Honor in the Dust (33 page)

“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.”

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.