“They betrayed me,” Edmund said dully.
Stuart exchanged glances with his father, and Stuart said quickly, “I’m going to go now, but don’t give up. I’ll find a way out of this.”
“Be careful.”
“Where’s Mother?”
“They didn’t arrest her. I don’t know why. I imagine she’s staying with the Murphys.”
“I’ll go and see her.”
“Be careful, Son. The king has eyes everywhere.”
“I will, Father.”
Stuart banged on the door, and the guard let him out.
When he came out into the bright sunlight, he knew he could not wait. He had to do something. His father had told him that Orrick had been released, that he had gone to work for a family to the north of London. He had the family’s name. When he got there, still disguised as a monk, he saw Orrick out exercising one of the horses. He went closer and said huskily, “Your name Orrick?”
“Yes, it is. What do you want with me?”
Stuart came closer. “It’s me, Orrick—Stuart Winslow.”
Orrick’s eyes flew open and his jaw dropped. “Master Winslow, sir! What are you doing here? Don’t you know what’s happened?”
“I know all about it. I’ve been to see Father and Sir Edmund. I’m going to get them out of that place, Orrick.”
“That would be a wonderful thing—but how?”
“Somebody betrayed them.”
“It was that Ives, it was, and his mother too, I think. I looked a bit crossways in their direction, and suddenly I was out on my arse. Gave my life to Stoneybrook, and they sent me on my way! How do you like that?”
“Help me, Orrick, and I’ll see you get your job back. They didn’t act alone. Who do you think helped them?”
“Well, for my part, I think it was Jacob Fowler.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s new. Ives hired him some time ago. I never liked him, but he had the run of both houses. It would have been no trouble for him to plant them Bibles.”
“Do you think he did it?”
“I can’t prove it. Just a feeling I have. As soon as your father and your uncle were arrested, he quit his position. Suddenly had a thick purse. Bought a fine horse. Fine clothes. Went after lots of fancy women, he did.”
“So you think he was paid to betray my people?”
“That’s what I think, but he won’t ever own up to it.”
“He may. Where do I find him?”
“Why, he’s staying at the Blue Parrot, last I heard.”
“Not a very fancy place.”
“No, he spent all his money. Lost it gambling.”
“Then he may be ready to listen.”
“You really think you can get your father and your uncle out of the Tower?”
“God can.”
Orrick laughed. “You sound like your father! Well, God bless you, sir. I’ll be looking for you, coming to offer me my old position back.”
“I shall, Orrick. And I won’t be dressed as a monk when I return.”
The darkness was falling fast now, and Stuart had not found Jacob Fowler. Carrying a sword beneath a robe was awkward, but he had to have a weapon. He was on his way across London Bridge to see if he could locate him in an inn that he had heard the man frequented. It began raining in huge drops that splattered loudly on the road. He pulled his cowl over his head. The rain became visible sheets that swept across the road in front of him.
There was something frightening about the streets to Stuart. He was totally conscious of what would happen if he were caught, but he hoped that his disguise would keep him safe.
He was halfway across the bridge when he heard the clatter of hooves behind him.
He had always been fascinated by London Bridge, but now all he wanted was to pass over it. He glanced at the houses that were built on both sides of the roadway. Most of the houses joined those beside it, but narrow alleys gave access to the lip of the bridge, mostly for the purpose of allowing garbage to be tossed into the Thames. If they had not been there, the bridge would have been wide and easily passed. But the houses were jumbled together in no order whatsoever and rambled along the length of the bridge, some of them two and three stories high.
He glanced up and saw the heads of the traitors stuck on poles, but it was too dark to identify any of them. The rain beat on his face, so he pulled the cowl closer over his head and forged his way through the rain.
The horses were nearing him. He paused when a man called out, “You, there! Stop!”
There was no choice, so Stuart turned and waited.
Soldiers. Stuart muttered a quick prayer.
A sergeant approached. Rain had soaked him through, and he was in a bad humor. “What’s your name?”
“Father Francis.”
“Where are you going, out in this foul night?”
“One of our flock is sick. I’m going to visit him.”
“What’s his name?”
“That isn’t a monk.” One of the soldiers had come forward and was staring at Stuart.
“How do you know that, Simpkins?”
“He’s too big and well fed. Look at him. Them monks are all scrawny.”
“Let’s see your face.”
The sergeant jerked the hood from Stuart’s head. “You don’t look like a monk to me.”
Stuart said, “Yes, I am a monk. All you have to do is ask at the monastery.”
“Who’s in charge of that monastery? What’s his name?”
Stuart knew that he was trapped. Any monk would know the name of the head of the monastery. He had to improvise. “His name is Father Jerome.”
“That’s a lie, Sergeant! I know that bunch. Used to live over there. The head of it is a monk named Father Xavier.”
“So why are you dressed like a monk if you are not truly a man of the cloth?”
Stuart whirled and ran down the street. He heard the sergeant yelling, “Catch him! Go get him!” Footsteps pounded behind him. He knew that he would have to outrun his pursuers, but one of the men was even more fleet than himself. He felt a hand grab him and jerk him backward. He fell to the ground. The soldier had drawn his sword. Stuart had no choice. He rolled, regained his feet, and pulled the sword from beneath his robe. He threw himself to the right, but his opponent was ahead of him. He was an expert swordsman. The blades clashed. Stuart knew he had no time, for the rest were nearly upon them. He dropped the tip of his sword, pretending to retreat, and just as the man lunged at him, uttering a wild cry, he lifted the sword, and the man ran into the blade. Awareness leaped into his eyes, and his mouth opened. He tried to speak, but only blood leaked from his lips as he fell down.
There was no time to hesitate. Stuart’s father had told him that, over and over, when they sparred. If one enemy has been slain, always assume another is behind him. Your life depends on you continuing to move.
The other soldiers were upon him. There was one in front eager to fight. His eyes were bright with excitement, and he yelled, “I’ve got you now!”
There was only one door open, and Stuart took it. He knew that behind him there was only blackness. He could hear the rushing of the river, and he knew it was flood tide. The water of the Thames rushed between the arches of London Bridge at a frightening speed. Anyone caught in the turbulence of the river would in all probability be battered to death against the sides of the massive arches. But he ran to the down-river side of the bridge.
In the darkness and rain, Stuart had no idea exactly where on the bridge he was. He might be on one of the sections, built of rock and rubble, from which the arches stood. Even if he took his chance and jumped, he might land on one of those and break every bone in his body.
“Come along, man. You’re caught!” The sergeant had arrived, his weapon drawn, and his men fanned out, making a semicircle. “Put down your sword.”
It was hopeless. As they edged in, Stuart knew he had only one choice. Without a word, he launched himself out into the darkness.
&
nbsp; As he turned in the air, he heard the cries of the men above.
“Now he’s done it! Get to the bank!”
He heard the whistling of the wind, and spread his arms and half-bent his knees. Down he plunged through the darkness. His mind raced. If I die, my father and my uncle will die. God, keep me alive so that I can help them!
He had time only for those few words, and then the darkness and the water swallowed him.
24
The dark water made a rushing sound, but it was silenced as Stuart struck the surface and was sucked under. He landed on his back, and the blow made him expel his breath, so that when he went under he nearly suffocated. The water seized him. He expected at any moment to be bashed against the pillars that held up the bridge.
Fighting his way to the surface, he gasped at the air and thrashed in the water, which rushed madly along. He was a good swimmer. When he got his breath back, he began pulling straight for the shore. The force of the water lessened, and he reached the rocks without any problem. He climbed out through the mud, the stench of the raw sewage that made up a great deal of the Thames making him gag. Now the monk’s robe that he wore did nothing to keep the cold air from him. He had lost his sword.
He made a quick prayer of thanks. “Thank you, Lord, for not letting me die in that river. Now guide my steps.” He huddled beneath some bushes, seeking to avoid some of the rain that pelted him and stay out of sight in case the guards chose to search for him. Apparently they considered him dead and gone, however, for the river remained silent. He shivered uncontrollably but persuaded himself to wait until most of London had gone to bed before he made his way to his lodging. A soaked monk roaming the streets of London at midnight might draw unwanted attention.
Hours later he reached the inn, crept inside, and climbed the stairs. When he got inside his room, he threw off the wet, heavy robe with a sigh of relief and toweled himself down with an extra blanket. He lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket over him, his mind working rapidly. I must find Jacob Fowler! he thought. Right after I meet my contact and hand off the Bibles.
He drifted off then into an unsettled sleep in which he dreamed of fast, dark rivers and men with swords.
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 bl
ade 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.”
Honor in the Dust Page 25
