The beggar looked down at the bed and then turned to face her. “The blanket … It will na’ be clean if I sleep on it,” he whispered.
“It’s all right. You take it with you when you leave tomorrow. I’ll make you some breakfast early and a little food to take with you.”
He stood just a few feet away, close enough for her to see the skin peeling off in flakes from his cheeks and around his mouth. The lips moved, and she thought she could see the gums exposed as they drew back. “Your people—they won’t like it.”
Heather knew he was right. Her family were good people, but they were very cautious about whom they helped. This man, she knew, would give them cause for alarm. Not only was he diseased, but also he was unlicensed. She determined that she would make them understand.
“It will be all right,” she said. “Don’t touch the lantern,” she cautioned. “If you should drop it, the barn would most likely burn down. I’ll bring you some water so that you won’t be thirsty.” She picked up the milking bucket and went to the well. Carefully she washed out the bucket, filled it with water, then returned to the barn, placing it on the floor close to his bed. He was still standing in the same place, looking down at the floor. Suddenly he lifted his head and said, “Lady—” and then he stopped.
Heather looked at him curiously. “Yes?”
“Can … can I kiss your hand?” The voice was grating, and Heather was at once repelled.
He should not ask such a thing! she thought. But then a feeling crept over her that this was somehow, in some obscure way that she could not understand, a test of grace. Unbidden the thought flitted through her mind: What would Jesus have done? Suddenly she thought of a passage of Scripture that Tyndale had translated for her. A leper asked Jesus to heal him, and Jesus reached out and touched him—and the law of Moses forbade touching a leper. Instantly she knew what she must do and faced it squarely. She held her hand out. The old beggar bent over, his hat still low over his face, his ravaged features hidden. She felt a light touch, almost like the brushing of a butterfly’s wing, on the top of her hand.
“’Tis the sweetest hand in all England!”
The voice was young and strong. Heather’s heart lurched with shock as the beggar straightened up to his full height, well over six feet. He swept the hat off his head, and blue eyes met her startled ones. A smile was on his lips.
“Stuart!” She gasped. “Is it you?”
“Heather, it is I. Stuart Winslow—fugitive.”
The barn seemed to blur and fade in Heather’s eyes, and for the first time in her life, she was afraid she was going to faint. She blindly reached out her hand, and he took it. She felt the strong pressure of his hands and forearms as she desperately held on to him. She said breathlessly, “Stuart, I don’t—”
“Sit down,” Stuart said. “I’m a fool for doing this to you.” He led her over to the platform, eased her down, and sat down beside her. He kept her hands covered with his. After a few moments he asked, “Are you better now, Heather?”
Heather drew a deep breath and stared up into the brilliant blue eyes. Small wonder that he had to hide them with the brim of a hat and with hair down over his face. They were the eyes of a young man that could not be disguised.
“Stuart, I would never have known you!” she whispered faintly. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes,” he said with a smile. He gestured eloquently at his face. “Not a bad bit of makeup, is it?” Holding one arm straight out, he pulled up the tattered sleeves. Whatever makeup he had on his forearms to make them appear white and scaly and raw ended abruptly just above the elbow. She saw his tanned bicep corded with muscle.
“We—all thought—” she stammered, “that you might have been caught or—” She broke off, unable to finish.
“Or dead?” Stuart nodded. “It almost came to that. I want to tell you about it, Heather, and about something else that’s come into my life.”
He told her about his search through Germany to find William Tyndale and how he had met up with an old man, a sick actor, who had conceived the idea of teaching him how to disguise himself. “And it works! You didn’t recognize me.”
“Of course not. You don’t look anything like yourself.”
Stuart laughed. He held her hand and squeezed it firmly. “You should see me when I’m disguised as a fat Dutchman or an arrogant French duke or a dumb, slow-speaking Norwegian.”
“Have you done all those things?”
“Yes, and more. That’s my job now. That’s what God has called me to do. To deliver the Scriptures that Mr. Tyndale gets into print.”
“That’s very dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but God will be with me. I have faith that I’m as clearly called to do this as Mr. Tyndale is called to translate the Scripture. It’s dangerous, but it’s exciting, and I know it’s what God wants me to do with my life.”
The two lost track of the time while Stuart described his studies: how he had mastered the art of makeup and had learned not only how to change his appearance but also his voice and the way he moved. “Since God has come into my heart, life has been different. And he’s there now, Heather. Just the way he’s been in yours for a long time—and my grandmother and my parents. All my life I’ve seen people who had peace with God, and now God has shown me his heart and drawn me to his side, and I’m going to serve him all of my life.”
“What will you do now?”
“I must see my parents and brother. As a Dutchman, I brought a load of texts hidden in cases that are marked Shoes. They are back in London. I must get them to several people who will distribute them.”
He got to his feet, and she said, “Will I see you again?”
“Yes, but I don’t know when. I’m not my own man now, Heather. I’m one of God’s outlaws. At least, the king would see me like that.”
“The king is getting worse. He’s having many arrested just for owning one of Mr. Tyndale’s Bibles.”
“I know.” His face clouded over, and he shook his head. “The king is not the man I thought he was, but he’s not greater than God. He won’t stop the Word of God from going out to the English people.” He stared at her and said, “You’re beautiful, Heather. Every time I see you, it surprises me just how beautiful you are.” He leaned down, kissed her hand, and whispered, “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
He left, adopting the crablike gait at the door, and became, once again a poor leprous beggar. Heather watched him. “I love him,” she whispered. “But he doesn’t love me.” It seemed strange that Stuart could so clearly see God’s hand in his life but remained blind to a woman who was ready to give him her heart. Sadly she turned and walked into the house without looking back at the crooked figure that painfully made its way down the road. Away from her. Again.
Stuart had abandoned disguise, for as far as he knew, there was no evidence to connect him with William Tyndale. He could not be certain until he got to the king’s court, and he certainly could not go there as a leper. He dressed in the best clothing he could afford. As he moved toward Richmond Palace, he thought warmly of his parents. They were shocked and then overjoyed to see him. He had disappointed them for so many years, but now they were filled with pride. They had also been filled with apprehension when he had explained what he was doing, but he could not be dissuaded from his call.
His father and his mother had reluctantly let him go, obtaining his promise to come back as soon as he could. They had also promised to take some of the texts and give them out discreetly. He had warned them: “Don’t let anybody know about it. The king has become a mad dog about things like this.”
“He’ll find out one day that God always rules in the end,” Claiborn said, not with vindictiveness but with sorrow. “He’s a pitiful creature, and I’d hate to be in his shoes when he faces God on Judgment Day.”
Henry’s court had changed little. Almost the first man Stuart ran into was Sir Charles Vining, who gave him a hug, his face alight with pleasure. “H
ere to stay for a while, I hope. It’s been years, man.”
“I’m afraid it’s only a visit.”
“Where have you been? After that nasty business of your false accusation, I thought you’d return to court.”
Stuart chose to not address the fact that Vining had never come to see him while he was imprisoned, never tried to aid him. Vining was Vining. A simple, shallow man of the court. He’d come to terms with that. “I’ve entered into a new business, Charles. Nothing interesting to you, really. But I’m doing rather well at it. Traveling a good bit. It’s led me far afield, but I’m glad to be home for a bit. What’s happening here?”
“Well”—Vining’s face sobered, and he bit his lower lip— “some men we know have been burned at the stake. Richard Bayfield last month.”
“What was the charge?” Stuart asked, though he knew the answer and had already heard the news.
“He was tied in with that fellow Tyndale who’s sending Bibles over here. Bayfield was a good man, but the king is like a madman. The movement to put a stop to the Bible in England is gathering momentum. I fear they’ll catch him sooner or later. Well, come on. You want to meet some of your old friends.”
Stuart met several old acquaintances. He was once again struck by the frivolity of the court and the vanity of it all. He was glad when Vining finally left his side, and he went at once to the queen’s apartment. He had planned to do this all along, and did not know whether he would be received or not. He sent his name in. The guard disappeared and then returned and said, “Her Majesty will receive you, sir.”
Stuart was met by the queen, and Mary was by her side. He knelt and kissed her hand. “It’s been a long time, Your Majesty.”
“Rise, Master Winslow. Yes, it has been a long time.”
“Why have you stayed away so long?” Mary demanded.
“I am indeed sorry, but look at you, Princess. A grown-up young woman! We’ll not be able to play our games anymore.”
Mary was an attractive young girl with alert eyes. She laughed and said, “We can play chess.”
“Oh, you would beat me at that, I’m sure.”
“Come along,” Princess Mary said. Queen Catherine sat over to one side while the two of them played chess, and, indeed, Mary won.
“You didn’t let me beat you, did you, Master Winslow?”
“No, indeed. You’re simply a better player than I am. I can’t get over how pretty you are. You had better watch out for those young fellows. They’re going to be coming around like bees swarming into a flower garden.”
Catherine sat watching all this with a slight smile. Then she said, “Now, Mary, let me talk to Master Winslow for a while.”
“All right, Mother.” The young woman ran out lightly.
“I can’t believe how grown-up she is.”
“She’s the pride of my life on this earth. I wish the king felt the same about her.”
“Has nothing changed, Majesty?”
A bitterness came to Catherine’s lips. “You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what, my queen?”
“Anne is pregnant. The king, of course, is the father of her child. They’ve gone through a secret marriage ceremony—which everyone knows about. I think the coronation will take place any day.”
Stuart had heard rumors of this but no evidence. Now he sat staring at the sad woman whose life had come to such a pass. “I’m deeply sorry, Your Majesty.”
“You are, aren’t you? So few people consider me. Thank you, Master Winslow.”
The rest of the visit was taken up by Catherine trying to find out about his new business and Stuart evading her, saying merely that he had gone into an import business that required much travel. He stayed long enough to have tea with the Princess Mary and the queen, and when he left, Mary came to him and took his hand. “Come again.”
“I will do my best, Princess, but mind that I am no longer a man of the court.” And remember what I said about those young fellows who will be coming around. Believe none of us!”
Mary laughed. “I believe you. Maybe you’ll come courting me.”
“Well, I’m an old man, and I’m afraid my heart belongs to another. But you watch out for the young bucks who come around. Listen to your mother. She’ll guide you well.” When he left, a great sadness came to him. He knew that the king would have his way. Anne Boleyn would have a child, and if it was a son, that child would be the next king of England. He had heard enough from others to know that the king was convinced that the child would be a boy.
Heather had not slept well since Stuart had returned. She had seen him only the one time when he came disguised as a leper, but her thoughts were constantly with him. There was a sadness in her, and those close to her saw it, but she would not reveal the reason to anyone.
It was three weeks after his return. There was a knock at the door. It was early morning, and she was making breakfast. Opening the door, she gasped, “Stuart, you’re here!”
“Yes, I am.”
“Not in disguise?”
“No need for it. Not now, anyway. May I come in?”
“Why, of course. Can I make you something to eat?”
Ignoring her question, he seemed to be tongue-tied. “I—I must say something and you’ll probably think I’m mad.”
“What is it? Are you in trouble?”
“I’ve been in trouble for a long time.” He hesitated and then blurted out, “For years I thought I was in love with Nell Fenton.”
“You made it plain enough.”
“I did, didn’t I? Well, I was a fool, Heather.”
“What’s happened?”
“Oh, she married an old man for his money two years ago now.”
“I’m so sorry, Stuart.”
Suddenly Stuart straightened up, took her hand, and drew her to sit down on a small couch. “I’ve been delivering some Bibles, and I’m so pleased to be doing the Lord’s work. But something else has come to me. It’s about you, Heather.”
Heather’s heart beat faster. “What is it?”
Stuart got up, came around, and pulled her to her feet. “For three weeks I’ve been wandering around, and do you know what’s been on my heart?”
“Figuring out how to distribute your texts?”
“Well, yes, but more oft than nought, it’s been you, dear girl! I thought about the first time I ever came here and you gave me cider. You were just a little girl then. As I grew up, I always thought of you as a little girl. Oh, I knew better, for I have eyes, haven’t I? But I’ve been praying that God would give me wisdom, and I’m going to ask you one thing. Tell me the truth. Have you ever thought of me as a man you might marry?”
Heather’s heart seemed to stop, and she cried out, “Oh, Stuart, of course I have—for years!”
“You have? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because a woman can’t tell a man that. She has to wait until he comes to his senses, and I thought you never would.”
He took her in his arms then, and she came to him. She was a woman in every respect, fully rounded, wise, sweet, and when his lips touched hers, he had a sense of coming into a harbor after a stormy voyage. When he lifted his head, he whispered, “You’ll have me, then?”
“I would have had you years ago, Stuart. I’ve loved you since I was a child.”
He saw that tears were in her eyes. “I’ll have to spend a lot of years making it right with you, but I love you as I love life. You understand I can’t give up my work with Mr. Tyndale.”
“I know that. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Why, yes! Together we’ll serve God, and we’ll listen to him as he blesses us. Won’t it be fun being married and having children! I’d like to have about eight myself.”
Heather laughed and blushed prettily. “Well, we’re getting a bit of a late start, Master Winslow. I suppose that will be up to God.”
“You haven’t done your job, Ives,” Wolsey said.
“I know. It’s been difficult, Eminence, but I
have an answer.”
“You’d better,” Wolsey said. “The king is in a mood to hang us all or chop our heads off. What’s your scheme?”
“I have found out that Stuart Winslow’s parents have been sending money to help Tyndale. I think they’ve been receiving Bibles too, though I haven’t caught them at it.”
“Edmund Winslow doesn’t care about Bibles.”
“No, he doesn’t, but his brother does. I think we could smoke the Winslows out, and it won’t be too hard to trace the books back to wherever Tyndale is hiding out.”
“What’s your scheme?” Wolsey listened as Ives outlined his plan and nodded with grim satisfaction. “That’s just wicked enough to suit me. See to it, Ives.”
Ives at once began to lay a trap. It was designed not just to catch William Tyndale. He was determined to incriminate Edmund Winslow. A smile came to his thin lips. “When he’s out of the way, than I shall be the master of Stoneybrook!”
Edmund Winslow looked up as Ives walked into the room, accompanied by a man he had not met.
“Ives, welcome home,” he said, rising.
“There’s your man, Snyder.”
“What are you talking about?” Edmund said. “Who is this?”
“My name is Aaron Snyder. You may have heard of me.” Snyder was a thin man with a hatchetlike face and a colorless smile. “I am chief investigator for the king.”
Edmund stared, and a shiver went through him. “State your business.”
“I’ve come to arrest you, sir.”
“Arrest me!” Edmund exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”
“Do your duty, Snyder,” Ives snapped. “Arrest him.”
“You’re charged with treason. You and your brother have been receiving Bibles at Stoneybrook and distributing them.”
“That’s—that’s not so!”
“We have found them in your house.” Snyder held up a Bible and said, “This was found in your very chamber. It’s one of William Tyndale’s Bibles. It’s treason to assist that man.”
Honor in the Dust Page 23
