Honor in the Dust (38 page)

Tyndale was delighted to see Stuart. Several times as they talked the older man shook his head, saying, “I would never have known you, Stuart. It's astonishing that you can so disguise yourself.”

“Well, all thanks to Nathan. He was a good teacher.”

“Do you speak Dutch?”

“Not very well, but I'll make them think I'm a Dutchman learning to speak English.”

Suddenly Tyndale leaned forward. “You must be very, very cautious, Stuart. The king is burning people at the stake for smuggling and distributing Bibles.”

“I'll be all right, sir.”

“How are you taking the Bibles this time?”

“My favorite way—in crates. The labels are in Dutch and say
Shoes.
The Bibles are under the shoes.”

“But Bibles are heavier, aren't they?”

“Yes, but I had them put in small crates with no more than twenty Bibles to a crate. I think we're safe. Nobody's interested in shoes. They'll never look inside. If they do, the top two layers are nothing but shoes.”

“Very well. Let's pray that God will give you safe journey.”

The two men bowed their heads, Stuart contemplating what an extraordinary man William Tyndale was. He had never made one penny from the sale of the Bibles that he had translated so arduously and printed at the risk of his life. When the final amen was said, he saw that Tyndale had tears in his eyes.

“Why, you don't have to worry about me,” he protested.

“I'm putting you in God's hands. He'll take care of you. I was just thinking about the people who will get these Bibles from you. They'll have to hide them, of course, but God will speak to them. Isn't that marvelous, Stuart, that we're getting the Word of God to people who have never had it?”

“It's a wonderful work, sir, and the Lord is going to bless it mightily.”

“Well, go on, my boy, and again, take close care.”

“I shall. One favor?”

“Anything.”

“Look in on my Heather from time to time, will you?” He hesitated. “She frets. And loneliness only makes it worse.”

“Consider it done, Brother.”

Walking down the gangplank of the
Amazon,
Stuart looked out over London's busy harbor. There were ships from a dozen different nations, some of them unloading, some of them loading. The officials were so busy that they would not have time to look at some Dutch shoes—at least that was Stuart's hope. He waited for a time, and finally, not seeing his merchandise, he inquired of the master of the ship.

“Ven vill my cargo be unloaded?” he said, imitating a Dutch accent as well as possible.

“Not until the morrow. They're down at the bottom of the hold, and I'm shorthanded. Come back at daybreak.”

“Danke.”
Stuart hoped that
danke
meant thank you in Dutch, as in German, for the two languages, he knew, were similar. But he knew he was on shaky ground.

He decided to go home to Stoneybrook, stopping at an inn to change out of his disguise.

He was making his way through the streets when he suddenly saw his old friend Charles Vining. Vining was buying an eel pie from a vendor. Stuart edged over to him at once.
A good test for my disguise.

“Guten morgen,
sir.”

Vining turned and stared at the fat figure before him. “Good morning,” he said, and started to turn back.

“You like them eel pies?”

“Very much.” Vining took a bite of the pie and said, “You just off the ship?”

“
Ja
, from Holland.”

“Welcome to England.”

“I hear things are not so
gut
here in your country.”

“Nothing unusual,” Vining said. He was about to turn away again when Stuart said softly, “You don't know me, do you, Charles?”

Vining turned quickly, his eyes opening wide with surprise. He knew that voice! “Is that—is that you, Stuart?”

“Yes. Don't say anything.”

“I won't. But you shouldn't be here.”

“I had to come home.”

“You heard about your father and uncle?”

“No. What about them?”

Vining took a quick look around. “Let's get out of this crowd,” he said. He led the way out of the teeming streets. The two men went into an inn that was almost abandoned. There was only one other customer there, and his head was on the table. The two men took a seat, and Vining ordered two beers. When they came and the server had left, Vining leaned forward. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

“Something about my father and uncle?”

“Yes. I thought that was why you came back. But it's a good thing you're in disguise.”

“What's happened, Charles?”

“They were arrested. They're in the Tower, and you'll be arrested too, if you are discovered here.”

Stuart felt something close around his heart. The Tower! He knew what that was like. “Why?”

“They were arrested for treason. Mostly for helping William Tyndale and having unlawful Bibles in their homes.”

“Tell me all of it.”

Stuart sat listening to every word. When he had got the whole story, Vining said, “You must leave England at once. You're disguised, but all you need is one slip and you'll be with your father and uncle.”

“I can't do that. I must see them as well as see to Mother and Quentin.”

Vining's eyes opened in alarm. “You mustn't attempt it! They're not allowed visitors. Certainly not you. The king is quite paranoid now. His people are attempting to separate the smugglers so as to stop the flow of Bibles. The minute you showed yourself you would be clapped in irons. I'm telling you the king is serious. There were four people burned yesterday in Smithfield for the very charge that's been brought against your family.”

“I can't help that. I must see if I can aid them.”

Vining shook his head in despair. “Stuart, you cannot be serious.”

“Yes, I'm going to save my people somehow.”

“I'm telling you, there is no way, man!”

Stuart said, “I'll be in touch with you.”

“Where can I reach you?”

“You can't. I don't know where I'll be, but I'll be getting back to you. I'll probably need some help.”

Vining shook his head. “Not me, Stuart. I—”

Stuart grabbed his arm and stared hard into his eyes. “I needed you once. When I was in the Tower. Did you come to my aid then? Or even come to visit me, give me succor? Nay!”

“Yes, well, I'm sorry about that. I had my position at court to consider—”

“I almost died in there, Charles. If it had not been for the queen, I think I might have. We were friends, and you did not come to my aid. You owe me.”

Vining sighed heavily. “I shall do what I can.” He stared at his friend. “I would never have known you. But some of these agents are clever people. Take my advice. Stay as hidden as you can.”

Stuart patted him on the shoulder. “It's good to have you as a friend, Charles. I never thought it would come to this after the way we met.”

Vining smiled. “No, you wanted to cut my heart out in defense of the king. Things certainly do change.”

The two men separated.

Stuart walked the streets of London until he found a quiet place by the Thames and sat there praying. He well knew he was not leaving England until he had retrieved his cargo and set his father and his uncle free, but he had no idea how to go about it. For two hours he sat there, remembering some of the psalms that he called the make haste psalms, in which the psalmist pleads with the Lord to come to his aid at once.

“Father, please help me! You know I have no wisdom. I don't know what to do, but you do. You already know how things will end. Save my uncle and my father, for they are only doing your work.”

He continued to pray like this for some time, and then he simply sat there, and scriptures continued to run through his mind. Most were promises that he had memorized, and now one came to him that he felt was an answer. He said it aloud, “Commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to pass.” At the moment he could not remember where it could be found in the Bible, but he knew it was in the psalms. He said it over and over again, “Commit thy way unto the Lord, and he shall bring it to pass.” It was the kind of promise that he liked, and he got up and walked slowly back to the harbor, knowing that he would have to find a place to stay.

“I put this burden on you, Lord, for you have told us to cast our cares on you. Guide me, for you must help and direct, and I give you thanks now for what you're going to do.”

As he walked, he passed a monastery. He stopped and stared at the monks working in the garden, and a little light seemed to go on in his spirit. And then he prayed, “Lord, I think I know what you want me to do. Thank you for your guidance!”

“Here's your food. It's a little better tonight.”

Claiborn looked up at the guard, who had brought two bowls into the cell. He set them down on the table and said, “Now I'll bring you some ale.”

“That's kind of you, Jennings.”

“All I can do.” The guard stopped at the door and turned around. He had been kind enough to the two prisoners, which was unusual in Tower guards, but he remembered Stuart fondly, calling him a good sort. He hesitated, then blurted out, “I hate to tell you this, but there was six burned at Smithfield yesterday.”

“For what charge?”

“Same as against you. Caught with Bibles.” Jennings hesitated, then said, “Best you two get ready to meet the good Lord.”

“I am ready to meet God.”

“What about Mr. Edmund there?”

“Well, I'm praying for him. You might do the same.”

“My prayers don't amount to much.”

“They might,” Claiborn said. He had talked to the guard before, and knew that he was a Christian. “I'd appreciate it if you'd pray for us.”

“Well, sir, I'll do just that.”

The guard left, and Claiborn said, “Well, Jennings was right. This does look better.”

“I'm not hungry.” Edmund had lost weight and looked unwell. His clothes hung upon him, and his cheeks had sunk. He had not been well for some time before his arrest, and now he was not only physically ill but also sick at heart. The treachery of his wife and stepson had been a blow to him. Claiborn had tried to tell him that God was going to set them free one way or another, but Edmund had lost all hope.

“Look, there's some meat in this stew. You must eat to get strength.” Claiborn handed the bowl to him, ate his own, and worried Edmund until his brother downed half of it. “You can have the rest later,” he said.

There was little enough to do in the cell, so Claiborn tried to keep the conversation going, but Edmund was no help.

“God will get us out of this, you'll see.”

“It was my own wife who did this to us,” Edmund moaned for the hundredth time. “She and Ives arranged it.”

“We don't know that,” Claiborn returned with a sigh.

“Yes, we do. I know it anyway.”

Claiborn had no answer, for he secretly concurred with Edmund that Edith and Ives were behind it all. He had had to pray much, for anger broke out in his spirit every time he thought of them. All it took was one look at poor Edmund to see that they had destroyed him.

Some two hours later, a new guard entered their cell. “Got a priest here that says he wants to help you,” he said. A tall priest entered, then the guard shut the three men in. The priest wore a monk's robe with the cowl pulled over his head, concealing his face.

“Well, we thank you for coming, Father.”

The monk threw back the cowl. Claiborn gasped. “It's you, Stuart!”

Even Edmund looked up, his eyes widening. “What are you doing here, boy?” he whispered.

“I've come to get your story.”

“Don't you know that they'll arrest you if they catch you?” Claiborn said. “You're charged as we are.”