Honor in the Dust (35 page)

Tyndale looked up quickly. His eyes were tired, and he flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Why must I stop, Hans?”

“You must rest.”

“I can't rest until this work is done.”

“You can do it tomorrow. Come, Martha has something prepared in the kitchen. You must be hungry.”

Reluctantly Tyndale put his pen away, looked at the sheets before him, and sighed. “There's so much to do and so little time.”

“It took God six days to make the world. You're not going to translate the whole Bible tonight. Come along.”

Tyndale had fled from one place to another, always chased by the agents of King Henry. Wolsey and the king were more determined than ever to bring Tyndale to trial.

The two men moved into the kitchen.

“Sit and eat,” Martha Bruker said. “You are too skinny.”

“Thank you, Martha.” Tyndale sat down, and while the woman piled his plate high with vegetables and mutton, the two men talked about England. Many in England were unhappy. The matter of the king's annulment dragged on, and Henry had declared a war—which nobody wanted—against the emperor, Charles V. The country was devastated by floods, and worst of all, the sweating sickness had returned.

“This sweating sickness, it'll be the death of us all,” Bruker said.

“It's almost like the curse of God.”

The two men were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Martha, see who's there,” Bruker called.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No, not at all.”

The two men waited rather tensely, for, indeed, hostile agents were never far behind Tyndale. Martha came back in and said, “It's a French gentleman. He asked to see you, Herr Tyndale.”

“What's his name?”

“Duroy, he said.”

“Well, show him in.”

“Is that safe?” Bruker said with alarm. “You go with Martha. Let me talk to the man.”

“Don't tell him anything,” Martha added. “He can't know who you are.”

“Then how did he know I was here? How did he know my name? He may be a friend.”

“He may be an agent of the king,” Bruker protested, but as the man entered the room, he went out. Tyndale stood up. The newcomer was tall. Dressed in the latest of French fashion, he wore a neat beard with a mustache, and his hair was in the latest of French styles.

“William Tyndale.”

“Tyndale was here not long ago, but I'm afraid he's moved on.”

“Oh, I don't believe he's gone far. You don't remember me, do you, sir?”

Tyndale stared at the man. “No, I have no memory of you at all.”

“I am desolated, my friend, that you would forget me.”

Tyndale was suspicious. “I fear you've mistaken me for Tyndale. If I cross paths with him again, I shall let him know you were seeking him.”

Suddenly Monsieur Duroy began to laugh, and his voice changed. “Oh, Mr. Tyndale, all the trouble you took to teach me, and you've forgotten me.”

Tyndale said, “I know that voice.”

“You should. You've heard it enough. It's me—Stuart Winslow.”

“Stuart Winslow!” he gasped. “It can't be you.”

“Under all this French disguise it is.”

Tyndale came across the room and looked at him closely. Then life came into his eyes. “It is you! Stuart, what are you doing here?”

Stuart then said, “I've come to help you with your work, Mr. Tyndale. I'm an expert at disguise now. I can become a Dutchman, a Norwegian, even a Chinaman, I suppose, if I have to, but God has come into my life.”

“Sit down, my friend. Tell me everything.”

Bruker and his wife came back and were introduced, and they learned that the handsome Frenchman spoke perfect English.

“This is my good friend Stuart Winslow, though you must not use the name. He's come to help us get the Scriptures into England.”

“An angel from heaven!” Bruker exclaimed.

“No, just a stubborn Englishman who wants to serve God.” Stuart laughed and said, “I'm ready for my first assignment.”

“God has surely sent you, my friend,” Tyndale said. “We have copies, but we haven't been able to get them through.”

“I have a plan. I'll take them whenever you say, Mr. Tyndale.”

“Come,” he said, “let us thank God.” The four of them knelt down, joined hands, and gave thanks unto God. William Tyndale ended his prayer as he always did: “O, God, get your word in English into the hands of every plowboy in England.”

The sun was well below the low-lying hills, and shadows grew long. Shading her eyes, Heather saw a man coming down the road that wound around and eventually led to London, but even a brief glimpse showed her that he was bent over and making slow work of his journey.
He must be a beggar,
she thought.

There had been trouble with beggars in England for some time. The authorities had grown worried about beggars living the life of vagabonds. Some of them refused to work, roaming the countryside or congregating in the city streets, begging, stealing, defying all authority. While many strict laws were passed during the time of Henry VII, the church viewed kindness to beggars as one of its most important works and granted them considerable freedom. Henry VIII, however, had replaced his father's laws with more stringent regulations. Old or infirm beggars who could not work were to be allowed to beg, but only in their own parish. If they went outside those boundaries, they were to be punished as if they were able-bodied vagabonds.

Local justices of the peace were ordered to draw up lists of all aged or infirm beggars and issue a license to each. A man without a license who was fit to work was apt to be severely punished should he be caught begging. Heather had seen for herself the
punishment of such men in her own village. They had been stripped of their clothing, beaten, tied to the end of a cart, and slowly paraded through the village.

These strict laws were hard on the beggars, for those who would have helped them before were afraid to do so. Heather and her family had been more generous than most, and sometimes she wondered if there was a secret code among those people, for many of them came directly to her house after passing by many others.

She watched as the man very slowly drew closer. When he was within a hundred feet of her, Heather saw with horror that he was not just a beggar. He was terribly disfigured by some ravaging disease. His face was covered with a rash, the skin seemed to be peeling off, and his eyes were hooded by lids that were being slowly eaten away. The word
leper
immediately seared Heather's mind. Leprosy was a serious problem in England at one time. Now the disease had for the most part disappeared, but there were still those who bore the marks of its terrible disfigurement.

Heather stood still, resisting the impulse to flee into the house. The bent figure stopped ten yards away from her, and she managed to say in a strained but courteous voice, “Good day. Have you traveled far?”

Her greeting seemed to surprise the beggar. He wore nothing but rags. His fingers seemed to be twisted and looked like the talons of a huge bird. His forearms were scabbed in places, and there were patches of ugly raw flesh. The beggar's head lifted a little at her words, then he bent in a grotesque parody of a bow.

“Thank 'ee, lady,” he mumbled. “Yes, I have come a very long way today.”

Heather waited for him to ask for something, but he simply stood in silence. Then she realized that he was probably as afraid to ask for aid as she was of his disease. Impulsively she
said, “You must be very thirsty. Let me fetch you a drink. Come this way.” She walked to the well, and when she looked over her shoulder, he followed her with a crablike motion.
His feet must be damaged like his hands
, she thought.
And he keeps that one arm clutched to his side as if he were holding himself together.

When they reached the well, she got the bucket, then hesitated. There was only one cup. The beggar reached into the old bag slung across one shoulder, pulled out a battered pewter cup, and timidly held it out. Heather carefully filled it to the brim, noting that his hand shook terribly as he lifted it to his mouth, which resembled a gaping wound. He drank it down thirstily and then croaked, “Please—more?”

Heather filled the cup again. It took three refills before the man sighed and lowered the cup. He wiped his mouth with the rag that did duty as a sleeve and whispered, “That wor mighty good, lady. I thank 'ee.”

Heather was repelled by him, yet she well knew the admonition of the Scriptures to be kind to those who had no help, and she asked gently, “Are you hungry?”

“Yes!” He stood there, simply waiting. There was a stillness about him that was almost stonelike, as if he would move no more than he had to. His poor decayed body seemed to tremble in the afternoon breeze. But he said no more.

“Here, sit in the shade of this tree. I'll go get you something to eat.”

“Thank 'ee, lady.” The words were given in a whisper, and then he made his slow way to the tree with the same painful, crablike gait. Once underneath the tree, he abruptly slumped to the ground as if his legs had failed him.

Heather hurried into the house, heading straight to the kitchen. Quickly she gathered leftovers from the noon meal: bacon, potatoes, bread baked that morning. She added one of the apples of which her father was so proud. Looking around the kitchen, she spotted a large mug of cider and reached out to
carry it in her free hand. Balancing her load, she went back to where the man rested and placed the nourishment on the ground beside him.

Heather was relieved when he pulled a battered pan out of his bag and held it out to her. Feeling slightly ashamed of her fear of catching his disease should he use her dishes, she served him his food. He sat cross-legged. The legs that poked through the tatters seemed as misshapen and blotched as his forearms and hands. Wordlessly he held out the battered pewter cup. She poured it full of the fresh cider.

He ate slowly, as though even his teeth hurt him, and without looking up, clutching the food closely, much like a dog that expects a bone to be snatched from it. Heather stood there, watching, yet feeling terribly awkward. But as hostess, her place was here, by her guest, such as he was.

Soon he had finished all but the apple. He held it up before him, admiring it. His eyes were almost hidden under the floppy brim of the old hat that covered his head and neck, and the white tufts of hair that covered his forehead shadowed his eyes even more. “An apple. It's been a long, long while,” he whispered. His hand trembled as he began to gnaw at it.

Heather heard a voice and turned to see George Stenton, who worked for her father, striding up. He was frowning, and he barked, “Get that beggar out of here, Mistress Heather! You know what the law says. I'll wager he has no license, do you, old man?”

The beggar shrank back and shook his head. “No license.”

“There. You see.” George nodded. “Now, off with you!”

Heather was angry. George sometimes overestimated his own importance. “Go on with your business, George. I'll take care of this.” He glared at her, but she looked back at him steadily, and he wheeled and went off, muttering darkly.

Heather turned to the beggar and said, “It's almost night.”
She bit her lip doubtfully but felt impelled to ask, “Do you have any place to stay?”

“No, lady, just under the sky,” he answered. “I got a blanket.” He patted the bag and pulled out the edge of a tattered, torn, and very dirty blanket. His voice was weak and shaky, and his eyelids were fluttering. Heather thought he might be on the verge of passing out.

“Go into the barn over there. I will see that you have a place.” She ran into the house, found an old blanket, and returned to the barn.

The man was standing in front of the barn as if he were afraid to enter. Heather opened the door and said gently, “Come in.” She went into the barn and lit a lantern and hung it high up on a nail. It was a good-sized barn filled with hay and corn and feed for the animals. Her eyes swept it, and then she moved over to a small platform that had been built some time ago for holding equipment. She pulled some hay over it and said, “There. You may sleep here tonight.”

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.