Honor in the Dust (28 page)

He saw the carnal knowledge in the girl's eyes and knew that this was nothing new for her. He had mumbled, “No, I'm not going to do it” and had turned and run away. She had laughed and called him some name that he did not even recognize at the time. So long ago … So innocent he had been. He wondered whether the girl had married, if she had had children, if she had died of the plague.

He went back and forth in his mind, like walking by a row of pictures. He would stop at one memory and think of it and savor the colors. Then he would go to another picture.

There was a rattling sound as the steel door of his cell opened, a cup of ale and another for food were shoved inside, and the door was quickly shut again. The cup held some kind of fish stew, which smelled foul, but Stuart had learned to eat whatever was given to him to keep up his strength. He stirred the soup slowly with a wooden spoon and found an eyeball in it along with some bones. A shiver went over him, but he was changed now. He had determined to survive, to live, so he ate the eyeball as if it were a delicious piece of candy. He ate slowly, holding the morsel of food in his mouth as long as possible, chewing it. Then he sipped the ale. Sometimes he was given ale, sometimes beer, sometimes tepid water. This time it was ale. He would take a little of it in his mouth, then he would run it over his tongue, and finally he had finished it all.

For a time he was almost in a trance, not asleep, not awake. He began to think of scriptures, mostly those he had heard his father read. One of his father's favorites, in particular, kept coming back; “It is glory of God to conceal a thing, but the honor of kings is to search out a matter.”

Stuart thought it unfair of God to conceal things and make men look for them.

Sleep edged in, pulled him under.

Stuart had been in his cell now for three weeks, and except for several visits from his parents, the only faces he ever saw were those of the guards. There was no word from the king's court, nor from the king himself. Hope drained from him. He was filled with fear. A certain amount of terror came from recognizing the immensity of eternity. To be cut off from all that was good, all that was lovely, and all that was worthy forever! More than once he fought the desire to run at the wall and beat his head against it until the morbid thoughts left him. But something kept him from doing it.

He felt a great, barren sadness in him as he recognized what he would lose when the headsman chopped his head off or the hangman dropped the trap from beneath his feet. All the things he had planned—to prove his love to his parents, the excitement of new things, the face of a woman who loved him.

He spent hours thinking of what he would lose if he died. Foremost, of course, he dreaded to lose the company of his parents. The shame he had always felt because he had turned away from their simple faith burned in him, and he wept over the loss. He thought often of losing Heather and spent hours thinking of the pleasure he had always taken in her company.
And the simple things, such as the dew on the grass in the morning or pulling a fish out of a stream gleaming silver in the morning sunlight, feeling the weight on the line. He thought of the birds, the falcons and hawks that delighted him with their sweeps through the air and their plummeting drop onto the prey below. All this would be taken from him in a breath.

Then, his musings were broken off and he was surprised to see a priest come in. He got to his feet. The priest, a large man with a swollen belly and fleshy cheeks, stared at him with pale eyes. “Shut the door, guard,” he said in a French accent. “I'll call you when I want out.”

“Yes, Father.”

The priest studied Stuart for a time. “I am Father Lafavor,” he said. “I have come to give you instructions on what you must do as you face death.”

“You're a little early, aren't you? I haven't even had a trial yet.”

Lafavor smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. His lips were thin though his face was fleshy; his neck was so fat that it rolled over his collar. “You certainly don't entertain any hope of being found innocent, do you, my son?”

His use of the words
my son
irritated Stuart. He almost said,
I'm not your son,
but didn't want to send away his only companion in days. “Thank you for coming,” he said stiffly.

“Very well. Now, then, we must talk. I am glad to promise you that although it is not usual for prisoners to be executed to receive extreme unction, I am going to offer it to you.”

“Why bother? What does it mean? Extreme unction?”

Lafavor glared at Stuart. “You do not know the elements of your faith?”

“Please. Indulge me.”

“It is a ceremony, of course, and if it is performed a few moments
before death, your soul will be safe although the body will be dead.”

This seemed like foolishness to him. He could not believe that a man's character could be changed, saved, by another man mumbling a few words.

Lafavor went on with his explanation, his tone very dispassionate and learned. The explanation was studded with Latin phrases, and there was no comfort in him. He was a cold man.
Obviously he doesn't care about me,
Stuart thought.

Finally Stuart said, “I am sorry. I don't care whether I have this ceremony or not.”

The priest's little eyes narrowed. “You will go to hell if you do not have it. A man who has done what you have done.”

“You don't know what I've done.”

“I certainly do. I read the charges.”

A hot reply rose to Stuart's lips, but he shook off the temptation. There would be nothing gained by engaging in a debate with Lafavor. “I would like you to tell me where in the Bible we have this matter of extreme unction.”

For the first time Lafavor looked uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and spat on the floor. “This is not a matter for laymen. It is a matter for men of the church. The pope. The cardinals. The bishops. They all have decided that this is true.”

“Suppose they decided that it would save a man's soul if you poured tar all over his head just before he died. Would that make it so?”

“You are a heretic, sir, a heretic!”

“Just give me a scripture, and I will gladly do what you say. Just where in the Bible does it say that?”

“It does not say that, but it is a matter of doctrine. The church adopted it years ago, and it will stand forever.”

“So you say, Father, that a man must receive this ceremony just before he dies or he will perish forever in the flames of hell.”

“That is exactly what will happen.”

“Did you never read the story of the crucifixion of Jesus?”

Lafavor's eyes widened. “Of course I have—many times.”

“So have I.”

“You lie! It's in Latin.”

Stuart made his reply in Latin.
“Religentem esse oporet: Relegio sum nefas.”
This quotation, taught to Stuart by William Tyndale, in English would be “It is reasonable to be religious, abominable to be superstitious.”

Stuart's use of Latin brought Lafavor to a halt. He started to speak, changed his mind, and then said, “Where did you learn Latin?”

“My father taught it to me.”

“Well, he undoubtedly instilled false doctrine in your mind as well.”

“As I recall,” Stuart said, and he smiled at the priest, “Jesus was crucified between two thieves. One of them was unrepentant, but the other told him to shut his mouth. He said, if I remember correctly, ‘We're guilty. We deserve what we're getting. But this man had done nothing.' Then he said to Jesus, ‘Remember me when you come into your kingdom.' Do you remember what Jesus said?”

“I—it matters not.”

“It does. He said, ‘This day you shall be with me in paradise.' We have the history of that thief dying, and we have no record of any priest or bishop or pope administering any ceremony.”

Lafavor's face grew red. “Heresy! Undoubtedly the result of a Bible in the hands of laymen, who misinterpret it.”

“Thank you for coming. I will forego the ceremony if you don't mind.”

Lafavor glared at Stuart and then banged on the door. “Guard! Guard, let me out of here!” He said, “You will perish in the flames of hell forever.”

“Good day to you, Father Lafavor.”

The priest passed through, his back stiff, the door clanged shut, and for the first time since he had been in the place, Stuart laughed. It was not a healthy or a hearty laugh, but at least it was a laugh, and he said to the walls, “Come back any time, Father, for another lesson in doctrine!”

The keeper of the Tower guards straightened, and his jaw dropped in amazement. Not once before had the queen visited the prison, and her appearance struck the guard dumb for a moment. “Your Majesty,” he whispered. “I didn't expect to see you here!”

Queen Catherine held Mary's hand. She said, “Put me in a private room, then bring the prisoner Stuart Winslow to me.”

“But that would take an order from the king!”

“No, it would take an order from your queen. If you want to debate this further, sir, I will see to it that others come with more direct methods than mine.”

“N-no, Your Majesty, not necessary! Please come this way.” His face had turned pale. Opening the door to an adequate room, he said, “If you will wait here, Majesty, I will have the prisoner brought, but perhaps it would be best if we—if we gave him a brief bath.”

“No, bring him just as he is, Guard.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The guard shut the door quietly and hurried to the others. “Let Winslow out.”

“Is it time for him to hang?” the corridor guard asked.

“Shut your mouth, fool! Just do what I tell you.”

The guard shrugged and opened the door.

The chief guard, whose name was Gatlin, said, “Winslow, you have a visitor.”

Stuart was on the cot with his back against the wall. He looked past the guard. “Where is he?”

“You're to meet this visitor in a private room. Follow me. Make no attempt to escape. It would be futile.”

Stuart rose and followed the guard, wondering if he could manage to get to this private room, being so weak. But he was curious, and so he kept moving. He stared in wonder at the nickering torches; they were so much brighter than his feeble candles that it took a moment for his eyes to get used to the light. Finally the guard opened a door and stepped back, saying, “Your Majesty, when you are finished, please call me.”

“I will do so.”

Majesty!

Stuart stepped into the room, astonished to see Queen Catherine and Princess Mary. He bowed to them and said, “I'm grateful for your visit, Your Majesty. Hello, Princess.”

“They've treated you badly, Master Winslow.”

“Prisoners usually get bad treatment.”

Mary had come closer. “You smell foul, and you're dirty! Why don't you take a bath?”

“I would love to, but they don't furnish such luxuries here in the Tower.”

“What did you do to get put here?”

Stuart raised his eyes at the girl's question and met Catherine's. She was waiting expectantly for him to answer.

“I'm accused of having killed a man.”

Mary's eyes flew open. “Did you do it?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Then don't stay in this place.”

Stuart laughed. “There is nothing I would like better, Princess, but I'm not permitted to leave.”

“I am sorry you have had such ill treatment,” Catherine said. “I will see to it that it improves. What would you like?”

“A bath, Your Majesty. I didn't realize how important bathing was until it was taken away from me.”

“That will be easy enough. Your cell is uncomfortable?”

“There's no light except for little bits of candles. Nothing to read. Nothing to do. A man finds out who he is when he's locked up in a cage like that, and I don't like most of the things I've found.”

“Tell me the truth, Master Winslow. It will never go past us. Just the three of us. Mary would never tell, would you, Mary?”