gives us hope, and we must hang on to it as a treasure.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Robert Marx is my name.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Marx. I will come back from time to time, with your permission. I am staying at the inn next to the church. If you would send for me there, I would appreciate it.”
“We shall see. Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Winslow.”
Stuart left the darkness of the shop. When he came out, the late-afternoon sun was casting its beam on the hills that surrounded the city. The light was faint, and already there was a cloud coming up from the west. It would rain soon. But for the first time Stuart had hope.
Stuart remained in Marburg for two weeks but received no word from Marx. He had heard a rumor that Tyndale might be in Antwerp, but he had no place to start looking. He made the rounds of the printers, and none of them would admit that they knew anything about William Tyndale.
Stuart had eaten a rather badly prepared meal at the inn and thought again that German cooking failed in comparison with the English. A part of him longed for home. He went to bed early and could not sleep. He tossed and turned, thinking that he might never sleep that night.
But sleep overtook him, and he found himself dreaming of a woman. At first he could not see her clearly, and he thought it was Nell Fenton and remembered all the desire that he had felt for her. But then, as his sight seemed to grow clearer, he discovered that the woman was not Nell Fenton at all but Heather Evans. In the dream she was standing in the sunlight, and the golden sunbeams made a corona that touched her head like a coronet of jewels. He reached out and called her name, and the sound of his own voice woke him up. He sat straight up in the bed and shook his head. The bed was hard and had a lumpy mattress. He swung his feet over the side and put his face in his hands.
“Heather,” he groaned, “how I wish I could see you! You always knew how to encourage me.”
For a long time he sat in that position, and as he did, he felt something that had come to him several times since he had given his life to Christ. He longed to pray as he had with Dekker but never had the same desire, the same passion. Stuart was sometimes ashamed of his prayers. They seemed awkward and ill-phrased, and more than once he had cried out, “God, can’t you give me a more eloquent prayer? You must despise the weak, foolish prayers that come from my lips!”
He began to pray softly aloud. He had discovered that praying aloud was better for him. When he did not pray aloud, wandering thoughts would interrupt and take his mind off his desire to seek God. Now he whispered, “Lord, you are almighty. There’s nothing impossible with you, but you know me, Lord. I am helpless. I am not able to do this thing that I felt you wanted me to do. I ask you to either encourage me or let me go home.”
That was the extent of his prayer, and almost in despair, he fell on his knees, buried his face in the rough covers, and waited. At first there was nothing, but then out of his helplessness and his need, a sudden peace seemed to come upon him. He desperately wished that he could hear a voice, for he had heard of men who did hear the voice of God—or what was almost a voice, so clear were their impressions. He himself had not experienced that, but now he did. It was only an impression, but his despair seemed to evaporate, and he felt a warmth in his spirit. He waited. Then he lifted his head and whispered, “God, I believe that you have encouraged me and have given me comfort. I know that you are going to do something to help me.”
The next day Stuart began his search again, hopeful that God had spoken to him. He searched diligently, not only among the printers but openly asking everyone who might have seen William Tyndale. His lack of good German was a handicap, and after three days, his doubts slowly edged in again.
It was just my desire to hear him, he thought, as he made his way back to the inn late one evening. God does not want me here after all. The sky was dark; he had wandered the streets all day.
He was passing by an alley when he heard an odd sound. Quickly his hand went to the dagger at his belt, for there were thieves in this country as well as in London. But it was a moan he had heard. His eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, and as he stepped into the alley, he saw what seemed to be a lump of rags. Leaning forward, he saw that it was a man doubled up and clutching himself.
Stuart said, “Are you ill, sir?” Only a groan came to him, and at first he fought an impulse to walk away. He remembered suddenly the scripture that he had been reading in his Bible about a Samaritan who found a man wounded and dying. The Samaritan took the man to an inn and saw that his wounds were dressed and made arrangements for his care. Maybe I’m the Samaritan in this case. He knelt down. His eyes were now more accustomed to the dim light.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked quietly.
“Ill—I’m ill. …” The voice was faint, but it was English that the man was speaking.
In an instant Stuart made up his mind. “Come along, old fellow. We’ll see you right.” He picked the man up and was shocked by how light he was. He was a very small man with almost no flesh on his body. He could not walk, so Stuart simply carried him as he would carry a child. As he walked down the street, he noticed some staring in curiosity, but he paid them no attention. His landlord saw him as he entered the inn. “Who’s that?”
“An old man. He’s ill.”
“You can’t bring him in here.”
“Yes, I can.”
Stuart did not like the innkeeper. He was a bulky man with a perpetual scowl on his face. For a moment Stuart thought he meant to forbid his entrance, but then he grunted. “You’ll have to pay extra.”
“That’s all right. Is there a doctor around here?”
“Yes. He’s down the street. Ask for Doctor Heinrich.”
Stuart mounted the stairs, scarcely feeling his burden. He shoved open the door to his room with his shoulder and put the man down on his bed. He lit a lamp and turned to get a better look at him. What he saw was an elderly man, his hair dirty but plainly silver. His face was lined, and he had lost his teeth, which made his cheeks sunken.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Nathan—Nathan Kent. And who are you, sir?” The voice was weak, but the eyes seemed to grow clearer.
“Stuart Winslow. I found you in the alley.”
“A good thing. I believe I would have died there if you hadn’t helped me.”
“Lie still. I’m going to get a doctor and something for you to eat. Doctor first.”
Twenty minutes later Stuart was back with the doctor named Heinrich.
Doctor Heinrich stood up from his examination. “He doesn’t have the sweating sickness.”
“Well, that’s a relief. What does he have?”
“He’s plainly starving as well as suffering a fever. No trouble in the lungs yet. If he did, as thin as he is, he wouldn’t survive.”
“How do we aid him?”
“Give him good food. Just broth at first. Give him some good ale. Maybe even a little brandy once in a while.” Doctor Heinrich stared at him. “Is he kin to you?”
“No, not a bit of it.”
“Why are you helping him?”
“Because he’s a human being.”
Heinrich laughed. He was a small man, well-dressed, with keen hazel eyes. “You’re right about that, but not many believe it. I’ll stop by and see how he’s doing tomorrow. Get some good food down him.”
“Thank you, Doctor. How much do I owe you?” The doctor named a small sum, took the coins that Stuart gave him, and left.
At once Stuart said, “Well, Nathan, I’m going down to get you something to eat. Don’t go to sleep on me, now.”
“No, sir, I won
’t do that.”
The burly innkeeper was alone, and he had no objection to selling an extra bowl of broth and a stein of ale. “That old man—what is he to you?” he asked, as he gave the food tray to Stuart.
“Nothing, really. I found him in the alley and couldn’t let him die.”
“He’s been hanging around for several days now. I didn’t think he’d make it through this cold spell. You’re paying for him, are you?”
“Put it on my bill.” Stuart returned to his room and set the tray down. He pulled the single chair up, straightened Kent in bed, and said, “Now, let’s get some food down you.” Kent’s hands were too unsteady to hold the spoon without spilling the broth, so Stuart fed him.
He managed to eat half and then shook his head. “That’s all, sir, for now.”
“You did well. Now, see how much of this you can put down.” Stuart gave him the stein of ale and watched as he drank it slowly. When he had finished most of it, his eyes were closing.
“Why … are you doing this?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s because I read a story once about a Samaritan who—”
“The good Samaritan. I know that story.”
“You know the Bible?”
“My father did. He read to us every night.” Suddenly Nathan Kent simply closed his eyes and slumped. This alarmed Stuart, but he found, over the next few days, that it was not uncommon. Kent would be wide awake, and then weakness would strike him, and he would simply go to sleep sitting up or lying down.
Easing the man back in the bed, Stuart wondered, What have I taken on here? He looked down at Kent, shook his head, then went down and made arrangements for an extra room. His money was not all that plentiful, but he felt that God was telling him to do this. When he went to bed that night after checking on the sick man, he lay awake for a long time wondering about it.
“Well, you’re going to live after all, Nathan.”
Honor in the Dust Page 21
