Honor in the Dust (43 page)

Tyndale stood immovable, his keen eyes gazing at the common people. He met the cruel and merciless stare of his judges and doubtless pitied them. A silence fell over the crowd as they watched the lean form and thin, tired face of the prisoner.

Stuart was at the outer edge of the crowd, but he was tall enough to see clearly over the heads of the others. He saw the lips of his friend move in a final impassioned prayer. Then Tyndale cried out, “Lord, open the king of England's eyes.”

Tyndale moved to the cross. His feet were bound to the stake, the iron chain was fastened around his neck, and the hemp noose was placed at his throat. Stuart was glad he would be hanged first and spared the ordeal of being burned alive. Piles of brushwood were heaped around him. The executioner came up behind the stake, and with all his force snapped down the noose. Within seconds Tyndale was dead. The wood was set afire. Stuart could not bear to stay. As he moved away, he thought of a different fire, the flames that Tyndale had set among the people, a burning to know more of their God, and his Word.

Christmas had come. The skies of December had dumped blank carpets of snow. Stuart was sitting on the floor in front of the fire playing with his son, Brandon. He looked up at Heather, who was watching them with a smile on her lips. “Have you ever thought about how fortunate you are?”

“What do you mean?”

“To have such a handsome husband. Look. He's given you such a handsome son.”

“I hope he's not as vain as his father!”

Since Stuart had come back from the execution of William Tyndale, he had been silent, but now his face was alight with joy. “Between Christmas and my beautiful wife and a fine son, I cannot wallow in sorrow.”

“William would not have wanted us to be sad. He would want us to celebrate, be glad for him that he's free.”

Stuart held Brandon high, and the child laughed and kicked his legs and waved his hands. “Full of life, aren't you?” When he put the boy down, Heather came to him, and he took her in his arms. “Well, another year is upon us. What will it be like? There's still trouble with the king.”

“There will always be trouble with kings, but God is the King of Kings. Your father is hale and healthy, but one day you'll be Lord Stuart Winslow, master of Stoneybrook.”

“No one but God knows our future. It's not something I crave. What I crave is for this house of Stuart Winslow, humble as it may be, to grow. For our love to grow.”

“Oh, that it will, husband,” she said, with a smile, “That it will.”

Coming from Howard Books in May 2010,
the next installment in the Winslow Breed Series

BY GILBERT MORRIS

1

“Now, you just behave yourself, Master Brandon Winslow, and keep your bloomin' 'ands where they belong!”

“Why, Becky, they belong right
here
.”

Becky Elwald slapped the hand that had been touching her, and tried unsuccessfully to frown. “You're a saucy one, you are! Tryin' to destroy a young woman's virtue, that's wot!”

At the age of sixteen Becky already had drawn many a young man's eye. She would be fat one day, no doubt, but at this stage in her life she had a figure that would have tempted a saint. She reluctantly accepted his kisses, and he whispered, “You're a lovely girl, Becky. And you're the one who agreed to meet me at such a late hour. Surely you knew what to expect.” Perhaps she needed a few more minutes of sweet talk, and then he'd win her heart as well as her willing kisses—

Becky abruptly shoved Brandon back, and shook her head. “You said you'd read me poetry. I thought you had love, not lovin', on your mind. Get out of this barn! If my pa catches you, he'll skin you alive.”

“He couldn't catch me if he tried. Come on, sweetheart, and give us another kiss.” He caught her wrist and pulled it up to his lips.

She stilled. She was giving in. He could feel it. “You ain't but fourteen,” she whispered, “too young for this sort of thing.”

“I'm old enough. And you are too delectable to ignore.”

Becky's lips parted as he leaned down, and he knew he had won. She wasn't the first girl who had caught his eye, and as the future Lord Brandon Winslow, Master of Stoneybrook, he certainly had his pick among the shire. But her hesitation had piqued his interest. That and the challenge of avoiding her antagonistic father—it was rather like plucking a ripe pear from the
tree of a curmudeonly orchard owner. It had become a delightful game, finding a way to meet her alone, away from her father's squinted gaze.

Brandon ignored Becky's increasingly feeble protests. He had given little thought to girls until this year, giving all his time to hunting, learning how to be a knight, and mastering the weapons that his father provided for him. But now he wanted to know what the mystery was all about.

He lowered her to the straw and smiled as he felt her surrender beneath him. He ran his hand—

“What be you a'doin', girl? And you, boy, you got no right to be here!” Becky's father shouted. James Elwald had a staff in his hand, and his eyes were blazing.

“Brandon just came to—to visit, Pa!”

“You think I'm blind? Get you in the house while I deal with this rascal!”

Brandon rose and moved swiftly toward the barn door, but Elwald raised his staff and brought it down, striking Brandon hard on the shoulder. He raised it again, rage in his eyes, but Brandon was quick and strong for his age. He caught the staff as it came down and yanked it from Elwald's hand. Without a second's hesitation he swung the staff, and the blow struck the older man in the head.

Elwald crumpled to the ground, and Becky—who hadn't made it out the door—let out a scream. “You killed ‘im, Brandon!”

Brandon's heart skipped a beat. He well knew what would happen to him if Elwald were dead; all his father's influence could not help him if he'd killed a man. He leaned over and put his hand on Elwald's chest.

He looked up at Becky with a reckless grin. “Why, he's all right, Becky. He'll have a headache, but he's too mean to die.”

Becky was trembling, and her eyes were enormous. “'E's a vengeful man, Brandon. You'd better get out of'ere!”

Brandon laughed and took her in his arms and kissed her. “I'll be back. We'll have to finish what we started.”

But there was real fear in her eyes as she pushed him away again. “Stay away from 'ere if you know what's good for you! You don't know my pa.”

Brandon laughed. Outside the barn door, a huge dog rose to greet him, and Brandon put a hand on his head. “Well, how about that, Eric?” he said lowly. “If the old man hadn't come in, I would have had Becky. What do you think of that?”

Eric barked and ran alongside Brandon. He was a large yellow dog, covered with scars from fights with other dogs, and even a few with wild pigs and their saber-like tusks.

“Ah well, there will come a day! Let's get back before Father finds out I'm missing.”

Brandon broke into a loping run, and the dog came after him at a gallop. He wasn't even breathing hard when the shadow of Stoneybrook Castle rose before him twenty minutes later. A huge silver moon threw argent beams on the frozen earth, and a ghostly owl sailed overhead, hunting, as Brandon and his dog passed through the gate. There was no one stirring at this time of night, and Brandon loved the silence that held the castle as if in a spell. He'd taken more than one thrashing from his father for sneaking out on midnight forays, but he knew he would do it again. It was not that he did not love his father, but there was a wild longing that took him at times, driving him to find an adventure to break the monotony of daily life. He could bear a beating, but not boredom.

He whispered, “Come on, Eric. Let's go to bed.”

Brandon moved across the stone floor toward a winding stair, making no more noise than one of the tiny mice that shared the castle with the Winslows. Stoneybrook was an ancient castle, but the walls were almost as strong now in 1546 as the year it took form. It was not as large as many others built during earlier days, but it was home to the Winslows, and something to be proud of.

Moving quietly, he made his way up the stairs and entered the room on the third floor that had been his place for as long as he could remember. Without bothering to undress, he threw himself on the bed, and the big dog whined and plopped down beside him. Brandon hugged Eric for warmth but was too excited for sleep. He relived the sweet kisses he'd stolen from Becky, and already was purposing in his mind how he would find her alone again—somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted.

“Get out of that bed!” Stuart Winslow grabbed his son's hair and pulled him up and out of his slumber.

Instinctively, Brandon launched a blow, and his fist hit Stuart in the chest.

“Why, you dare to strike your own father, do you?” Stuart shook him, realizing the boy was only half-awake.

Brandon looked up at him, his hair askew from deep dreams. “I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to hit you. You scared me.”

“You were never scared of anything in your life, Brandon! I wish to heaven you were!” Stuart Winslow studied his son, thirty-four years younger. Would the boy ever grow up? Did he really want him to? “Get dressed!” he commanded.

“Where are we going?”

“You're probably going to jail,” Stuart said grimly, pacing. He stared at his son a long moment, then said angrily, “What kind of blood has come down to you, Brandon? Some bloody Viking raider, if not worse.” He watched, irritated it was taking the boy so long to dress. “Come. Quickly.”

“Where are we going?”

“To face your sins,” he said over his shoulder. Stuart left the room, closely followed by his son and the big dog. He moved down the stairs, taking them two at a time. On the ground foor, he found his wife, Heather, waiting for them. She was forty-one but could have passed for a woman ten years younger. She was a woman of quiet spirit, but now there was fear in her eyes. No doubt she saw the fury in his own. He looked away. They'd had a good marriage and still loved each other deeply, but Brandon had become a problem neither one of them could solve.

“Will you be able to make it right with James?” she asked, following them now.

“I doubt it.” He stared at Brandon and asked harshly, “Didn't you know James Elwald would come for you, boy?”

Brandon looked surprised, caught, but not overly concerned. And no wonder. Stuart chastised himself for having always gotten the boy out of every scrape he'd gotten himself into.
But not this time,
he promised. This time, the boy would discover what it was to suffer the consequences of his actions.

As soon as the three entered the great hall, Stuart saw two female servants replacing the stale rushes on the floor with new ones. The women wore sly grins they didn't bother to conceal.
They well know what Brandon is—has he been sniffing around them, too?

Up ahead, in the middle of the Great Hall, was Stuart's brother, Quentin Winslow. Quentin was thirty-three and bore a striking resemblance to Stuart, as well as Brandon—with the same blue eyes and auburn hair. He fell into step with Stuart and Brandon. “A little trouble, Stuart?”

“A little! This whelp tried lifting the skirts of Elwald's daughter.”

Quentin had been a rough enough young man himself in his youth, but he had found God and was now preaching the gospel. He said nothing, but there was sorrow in his eyes as he looked at young Brandon. “I'm sorry to hear that, Brandon.”

“Not as sorry as he'll be!” Stuart snapped. He grasped Brandon's arm and hauled him toward the two men waiting at the end of the Hall. “Here's the boy, Sheriff.”

Albert Fortner, the local sheriff, was a rather small man, but well built. He had a smooth face and a pair of watchful gray eyes. “Sorry to disturb you over this problem, Master Winslow.”

“A problem? You call it a
problem
?” James Elwald shouted. His face was flushed with anger, and he gestured toward Brandon. “That's him! He tried to rape my girl Becky, and when I tried to help her, he tried to kill me. Arrest him, Sheriff!”

“Be quiet, Elwald. I'll handle this,” the sheriff said. He kept his voice soft and said, “As you just heard, Elwald wishes to press lust charges against your son, for certain advances upon his daughter and for attacking him as well.”

“Don't you deny it either!” Elwald shouted. “You've ruined young girls in this county before!”

Stuart turned to stare at Brandon, his face set in a hard expression. “Did you try to rape that girl, boy?”

“No. I was just stealing a kiss.” Brandon stared with impudence at Elwald. “And I'm not the first to have done it.”

The sheriff had to hold James Elwald back. “Did you hit this man with a staff?” he asked.